Gregg Hurwitz - You're Next

Graham drew a Glock from his hip holster and moved cautiously down the hall, out of view. Mike turned an agitated circle. His wife at his feet. His daughter in the garage, still mercifully unaware. He looked down at the blood smears marking his shirt, his hands, even the bulge of the dead man’s cell phone he’d shoved into his pocket. Kat couldn’t see this. She couldn’t find out by seeing him painted with her mother’s blood. He tore himself away from his wife’s side. Pulling off his shirt, he staggered to the kitchen sink, blasted his hands with hot water, running it up his forearms, scrubbing at his jeans, dripping everywhere. The swirling water, against the porcelain, was tinged salmon pink. A gym shirt was balled up on the phone table by the oven. He pulled it on, thrust open the curtains over the sink, but still there was no ambulance.

Something seemed wrong with the view, but his overtaxed brain couldn’t lock on to what. It was the same view it had always been – stretch of curb, row of cypresses, Martins’ throwback porch. He glanced at the oven clock, realized that though an eternity had passed since he’d entered the house, less than six minutes had actually gone by.

Rick Graham had arrived with impossible speed.

It struck him, abruptly, what was wrong with that stretch of road in front of their house.

No vehicle at the curb.

Why would Rick Graham have parked out of view?

Down the hall Mike heard a closet door thump open. He could have sworn that Graham was a cop; twelve years at Shady Lane had taught him to read that vibe. But the badge Graham had flashed – Mike couldn’t recall which agency it belonged to. He was about to shout back to ask when a chill froze the question in his mouth.

He reached down to his pocket, withdrew the disposable cell phone he’d taken off the body. Phone book empty. Outgoing calls wiped. There was one incoming call, seven minutes ago, the one the guy had answered.

Mike pressed “call back” with his thumb, a rim of crimson showing beneath the tip of his nail. The ringing came through the cell phone’s receiver. Once. Twice.

And finally it was matched by a flat-toned version of ‘The Blue Danube’ from deep in the house.

Rick Graham’s voice came in concert through the walls and in Mike’s ear. ‘Hello?’

Graham had gone back there not to safe the house but to wipe out any witnesses.

Mike looked longingly at the revolver lying beside Annabel’s waxy arm, but already Graham’s footsteps were headed back down the hall toward him. Mike moved swiftly to the rear door, throwing it open hard enough that it banged against the side of the house. The distant sound of sirens rode the breeze. He retreated and hid behind the kitchen island, peeking out as Graham bolted into the family room, lowering from his ear a cell phone – a match for the throwaway Mike had just dialed from.

The whiteness of Graham’s fingers was momentarily shocking, until Mike realized that he’d donned latex gloves. In his right hand, Graham gripped not the service pistol he’d been holding when he’d stepped out of view but what looked like a cheap.22. His right pant cuff was snagged in the top of his black dress sock, revealing the ankle holster from which he’d removed the untraceable throw-down gun.

Graham stepped over the bodies and paused at the threshold to the kitchen, spotting the open back door. He cursed under his breath.

The concern in his tone did not match the purposefulness with which he sighted on the open back door. ‘Mike? You okay?’

Mike had not given his name.

The sirens were getting louder. In the garage the door to Mike’s truck opened and closed, the noise faint beneath the rising wail of the sirens. Mike bit his lip, drawing blood, but it seemed Graham did not hear. In his crouch Mike was closer to the garage, and he knew the vibrations of the house. He sensed Kat’s approaching footsteps and he readied himself to leap out, but then Graham swore again and dashed out into the backyard.

Pressing “redial”, Mike left the phone open on the kitchen counter. He swung toward the door to the garage, catching it as it opened and pushing Kat gently off the step. ‘Come on, honey. Back in the truck. We gotta go.’ He turned her, commanding her back into the dim light of the garage.

‘What’s-’

‘Listen to me, Kat. Get back in. We gotta go.’

She climbed in. ‘Daddy’ – she only called him that when she was scared – ‘you changed your shirt.’

‘Yeah, the other one got stained.’

‘With what ?’

As he smacked the wall opener, sending the garage door shuddering up, he noticed a trail of blood curling from his pinkie to his elbow. Light was streaming in, a veil lifting. He grabbed a rag from a shelf and turned away, scrubbing at his arm.

Was he really leaving his wife’s body alone? The image of her, still and cool as alabaster, nearly sent him sprinting back inside. He had to see her again.

An echo of Annabel, her dying request. Leave … with her … now. Promise me .

Kat peered out from the massive truck, her voice tremulous and thin. ‘Daddy? Daddy?’

‘Hang on a sec, honey.’ Staggering backward to the driver’s door, still swiping at his arm, he didn’t recognize the timbre of his own voice. ‘Be right there.’

Dropping the rag, he fell into the driver’s seat. The key waited in the ignition, left there to keep the TV on, and he twisted it violently and reversed out, nearly skimming the roof against the still-opening door. He braked with a screech and peeled forward.

The sirens were screaming now. Couldn’t be more than a few blocks away.

Hidden behind the row of cypresses at the property line was Graham’s car.

A dinged-up, black Mercury Grand Marquis. Just like the car that had followed him leaving the Promenade.

Mike skidded up beside it, grabbed his Leatherman from the glove box, and hopped out, unfolding the longest blade from the compact tool. Crouching so Kat wouldn’t see, he jammed the blade through the front tire, ripping forward. Hot air hissed across his knuckles.

Faintly, from the backyard, piped the melody of ‘The Blue Danube.’ Growing louder.

Stuffing the tool into his pocket, Mike rushed to check out the back license plate. Sure enough, preceding the numbers, an E with an octagon around it jumped out at him – the “exempt” mark carried by cop cars and G-rides. Beyond the cypresses, the side gate banged open, and Mike bolted before he could memorize the number.

He jumped back into the truck and floored the accelerator before he got his door closed, that E sizzling on his brain like a brand. Rick Graham was a cop or an agent. He was involved in Annabel’s murder. He wanted to kill Mike and was willing to off an eight-year-old girl as well just to keep it clean. How many other officers were in on it with him? How deep did this thing go? And where could Mike take his daughter that would be safe?

Kat’s face bobbed up in the rearview mirror. ‘What’d you just do?’

Through the back window, he saw Graham jog out into the street and crouch by that front tire. He tugged off his gloves, took a few steps away from the curb, set his hands on his hips, and stared after Mike’s truck. He was too far away for Mike to read his expression, but his posture showed equal parts amusement and exasperation.

No pulse .

‘I had to… do something to that car.’

He turned the corner, and they passed an ambulance and a line of cop cars, lights flashing, the noise splitting the air, loud enough to make him cringe. His head jerked to keep the vehicles in sight – windows, side mirror – as they rocketed past.

Kat sat rigid in the backseat, a departure from her usual loose-limbed flopping. Dread had turned her voice hoarse. ‘Where’s Mom?’