Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

I got within arm’s reach. “Grant, my name is Alex.”

Windmilling air with both hands, he stumbled back.

“I’m not out to hurt you, Grant.”

His mouth opened. Formed an O. No sound came out. Then a squeak. The same sound mice made, mired in sticky traps, as my father’s boot rose above them.

Turning his back on me, he ran.

Straight into the arms of a big man with a gun.

Milo used his free hand to spin Huggler so that he was facing me again, twisted Huggler’s left arm behind his thick torso, got a handcuff around it. He’d linked two sets of cuffs together, standard procedure for a broad suspect.

Huggler sniffed. Began crying.

His right arm remained at his side. Milo, one hand on his weapon, struggled to bend the uncooperative limb.

“Behind your back, Grant.”

Huggler’s body sagged, as if ready to comply, but the arm stayed rigid.

I stepped forward.

Milo warned me back with a head shake, repeated the command.

Tears flowed down Huggler’s cheeks. His right arm was steel.

Milo holstered the Glock, clamped both hands on Huggler’s left wrist, twisted viciously.

Huggler’s left arm finally relented, twisting back and up. Milo tried to affix the second cuff but Huggler’s width and the bulk of the coat brought him a couple of inches short of the goal.

He pushed Huggler’s right hand toward its mate.

Huggler cried out in pain.

“It’s okay, Grant,” said Milo, lying the way detectives do.

Huggler said, “Really?” in a soft, high, boyish voice.

“Just a little more, son, here we go.”

Huggler’s right hand was a millimeter from capture when his shoulders shook like those of a rhino rudely awakened. The movement caught Milo off guard, caused his foot to catch.

For a second, his concentration shifted to maintaining his balance.

All at once, Huggler was facing him, had gripped the sides of Milo’s head with huge, soft, hairless hands.

Expressionless, he began twisting. Clockwise.

Milo’s optimal move might’ve been a quick grab of his gun but when vise-grip hands take hold of your head and try to rotate it and instincts tell you it won’t take much to sever your spine and drain your brain of life-maintaining, thought-engendering nectar, you go for those hands.

Anything to stop the process.

Milo’s fingers dug into the tops of Huggler’s hands, straining, clawing, drawing blood.

Huggler remained impassive, kept twisting.

Patient, dry-eyed.

Comfort of the familiar.

Well-practiced routine with predictable results: one way, then the other, feel the body grow limp.

Lay it down gently. Sit and wait.

Explore.

Milo strained to free himself. His eyes bugged. His face was scarlet.

His struggle had twisted his body just enough to put the Glock out of my visual range.

Could I get hold of it fast enough, find a safe way to shoot…

My own instincts kicked in and I threw myself behind Huggler, kicked him hard behind the knee.

It’s a blow that can reduce strong men to blithering cripples.

Huggler stood there, impassive, managed to move Milo’s head a fraction of an inch. Enough to make Milo gasp.

I kicked Huggler’s other knee. Like butting an oak stump.

Hooking my hands over the fleece collar, I got them around his massive neck, tried to compress his carotids.

His flesh was sweat-slick. I failed to get purchase.

He moved Milo’s neck another tiny fraction of the fatal arc.

I found his Adam’s apple, lowered my thumbs to the front of his neck where he’d been incised years ago and robbed of a healthy gland.

I squeezed.

He screamed. His hands flew to the side.

He fell back, tottered, clutching his neck.

I punched him beneath his rib cage, got one foot behind his left heel and hooked him forward as I shoved his chest backward with all the strength I could muster.

Still clutching his neck, he fell back, spine thudding hard on dirt.

He lay there. Helpless.

Synchrony.

Milo, panting, green eyes aflame with fear that wasn’t fading quickly enough, fumbled for his Glock, two-handing the weapon, aiming it at Huggler’s prone bulk.

His hands were shaking too hard for one to suffice.

Huggler saw the gun. His hands left his neck. His throat was rosy, swollen.

He coughed.

Smiled.

Sat up and lunged.

Milo fired into his left shoe.

Huggler looked down. A small, almost delicate mouth dropped open.

The toe of one grubby sneaker began seeping red.

Huggler’s cuffed left hand jangled as he shuddered. He watched the blood stream from the spot where his big toe had once been.

Entranced.

Mystery of the body.

Milo rolled him over roughly, yanked Huggler’s right hand hard enough to dislocate, finally got both limbs cuffed.

Huggler lay on his belly. The surrounding earth turned purple as his foot continued to bleed.

No spurt, venous seepage.

Huggler said something. The dirt muffled his words and he turned his head to the side.

Milo sucked in air. He touched the side of his face, grimaced.

Not looking at me.

He walked several steps away.

Another gull soared overhead. Or maybe the same bird, curious.

Grant Huggler said, “Wow.”

I said, “Wow, what?”

“My foot. Can I see it, please?”

Petra’s pizza had just arrived when Milo called her. She left it behind, arrived nine minutes later. Taking care of business during the drive: calling for an ambulance, making contact with Camarillo PD, and using charm and calm and just enough facts to keep the locals from screaming.

She studied Huggler sitting on the dirt, cuffed, ankles bound, wounded foot wrapped in one of the clean rags Milo keeps in the trunk.

All those years with bodies, it pays to have something for the gore.

Huggler’s neck had swelled and was starting to purple. He coughed a lot but was breathing okay. The finger marks on Milo’s face had faded to ambiguous splotches. Petra knew something was up and I watched her eyes dance as her brain tried to figure it out.

She said nothing, too smart to ask.

Huggler didn’t react to her arrival. Hadn’t reacted to much of anything.

Now he looked at Milo. “Um? Mister?”

Plaintive.

Please, sir, may I have more gruel?

“What?”

Huggler glanced at the bloody rag. “Could you take this off?”

“Too tight?”

“Um…”

“What’s the problem?”

“I want to see.”

“See what?”

“The inside.”

“Of what?”

Huggler pouted. “Me.”

Milo said, “Sorry, you need to keep it wrapped.”

Apologizing to the man who’d nearly sheared his spine.

Huggler said, “Um, okay.” His face settled back into smooth, serene immobility.

I thought about his victims.

The broad, pale disk that had been the final image searing so many people’s retinas before the lights went out for good.

Petra was good at maintaining composure but Huggler’s request had startled her and she frowned and turned her back on all of us and looked up at the gorgeous sky. Pulling some gum from her purse, she chewed hard. Extended an arm in my direction and offered me a stick.

I took it. When I beared down to masticate, my entire face exploded in pain.

Every muscle and nerve on full-fire, it had been a while since they’d relaxed.

Milo looked at his watch, then at Huggler’s shoe. The rag had bloodied some more but Huggler’s color was decent, no sign of shock.

“Feel okay?”

Huggler nodded. “Your hands are strong.”

“Had to be to deal with you, Grant.”

“It’s always worked before,” said Huggler, puzzled. “Oh, well.”