Jericho's Razor Page 15

  “Alyssa!” I heard the phone drop. A gun fired four times, rapid, one shot after the other. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! They were not the carefully aimed double taps that cops are trained in—it was panic firing. I knew the sound well. I would never forget it. I was about to hang up and call 911 when someone picked up the phone. Jagger’s voice reached my ears. She sounded weak.

  “Sands …”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Eli distracted me by tripping a lamp … he came at me from the hall closet.”

  “I heard shooting. Are you hit?”

  “No. That was me.”

  I wasn’t able to keep track of how many rounds were fired, but it sounded like anyone on the receiving end had to be dead. Images flashed in my head of Eli lying sprawled on the floor.

  “Did you get him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know… he jumped over the balcony. I’m two stories up. He may be out there with two broken legs … but he got me with a knife, a really big damned knife.”

  The images of my brother bleeding out jumped to images of Jagger.

  “Alyssa, talk to me. How bad is it?”

  “Bad … there’s a lot of blood.” Her voice trailed off and I heard the sound of the phone slipping from her hand and thumping onto the floor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was told by a 911 operator that three of Jagger’s neighbors had already reported the gunshots. She lived in a condo complex filled with retiree’s and single professionals where gunshots were not common. The call hit the airwaves, and within seconds the entire county response team was en route. Jagger was rushed to an operating room, barely conscious. Eli had attacked from behind, aiming for her throat, but Alyssa reacted quickly and spun out the way before her head was taken off. The knife sliced her from the top of her left shoulder to the middle of her breasts. If the knife had gone any deeper, first responders arriving at her apartment would have found a corpse.

  All four of Jagger’s rounds were recovered in a tight grouping in her living room wall. Even with the injury, she managed to fire with impressive aim. But the only blood that was found belonged to her. Somehow, Eli had managed to avoid being hit. But, as Jagger said, he escaped via the balcony on the second floor. The bushes below were trampled. The ground sloped downward toward a community swimming pool. Tracks were seen from where he landed and then rolled. He would not be moving quickly.

  I found a spot and waited. Torrez came up and stood over me.

  “She’s going to be okay,” he said. “She’s refusing anything for the pain, but I think that will change. That wound is going to hurt like a bitch.”

  “At least she’s okay.”

  Torrez took a step forward, standing right on top of me. “You suspected that your brother was lying in wait to ambush my partner, and you did nothing.” He was a tightly wound time bomb of anger and kinetic energy.

  I stood up to face him. “I thought he was going to ambush me. As soon as I realized what was happening, I called Alyssa to warn her.”

  “Too late!”

  “He was already in her fucking house, Torrez! There was nothing more I could have done without a crystal ball!”

  “Really? You should have called us the moment you spotted that damn Camaro! Better yet, you should have told us about it in the first place! We would have been looking for it and we would have had him!”

  The cops on the other end of the waiting room looked over. I was in deep shit, and I knew it. Mainly because everything Torrez said was right. My decision to withhold information had almost cost Alyssa her life.

  “You’re toxic, Sands. Everything and everyone around you goes to shit. And now you’re dragging Alyssa down with you.”

  “I’m not dragging her anywhere, buddy.”

  “Stay away from her. Stay away from our investigation. Period. If you learn anything, call the desk and leave a message. Other than that, I don’t want to see or hear from you. If I do, I will lock you up with your brother. Understand?”

  “Eat shit, Torrez. Understand?”

  Cops have people mouth off to them all the time. They learn to deal with it. But Torrez was in no mood, and I pushed him harder than he was willing to bend. His right cross knocked me into a table stacked with outdated magazines. It broke under my weight. I hurried back to my feet. Torrez stood his ground like a boxer anticipating a retaliatory charge. I looked down to see I was holding a broken table leg. It would make an excellent club. Before I could use it, a man ran between us. He tore the club from my hand and tossed it aside.

  “Enough! Both of you, knock it off, right now!”

  I didn’t know who this guy was, but his words made Torrez turn away and join the rest of the cops. The referee turned to me when he was satisfied Torrez was subdued.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “My name is Lieutenant Kenneth Briggs. I’m Detectives Torrez’s boss.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Would you like to press charges against Detective Torrez?” he asked. He was gritting his teeth, obviously hating that he had to ask. But Torrez had just decked me in front of over a dozen other cops and a half dozen medical staff. There was no way his boss would be able to ignore it.

  I rubbed my jaw. “No. I don’t want to press charges.”

  I saw Torrez’s eyebrows lift a fraction. It was not the response he had been expecting. His boss was just as surprised.

  “No? You’re sure?”

  “I said no. You want me to rent a billboard?”

  “That won’t be necessary. But I do think it would be best if you go home. Tempers are running a little too high right now.”

  I wanted to tell him to shove it. But I needed to find Eli.

  “Fine. But I want to be able to call down here and check on Alyssa without being stonewalled. That means no orders to the nurse’s desk to block my calls or give me the runaround.”

  “Fair enough. Your calls will be put through. If Detective Jagger wishes to speak to you, that is.”

