Touching Evil (20 page)

Greg wandered, bouncing from here to there, everything in him firing with too much information, too much pain, too much shit.

Then Artie was back, guiding him toward the door almost faster than his shaky legs could carry him. "Come on. Come on, man."

"I. I can't. I don't." He was just babbling, the same words over and over again.

"Greg." That voice cut right through his racing mind, Artie's hold firm, commanding. "Come on. Out. We're going home."

Greg looked over at Artie, trying to think, to figure out what they were doing, where they were. "Home."

"Yes. Home." They went down a set of stairs, out to the street where the traffic sounded loud, raucous.

He brushed against the railing at the bottom, then jerked away,
landing against the side of the building as he screamed, everything
just too loud, too sharp, too much.

"Shit. Come on, babe. Please." Hands yanking at his, Artie pulled
him, put him in the Camaro, where it was like being surrounded by a
bubble.

Everything melted into a pure, total silence.

When he could hear again, Artie was slapping his cheeks lightly,
pulling at his shirtfront. "Greg. Come on, babe. We're home. Please.
Come on."

"Don't be scared, Artie. You'll find her." He didn't feel like he
was in his body anymore. "You give me to him and get her to a doctor."

"No." Artie shook him. Hard. "I come back with both of you. Come on. Upstairs."

He stumbled out of the car, realizing suddenly that he'd left his shoes back there.

And it was cold.

And wet.

When had it gotten wet?

Sleepwalking, he went up with Artie, who let him in and pushed him
through the door, Duke coming over like a shot to wrap around his
ankles.

Greg sort of crumpled, landing half in Artie's chair, half on the floor.

"I got you. We got you." He heard Artie moving, heard things
clinking and closing, then Artie was back with a glass of juice. "Here.
Drink up."

"'M sorry." He loved the smell of oranges. He really did.

"Not your fault, babe. No matter what that fucker tries to make you
think. Not at all." Artie's hands helped him lift the cup, helped him
find his mouth.

He sputtered over the first gulp, but then the right, good, bright taste of it hit him, and he drank it down.

"Good. Good. Like that. All right. Better?" The cup went away when it dried up and Artie stroked his hair, his cheek.

"Better. When ... when do I have to go?" He pushed into the touch, let himself feel something good.

"Not today. Tomorrow." There was something ... he frowned. He
couldn't figure out what it was in Artie's voice, but there was
something.

He reached out, fingers settling on Artie's wrists, those thick fingers.

Artie was hoping he was too out of it to read him. Too far gone to
know that Artie had no intention of offering him up for a trade. None.

"Artie. You have to. You have to help her." It occurred to him,
suddenly, that making the argument that he was going to be fine was
less than logical, given he was still halfway on the floor.

"I will. I'll get her back." Restless, edgy, Artie hauled him up and
put him on the chair, patting him clumsily. "But not with you."

"Then we need to find her. Find the place. He'll have her there." God, he couldn't think.

"We have the plans. We know it was a work location. I need to go
call that in, babe." Artie let go, walking away, and it left him
feeling cold.

He stared at Duke, who stared right back. There had to be something. Something he missed.

All sorts of thoughts nibbled at the edges of his brain, but none of
them would take shape. Duke finally leapt up on his lap, purring, sharp
claws kneading his thigh.

"Hey." He let his hands sink into Duke's fur, stroking and petting.

Not thinking. He was getting good at not thinking.

They had the whole thing set up. They were meeting with Daniels.
Artie was pretty sure the fucker wasn't straying too far from his bolt
hole, and they had turned up three possible work sites within two miles
of the meet. They were gonna have unmarked cars and plainclothes guys
on every one of them.

Two days. Two fucking days had passed since the bastard had snatched
Leah. She'd better be all right. If she wasn't, Artie was going to tear
the little prick to shreds. And piss on the pieces.

He straightened his tie, looking at his own haggard face in the mirror. Now all he had to do was go lie to Greg.

Jesus.

Artie went out to the living room, staring from the hallway a
minute, watching Greg stare off into space and pet Duke. The damned
fool was so determined to go, so fucking ready to give himself up. The
captain had agreed with Artie, though. Greg shouldn't be anywhere near
the supposed exchange.

