Robert Browne: Trial Junkies

He took several deep breaths, then pushed on, taking the last flight of steps to the fifth floor landing, where a single incandescent bulb shone from a socket high on the wall.

Tucking the gun in his waistband, Hutch reached up and unscrewed the bulb, plunging the stairwell into darkness.

He didn't want the light to give him away.

He reached for the knob of the stairwell door and turned, opening it just enough to peer out into the hallway.

The hallway was empty, a window at the far end letting in the flickering light from the street, which illuminated graffiti-scarred walls full of gang signs and satanic symbols and profanity. The carpet lining the floor was threadbare, showing dilapidated planks of wood beneath.

The place was old. Too old to be occupied.

How the hell could anyone live like this?

There looked to be only two apartments up here. The door closest to him was closed, but the one at the far end of the hall hung open slightly, a wedge of light spilling out from behind it.

It was the same light they'd seen from the street. And if that was the waitress's apartment, the open door meant Hutch was too late.

Langer was already inside.

Pulling the gun free again, Hutch sucked in a breath and stepped into the hallway.

At the far end, to the left, he saw a worn wooden bannister-stairs that he assumed led up from the front lobby. As he approached, he heard a soft groan and stopped in his tracks.

A dark figure lay on the floor near the bannister.

Oh, shit.

Was it Gus?

Feeling his heart plow its way into his throat, Hutch shot forward and crouched down to find the old guy lying on his side, still alive but breathing rapidly.

"…I'm cut," Gus croaked. "…caught me on the fourth floor landing."

"Jesus," Hutch said.

"Y-you gotta get in there… There's still time. Just point the weapon and squeeze. Point it and… squeeze. Blow that motherfucker away."

Hutch patted him. "You hang in there, old buddy, okay?"

"…Go."

Hutch did as he was told.

Jumping to his feet, he crossed the hallway to the open door, sucking in a breath as he went, telling himself not to hesitate, to the point the weapon and squeeze. Point it and squeeze.

Then he kicked the door open, moved down a short hall toward the light, stepping through an open doorway into a bedroom lit by large, generator-powered work lights.

At the center of the room was a bare, stained mattress, and standing over it was Frederick Langer, the switchblade in hand, looking down at the naked waitress, who was strapped to the mattress with gaffer's tape.

Hutch didn't hesitate. Didn't falter.

Holding the grip with two hands, he raised the revolver, pointed it at the creep and shouted, "Get away from her you sick piece of shit!"

Langer jerked his head up, those black eyes staring through to Hutch's soul, a tiny smile on his lips as he turned to face him, taking a step in Hutch's direction.

I see you again, I smell you, you die…

Hutch wasn't about to let Langer follow through on that threat. Stepping backward, he tightened his grip, then steadied himself for the recoil and pulled the trigger.

The hammer snapped-but nothing happened.

Surprised, he pulled the trigger again.

Click .

What the fuck?

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Jesus Christ. The goddamn thing wasn't loaded.

And as the smile on Langer's bloodless lips widened, Hutch stared at the woman on the bed and finally saw, with growing horror, what he had failed to see in his haste to put Langer down:

That it wasn't the waitress at all.

It was Ronnie.

Ronnie.

And before Hutch had a chance to process this, something hard and metallic slammed into the back of his head. Pain blossomed in his skull as he dropped the revolver and crumpled to the floor.

Then darkness came and carried him away.

As he opened his eyes, hands were slapping at him. "That's right, son-wake up, now. Time to wake up."

The voice had a familiar warmth to it and Hutch blinked, his head pounding, his vision doubling and tripling as he looked up into an equally warm and familiar face-neither of which fully registered in his brain.

He felt as if he had the world's worst hangover.

Then the cobwebs began to clear, his eyes focused, and he realized who was crouched over him.

He blinked again.

It was Gus.

Hutch frowned, struggling to properly assemble a sequence of events that was now scrambled in his mind. He saw a man in the hallway, lying at the top of the stairs, near the worn bannister. Saw himself crouching over this very same man.

Crouching over… Gus.

"I… I thought you were cut," he said.

The old guy smiled. "I'm afraid I took a page out of your book with that one, son. I don't figure I'll win any awards, but I didn't do so bad, did I?"

Hutch felt as if there was something loose jangling around inside his head, making it nearly impossible to think. He tried to move, to get to his feet, only to discover that his wrists and ankles were bound with gaffer's tape.

What the hell was happening to him?

And what was he forgetting?

"Here," Gus said, "let me give you a hand."

But rather than remove the tape, Gus grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him off the ground and sat him down in a rickety wooden chair, its legs groaning beneath his weight. The movement made Hutch dizzy, and he had to close his eyes to steady himself.

He sat there a moment, then opened them again. He was in a semi-dark room that looked as if it could use a bit of TLC. It was the sparsely furnished living room of an apartment that had seen much better days, and not recently.

He heard the tinny sound of a woman crying and swiveled his head, regretting it the moment he did. His brain jangled again and his vision blurred, but he could make out two flat panel computer monitors that sat on an old wooden table in the corner of the room, their screens aglow.

That was where the sound was coming from.

Then all at once his vision cleared again and on the first screen he saw a familiar-looking stairway and a door with frosted glass just beyond it-the lobby door of an apartment building.

This apartment building.

On the second screen was an overhead shot of Ronnie lying naked on a dirty mattress, swaths of gaffer's tape strapping her to it, her eyes wide with terror, face streaked with tears.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Christ.

Hutch struggled to make sense of it, then, one by one, the sequence of events began to fall into place and he remembered it all. Climbing the stairwell, bursting into that room, his revolver raised, Frederick Langer standing over the bed-standing over Ronnie-with a switchblade in his hand.

But as Hutch had tried to fire, the gun had betrayed him.

And it was Gus who had given him that gun.

Gus, the kindly bailiff.

Gus, the aging commando.

Gus, the old man who didn't seem quite as old now, smiling at him as if he was aware that Hutch was finally putting it together.

"It was you all along," Hutch said. " You killed Jenny."

"No, son, I'm afraid I can't take credit for that particular accomplishment, as much as I might like to. I've done a lot of terrible things in my time, but Jenny Keating's not one of them. Hell, I didn't even know who she was until she wound up dead."

"Langer?"

Gus shook his head. "That boy couldn't tie his shoes without me telling him what to do. Besides, she's not his type."

Hutch glanced at the second computer screen, Ronnie's sobs rising from a set of speakers next to it. He thought about the disappointing text message he'd received in the car, and the photo showing that it wasn't Langer who had visited Treacher amp; Pine.