  The clouds hanging over the city finally broke, and I stepped out of the hospital into a cold, steady rain. Water erupted from the seat of my bike like a saturated sponge, soaking my jeans. The conditions were perfect for my already pissed-off mood. I sped off, slicing through puddles, fighting to hold the bike stable.

  I knew that Torrez would order the Camaro be towed to the station to be searched, but I was betting he was too distracted by the attack on Alyssa to get to it. I was right. The Camaro was still on the curb outside my building. I pulled up alongside for another look.

  The car was a rolling trash can. Eli always had been a slob. I was hoping that the debris might give me some clues to where my brother had been hiding.

  I looked around inside the car while rain beat on the overhead. There were wrappers from McDonald’s and Hardee’s. I found a gas station receipt for a six-pack of Miller. My phone rang while I was searching under the seats. I grabbed it, hoping it would be Jagger.

  “Is she dead?”

  “No, Eli.”

  “Damn!”

  “If you want to be chickenshit and ambush people, do it to me!”

  “Holy shit. You’re actually falling for this bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Why are you doing this? Explain it to me,” I said, trying to stall him, listening for anything in the background that could help me.

  “I already tried to tell you and you didn’t understand. You’re still just seeing what you want to see.”

  I ground my teeth. My brother was saying the same thing to me as the hallucination of Peter, speaking in riddles and making absolutely no sense. Family.

  “What would I not understand, Eli? Why you decided to leave a headless drug dealer in my garage?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean! You already think you know everything, so why bother?”

  “Eli, you’re not making any sense. Where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m not saying. But if you knew, you
would lose your head.”

  The line went dead. I again felt the urge to throw my phone but resisted, forcing myself to stop and think. Eli was close. Somewhere he could hide to avoid the manhunt. A secluded place on the outskirts of town would work. A place in the country with no neighbors for miles. But he would never have made it to such a place unseen, which meant he was still somewhere in town.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat. When dealing with writer’s block, the best solution is to stop trying to force the solution, to just let it come. I took long, slow, deep breaths and emptied my head of the noises that were fighting for attention. The answer was there. I just needed to stop looking and start seeing.

  If you knew, you would lose your head.

  I blocked out the buzzing traffic passing by on Main Street and the tapping raindrops on top of the car. Eyes closed. Mind open.

  Lose your head?

  My eyes snapped open. No way, I thought. He couldn’t be hiding there. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. It was crazy and daring and, in a weird way, the only reasonable option.

  I got back on my bike and drove to Sean Booker’s house. There was the same broken window as last time. Somebody had taped a sheet of plastic over it. I could have easily cut an opening large enough to crawl through and get inside, but somebody beat me to it. I took a step closer, looked though the opening in the plastic, and saw nothing but shadows. Stepping in, I flipped the light switch, confident that nobody would notice or bother calling the cops if they did. The apartment was in the same state of disorderly chaos I had seen before. But now there were added elements. A green sleeping bag in the corner of the room. A Styrofoam cooler. Several empty cans of Mountain Dew. Eli was gone, but he had clearly been using Booker’s old place as a safe house. His choice of a hideout was smart and outside the box and completely in line with the brother I remembered.

  Along with the other belongings was a black backpack. I riffled inside and found a thick folder. There were yellowed newspaper clippings of the raid at our family compound. I stared at my picture, years younger, looking haunted. More clippings detailed the aftermath. The ruling that my actions had been in self-defense, and the state’s attorney’s decision not to press charges. There was an article about and a picture of Peter’s final victim, Sheila Kerrigan, the woman I had been unable to save. Her daughter was with family services until her relatives could be tracked down. There were newer articles from the local press. Me at book signings. An exposé about me after Black as Night was released. There were photos of me walking downtown, smoking, drinking coffee. Eli had been in town a while. Following me. Biding his time.

  Eli also had files on Preston Masters. He had financial records and poll numbers. Articles detailing his efforts to relocate low-income housing and use the land for the regentrification initiative spearheaded by Masters and his father, the former governor. There were pictures of Preston talking on a cell phone outside the courthouse. Eli had been close. Close enough that Preston should have taken notice of the strange man taking his picture. But the look on his face explained why my brother’s presence had escaped Preston’s attention.

  He looked scared.

  On the bottom of the picture, Eli had scrawled the question ‘Who is he talking to?”

  When I was finished at Booker’s place, I went outside and called the hospital, knowing that Torrez would probably still be there.

  “You’re getting more annoying than my ex-wife. And that is really saying something.”

  “I found where Eli has been hiding.”

  Torrez was silent, no doubt weighing the possibility that I had somehow managed to succeed where the entire Peoria police force had failed. It was so unlikely as to be laughable. But Torrez, however much an asshole, was also a good cop. He wouldn’t dismiss a promising lead just because he hated me.

  His voice was cautiously receptive. “Oh yeah? Where is he this time?”

  “Sean Booker’s place.”

  “Booker’s place? That’s … pretty brilliant, actually.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” I said, too tired and frustrated to keep the satisfaction from my voice. Torrez was silent for a moment. Outside of the interrogation room, it was the longest I had heard him not say anything. His ego was most likely needing quick triage. But he quickly regrouped.