"Hey. I have to go scout some. You gonna be okay until I come back and pick you up for the main event?"

"Do you think you found the right spot?" Greg had stopped having
anything resembling emotion, just sinking deeper and deeper into this
huge blankness. "Should I come help?"

"No!" Artie breathed deep, cursing the psycho who thought this was a
great game over and over. "No. I'm good. I'll come back for you when
it's time."

"Okay." Greg stood, headed toward him, eyes focused somewhere past his head.

Artie backed away. He didn't ... couldn't let Greg touch him, Couldn't let the man know what he was about to do.

Greg stopped, blinked, looked at him. "Artie?"

"I. Babe. I gotta go." He couldn't help it. That look fucking crushed him. Artie held out a hand kinda helplessly.

Greg's eyes searched his face—so dark, so serious—then
he got a single nod. "You be careful out there, detective, okay?"

"Okay. Yeah. I got that. Careful." Fuck, he was babbling. Shoving
his hands in his pockets, Artie fumbled for the keys to the Camaro.
"I'll be back soon, yeah?"

"Yeah." Greg watched him jitter and fumble, just quiet and still as stone.

Not even looking, Artie turned and left. If he looked at Greg again
... well, it would all be over. Boom. So he left, Duke's accusing
rumble ringing in his ears.

As soon as he got to the car he gunned the engine and got on the horn. "This is Detective McAdams. Let's do it."

He was so focused on the road and his destination that he didn't
even see the tall figure that slipped out the door and into the taxi
that pulled up to the curb.

They had it all figured out. As soon as the guy even showed hide or
hair of Leah, they were taking him down. Getting her out of there.
Hell, they had SWAT and snipers and shit.

He pulled into the parking lot of the drive-in, the damned thing old
and overgrown, and shit, this would've been easier if they'd mowed.

He sat for a minute, hands on the steering wheel, trying to brace
himself for what was coming. One hand went to the knot of his tie, the
heel of his palm pressing against the vest he wore under his shirt.

Time always went so fucking slow at moments like this. His cell phone rang, Leah's number coming up.

He snapped it open, growling his hello. "Where is Greg?" the voice
on the other end asked. "You don't get the bitch until I get Greg."

He looked over to one of the unmarked cars, a man in the backseat looking enough like Greg to pass, even at a decent distance.

"And you don't get to see him until you make nice. You know he's
alive and well. I don't know that about my partner. He's here. Now show
me Leah."

"At the concession stand. You see her? She's on the roof."

Artie squinted, trying to make out the figure up there, assess any booby traps.

It took a minute, then the faded light caught on Leah's hair, the duct tape over her mouth. Bingo.

He considered carefully, making sure there was no way she could be
strapped to a bomb or anything. That didn't seem the guy's style, but
you had to be careful. Artie got out of the car, getting his radio out.
"Okay, bring out Greg," he said, hoping to God their ruse worked.

"I want him to walk toward the screen."

"Sure, but I come with him. I don't have my gun on me."

"No. You go get the bitch before I blow her head off. Greg comes to me."

The decoy was a cop, was trained for this. Artie just nodded,
keeping the phone and radio open. "Okay. Okay, I'm going to get her."

"Smart man. Tell me, detective, did you kiss him goodbye?"

His teeth ground. He didn't have to fake his fury. It was right
there on the surface. "You sick fuck. We'll get you, you know. One way
or the other."

So close. He could see Leah's face now. She was watching him,
looking just about as pissed as he'd ever seen her. He headed for one
side of the building, but her head shook, warning him away.

"You'll start, but I'll have him first, detective. Come here, Dr. Pearsall. Come play with me."

That sing-songy thing ran up his back like sandpaper, making him
shudder, and Artie put on some speed, trying to get to Leah before
Jerry realized what was going on, before he knew he'd been duped. All
he had to do was get up there now, on the roof.

Leah was struggling now, taped to a chair, bruised as all get out, fighting to get to him, get free.

That's it. Good girl. Artie hauled himself up, feet dangling,
knowing this was the crucial moment when he was too vulnerable to fight
back. Fucking A, it passed, though, and he was up there, pulling Leah
over, chair and all, getting them down below the lip of the roof before
all hell broke loose.

"You mother
fucker
!" A volley of gunshots rang out, Leah throwing herself to one side. "Where IS HE?"

