Night Screams, page 7
“That man, that . . . beast,” she said. “He told us Munir didn’t care about us, that he wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t do anything he was told.”
Jack glanced over at Hollander’s unconscious form. Was there no limit?
“He lied to you. Munir’s been going crazy doing everything the guy told him.”
“Did he really cut off his . . .?”
“No. But he would have if I hadn’t stopped him.”
“Who are you?”
“Nobody.”
He went to the boy. The kid’s eyes were bleary. He looked flushed and his skin was hot. Fever. A wad of bloody gauze encased his left hand. Jack pulled the gag from his mouth.
“Where’s my dad?” he said hoarsely. Not Who are you? or What’s going on? Just worried about his dad. Jack wished for a son like that someday.
“On his way.”
He began untying the boy’s wrists. Soon he had help from Barbara. A moment later, mother and son were crying in each other’s arms. He found their clothing and handed it to them.
While they were dressing, Jack dragged Hollander over to Barbara’s mattress and stuffed her gag in his mouth. As he finished tying him down with her ropes, he heard someone pounding on the downstairs door. He ushered the woman and the boy out to the landing, then went down and found Munir frantic on the sidewalk.
“Where—?”
“Upstairs,” Jack said.
“Are they—?”
Jack nodded.
He stepped aside to allow Munir past, then waited outside awhile to give them all a chance to be alone together. Five minutes, then he limped back upstairs. It wasn’t over yet. The kid was sick, needed medical attention. But there wasn’t an ER in the city that wouldn’t be phoning in a child abuse complaint as soon as they saw Robby’s left hand. And that would start officialdom down a road that might lead them to Jack.
But Jack knew a doc who wouldn’t call anyone. Couldn’t. His license had been on permanent suspension for years.
Jack was sitting and waiting with Barbara and Munir. Doc Hargus had stitched up Barbara’s breast first because it was a fresh wound and fairly easy to repair. Robby, he’d said, was going to be another story.
“I still cannot understand it,” Munir said for what seemed like the hundredth time but was probably only the twentieth. “Richard Hollander . . . how could he do this to me? To anybody? I never hurt him.”
“You fired him,” Jack said. “He’s probably been loony tunes for years, on the verge of a breakdown, walking the line. Losing his job just pushed him over the edge.”
“But people lose their jobs every day. They don’t kidnap and torture—”
“He was ready to blow. You just happened to be the unlucky one. It was his first job. He had to blame somebody—anybody but himself—and get even for it. He chose you. Don’t look for logic. The guy’s crazy.”
“But the depth of his cruelty . . .”
“Maybe you could have been gentler with him when you fired him,” Barbara said. The words sent a chill through Jack, bringing back Munir’s plea from his first telephone call last night.
Please save my family!
Jack wondered if that was possible, if anyone could save Munir’s family now. It had begun to unravel as soon as Barbara and Robby were kidnapped. It still had been salvageable then, up to the point when the cleaver had cut through Robby’s finger. That was probably the deathblow. Even if nothing worse had happened from there on in, that missing finger would be a permanent reminder of the nightmare, and somehow it would be Munir’s fault.
If he’d already gone to the police, it would be because of that; since he hadn’t, it would be his fault for not going to the police. Munir would always blame himself; deep in her heart Barbara also would blame him. And later on, maybe years from now, Robby would blame him too.
Because there’d always be one too few fingers on Robby’s left hand, always be that scar along the margin of Barbara’s nipple, always the vagrant thought, sneaking through the night, that Munir hadn’t done all he could, that if he’d only been a little more cooperative, Robby still would have ten fingers.
Sure, they were together now, and they’d been hugging and crying and kissing, but later on Barbara would start asking questions: Couldn’t you have done more? Why didn’t you cut your finger off when he told you to?
Even now, Barbara was suggesting that Munir could have been gentler when he’d fired Hollander. The natural progression from that was to: Maybe if you had, none of this would have happened.
