The Watcher in the Wall (34 page)

Windermere didn’t shoot. She let Gruber disappear down the other side of the embankment. She reached the end of the little street and crossed the dirt to the roadbed, didn’t bother looking for the train at the top because she knew it was there, closing in, almost on top of her. Could feel the big locomotive like an earthquake, the headlight bright and blinding in her peripheral vision. She scrambled, the ballast rock giving way beneath her, her shoes scrabbling, getting nowhere, a quicksand nightmare scenario.

The train was upon her. Windermere was still climbing. Knew she was narrowing her options to a make or break, do or die. Knew if she hit the tracks a split second too slow, she was dead.

She climbed. Couldn’t talk herself out of it. Knew she’d rather die than let Gruber get away, knew she couldn’t live knowing she hadn’t done everything in her power to bring him down.

The train was close, so close she could
feel
it, horn blaring, brakes squealing, the ground trembling like Armageddon. She reached the top of the roadbed. Heard someone shouting from the cab of the locomotive, ignored it. Dove across the tracks and practically took flight, the embankment dropping away beneath her, the train a wall of steel at her heels.

She had a moment to register what she’d done. Realize she’d made it, she was still alive. No time to celebrate, though; she was airborne. She braced herself, knew the impact would
destroy
her wounded arm. Landed on rock and it was worse than she’d imagined, hot fiery streaks of pain bursting up that arm, her hands scraped up and torn, something bashing her chin, knocking her head back, a concussion scenario.

She still had her Glock. And the train hadn’t hit her. It was moving behind her, freight cars now, their brakes squealing. It would have to stop, she knew. Someone would call it in. But it would take time to back the train up, time she didn’t want to waste.

With her good arm, Windermere pushed herself to her knees. Touched her lip, spat blood. Wiped rock fragments from her chin, the palms of her hands, her knees. She was on the other side, the bridge and the gentle rise of the flood wall, the river somewhere beyond.

She could see Gruber in the light from the bridge, climbing the grass. He was almost at the top. She raised her pistol again, her aim shaky, uneven. Knew she wouldn’t make the shot, figured she’d rather he not know she was behind him.

She staggered to her feet. Started to the flood wall, the slick grass, started climbing.

<
135
>

All the night
seemed to calm. Seemed to distill to just Earl. The cops, the noise, the light: it all faded into the background, and it was just Earl and Gruber, the flood wall and the bridge and the river beyond.

Earl was working his way down the river side of the wall. Gruber hit the summit, crested it, started after him. The grass was slick, muddy, a tricky descent. Gruber slipped, felt something tear, the wound in his side a lightning rod to a jagged, electric pain.

He regained his balance. Jogged down the hill as quick as he could, zagging, stumbling, watching Earl, watching the ground, trying to stay upright.

Then Earl fell.

He was almost at the bottom, a roadway and a little scenic rest area, a couple of benches and a copse of trees and the water. He’d nearly made pavement, solid ground, a chance to make up some distance. Then his legs gave out from under him, planted him flat on his ass, hard, a buffoon on a banana peel. His .45 clattered to the pavement. He tried to get up, failed, groaned and grabbed for his back.

You got old, asshole,
Gruber thought, descending toward him.
Time caught up, and now you’re fucked
.

He reached the bottom of the flood wall. The grass leveled out, ran about fifteen feet to the road. Earl was still down. Gruber ignored him. Crossed to the pavement, to Earl’s .45. Picked it up, tucked it in his
waistband. Turned back toward Earl, reaching in his pocket for fresh cartridges for the Smith & Wesson.

Earl was watching him, those hard eyes. Wasn’t trying to escape, just watching Gruber approach. He wasn’t armed anymore, but that didn’t make him any less formidable. He’d aged plenty, too, but that didn’t matter, either. He was still the man who’d brought Gruber to the double-wide, still the one who’d subjected him to his own brand of hell. Those eyes, the anger inside that raged like fire, that was still Earl. The contemptuous curl of his upper lip, that was Earl, too.

He took in Gruber’s revolver, the shotgun swinging from his shoulder. Didn’t seem afraid. Didn’t seem to think the weapons hurt his chances any. Didn’t seem to care that he was flat on his ass, at his stepson’s mercy, the police still aeons away.

