Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (49 page)

“Your home, Dell?”

His eyes move up and down. That’s got to be a yes. And I have to move.

“Thank you,” I say as a flood of sirens roars up. I dash to the front door and slam it open for two EMTs who have jumped out of an ambulance. One of them is Lloyd. Not as easy to recognize as he was a month ago. He’s losing weight. Maybe it was my pep talk. I doubt it.

“Lloyd!” I bark.

He looks up at me in surprise. I’m wearing sweatpants and a sports bra and I’m covered in blood.

“Keep him alive.”

I race down the steps before he can answer. The first uniformed officer looks like he is going to pull a gun on me. I realize my badge is still in my Under Armour top with Dell.

He blocks my way and says in a soothing but firm voice, “Excuse me, ma’am, let’s step over by my car where we can talk. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Before I can speak, a red-faced, out-of-breath Carter runs up, takes one look at me covered in blood, and says, “Have you been shot, Detective Conner?” He looks like he is going to be sick and his face color drains from bright red to pale white in an instant.

“Both of you, get your partners, get in your cars, and follow me,” I nearly shout.

“What about the Cutter Shark?” the uniform asks me.

“He’s not in there, but I know where he is.”

I give him and Carter the address on North Dearborn. I tell Carter to have his partner drive and call the situation into Konkade while we are mobile. I sprint to my car and don’t bother to check to make sure they leave with me. They know how to get there—and they are jammed up in the traffic around Klarissa’s house.

Dell’s house. I knew we weren’t watching it full-time anymore—just spot-checks. I calculate in my head. It’s twenty to thirty minutes from Klarissa’s in heavy traffic; ten to fifteen minutes when the streets are reasonably deserted like now; maybe seven when you are pretty sure your sister is being held by a serial killer and you are willing to use sidewalks when necessary.

I zip across Wicker Park and then south through Old Town. I cut across Belmont and switch from Wells to Clark as I dart through late-night club traffic—most of it pedestrian at this point. So much for Mayor Doyle’s instructions to stay in tonight. My engine is winding to its limits as I shift up and down the gear box.

I look in my rearview mirror. No sign of my squad cars. They’ll get there soon enough.

Now I’m darting through traffic on Sheridan, still trying not to kill any drunks that are laughing and shouting at each other and reeling in the street. I cut over Addison and I’m on Dearborn. I’m three blocks away and still under seven minutes.

My phone is vibrating. I jab the green button with my thumb.

“Where you at, Don?”

“Close. We’ve been rerouted by Konkade. Everyone on task force is converging on Dell’s house to meet you there.”

“No sirens, right?”

“We’re still running stealth. I’m in the car with Blackshear and Martinez now. No worries. We’re all coming in with no lights or sirens so he won’t know what hits him.”

“Good. I need to get off now.”

“Conner, backup is less than five minutes away. Sit tight, stand down, just stop. Listen for once.”

“Don, I’m here now. I’m going in for Klarissa.”

“Conner! Are you listening?”

I pull a fresh magazine from my glove compartment to put into my Beretta. Twenty rounds that will shoot almost as fast as any automatic. My scores on the shooting range are below average, but if there’s half a shot and my sister is still in harm’s way, I’m going to nail the mad dog right between his eyes. Honest to God I will.

I reach for my 9mm in the holster on the small of my back. No holster. No gun. It is in my Under Armour top. I slam the worthless magazine down in anger.
Mr. Barry,
whatever you taught me,
I need it now.

I trot down the street and pick up speed. Forget the Beretta. I had to park almost two blocks away but I’m about there. My phone rings. Don. I hit the ignore button immediately. I’m two houses away and my phone emits the sonar ping. I look at the text message.

Do not go in alone. Direct orders. Zaworski!

This is distracting.

I pop the battery out and throw my phone in the bushes. I am alone and unarmed. I’m also incredibly dramatic and stupid. I may need my phone when this is done.

79

June 20, 11:57 p.m.

SHE’S BEAUTIFUL, BUT
so thin. She’s an angel. Though she
was a bit naughty tonight.

I wanted her to be awake for our sweet good-bye, but I had to give
her another 15 cc’s of pentobarbital to help her
behave herself. When
you put the needle straight into the carotid
artery, that stuff does its work fast. It worked on my sweet little filly as well as it does for equestrian vets.

I
had planned to switch to Suxamethonium when we got here—no pain inhibitors. But she was more of
a fighter than I anticipated and I had to give her the real knockout
juice.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, watching her, frustrated that I might have given her a little too much.
The minutes are ticking
by. She needs to wake up. I don’t want her to
miss this.

Did she really think she could tell me she didn’t want
to see me?

Wake up, Angel.
Wake up!