The individual members might still be alive, but Munir’s family was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.
And that saddened Jack. It mean that Hollander had won.
Doc Hargus shuffled out of the back room. He had an aggressively wrinkled face and a Wilford Brimley mustache.
“He’s sleeping,” Doc said. “Probably sleep through the night.”
“But his hand,” Barbara said. “You couldn’t—?”
“No way that finger could be reattached, not even at the Mayo Clinic. Not after spending a night in a Federal Express envelope. I sewed up the stump good and tight. You may want to get a more cosmetic repair in a few years, but it’ll do for now. He’s loaded up with antibiotics and painkillers at the moment.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Munir said.
“And how about you?” Doc said to Barbara. “How’re you feeling?”
She cupped a hand over her breast. “Fine . . . I think.”
“Good. Your sutures can come out in five days. We’ll leave Robby’s in for about ten.”
“How can we ever repay you?” Munir said.
“In cash,” Doc said. “You’ll get my bill.”
As he shuffled back to where Robby was sleeping, Barbara pressed her head against her husband’s shoulder.
“Oh, Munir. I can’t believe it’s over.”
Jack watched them and knew he hadn’t completely earned his fee.
Save my family . . .
Not yet. Hollander hadn’t won yet.
“It’s not over,” Jack said.
They both turned to look at him.
“We’ve still got Richard Hollander tied up in that loft. What do we do with him?”
“I never want to see him again!” Barbara said.
“So we let him go?”
“No!” Munir spoke through his teeth. “I want him to hang! I want him to fry! He has to pay for what he did to Robby! To Barbara!”
“You really think he’ll pay if we turn him in? I mean, how much faith do you have in the courts?”
They looked at him. Their bleak stares told him they felt like everybody else: No faith. No faith at all.
“So your only other option is to go back there and deal with him yourself.”
Munir was nodding slowly, his mouth a tight line, his eyes angry slits. “Yes . . . I would like that.” He rose to his feet. “I will go back there. He has . . . things to answer for. I must be sure this will never happen again.”
Barbara was on her feet too, a feral glint in her eyes.
“I’m coming with you.”
“But Robby—”
“I’ll stay here,” Jack said. “He knows me now. If he wakes up, I’ll be here.”
They hesitated.
Save my family . . .
If the Habibs were going to make it they were going to have to face Hollander together and resolve all those as-yet-unasked questions by settling their scores with him. All their scores.
“Get going,” he said. “I never made it past Tenderfoot in the Boy Scouts. Who knows how long my knots will last?”
Jack watched them hurry out, hand-in-hand. Maybe this would fix their marriage, maybe it wouldn’t. All he knew for sure was that he was glad he wasn’t Richard Hollander tonight.
He got up and went looking for Doc Hargus. The doc was never without a stock of good beer in his fridge.
A Season of Change
by Richard T. Chizmar
1
If it wasn’t for the headlights, I never would’ve seen it.
The house was a spiderweb of shadows, the porch and front lawn lost in darkness. It was after one in the morning, and I was a little drunk and a lot tired. Four hours of Loughlin’s Pub entertainment was all I could handle for one night. Despite a soft spray of moonlight, I never would’ve seen the broken paper clip if a car hadn’t slowed and turned the corner as I reached for the door, its headlights sweeping across the lower half of my home, sparking a tiny glint of silver in the keyhole.
I reacted predictably at the sight of the tampered-with lock. I cussed—not once, but twice—and kicked the door. Made me feel better, too. I knew the key wouldn’t make a fit but, seeing that I was pissed off and pickled and the all-too-familiar combination formed a good enough excuse, I tried anyway.
I felt the key push the paper clip further into the hole and immediately wondered why the bastard who’d jammed the lock hadn’t stuck around to do the job right. Dog-tired and drunk, and I gotta deal with a goddamned prank. No justice in this world.
