P. Parrish - South Of Hell

Brandt wrenched the gun from Shockey’s hand.

The knife came down in a flash of silver.

Shockey grabbed at Brandt’s hand, but the thrust was too powerful to stop. The blade plunged into Shockey’s shoulder.

“Christ… fuck…” Shockey gasped.

Brandt stabbed him again, slicing blindly at Shockey’s raised arms. The blade ripped through the sleeves of his shirt and sliced skin.

“You sonofa-”

Shockey groped for the knife, but Brandt’s thrusts were wild, puncturing Shockey’s hands and chest and spraying the air with a mist of blood. He could feel his strength fading with every furious beat of his heart.

“This is what I did to her!” Brandt screamed. “You hear me? This is how I killed the bitch! You hear me? You hear me?”

The next thrust of the knife plunged into his lower chest. In a flash fire of air, his lungs emptied, and he was paralyzed. Left with only the burn of the gaping hole and the feel of blood pouring from his body. His shirt grew warm and heavy. His head filled with the horrible image that he was sliced completely in half.

“Don’t you die yet, motherfucker,” Brandt said. “Look at me. Look at my fucking face!”

Shockey opened his eyes. Brandt loomed above him. His face was splattered with blood and mud.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Fuck you, Brandt…”

Brandt hit him with the same hand that held the knife. It tore a fresh gash across Shockey’s cheek.

“Where’s the god damn girl?”

“I won’t tell you… go ahead and kill me.”

Brandt shifted his weight, and for a second, he was gone. Shockey’s mind screamed at him to struggle, but he had no strength to raise his arms or even roll away. Brandt’s screams grew dull and distant, absorbed into the darkness that was starting to strangle his mind.

“Where’s the fucking girl?” Brandt shouted.

Shockey closed his eyes. An unexpected calm moved through him, something dull and hard and final.

He was going to die.

The bastard had gotten them both.

Louis climbed out of the Bronco and slammed the door. The Gremlin was sitting two spaces down. There was no one else in the parking lot and not a car on the street. A light burned on Shockey’s balcony.

He hurried through the drizzle to the steps. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a crash from above, like a door being back-slammed against the wall.

Louis froze, then spun back toward the Bronco.

Damn it. His Glock was in the glovebox.

A man appeared on the landing above him. Dark shirt, dirty jeans, a gun shoved into his belt. And holding a knife slick with so much blood it was dripping at his feet.

Brandt.

Jump the rail. Run.

Brandt barreled down the stairs, the knife raised. Louis pressed himself against the railing, hoping Brandt’s momentum would propel him down the stairs. But Brandt wasn’t off balance. He rushed into Louis, screaming something about Amy.

The knife came down into Louis’s arm, slicing the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Louis groped for Brandt’s wrist, not wanting to give him time to go for the gun. But Brandt was strong and slippery and fighting him like an animal. The blade plunged into Louis’s shoulder and hit bone.

Christ!

“You die, too!” Brandt screamed.

Louis was trapped, pinned against the railing. He ducked, throwing an arm against the flashes of metal. The blade sliced across his hand and his bicep as blood rained down in a warm spray.

Sonofabitch!

Suddenly, Brandt slipped off the step, and for a second, the struggle stopped. Louis lunged into a punch that slammed into Brandt’s head and almost sent him over the railing.

Louis grabbed the back of Brandt’s shirt and, with both hands, swung him sideways, trying to throw him down the stairs.

Brandt spun around, desperate for something to break his fall. The knife came around with him in a vicious arc.

Louis tried to jump away, but there was nowhere to go. No way to block the knife — both his hands were on Brandt’s shirt.

The blade ripped through the hard muscle of Louis’s chest. Fire razored through his torso.

“Jesus… Jesus,” Louis gasped.

He dropped to the step, hand to his chest. God, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but a wet burning beneath his fingers.

Stay calm.

Stay calm, and breathe.

It can’t be too deep.

Somewhere in the night, sirens swelled and died and swelled again. Were they coming here? Had someone heard something and called the police?

Look at something. Focus. Think.

Brandt… nowhere. He was gone. Louis dropped his head against the iron railing and tried to see the parking lot. It shimmered, wet asphalt and gauzy white spots of light. Blue lights sparked beyond the trees.

He blinked to clear his tears.

The Gremlin was gone.

Shockey…

Louis pushed to his feet and used the rail to steady himself as he stumbled up the stairs. Shockey’s door was ajar. Louis pushed it open and looked inside.

Shockey was lying on his back, a pool of blood soaking the gold carpet. His eyes were open and vacant, his face shredded.

Louis dropped to his knees next to him and tried to feel for a pulse, but the skin at Shockey’s neck was too slick. The smell of blood filled his nose. He shut his eyes, fighting a wash of nausea.

Margi said Brandt threatened to kill me and take Amy.

Louis’s head came up.

Brandt didn’t know where Amy was. Had Shockey been tortured into telling him?

Louis crawled to the shattered coffee table and found the phone. He dialed the hotel.

“Room four-ten. Hurry, please.”

The phone began to ring. Two, three times.

Answer the damn phone, Joe.

“Louis?”

“Joe, Shockey’s dead, and Brandt’s looking for Amy, and he might know where she is. Get out of the hotel, and meet me at the university hospital. Now!”

The needle in his hand burned. The young nurse who had put it in had apologized over and over as she stuck him, over and over, trying to find his vein.

It had taken forever. Louis had almost fainted.

He fucking hated needles. He could stand almost anything except someone sticking needles in him.

He closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the pillow. The IV was necessary, the doctor had told him. So was staying one night in the hospital, no matter how much Louis had tried to argue that point.

“I’m all right,” Louis had told everyone who hovered over him.

“Your chest muscle is slashed,” the doctor had told him. “We just want to watch you for twenty-four hours.”

Twenty-four hours… Brandt could be in Canada by then.

Detective Bloom had left ten minutes ago. He had questioned Louis relentlessly, his undercurrent of irritation kept in check only by his need to get things under control. Bloom had pulled rank on the Ann Arbor cops and taken charge of the search for Brandt. Not that anyone needed motivating. Even though Shockey had been fired, Louis knew the bond between cops didn’t end with a pink slip. Every available officer was out scouring the farmlands for Brandt.

Bloom had brought other news. A semi driver had found Margi by the side of a country road out near the Brandt farm. She had arrived at the hospital in Howell near death. They weren’t sure she would live.

Louis lay there, listening to the noises out in the hallway. Brandt wasn’t going to get in; there was a cop stationed outside the room. But Louis wasn’t going to get out — not even to go check on Shockey.

No one would tell him anything. Finally, a nurse checked and came back to report that Shockey was not expected to make it through the night.