Killing Red (30 page)

The nearest weapon of any kind was thirty feet away, somewhere in that trunk in the living room. Langdon was much closer. Realizing he would never make it, Chapa turned and faced the bloodied madman who was charging down the hall.

Langdon was a frenzied bundle of rage and pain. His neat appearance had vanished, the dark blue shirt matted with even darker bloodstains. But Chapa’s focus was on the knife that extended from Langdon’s right hand.

The blade was sleek and clean, and if Chapa was going to keep his own blood from getting on it he would have to anticipate the first stab, then make certain there wasn’t a second. He stood in the middle of the tight hallway and readied himself.

Chapa made a grab at Langdon’s wrist, but missed. He sidestepped as much as the space would allow, but felt the blade bite into his left arm, just above the elbow.

Langdon tumbled forward and to the floor, the knife still in his hand. As Chapa made a move to pin him, Langdon flipped around and tossed him off.

The living room was within reach now, and Chapa scrambled to get to the toolbox. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the small red dots of blood that were marking the floor with his every move.

He reached the trunk an instant before Langdon’s shadow eclipsed the light from the hall. Just as Chapa had feared, the lid was closed. At least it wasn’t locked. He threw the lid open as Langdon’s grunts filled the room, and grabbed the first thing his hands could grip.

The tackle box was heavier than Chapa remembered, or maybe it just felt that way because the strength was steadily flowing out of his arm. He ignored the howls of pain from the fresh wound as well as the sting from the slightly older one on his back and lifted the heavy tackle box.

There was no time to search for something more conventional, so he swung around with as much force as he could and threw the metal box into Langdon’s chest. It struck him just slightly off-center, then crashed to the floor, its contents spilling across the hardwood.

Langdon fell back against a wall, nearly tripping over the mattress, and gasped for air. Chapa made a move for the knife, but Langdon withdrew it a second before he got there and blindsided him, driving a heavy fist into the back of his head.

By the time Chapa managed to scramble into a half-squat, Langdon was rushing toward him again. His only chance was to go for Langdon’s knees, and tackle him. The killer would still get a stab in, but with any luck it would only slice flesh and muscle.

He waited for Langdon to be right on him, so he could see where the knife was going. Chapa’s body was spring-loaded, ready to absorb the pain and take control of the situation. Once the blade was in his hands, he would kill Langdon. No second thoughts.

Then everything stopped.

Langdon’s head jerked back and his neck stiffened like someone had just shoved an iron rod up his ass and kept pushing till it reached the base of his brain. He stood there frozen in place, a wax figure in a house of horrors, so lifelike, yet not entirely convincing. Chapa held his position, crouched in full-on attack mode as Langdon took a couple of involuntary steps to the side, in the direction of nowhere.

Annie was standing behind him, still holding the hypodermic which was now empty except for the single drop that clung to the tip of the needle. The duct tape dangled from her right cheek, her left cheek raw and red. She was breathing heavily through her mouth.

In an instant, Langdon got his bearings back and threw himself at Chapa, who was ready for him. Chapa took a snap step to his right, then drove his shoulder into unprotected ribs as Langdon passed, sending him spinning and falling out of control in the direction of the window.

Unable to slow his movement, Langdon slammed into the window frame and the momentum sent his upper body through the shattered opening.

As Langdon lay there across the sill, his head outside the window, his feet planted to the floor, Chapa scrambled to find something in the scatter from the tackle box that he could use as a weapon. He settled on a length of chain and waited for Langdon to rise up and make his move.

And waited.

“Is he dead?” Annie’s voice, an uneven mix of hope and fear.

Chapa was just glad to hear the sound of it again.

“I don’t think so.”

Slowly, Chapa moved in on the wounded animal. The links were coiled tight against his knuckles, leaving a two-foot pendulum of steel swinging from side to side with each cautious step.

He was no more than four feet from the window when he saw why Langdon was not moving. A triangular shard of glass had pierced his back and gone all the way through. Three blood-soaked inches were sticking out just under his left shoulder. He was pinned in place.

Chapa remembered how that ledge was lined with jagged glass stilettos after he had fallen through it, and wondered how many of those had sliced their way into Langdon.