Artie scrabbled, covering Leah as best he could, praying to God his vest could stop any flak that came their way.

He got the tape off Leah's hands and she tugged the tape off her
mouth. "He's got an old blue Caddy, my pistol, and a semi-automatic.
He's down on the far side."

"Got it." Artie found his handheld three feet away, barking orders
to the uniforms and SWATs, ducking again as chips of concrete fell in
his hair.

"I don't know if I can walk, Art. Bastard broke my ankle."

"We'll work it, honey." He looked at her, really looked, cataloging bumps and bruises. "How's ... how's the. You're still..."

"Still. Hell, I felt the little fucker
kick
at him when he touched me." Her eyes met his. "I want to go home, Art. I need to see Tim."

"Of course. I know they'll be clamoring to debrief you, babe, but
we'll get you home." He needed to get home to Greg, too. Tell him.
Well, tell him what? The shooting had stopped, but that wasn't
necessarily good. Artie called it in. "Report."

"Frank took four to the jacket. Perp scrambled, you have a visual?"

"No. Goddamn it, where is he?" Artie worked the tape off Leah's ankles, trying not to take skin with it. Man, that looked raw.

"Don't let him go; he'll be pissed as hell." Leah sobbed as he
touched her ankle. Damn. Damn. They were going to need an ambulance
over here.

"I've got an injury. We'll need an EMT. Give me the subject's location, damn it."

"Anyone have him? Christ! Anybody?"

There were thirty-five voices jabbering all of a sudden, cops and SWAT and shit all jabbering.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Artie peered carefully over the lip of the roof, searching the ground.

"Gotta love a clusterfuck, huh?" Leah chuckled, moving beside him. "Did you bring me a weapon?"

"Here, take my spare." Unstrapping his ankle harness, Artie handed
over his spare weapon, still searching, clearing the danger zones
before trying to move Leah down.

"You're my best friend." Leah took it, eyes sharp. "Shit. The Caddy's gone. How the fuck is the Caddy gone?"

"We need to get moving, honey. Come on." He planted his shoulder
under her arm, half carrying her to the edge of the roof that had the
little metal awning. "I need to get Greg."

"You brought him here?"

"No. I left him at home. But I need him to be safe. Help me out here, guys." He could lower her, but not all the way.

"Careful now. Christ, I'm like a big pregnant target, assholes, hurry up!" Well, she hadn't lost her sense of humor.

They got her down and Artie shimmied to the ground, too. He was pretty sure their bird had flown the coop.

The head of the SWAT team came over. "We got shots fired from that overgrown area, but that's it. We never made visual contact."

"Get Leah to the hospital, and get her husband in there with her. I'm going to secure his original target."

"Artie! Artie!" Leah looked over, red spots on her cheeks. "He took
me to a deserted building, not finished. He has this thing underground."

"Can you get someone there, babe? Can you describe it?" He knew they needed to go, clean that bastard's collection out.

"I'll try. I couldn't see much, but I'll try." Fuck, she was a strong broad.

"Okay. Good." He patted her shoulder clumsily. "I'll see you as soon as I get Greg, okay?"

"Okay, Art. Get the doc."

He nodded once and he was off, his car just where he left it, no
bullet holes to be seen. He took off like a bat out of hell, really
pushing it to get home.

There wasn't a Cadillac, no pickup. That made him feel better. Sort
of. He took the stairs two at a time, wheezing as he got to his floor,
the strain really getting to him now. The door seemed to take a fucking
age to unlock, but Artie got it, throwing open the door.

"Greg!"

Duke yowled, the sound wicked and haunting, claws scratching viciously on his couch.

"Duke! Jesus. Quit it." Artie looked in the kitchen, the bathroom,
and then the bedroom, his heart racing. No Greg. Where the fuck was
Greg?

Shit. Shit. The man's jacket was gone, shoes. Fuck. He looked around, then grabbed the phone and hit redial.

It rang and rang, then a women's voice sounded, "Yellow Cab. Can I help you?"

He knew they wouldn't give him the address Greg had gone to. Not
without a warrant. Artie mumbled, "Wrong number," and hung up. Where
the hell would Greg go? He hadn't been at the scene. Artie knew that
much. He would have known. Somehow.