I started to turn around and in midturn, my mind flashed: Or maybe they just didn’t have time to finish the job, maybe they’re still nearby.
To my right, under the bay window, one of the shadows moved, and instinctively I moved away from it, knowing that my last thought had been a correct one. A second shadow, to my left this time, elongated and the rosebushes exploded. I heard clothing tear and a grunt of pain. And then I felt my head explode and heard nothing at all.
2
The first thing I saw when I came to was the moon. And the pointy son of a bitch was laughing at me.
I was flat on my back, underneath the den window, a few yards to the right of the porch. Taking deep, slow breaths, I reached down and touched the emptiness in my waistband where my gun had been.
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered. Wasn’t gonna look good. Over ten years on the street, and a couple of damn thieves kick my ass, take my gun, and roll me under a bush like a dead bird. No sir, wasn’t gonna look good at all.
My head roared when I moved to check the time. The familiar glow-in-the dark dials told me that only fifteen minutes had passed. And the fact that I still had the two-year-old Seiko on my wrist told me that the guys who’d nailed me weren’t petty crooks.
I felt the back of my skull and my fingers came away wet to the knuckles. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered again, shaking my head.
I struggled to my feet, after a couple of sad attempts, and walked very slowly to the porch. My keys were gone, of course, and the door was still closed. Didn’t mean the bastards weren’t inside, though. With another flash of pain, I bent and checked for the paper clip. It was still in place. This time I didn’t bother to try the lock. I’m not that stupid.
I crept around the house and found the extra backdoor key that I keep hidden underneath the plastic bird-bath. The sliding glass door looked untouched; I unlocked it and stepped inside. In addition to my gun cabinet which I showcase in the den, I keep an extra 9mm in the garage. I swung right in a crouch, slipped through the cluttered breezeway, and retrieved the gun. Then I searched the rest of the house, hitting the downstairs first. I’d turned on just about every light in the house and checked every room except the bathroom when, as I crossed the hall, I itched my forehead and my fingertips came away smeared in obscene red. Too glossy for blood. I flipped the bathroom overhead on and stepped in front of the mirror.
The harsh light stung my eyes, but I could see my reflection clear enough to start my entire body shaking. My hair was slicked with sweat and blood and a patch near the back was spiked and tangled from where I’d rubbed it. My eyes were wide and nervous, my cheeks flushed with pain and adrenaline. I’d looked worse before—hell, I’d looked worse without having my ass kicked—but what scared the very crap out of me was the word that had been written, in smeared lipstick, across the length of my forehead.
The word that read: mailman.
3
It took all of six seconds for my brain to register what the word meant and another six for me to reach the phone. I punched the number and waited. Dead air. Nothing.
“Shit.” I hung up and hurried down the stairs, falling on my ass the last six or seven steps. I grabbed a backup set of keys from the kitchen, pushed the back door open, and staggered across the side yard. I unlocked the truck door and had the radio transmitter in my hand before my ass hit the seat.
It was worse than I’d feared. Much worse. They didn’t even have to run a check for me. They’d been trying to call me, but there’d been problems with my phone. Bastards must’ve cut the line. I flashed my lights and hit the I-95 exit at a clean eighty.
Ray York, my partner for the past six years, lived one exit south of me, ten minutes closer to Baltimore City. He was a good cop and a good friend. A big bear of a man, he was always happy, always smiling, always seeing the bright side of a situation. Downright unnatural for a cop. We spent plenty of off-duty hours together, but Ray was a big-time homebody, and most of the time we watched videos or ball games in his basement. His family consisted of his beautiful wife Connie—I’d been the best man at the wedding three years ago—and a pampered golden retriever named Cowboy. Cowboy was an only child, but it wasn’t likely to stay that way, Ray always joked. He claimed that as soon as Connie got promoted, they were going to start working on a family. He wanted live kids. Just the thought made me cringe.
The call had come in at 12:41. Anonymous, of course. You’ll find him in the back was all they’d said, along with the street address. The operator ran a check on the address and rushed a call through when she recognized the name.