“We can’t leave him like that,” Annie said and meant it.

Langdon was making a desperate gurgling sound and it wasn’t clear whether he was trying to speak, or even if he was still conscious.

“Drop the knife and I’ll help you,” Chapa said as he got closer than good sense told him he should. “You’re going to die, otherwise.”

Langdon instead raised the knife and waved it at him. A dying animal whose only remaining instinct was to kill. His head jerked unevenly, as though his neck was hardening concrete.

“This is over, just give up the knife, Langdon.”

Chapa extended his free hand until his fingertips rubbed up against the side of Langdon’s knuckles. His hold on the knife remained firm, but that couldn’t last. Chapa had just about wrapped his fingers around the handle when Langdon jerked it free and started flailing at him.

The tip of the blade clipped Chapa’s palm, but as he stepped away he realized Langdon wasn’t looking at him. Langdon’s eyes, like his hatred, were fixed on Annie. He was still glaring at her even after all of the fight was gone from his body.

Annie cupped her hand over the phone before Chapa could finish punching in Andrews’ number.

“We’ve got to talk first.”

“It can probably wait.”

“No, it can’t,” she said and pointed at Langdon’s motionless body, “but he can.”

“Annie, trust me, I have to do this.”

She nodded and stepped away. As Chapa made the call, he noticed Annie looking around the room like she was seeing it for the first time.

“Don’t touch anything.” Andrews was more shaken than angry, but Chapa knew that would change by the time he got there. “I’m already on the move and I’m bringing my team with me, so don’t call anyone else. And for goodness sake, don’t do anything crazy.”

Too late, Chapa thought, looking down at the knife he’d pried out of Langdon’s still warm hand. Chapa had been anxious to let go of the weapon the moment he touched it. It was the first time he had ever seen a blade with his blood on it.

“I assume you’re going to need medical help up there.”

“Yes,” Chapa said, thinking about Annie, then himself, but not Langdon.

Annie was standing by him again when he finished his brief conversation with Andrews. He put the knife in the tackle box and took it along as she led him back to her apartment. Easing down the steps, Chapa surveyed his wounds, trying to not be too obvious about it. With Langdon incapacitated, Chapa’s thoughts returned to what he’d said about Annie being a part of it. Chapa didn’t believe Langdon, he knew better.

Annie stopped at her door for a moment before she remembered it was unlocked.

“Seems like a long time since I was last here.”

Chapa was thinking the same thing, but opted not to tell Annie yet that he’d been in her apartment.

“We probably should’ve stayed upstairs, Annie.”

She turned and faced him full on.

“There’s something you have to know.”

The look on her face was equal parts compassion and concern. He followed her in and she closed the door behind him, then locked it.

“Those things Langdon said about my being involved in all of this.”

“C’mon Annie, he’s insane, I know that.”

“It’s true.”

Those two words had a three-dimensional quality, a presence that filled the space between them. Chapa waited for more, there had to be more.

Annie walked over to a file cabinet and pulled out a thin black portfolio.

“Those were my drawings that he used to find those kids.”

She laid out a series of them on a table, Chapa recognized a couple of the faces from the medicine cabinets.

“But I had no idea he was doing that. I hope you can believe me.” Tears began to cloud the softness of her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course I believe you, but how?”

“I don’t how he got them, maybe he broke in.”

“I know how he got in, that’s not what I meant,” Chapa said, reaching in his pocket to retrieve her key. “I found this in the cabinet that had your pictures on it.”

She took the key from him.

“I meant, how did you choose to draw these children in particular?”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy, and you’d probably be right.”

“Doubt it. After the past few days, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what crazy looks like, and you’re not it.”

Annie sank into the couch and buried her face in her hands.

“I see them when I’m asleep.”

“In your dreams?”

“Not quite. You know that snapshot of time, just before you wake up, when you sometimes have absolute clarity, and you can see all the truths you’ve been avoiding?”

Chapa knew.

“They come to me then, their faces. I never told my parents the reason I started taking drawing classes in college was so I could make a record of what they looked like. It felt like I owed it to them.”

