Lisa Gardner - Love You More

I heard nothing at all.

I unpeeled my right eye, counted to five, then opened the left. The glare from the bare bulb didn’t hurt as much as I’d feared. I kept the shotgun cradled in my arms, and dripping blood from my wounded right shoulder, I started to descend.

Purcell maintained a clutter-free basement. No stored lawn furniture or miscellaneous boxes of junk or bins of Christmas decorations for a man in his line of work.

The open space held a washer, dryer, utility sink, and massive stainless steel table. The table was rimmed with a trough, just like the ones found in morgues. The trough led to a tray at the bottom of the table, where one could attach a hose to drain the contents into the nearby utility sink.

Apparently, when breaking kneecaps and slicing off fingertips, Purcell liked to be tidy. Judging by the large pink blush staining the floor, however, it was impossible to be totally spill-proof about these things.

Next to the stainless steel table was a battered TV tray bearing various instruments, laid out like a doctor’s operating station. Each stainless steel piece was freshly cleaned, with an overhead light winking off the freshly sharpened blades.

I bet Purcell spent a lot of time staging his equipment just so. I bet he enjoyed letting his subjects take in the full array of instruments, their terrified minds already leaping ahead and doing half of his work for him. Then he would strap them to the table.

I imagined most of them started babbling before he picked up the first pair of pliers. And I bet talking didn’t save them.

I passed the table, the sink, the washer and dryer. Behind the stairs I found a door leading to the utility room. I stood to one side, reaching around with my hand to pop the door open, with my back still pressed to the wall.

No one burst out. No child cried a greeting.

Still jittery from nerves, fatigue, and a low throbbing sense of dread, I crouched down, bringing up the shotgun to shoulder level, then darting into the gloom.

I encountered an oil tank, a water heater, the utility box, and a couple of plastic shelves weighed down with various cleaning products, zip ties, and coiled rope. And a thick coiled hose, perfect for spraying down the last of the mess.

I rose slowly to my feet, then surprised myself by swaying and nearly passing out.

The floor was wet. I looked down, vaguely surprised to see a pool of my own blood. Pouring down my arm now.

Needed help. Should go to the ER. Should…

What, call the cavalry?

The bitterness of my thoughts pulled me back together. I left the basement, returning to the gloom upstairs, except this time I snapped on every light in the house.

As I suspected, I found a small battery of first-aid supplies in Purcell’s bathroom. Guy in his line of work no doubt expected injuries he couldn’t report, and had outfitted his medicine cabinet accordingly.

I couldn’t pull my black turtleneck over my head. Instead, I used surgical shears to cut it off. Then, leaning over the sink, I poured the hydrogen peroxide straight into the bloody hole.

I gasped in shocked pain, then bit down hard on my lower lip.

If I were a true tough guy-say, Rambo-I would dig out the bullet with chopsticks, then stitch up the hole with dental floss. I didn’t know how to do any of those things, so I shoved white gauze into the wound, then taped the bloody bundle with white strips of medical adhesive.

I washed down three ibuprofen with water, then helped myself to a dark blue flannel shirt from Purcell’s closet. The shirt was two sizes too big and smelled of fabric softener and male cologne. The hem fell to midthigh and I had to roll up the cuffs awkwardly to free my hands.

I’d never worn the shirt of a man I was going to kill. It struck me as oddly intimate, like sprawling in bed in your lover’s button-up Oxford after the first time you’d had sex.

I have gone too far , I thought, lost some piece of myself . I was looking for my daughter, but discovering an abyss I’d never known existed inside of me. Would finding Sophie ease the pain? Would the light of her love chase the darkness back again?

Did it even matter? From the moment she was born, I would’ve given my life for my child. What’s a little sanity instead?

I picked up the shotgun, and retreated outside, where Purcell remained slumped against the house, eyes closed. I thought he’d passed out, but when my feet crunched through the snow, his eyes opened.

His face was pale. Sweat dotted his upper lip, despite the freezing temperature. He’d lost a lot of blood. He was probably dying and seemed to know it, though it didn’t appear to surprise him.

Purcell was old school. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

That would make my next job tougher.

I squatted down beside him.

“I could take you down to the basement,” I said.

He shrugged.

“Let you sample a taste of your own medicine.”

He shrugged again.

“You’re right: I’ll bring the equipment up here. Save me the trouble of lugging your sorry ass around.”

Another shrug. I wished suddenly that Purcell had a wife and kid. What would I do if he did? I didn’t know, but I wanted to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me.

I placed the shotgun behind me, out of Purcell’s reach. Then I slid out the KA-BAR knife, hefting it lightly in the palm of my left hand.

Purcell’s gaze flickered to the blade. Still, he said nothing.

“You’re going to die by a woman’s hand,” I told him, and finally had the satisfaction of seeing his nostrils flare. Ego. Of course. Nothing hurt a man quite as much as being one-upped by a woman.

“Do you remember what you told me that morning in the kitchen?” I whispered. “You told me as long as I cooperated no one would get hurt. You told me as long as I handed over my service weapon, you’d let my family go. Then you turned and murdered my husband.”

I ran the knife down the front of his shirt. The blade popped off the first button, the second, the third. Purcell wore a dark T-shirt underneath, topped by the requisite gold chain.

I planted the tip of the knife at the top of the thin cotton fabric and began to tear.

Purcell stared at the blade in rapt fascination. I could see his imagination kicking into gear, starting to realize everything such a large, well-honed blade could do to him. While he sat with his hands tied on his very own property. Helpless. Vulnerable.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, slicing down the black T-shirt.

Purcell’s eyes widened. He stared at me uncertainly.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Dying in the line of duty. A suitable end to an honorable gangster.”

Last shirt button. Pop. Last inch of T-shirt. Shred.

I used the blade to peel back his shirts. His stomach was unexpectedly pale, a little thicker around the waist, but defined. He trained. Not a big guy. Maybe a boxer. He understood fitness mattered in his line of work. Got to have some muscle to lug unconscious bodies down to the basement and strap them to the table.

Gotta have some size to snatch a struggling six-year-old girl.

The knife eased back his shirts, exposing his left side. I stared at his bare shoulder in fascination. The goose pimples that rippled across his flesh in the cold. The way his nipple formed a round bud right over his heart.

“You shot my husband here,” I murmured, and I used the blade to mark the spot. Blood welled up, forming a perfect red X against Purcell’s skin. The razor-sharp blade made for a nice, clean cut. Shane had always taken his equipment seriously.

“Next shot was right here.” I moved the blade again. Maybe I cut deeper this time, because Purcell hissed low, quivering beneath me.

“Third shot, right here.” This time, I definitely went deep. When I raised the KA-BAR knife, the blood welled at the edge of the blade and dripped down onto Purcell’s stomach.