  “You’ve probably trampled all over the place, haven’t you?”

  “I looked around. I wouldn’t call it trampling.”

  “Don’t touch anything else before I—”

  Torrez was cut off by a crash coming from behind me. I turned just in time to see the garage door explode in a thunderstorm of flying debris. A black Cadillac Seville burst through the door directly toward me, broken boards flying off its hood. I hurled myself off to the side quickly enough to avoid being hit dead center, but I still slid off the side of the hood, catching air and doing a flip before slamming into the asphalt. I looked up to see the Seville racing down the block. Torrez’s voice screamed from my phone, lying in the grass. I grabbed the phone and ran for my bike.

  “Sands! Sands! Can you hear me?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What the hell was that? It sounded like a goddamned bomb.”

  “Close. Eli was hiding in the garage. He torpedoed Booker’s car right through it. Right at me.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “My ass is going to look like moldy blueberry pie. But I’m okay.” I hobbled to my bike and started the engine.

  “No way, Sands. You are not going after him!”

  “Like hell I’m not.” I tucked the phone in my jacket and sped off, just in time to see the tail end of the Seville make a turn three blocks up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I raced through the lowlands. Rainwater created deep puddles in streets that were designed decades before city engineers discovered efficient methods for drainage. The conditions were no problem for Eli, who sat behind the wheel of a big, sturdy ride that was low to the ground and hugged the blacktop. But my bike threatened to hydroplane every time I cut through a puddle, muddy water splashing in my face. It felt like I was doing seventy miles an hour on a Slip’N Slide.

  I rounded the next turn to see Eli blow through a red light at over sixty miles an hour, slicing the big Caddy though oncoming traffic like a scalpel. A minivan swerved to avoid him and fishtailed. It slid through the intersection, spraying water from tires that lost their contact with the road, and crashed into a light pole. Debris exploded from the taillights and struck me in the arm as I raced past. I felt skin tear open and blood seep down my arm, but I blocked it out.

  Years ago, in another life, Eli and I used to play this game. We would hop on dirt bikes and tear ass through the Montana badlands, two reckless teenagers addicted to speed and danger, pushing the limits of our bikes and ourselves the way only teens convinced of their immortality can. We would arrive home hours past sundown, covered in mud, and get beaten by Peter for missing dinner and abandoning our chores. His hatred of our motor cross mayhem only furthered our desire to go back out. Now, so many years removed from those daredevil races, I still recognized Eli’s habits. For however much my brother had changed since those days, he hadn’t changed how he drove.

  I followed Eli through city streets, matching him move for move, racing through red lights and stop signs. With every run through a red light, I heard the squealing of tires, the blaring of horns, and the crash of metal. Within minutes we were joined by three police cars. The lead car pulled alongside me. The cop riding shotgun rolled down his window and waved to the side of the road.

  “Pull the fuck over right now!”

  I gave him the finger and pulled ahead of him, hoping the driver would be hesitant to execute a PIT maneuver on a bike. The Caddy was six car lengths up, shifting from side to side like a NASCAR driver trying to warm his tires.

  Fucking with us, Eli could have lost us anytime he wanted, but he was having too much fun. He used to do the same thing to
me when we raced the dirt bikes, spraying dirt and rocks and mud at me to blind me and keep me from pulling ahead.

  Fifty yards from the next intersection, Eli swung the car hard to the left. The tires of the Seville hit the divider, and the car hopped into oncoming traffic. Cars slammed their brakes and slid. While Eli managed to continue unscathed, several more accidents ensued from his lunge into oncoming traffic. Two of the police cars abandoned the pursuit. I steered the bike in a long swooping arch, cut through the intersection and reversed course, keeping my eyes focused on the taillights of the Caddy.

  Eli hit the onramp for the interstate. I followed, fighting to keep the bike from spinning.

  We were heading east toward the bridge that spans the Illinois River, squad cars breathing down our necks. I pressed harder, pulling alongside the Seville’s fender, daring him to knock me off. Eli held the car steady, avoiding the concrete K-rail that separated the east and westbound lanes of the interstate.

  He looked over and met my eyes.

  He was smiling. Having the time of his life.

  The bridge approached. We raced toward it, side by side, like two stock cars fighting for the inside on the final lap at Talladega. As we crested the bridge, I saw scores of flashing red and blue lights. The road was completely blocked off with rows of cars. Eli wouldn’t be able to get through it with a tank.

  The Seville screeched to halt, and I flew past him. My own brakes locked down and I looked behind me, expecting to see Eli racing back the way he had come.

  But he just sat there.

  Finally, Eli stepped out of the car. I hopped off the bike and looked at my brother. His hair was long and unkempt and it blew in the breeze. A beard covered most of his face. He looked like a deranged madman and almost nothing like the picture being circulated.

  “You’re out of moves, Eli! There’s nowhere to go!”

  “There’s always somewhere to go!”

  I saw him glance at the rail.

  “Don’t even think it!”