“How long have you been having these dreams?”

“It started sometime after that night I got away, and I always believed horrible things were going to happen to those children, all of them.”

“Is it the same kids over and over again?”

“Sometimes. That’s why I started going to see Louise.”

“What did she have to say about it?”

“She thought part of me had crossed over that night.”

Chapa suppressed a smirk.

“You don’t believe that?” Annie asked as though she wasn’t ready to except that explanation either, and was hoping Chapa could provide an alternative.

“Nope.”

“Any of it?”

Chapa didn’t answer. He was locked in on one of the drawings. There was something familiar about the small boy with the ratty hair.

“I know who this is.”

“What?” Annie was off the couch in an instant. She came around the table and stood next to him.

“This is Ryan Miller, he was one of Grubb’s—”

“Victims,” she finished his sentence, staring at her drawing as though she was seeing it for the first time. “I remember their names. My parents tried to hide your stories from me, but I found them. I knew the names after reading them just once. But I never understood why mine was in there with theirs.”

Chapa found another familiar face, then another.

“You must have seen the pictures of children that we ran with the story, because you’ve copied them.”

“I don’t remember seeing those photos.”

“You didn’t really forget, either.”

She started tipping back, and Chapa put his hands firmly on her shoulders, sensing that if he did not hold on she would crumble, bit by bit.

“You’ll be all right now, Annie.”

Tears streamed from her eyes as she turned and hugged him in a way that no one had in some time, the way only a child can.

“When Grubb had me, all I ever thought about was my father showing up to rescue me. I couldn’t understand what was taking him so long. As far as I was concerned, he was my dad, and he could do anything. But he never came, and I was too young to really understand why.”

She looked up at him with a smile which, though genuine, was still laced with pain. “You came for me today.”

They hugged again until Chapa could hear the sirens in the distance.

“They’re going to ask us a lot questions. They’re going to want to know about your drawings. I’ll talk to Joseph Andrews about that, he’ll be the lead agent.”

“I feel like I’m partly responsible for—”

“Nothing, Annie. Not any of it. That’s exactly how these monsters malfunction. They’re like time bombs walking around just looking for a reason to go off. The Beatles make a record and Charles Manson uses it as an excuse to murder people. The Son of Sam claimed he was taking orders from his neighbor’s dog. Donnie Langdon sees some drawings that have nothing to do with him and believes he’s receiving a message.”

Annie wiped the tears from her face as Chapa turned his attention to another drawing. There was something about this one, a girl about eleven years old, that captured his attention.

Whatever resemblance there might’ve been to Nikki was mostly in the eyes, though the girl in the drawing had her chin, too. Chapa knew it well—he saw it in the mirror every day.

“When did you draw this?”

“About two weeks ago.”

Chapa was focusing on an area in the drawing, just below the child’s left ear.

“Is this some sort of a mark, or just shadowing?”

Annie leaned in and studied the girl’s face.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell. I just draw what I remember.”

It wasn’t Nikki, Chapa knew that. Maybe it was someone Annie had walked past, or seen on that playground down the street. Could be that over time her memories of those original photos of Grubb’s victims had faded. Some of the faces captured in uneven shades of black and white had morphed into someone different, unfamiliar.

But seeing this drawing sent a pitch-black wave of fear through him. It’s that fear every father knows too well. The one that keeps a father’s eyes pinned on a van as it cruises by a front yard where children, his children, are playing. The same fear that prods him out of bed to look in on his kids, double-check the smoke detectors, make sure the doors are locked. And also the one that reminds him from time to time that even if he does everything he can to keep his children safe, it still may not be enough.

In the time since Nikki moved away, those concerns had become more diffused, but no less powerful for Chapa. Now a rough drawing of an unidentified girl had brought those sharp feelings, and the insecurity they carried like a virus, back to the surface. And Chapa knew that fear would always be there. No matter how far away his daughter lived, no matter how old she was.

Five floors down, a team of federal agents was making its way into the building and not being coy about it. Chapa didn’t hear them, and it was left to Annie to open the door. He was still lost in the drawing when Andrews walked in.