They’d found him in the backyard. Shot twice in the midsection. Still alive. Barely. Asking only for me. They were waiting for the medivac copter.
4
A pair of patrol cars appeared behind and followed me off the Hanson exit, through an empty intersection, and onto Tupelo, the secluded dead-end street where Ray and his wife lived. An officer recognized me and waved me through the line. He stopped the other two cars and directed them to the curb.
The area was abuzz with activity: officers standing in small groups talking, others shuffling to and from the backyard. I parked at the end of the asphalt driveway and waded through the crowd. A young state trooper sidestepped from my path, looking terrified and sick and embarrassed. Jerry Higney, a fifteen-year vet with a locker near mine, called my name and pointed toward the back. I looked at him, and his eyes told me the same thing the rookie’s had.
The ambulance was parked far back in the yard, near the open field that bordered Ray’s property. Its overhead lights were flashing, the twin back doors standing open. A ring of on-duties surrounded the scene, shielding all activity. I slowed to a jog, pointing at my badge, when a cop I didn’t recognize stepped out to intercept me. He nodded and stepped out of the way, and I saw Ray on his back on a stretcher, surrounded by paramedics.
I stepped closer, moved over him. His eyes flickered open and when he saw me. . . he smiled.
I froze.
His face was perfect, untouched, and smiling. I tried to smile back—I honestly did—but couldn’t. Two paramedics knelt at his side, fist deep in his open stomach. I reached for his hand. He took it and squeezed; his grip so very soft, almost nothing. I squeezed hard enough for both of us and leaned closer.
A man with a blood-smeared jumpsuit and a nose the size of Cleveland touched my shoulder. “You’ll have to stay back so we can—”
I shook my head and interrupted, “He’s my partner.”
Someone called him and the paramedic glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at me and said, “Okay, but if I tell you to move, you damn well better do it.”
I felt Ray’s fingers twitch, and he whispered in a voice that made my heart hurt and my eyes water, “You get a look at his nose? Sucker’s almost as big as your’s.” He smiled again, but this time it hurt him and he gritted his teeth and groaned.
I think I did smile then, despite his pain. His goddamn nose jokes got me every time. I pressed closer. “Take it easy, buddy. Bird’s on the way; everything’s gonna be all right.”
A paramedic knocked me off balance momentarily and when I looked back at Ray, his stare was savage. “Mailman,” he hissed.
“I know. I know,” I said. “Couple of his boys were waiting for me at the house tonight.” I rubbed the back of my head instinctively. “The son of a bitches surprised me.”
He shook his head and said, “They were waiting waiting outside. They . . .” He rolled his head to the side and vomited. I cleared his mouth with my fingers.
“Don’t talk anymore. Just try to—”
“Listen to me,” he whispered, his voice almost gone. “Connie’s at her mother’s. They were gonna . . . gonna go shopping tomorrow. You tell her, okay? Tell her . . .”
I shook my head, knowing what was coming but not wanting to hear it, not wanting to be there anymore.
“Tell her . . .”
I waited for more, but he just stared at me, eyes pleading for an answer to this mess. “I will,” I managed. “Don’t worry about that now. I’ll take care of it.”
And then he closed his eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what the hell he meant, and didn’t have much time to think about it before two paramedics pushed me aside, both yelling, “Code Red,” and the rest of the crew went bat shit.
It was ugly. The backyard looking like a scene out of one of those high-tech science-fiction flicks. Lights everywhere, big white skylights shining brightly upward. Police red-and-blues flashing through the darkness, a bizarre laser show for the onlookers. Police officers and medics scurrying across the lawn. The paramedics pushing and poking and breathing into Ray, until the one with the big nose is standing up in disgust, snatching the radio, telling the copter to turn around. And then it gets very quiet and the lights blink out like in a stage play, only this act is real, and my partner is dead.
