Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

So I ended the conversation with a parting gift. I shot Allison O’Hara for a third time, gun pointed at her head.

“Yeah,” I said to her as she slid down the wall, dead, “neither did she.”

Chapter 27

It felt good to admit it.

“The maniac killed his own wife,” I repeated. It was Allison’s phrasing. Maniac? That’s a bit flattering. Maniacs are go-getters, highly motivated, athletes, CEOs. I was none of that. I was just a guy driving the divinely sensual corpse of Allison O’Hara to the parking lot of the Alluvial Tavern. There I would leave her curled up with my spare tire as I sought one final beer.

“Triple IPA,” I said, taking a seat. “No lime.”

The instant she saw me, the bartender seemed to know I’d just had an encounter.

“You have a new lady?” she said. An accusation more than a query.

“Yeah, she’s in the trunk of my car.”

Ms. Bartender pushed a beer toward me and left it halfway out of my reach as she went back to the kitchen. She hadn’t liked me in general; now she didn’t like me specifically. I pulled out two books, one of which was of course Anna Karenina . The other was Le Parfum, its final chapters dog-eared so I could relive their glory.

Within minutes I was done and closed the book—an act that cued the bartender.

“I just want you to know,” she said, returning uninvited. “I think you’re manipulative. I think you tell people what they want to hear. Including yourself.”

I toasted her, midair. I had no rebuttal. She toasted back with her favorite finger.

I opened Anna Karenina . Chapter one. I read the overture to the greatest mirror ever held up to social chaos. Then I left the bar and drove Allison’s remarkably cooperative corpse to the home built on top of my basement. The front door was locked. The front porch was fine. Nobody had been there. Nobody had come for Updike.

“I tip my hat,” I said to the cadaver in my arms. “That was quite a bluff.”

From inside came a few happy yips, and once my chin was within reach, he greeted me with licks until I hugged him tight enough to force that wiggle that dogs do. Where they flop their head around and try to break your nose, then do a lap around the room to boomerang back.

We don’t deserve dogs.

I hoisted Dead Allison onto my shoulder and brought her down to the Kolpak 1010 freezer system to be the sixth inductee in my hall of fame. Maria, Milt, Byron, Byron’s two friends. Everyone was rigidly in place. It was a little scary to turn on the light—I’m not impervious to being spooked by ghosts, and so forth.

“I was loyal to you,” I said to Maria. “Allison made advances on me but I remained loyal.”

Maria didn’t seem to believe this.

“Yet,” I said, “of all the people in the world for you to betray me with, you chose a man who was out to get me?! ”

I waited for a rebuttal. None. I left the freezer. I walked upstairs to grab Updike’s leash. He needed a walk. I needed a walk. We had things to discuss, he and I, and once outside, once there were a few blocks of chilly night air behind us, I told him the truth.

“I just want you to know…that…what happened to your mom…wasn’t something I wanted.”

I let that admission hang in the air. I almost had the feeling someone was following us, but I felt that way a lot lately.

I lowered my voice regardless. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry she’s gone.”

We walked in silence a bit. He peed on three bushes.

“What I’m trying to tell you is, I did it in self-defense. She was trying to murder me. She and Milt, they were conspiring to…” I stopped. Again I heard someone following us.

Had to be pure paranoia. Updike would’ve growled long before I would’ve noticed anything. Although there was now something oddly enticing for him wedged in the side bushes. Nothing unusual—for a dog to stop for a sniff—but it did seem peculiar that someone had left what looked like a piece of raw steak by the sidewalk.

“What is that? ” I said to him.

Updike is never opposed to a second or ninth dinner, so he wasn’t going to question it.

I only had to look up to see the explanation.

Two guys in ski masks.

Chapter 28

Updike saw them, too. He instantly took off for the closest guy, top speed.

“Updike, no!” I yelled.

The man saw the snarling little jaws and hopped up the slope of the nearest front yard, then sprinted around the back as a midsize dog pursued him deep into the shrubbery.

“Updike!” I started running.

And soon the other ski mask guy was running after me. We all emerged through the foliage in a footrace down the alley. I didn’t have my gun with me, which was stupid, and there weren’t any places to duck into, so it would be a clean shot for them.

“Updike, no!” I yelled.

My main concern, only concern, was my dog. When I rounded the corner I saw no sign of him or the first guy who had pursued him. I had to assume this was a good thing. Maybe his canine GPS would guide him home.

And then they’d know where I lived, if they didn’t already.

I should’ve been rifling through my mental list of who could possibly be chasing me, so I could make a plan, but that line of thinking was cut short when I was put in a choke hold from behind.

The assailant had come out of nowhere. He must’ve dropped his knife or his pistol, or whatever he had, because he chose to grapple me. His partner arrived just in time to participate.

I’m not a huge guy. But I’m scrappy. We fought hard. One guy in front of me. One guy choking me from behind. The ideal maneuver here would have been for me to exploit the grip of the guy behind me by flinging my legs upward and kicking the chin of the guy in front.

“Stay still!” shouted one of them.

The time was ripe. I leapt upward from my half squat and launched a karate kick at the forward guy.

And missed.

Absolutely missed. Airballed, then came crashing down on the ground in a heap of athletic shame. However, it was a fall that also brought my primary assailant down with me.

“Ooooooph,” said everyone.

We were all stunned. The guy in front had his gun, but because of the new tangle, he had no clear shot. So I had a moment to kick toward his jaw. Another Michael Ryan kick—my foot naturally caught his kneecap instead. I’d somehow neutralized both my opponents in two sad moves and seized my first chance to scramble off.

I could hear them follow.

I didn’t want to head into my own backyard but that seemed like the only way to get my hands on a weapon. I hopped my fence, sprinted through the tall grass (that Maria used to complain I never cut), and prepared my shoulder for the impact that was coming as I busted down my own back door.

I’d stashed weapons in my house for emergency purposes: the shotgun was upstairs, the revolver was upstairs, the Taser was upstairs, and the Glock 19 with laser sight was in the kitchen cupboard, where I was heading, full speed until I collided with a third ski mask guy. Who elbowed me in the throat like only a professional would.

And knocked me out cold.

Chapter 29

I woke up gradually, minutes later, on the floor of my kitchen. Hours later? With the vague sound of barking in the next room. A blurry ceiling was the backdrop to three faces now looming over me.

The ski patrol had assembled and they had guns, aimed in my direction. I had nothing. I felt like crying. What had I done right this week? This year? All I had left to embrace was the four-legged idiot barking in the next room, and I couldn’t even keep him safe. My hands—I extended them outward slowly in the surrender position.

I almost wanted to make a quick, staccato move and bait these men to end it all, just as long as they’d subsequently open the door for my dog.