Lisa Gardner - Love You More

Blood in the clean white snow.

Brian dying in the clean bright kitchen.

The mobster was shaking now. I gazed into his face. I let him see the death in my eyes. I let him see the killer he helped make.

“Here’s the deal,” I informed him. “Tell me where my daughter is, and in return, I’ll remove your restraints. I’m not giving you a knife or anything that crazy, but you can take a shot at me. Maybe you can overpower me, in which case, my bad. Maybe you can’t. In which case, at least you go down swinging instead of dying trussed up like a pig in your own front yard. You have until the count of five to decide. One. ”

“I don’t snitch,” Purcell snarled.

I shrugged, reached up, and mostly because I felt like it, lopped off a giant piece of his thick brown hair. “Two.”

He flinched, didn’t back down. “Gonna fucking kill me anyway.”

Another section of hair, maybe even a bit of ear. “Three.”

“Fucking cunt.”

“Stick and stones may break my bones…” I wadded up a big fistful of dark hair at the top of his forehead. Getting into the spirit of things now, I pulled up hard, so I could see his scalp lift. “Four.”

“I don’t have your daughter!” Purcell exploded. “Don’t do kids. Told them in the beginning, don’t do kids.”

“Then where is she?”

“You’re the fucking cop. Don’t you think you should know?”

I whacked with the blade. I got a lot of hair and definitely some scalp. Blood bubbled up red. Dripped onto the icy ground, turned pink against the snow.

I wondered if I would ever make it through another winter, where fresh snowfall wouldn’t make me want to vomit.

Purcell howled, shuddering against his restraints. “You trusted all the wrong people. Now you hurt me? I did you a favor! Your husband was no good. Your police officer friend even worse. How’d I even get into your house, you stupid cunt? Think your old man would just let me in?”

I stopped. I stared at him. And I realized, in that instant, the one piece of the puzzle I’d been missing. I’d been so overwhelmed by the trauma of Saturday morning, I’d never contemplated the logistics. I’d never analyzed the scene as a cop.

For example, Brian already knew he was in trouble. His weight lifting, the recent purchase of the Glock.40. His own jumpy mood and short temper. He knew he’d waded in too deep. And yeah, he’d never open the door to a man like John Stephen Purcell, especially with Sophie in the house.

Except Sophie hadn’t been in the house when I’d returned home .

She was already gone. Purcell had been standing in the kitchen alone, holding Brian at gunpoint. Sophie had already been taken, by a second person who must’ve come with Purcell. Someone Brian would feel safe greeting at the door. Someone who had access to the troopers’ pension. Who knew Shane. Who felt powerful enough to control all the parties involved.

My face must have paled, because Purcell started to laugh. The sound rattled in his chest.

“See? I tell the truth,” he growled. “I’m not the problem. The men in your life are.”

Purcell laughed again, the blood dripping down his face and making him look as crazy as I felt. We were two peas in a pod, I realized abruptly. Soldiers in the war, to be used, abused, and betrayed by the generals involved.

Others made the decisions. We just paid the price.

I set the knife down behind me, beside the shotgun. My right arm throbbed. Using it so much had caused the gunshot wound to bleed again. I could feel fresh moisture trickling down my arm. More pink stains in the snow.

Not much longer now, I knew. And like Purcell, I was not afraid. I was resigned to my fate.

“Trooper Lyons is dead,” I said.

Purcell stopped laughing.

“Turns out, you killed him two hours ago.”

Purcell thinned his lips. He was no fool.

From the back waistband of my pants, I pulled out a.22 semiauto I’d found taped to the back of the toilet tank in Purcell’s bathroom. Strictly a backup weapon for a guy like him, but it would still get the job done.

“I’m guessing this is a black market weapon,” I stated. “Serial number filed off. Untraceable.”

“You promised a fair fight,” Purcell said suddenly.

“And you promised to let my husband go. Guess we’re both liars.”

I leaned close. “Who do you love?” I whispered in the bloody snow.

“No one,” he replied tiredly. “Never did.”

I nodded, unsurprised. Then I shot him. Double tap to the left temple, classic gangland hit. Next, I picked up the KA-BAR knife and matter-of-factly carved the word “snitch” into the dead man’s skin. Had to obliterate the three Xs I’d formed earlier in his chest, which would’ve led a savvy detective such as D. D. Warren straight to my doorstep.

My face felt strange. Hard. Grim, even for me. I reminded myself of that tidy basement with its lingering scents of bleach and blood, of the pain Purcell would’ve happily inflicted upon me, if I’d given him the chance. It didn’t help. I was meant to be a cop, not a killer. And each act of violence took something from me that I would not get back again.

But I kept moving, because like any woman, I was good at self-inflicted pain.

Final details: I returned to the house long enough to help myself to Purcell’s cleaning supplies. Working with paper towels and bleach, I obliterated all traces of my blood inside the home. Then I traded my boots for his, tramping around in the mud and snow until my footprints were gone and only Purcell’s remained.

Lastly, I retrieved Brian’s Glock.40 from my duffel bag and wrapped Purcell’s right hand around the pistol grip to transfer his prints. Purcell’s.22 went into my duffel bag, to be tossed in the first river I passed. The Glock.40 went inside Purcell’s house, taped to the back of the toilet as he’d done with the first firearm.

Sometime after the sun rose, the police would find Purcell’s body tied to the house, obviously tortured, now deceased. They would search his house, they would discover his basement, and that would answer half their questions-a guy in Purcell’s line of work was bound to die badly.

While searching Purcell’s house, they would also discover Brian’s Glock.40. Ballistics would match the slug that killed police officer Shane Lyons to that firearm, providing a theory that Purcell had once entered my home and stolen my husband’s gun, which he later used to kill a highly respected state trooper.

Purcell’s murder would go to the back burner-just another thug meeting a violent end. Shane would be buried with full honors and his family would receive benefits.

The police would search for the weapon that shot Purcell, of course. Wonder about his murderer. But not all questions were meant to be answered.

Just like not all people were meant to be trusted.

One-seventeen a.m. I staggered to my feet, made my way back to the truck. I downed two bottles of water and ate two power bars. Right shoulder burned. Tingling in my fingers. A hollow sensation in my gut. A curious numbness to the set of my lips.

Then I was on the road again, shotgun on my lap, bloody hands at the wheel.

Sophie, here I come.

It’s Hamilton,” Bobby said, pulling D.D. out of Leoni’s garage and already jogging back to their car.

“Hamilton?” D.D. narrowed her eyes. “As in State Police Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Yep. Has access, has opportunity, and knows all the players involved. Maybe Brian’s gambling problem started the ball rolling, but Hamilton was the brains of the operation- You guys need money? Hey, I happen to know where there’s a huge pot of cash, just sitting there… ”