80

I STAND BEFORE the house Dell rented—and recently abandoned. Two stories up and a half basement. Four steps up to a recessed front stoop with an impressive double door. I scan the face of the house. No lights on in the front rooms that I can see. I hop a fence in the side yard and run around back to the alleyway. No lights on in the basement or first floor. But I can see a sliver of light behind curtains in a back second-floor room that are not completely closed.

That’s where he has her.

I carefully check the handle of the door next to the garage. Locked. Solid wood. Looks like metal bracing around the frame.

I dash back out front and jump the fence again to see if help has arrived. The street is silent. I bound up the five steps to the front door. The wrought-iron security door is unlocked. But I still am faced with two large oak doors with ornate carving and beveled-glass windows—but not big enough to fit through. I look at my watch. 11:58 p.m. I put my ear to the door. Not surprising, I can’t hear a sound.

How am I going to get in? I’m not going to be able to do it silently. What happens then? Does he leave her and bolt? Does he kill her and bolt? Is she still alive?

If Dean, the Cutter Shark, is true to his word and waiting for summer to start—and if his watch isn’t running fast—I have less than two minutes to get inside there.

God parted the Red Sea for Moses. All I need is for him to open the door for me.

81

June 20, 11:59
p.m.

SOMETIMES YOU’VE GOT
to go old school to get the job done. It’s amazing what a glass of ice water to the
face does to interrupt one’s sleep. My girl is
awake at last.

Now why
would she go and spoil the moment by calling me a
nasty name?

Good girls
shouldn’t say bad words.
Does she still not understand who is in charge?

I am forced to admit what I’ve tried to
hide from myself. Our
relationship isn’t based on mutual respect and
understanding. She really hasn’t been a very
good girl to me. Certainly no angel.

I like the
way a metal edge looks
against skin like hers.

I like that she’s
not so confident anymore—the way it makes her eyes
go wide and pool up with tears. I don’t like the
red welt on her cheek.
I didn’t want to hit
her. But she asked for it. She called me a dirty name. She needed to be
punished.

11:59. A minute to go. No one would know the difference if I started a little early.

But
I would know. And I want this to be right. So much has gone wrong
in Chicago. I need this to
be right.

And it will be.

82

THE FIRST-FLOOR AND basement windows are guarded by wrought-iron grills. I tug on each of them out front and all are secure. One minute to go. I am out-of-my-mind frustrated. I literally have a couple tears pop, not fall—pop—from the corners of my eyes. I guess I do cry. But only when I’m angry.

It’s possible Klarissa is not even in the house with the Cutter Shark. I’m taking the word of a man who was on death’s doorstep. And the information he gave me came from a serial killer. Not the best witness. If that’s the case, if Dean doesn’t have her here, I can’t save her. But I believe that Dell has pointed me in the right direction. I have no choice but to believe him. Because I can’t believe I’m going to lose my sister.

Stop analyzing. The light is on. You know he has her in there.

If I don’t get through this first door, knowing Klarissa is in here isn’t going to matter. I have to get through this door and up a flight of stairs to the back of the house. I can’t believe I left my Beretta behind. It would be so easy to blast off the door hinges with a round of bullets.

There are two large concrete planters on the front stoop with angels carved into them. I push both of them up to see if there’s a key underneath. There isn’t. I open the unlocked wrought-iron outer door and half scoot, half roll one of the planters on an awkward angle to hold it open. I pause and listen. Did that make too much noise?

I hear no sound inside and continue. I bend my knees and straighten my back and get the second planter cradled in my hands. I don’t want to smash through the front door with all the noise it’s going to make. But I have no choice.

Smashing in the front door it is.

83

June 21, 12:00
midnight

THAT’S GOING TO
leave another bruise. Why not just hold still and make this easier
for both of us? You’re
not cooperating like a good
girl, Klarissa. And before this night is through, you
are going to
be a good girl. I deserve it. I demand it.
And I will have it.

I’m going to help you. Help
you find release. Closure.

Call out to God all
you want. You aren’t the
first. Where you are, not even God can save you.
And you can call for
your sister all you want. What do you think she could do? I would break her like a twig.
She thinks she’s tough, but one punch from me and she went down easier than a house of cards.

Unless you want another
shot of the sleepy medicine, time to hold still. You’re only delaying the inevitable. You may not have plans this evening, but I’ve
got to run!

Maybe this will help. I have a
pretty good idea how proud you are of that face
of yours.

Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart. People don’t watch you do news because of your brains and articulation. They watch you because you have a pretty face. Maybe not so pretty now.

Now hold still!

84

I TAKE TWO deep breaths and lift the planter to waist level—it has to weigh close to 300 pounds. My forearms are screaming. I torque my body so I am facing the street, get my body weight moving toward the building, rotate my torso, and swing the planter with all my weight behind it into the middle of the front doors with a crash.

I feel a pop in my right knee and pain shoots up and down my leg in a slow-motion moment of déjà vu that takes me back nine years to my last soccer game for NIU when I tore my ACL.