Эд Горман - Stranglehold

It was funny thinking of the pain he’d feel when he had to give up his sleek new Aston Martin. But he’d have to be careful with his bounty. He could squander it in fast order if he wasn’t cautious. There wouldn’t be any more Aston Martins in his future unless he was very, very lucky. But he would be free of the stranglehold.

The foundation parking lot held two cars, the Aston Martin and an inexpensive little Ford two-door. I parked near the street end of the lot and reached in for the Glock I’d put in the glove compartment.

The fog on the sidewalk was thick enough to get lost in. Somewhere on the street, headlights tore the fabric of the gray stuff as they headed to the end of the block. Smells of fried chicken from a KFC around the corner. A car radio pounding out rap. Somewhere behind me a pair of cars dueling with their horns. All of it lost in the swamp of gray.

I made my way to the front entrance and tried the door. Unlocked. I went inside and stood on the parquet floor. The only lights on this floor were on the tracks above the framed pieces in the gallery. Keisha’s desk was empty.

A churchly quiet was threatened only by my footsteps as I moved through the shadows. The stairs to the second floor looked iconic, like stairs in a movie poster that led the audience to places it shouldn’t go. The heating system came on with a tornado of noise.

I eased the Glock from my overcoat pocket and started my way up the wide, curving staircase that ended in what appeared to be impenetrable gloom.

Near the top, trying to make myself alert to even the faintest sound, I heard the first of it. An animal noise. I thought of kittens sick or kittens dying. But it wasn’t a kitten, of course. When I reached the top of the stairs and tried to orient myself — I remembered that I turned left to find Manning’s office — I heard it again and recognized it for what it was. Another weeping woman.

Between sobs she was talking to somebody. I moved on tiptoe down the hall to the glass-paneled entrance. The reception area was dark. Down the hall behind Doris Kelly’s desk I saw a spear of light on the carpet. Manning’s office door was open a few inches. I went into the sort of big pantomime movements actors in silent films used. I made it into the reception area and then the hall without being heard. I took a deep breath. I was a silent-movie comic sneaking into a house. I eased the door open just enough to slip through. Then I waited, heart pounding, for any sign that they’d heard me.

I pulled the door closed with great care. I stood there and listened.

“Doris... Doris, I followed you last night. The way you were acting... so crazy... I knew something was wrong.” He stopped, sounded as if he was gagging. “You killed him before I could get inside.” He was wheezing now as he spoke. There were long rasping pauses between words. “You... murdered... a... man.”

But she was angry, unrelenting. “Why do you think I did it? For us. Because I couldn’t stand to see you treated the way they treated you. Do you have any fucking idea of the risks I took?”

Quiet little Doris was now furious little Doris. She was shrill. One half octave up and she’d be shrieking.

“I knew about Wyatt taking the money to Monica Davies. I went to her room to get the money, but Donovan beat me to it. Do you have any idea the courage that took? Do you? And then when I killed Donovan and finally got the money — for us — so we could finally go away together — think of what you said to me, David. That I was insane — that this whole thing between us was just my fantasy — that you would have stopped me if you’d known what I was doing — and how the hell do you think that made me feel? After all I went through. After I put my life in jeopardy with scum like Donovan!”

I was on tiptoe again, but I was wondering if either of them would hear me even if I walked on the soles of my shoes. Her voice was about to start shattering glass.

“I did it for us. I thought you’d be happy. I thought we’d finally go away together. I knew you wanted to, even though you wouldn’t admit it. I knew it, David. I knew it. I prayed for it and my prayers are always answered. Always, David.”

By now I was expecting to hear Manning say something. But there was nothing. Or maybe he couldn’t talk. She was speaking in a kind of reverie, the kind I associated with people in alcohol or drug dazes. And maybe she was speaking to a ghost. Maybe Manning was dead.

I took the final four steps to the office door. The space between door and frame was at a bad angle for me. I could see one end of the desk, but I couldn’t see Doris or the chairs in front.

“You betrayed me, David. No matter how hard I tried to make you love me, you turned me away. Nobody loved you the way I did, David. Nobody even came close.”

I heard him, then. Not words. Just a deep, shaky moan. Then: “Help me, Doris. Help me. Call an ambulance.” He sounded as if he’d be sobbing if only he had the strength.

I raised my Glock then raised my foot and gave the door a push so that it opened wide. Then I went in with my gun pointed right at Doris, who sat, prim as always — the wan pretty girl you always wondered about when you sat studying in the library at night, those heartbreaking little legs and that lost nervous gaze — pretty Doris all grown up now.

“Don’t move, Doris.”

Her eyes remained on Manning, who was slumped in the chair in front of the desk. A bloody hand hung limp, plump drops of blood splashing on the carpet below. As I moved into the office, I kept scanning the desk for any sight of a gun. Her hands were folded and in clear view. I wondered what she’d done with the gun. I could smell the powder in the small confines of the office.

I came around the side of the desk so that I could see Manning. The pale face and sunken eyes startled me. He had the pallor and pain of one of those beggars you see on TV when those greedy ministers want to soak you for some more tax-free money. I doubted he had much longer to live. From what I could see, he’d been shot in the chest twice. His white shirt was soaked red and something like puke ran down both sides of his mouth. He saw me but he didn’t see me. His head gave a little jerk when his eyes and brain came together to recognize me.

He started crying. “Dev — she’s crazy, Dev. Never had anything to do with her. Crazy, Dev...”

I started to reach for the phone on the desk, but she was faster than me. She grabbed it and hurled it into the air. When it reached the end of its cord length it crashed to the floor. “No! No! I want him dead! All I did for him! All I did for him!”

Kept my Glock on her as I jerked my cell phone from my pocket and punched in 911. I heard myself at one remove talking to the police dispatcher. She was calm and professional. I envied her.

Doris was on her feet, ripping open the middle drawer of the desk. I saw everything in broken images — hand inside the desk — hand coming up — shape and sheen of the .45 — gun being raised.

I went into a crouch and started to pull the trigger of my Glock. All this in mere moments. But then more broken instant images — Doris raising the gun higher, higher — the barrel of the gun gleaming in the overhead lighting — the point of the gun against her head— And then the cry, the plea, the scream. And then the explosion.

Mere moments again as I watched blood and brain and hair freeze for a millisecond in midair, the scream still shocking my entire body. And then in a wild grotesque dance her arms flying out from her body, the gun tossed against the wall, and then the final abrupt death of will and awareness and soul as she collapsed to the floor.

I was shaking and I was cold from sweat freezing on me. I started uselessly toward her, but just then Manning cried out for his mother, and by the time I was able to turn back to him I saw from the terrible angle of his head that he was likely dead.