This was now. This was happening. Gruber had waited twenty years for this. He swung the shotgun around, pointed it at Earl’s belly, one slug left loaded, one all he would need. But Earl just laughed.

“You want me to show you how to use that thing, peckerwood?” Earl said. “I’m not my daughter, mind. You can’t just watch.”

Gruber leveled the shotgun, was about to tell Earl it didn’t matter, easy or hard, he’d be going regardless, when something caught his attention off to his peripheral. Movement up the flood wall, someone at the top, a woman, lit in silhouette by the light from the bridge.

The lady cop, the black woman he’d stabbed. The bitch just wouldn’t take a hint.

Gruber spun with the shotgun, aimed it up the hill, pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared load. The woman disappeared. Gruber didn’t have time to see where she’d gone, though, because a moment later, Earl was on him.

<
136
>

Windermere ducked the shot.
Heard it
thud
into the grass a few feet away from her, not close enough to matter. The bastard was a terrible shot; that was a plus. He was a maniac, though, and still heavily armed. His poor shooting was cold comfort.

She looked up and saw Earl Sanderson take a leap at his stepson, catch him by surprise, send Gruber sprawling backward onto the road. Heard the shotgun hit the pavement, watched it skid away. One gun down. At least one more to go.

She scrambled down the hill as the men fought in shadow. Struggled for grip, her shoes slipping and sliding everywhere, the damn grass like a ski hill and Windermere without skis. The men kept fighting, didn’t see her coming at them, and she toyed with the idea of shooting them both, right there, doing the world a big favor.

Thought better of it. There’d be paperwork. And besides, she was coming in too fast on the slippery grass. No way to get a clean shot; better the sneak approach.

She closed the distance. Kept her Glock level, kept her footing. The men were fighting like bears, rolling around on the ground, and she wondered how the hell she was supposed to separate them long enough to arrest the both of them.

Guess you’re going to find out,
she thought as the ground leveled out beneath her.
Guess you’re going to find out real soon
.

>>>

Earl had been a strong man,
twenty years back. He’d been able to kick the shit out of Gruber pretty easily, hardly ever broke a sweat doing it.

That was then.

As the older man tackled him, Gruber fell back, caught off guard by the force of the attack. Hit the ground hard, roadway grit digging into his back, his arms, his shoulder screaming, his side. Earl got in a few shots, climbed on top of Gruber. Rained punches down, hit him hard, like the old days.

Twenty years ago, he would have held the advantage. But things had changed.

Earl tired easy. His punches lacked weight. Gruber took a few, four or five, and then he reacted. Shoved Earl backward, freed his good arm. Ignored the pain in the rest of his body and focused on Earl’s eyes, those hard, fiery eyes.

Focused on his left eye, in particular. Focused on clawing it from its socket.

Earl screamed. Drew back a shade, stopped with the punching. Gave Gruber enough ground that he could reach the revolver, scramble backward a little. Earl watched with his good eye. Laughed again from the ground. “You don’t have the balls, shit stain.”

Gruber laughed back. Pulled the trigger. Watched Earl spin backward and down.

Then the lady cop was there.

<<<

Windermere was nearly
on them when Gruber shot his stepfather. The revolver roared, and Earl Sanderson torqued away, and then Gruber saw her. He spun, pulled the trigger too early. Missed by two feet, and then Windermere shot him.

Gruber fell back. Landed beside his stepfather. Windermere kept the Glock on him. Closed the distance. Heard sirens coming, lights in the distance down the narrow road.

Shit,
she thought, looking down at Gruber and Sanderson, both of them shot, both of them still breathing.
I guess that’s that, then
.

<<<

Gruber stared up at the cop.
Barely felt the shot, just knew that it had knocked him on his ass. Felt Earl beside him, heard him breathing hard, wheezing, a sucking wound from his chest.

Gruber inched his way toward him. Reached for Earl’s pistol where he’d stuck it in his waistband. The cop had her own piece trained on him, wasn’t about to blink. Had a fire in her eyes like someone who’d been wronged, who’d been counting on a chance to be standing here.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Gruber told her. “I don’t care if I die. Just let me have this asshole, please. Let me kill him.”

