Lawrence Block - A Ticket To The Boneyard

I shot a glance at the door, as if I was considering making a run for it. It was a ridiculous idea. It very likely wasn't unlocked, even if the chain was off, but even if it were he'd be on me before I could get the door open and myself through it.

Besides, I hadn't come here to run away from him. I'd come here to take him down.

"Go ahead," he said. "Let's see if you can get out the door."

"We'll go through it together, Motley. I'm taking you in."

He laughed at me. He raised the nightstick and pointed it at me and laughed again. "I think I'll stick this up your ass," he said. "Do you think you'll like it? Elaine liked it."

He was looking at me carefully, watching for a reaction. I didn't give him one.

"She's dead," he said. "She died hard, the poor darling. But I guess you know that."

"You're wrong about that one," I said.

"I was there, Scudder. I could report in detail, if I thought you could stand hearing it."

"You were there but you left early. The doorman got there in time and called an ambulance. She's in New York Hospital and doing fine. She already gave them a statement, and the doorman backed up her ID."

"You're lying."

I shook my head. "But I wouldn't worry about it," I said. "Remember what Nietzsche said. It'll just make you stronger."

"That's true."

"Unless it destroys you, of course."

"You're becoming tiresome, Scudder. I like you better when you're begging for mercy."

"Funny," I said. "I don't remember doing that."

"You'll be doing it soon."

"I don't think so. I think you've had your run and now you're finished. You were very careful early on. Lately you've been getting sloppy. You're ready for it to end, and you know how things always end for you. You wind up losing."

"I'll tape your mouth," he said, "so nobody can hear the screams."

"You're done," I said. "You lost the momentum when you left Elaine alive. You had her for two hours and you couldn't even manage to make sure she was dead when you left. Now all you can do is stand there and make threats, and threats don't mean much when the person you threaten isn't afraid of you. You have to back them up, and you can't do that anymore."

I turned away, as if to show contempt for him. He stood there, getting ready to do something about it, and I reached down for a bronze Chinese incense burner. It was about the size of a half-grapefruit and it had been on top of the table until I'd come crashing into it.

I picked it up and threw it at him, and I went in under it.

This time he didn't make the mistake of trying to catch what I tossed his way. He swung out a hand, knocking the incense burner aside, then moved forward to meet my charge. I feinted at his head, ducked in and hammered punches at his middle. There was no softness there, nothing but ridged muscles. He swung a fist that caught me on the side of the head. It was a glancing blow and it didn't do much. I ducked the next punch he threw, tucked my chin into my chest and hit him just below the navel, then swung a knee up at his crotch.

He pivoted, blocking with his hip. He grabbed at my shoulder and his fingers dug in. His grip was as strong as ever but he wasn't on a pressure point now and the pain was nothing I couldn't stand.

I hit him again in the gut. He tensed in response, and I bulled forward, shoving him back against the wall. He rained blows on my shoulders and the top of my head, but he was better at pressing and probing and squeezing than he was at infighting. I tried for his groin again, and when he moved to protect himself I stomped down on his instep. That hurt him, and I pressed the advantage and did it again, raking his shin with the heel of my shoe, stomping down hard on his foot, trying to break a couple of its small bones.

His hands moved, one settling on my upper arm, the other fastening on the back of my neck. He let his fingers look for hot spots now and he hadn't lost his touch. His thumb dug in behind my ear and the pain came in Technicolor.

But it was somehow different. It was there, God knows, and it could not have been more intense, but this time I was able to feel it without feeling it. I was aware of it but unaffected by it. Something enabled me to allow it to pass through me and leave me whole.

He shifted his grip, both of his hands on my neck now, the thumbs at the base of my ears, the fingers reaching to circle my throat. Maybe the pain wouldn't stop me, but if he shut off my air or blocked the flow of blood through the carotid I'd be just as dead as if I died in agony.

I went for his foot again. His grip loosened a little, and I crouched lower. He loomed over me, his hands finding their grip again, and I gathered my legs under me and thrust straight up, leading with the top of my head, using it as a battering ram.

Some things don't change. He still had fingers like eagle's talons, the strongest I'd ever encountered. And, thank God, he still had a glass jaw.

I butted him a couple of times, but I think the first one was all it took. When I let go of him and took a step back he slid down the wall like a dead man. His long jaw was slack and saliva trailed from one corner of his mouth.

I dragged him out into the middle of the room and cuffed him. I used the cuffs I'd just bought to fasten his hands behind his back, and I used Echevarria's set, hanging from his belt in their leather case, to shackle his ankles together. I got my little tape recorder out of my pocket and made sure it still worked, then cued a cassette so I could start recording when he came to.

Then I sat back and gave myself time to catch my breath. I started thinking about what would happen now. If Elaine lived, her testimony ought to be enough to ensure conviction. If she died—

I called New York Hospital and they put me through to the ICU.

Her condition was critical, they told me. That was all I could get from them over the phone.

But she was still alive.

If she died, the doorman could identify Motley. And, once the department put its full resources into the case, any of a number of witnesses might turn up to put him on the scene when Echevarria got stabbed, when Elizabeth Scudder was butchered, when Toni Cleary went out the window. No end of physical evidence might come to light if enough trained personnel looked in the right places for it. And a full-scale investigation in New York would almost certainly tip the balance in Massillon, where Tom Havlicek's chief would okay reopening the Sturdevant case. And Ohio was a death penalty state, wasn't it?

Still, a confession would make a big difference. All I had to do was wait until he came to and get him talking. No question the bastard liked to talk.

He was lying facedown, his hands cuffed behind him. I rolled him over onto his back and lifted an eyelid with my thumb. His eye was rolled way back up into its socket, with only the white part showing. He was out cold, and looked as though he'd be out for a while.

I went and got the Smith. I looked at it and I looked at him. I thought of everything he'd done and I looked within myself, trying to summon up the hate I felt for him. But it didn't seem to be there. At least it wasn't anywhere that I could find it.

And that had been oddly true a few minutes ago, when he had been far removed from the inert bundle in the middle of the floor. I had been very literally fighting for my life, and all the same I'd been oddly calm, and fresh out of hate and anger. I hadn't hated him then. I didn't seem to hate him now.

I put the gun to his temple and let my finger test the tension in the trigger. I withdrew my finger from the trigger and put the gun down on the floor.

I thought it all over. I must have spent several minutes running it through my mind. Then I took a breath deep enough to hurt my ribs, and then I let it all out, and then I picked up the Smith and broke it open.