>>>

Windermere saw the way
Gruber was fumbling behind his back. Knew there had to be another weapon back there, the way he was maneuvering.

Beside him, Sanderson’s eyes were wide, watching her, pleading with her. He looked small and withered. He looked mostly pathetic. Windermere thought about the woman they’d found in his apartment, the bruise on her face. Figured the world wouldn’t miss the degenerate prick.

“Please,”
Gruber told her.
“I’ve been waiting so long for this.”

Windermere knew the backup would be here soon, knew Sanderson would probably die anyway. Knew Gruber’d been aching for this; hell, he probably deserved it, the things Sanderson had put him through.

But she wasn’t in the business of granting wishes to maniacs. And Gruber had done enough harm in the world already.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Get your hands where I can see them. Whatever you’re playing with back there, let it go.”

Gruber didn’t show his hands, though. And Windermere could see what he was thinking. Watched his eyes watch hers, calculating, like the kid raiding the cookie jar. She watched his body tense, knew he wasn’t about to just give up the game.

And he didn’t.

Windermere watched him reach back for the pistol, the last of his strength, that doughy face, those maniac eyes. Steadied her Glock and pulled the trigger, caught him in the chest, or maybe it was the shoulder, and his body went limp and his arm came back empty.

Game over
.

Windermere shot him again anyway. She thought about Adrian Miller and pulled the trigger another time, watched his eyes go wide, and kept shooting, seeing Madison Mackenzie and Dylan Price, seeing R. J. Ramirez and Shelley Clark, Adam DeLong and the rest of Gruber’s victims. Seeing Rene Duclair. She kept shooting until the Glock clicked empty, until Gruber lay back and she knew he was dead, until his breathing went still and his eyes went dark and lifeless, and Stevens and the New Albany cops were there pulling her from him, dragging her away from his body.

<
137
>

It was dawn
when word filtered through the hospital, the doctors and the nurses and the law enforcement circus gathered outside: Agent Wheeler would survive the night.

Earl Sanderson wouldn’t. And neither would Randall Gruber.

“Guess you shot him enough,” Stevens said, handing Windermere a paper cup of coffee and easing into a plastic seat beside her in the lobby. “Said he was pretty well Swiss cheese by the time they got him into the operating room. Of course, they weren’t exactly hauling ass.”

Windermere held the coffee with her good hand, sipped it and stared at the floor. It was bad coffee, late-night hospital coffee. She drank it anyway.

She could feel the eyes on her, the Louisville city cops, Wheeler and the rest of the FBI guys. The hospital staff. They all knew she’d done it, emptied her clip into Gruber. Shot him in cold blood. Lost control.

“Not that anyone’s blaming you for doing what you did,” Stevens said. “The guy was a maniac, Carla. Everybody here has your back.”

Windermere still didn’t look up. Wondered what would have been better, Gruber dead, or him rotting his life away in some prison somewhere. Which would have been a more suitable punishment for the man who’d lured ten teenagers to their deaths?

She couldn’t decide. She was in no mood to think about it. Honestly, she was in no shape to think, period, at this point. Exhausted.

But she could feel the eyes on her. Hear the whispers. Knew she should have stopped shooting Gruber when he dropped the pistol. Knew she should have listened to Stevens in the apartment, hung back and waited for tactical support, played it safe. Knew it was a sign of something irrational, something troubling, that she hadn’t. That she’d been blinded by personal psychopathology, her hatred of Gruber and what he stood for. She knew she should feel ashamed.

She’d been taught to use sufficient force to neutralize a threat, no more. She’d given into her anger, an anger she didn’t really want to think about. She’d never cared so much about the victims before. Not so much that she’d risk her career for them.

She drained her coffee. Grimaced. “So he’s dead, Stevens. So what? Madison Mackenzie’s still alive. Dylan Price is still alive.”

Stevens met her eyes. “Wheeler’s still alive, too.”

“Yeah.” Windermere stood. Started through the lobby toward the
front doors, avoiding the stares from the cops and the hospital workers, the assorted looky-loos, wanting fresh air and maybe to bum a cigarette. “Exactly,” she said.
“Exactly.”