John Lutz - Serial

“Listen, Scott-”

Brannigan hit him hard in the stomach with his fist, and then slammed the clipboard into his head.

Quinn shook off the clipboard blow easily enough, but he sank to his knees trying to catch his breath. Brannigan was on the run, and he had a stride like a deer’s.

When Quinn was just beginning to suck in air, the steel door opened at the top of the steps and the big boss peered down at him.

“What the shit’s goin’ on here?” he asked.

Quinn tried to speak but only made a squeaking sound. He raised a forefinger for the boss to give him a few seconds.

The boss came halfway down the steps and leaned so he could get a better look at Quinn.

“The employees park in this lot?” Quinn managed to wheeze.

“No. They park in a lot out front.”

“That the only gate?” Quinn tried to motion with his head, but his head didn’t move.

“That’s it,” the boss said.

“Lock it,” Quinn said.

“Says who?”

“Me,” Quinn said, and drew his police special from its holster. “And when you’re finished, go back inside and lock that door.”

When the boss was headed toward the chain-link gate, Quinn worked his way to his feet. Holding the old revolver at the ready, he began moving cautiously along the line of trailers, now and then pausing to peek beneath them. He tasted blood trickling down from the clipboard cut on his forehead, but it was Roy Brannigan’s blood that he smelled.

Roy Brannigan was terrified. If he managed to work his way along the building and get to a section of fence where he thought he could wriggle beneath it, he might be okay.

He’d known who Quinn was the second he’d seen him, and he couldn’t let the big detective catch him. He’d hit Quinn hard and heard the breath rush out of him, but he didn’t know how long he’d be down.

It was amazing, Roy thought, how suddenly everything had turned to crap. Jock Sanderson had been blackmailing him about the ticket stubs, and Roy was increasingly reluctant to pay. Sanderson’s threat to expose Roy and then live large in some country where there was no extradition treaty was losing credibility. It was easier to talk about setting yourself up as a wanted blackmailer and accessory to murder, and taking refuge in a foreign land, than it was to actually take the step.

But it wouldn’t hurt for Roy to have alibis in case the police happened to connect the dots. The stubs would be plausible. Some men let ticket stubs and the like build up in their wallets or on their dresser tops. The stubs would make it difficult if not impossible for him to be convicted of any of the Skinner murders.

At least, Jock Sanderson had convinced him of that.

And after the death of Link Evans, Roy thought he was completely safe.

Roy had latched on to Link Evans’s extramarital adventures while spying on him because he’d taken Roy’s place as Beth’s husband. Never one to ignore opportunity, Roy coordinated his Skinner murders with Link’s clandestine visits to New York to see Julie. Roy knew that Link would draw suspicion away from him, and also deny being in New York at the times of the murders. If push came to shove, Julie would provide Link’s alibis, but Link would do almost anything to avoid that eventuality. Not to mention that women in love make lousy witnesses.

Roy’s boot toe caught on a crack in the asphalt and he stumbled and almost fell. Another reminder that things could go wrong. His heart felt like a bird beating its wings in his chest.

This isn’t supposed to be happening! This isn’t fair!

Roy had wanted only to rid the earth of destroyers of innocent men. Such women gave false witness and were possessed by the devil. Like his own wife Beth, who’d ruined the lives of two men and bore the son of the devil that possessed her. Roy hadn’t anticipated Satan working through a blackmailer to torment and defeat him. Or unleashing on him a cop stubborn enough to follow every lead and learn the answer to every question.

Roy felt a joyous pang of hope. He should never have doubted his special blessing and mission as God’s blade of vengeance. He was almost there. The parked trailers made good cover. He could see the misshapen corner of the fence and the scooped-out area of dirt where kids, or maybe a large dog, had squeezed beneath it. Roy was lean and strong. He knew with certainty that if he made it to the fence, he could escape from the lot, escape Quinn.

He was dashing the final fifty feet toward the break in the fence when the blast of a gunshot temporarily froze him. He spun and saw Quinn about a hundred feet away, trudging around the nose of a parked trailer. His movements were deliberate. His head was down, but his eyes were trained on Roy. He looked like doom itself.

Roy began dancing backward toward the fence corner, watching Quinn, watching the muzzle of the gun. It wasn’t aimed directly at him, but pointed to the right and down.

Quinn fired again. This time Roy didn’t flinch at the shot, but he heard the bullet zing off the chain-link fence. There were buildings outside the fence, on the opposite side of the street. He knew Quinn would have to be careful shooting at him, making sure where his warning shots would go.

His warning shots.

Quinn could safely fire a bullet into him and not worry about collateral damage, but only when he got close enough.

Keep moving! Keep moving!

Roy kept walking backward with the grace of a ballet dancer, almost skipping. He couldn’t look away from Quinn, who was coming at him slowly but relentlessly, angling like a boxer cutting off space in a ring, cornering his prey.

Roy knew now that he’d never have time to squeeze beneath the fence. When he got to within ten feet of the chain-link corner and its sturdy steel post, he wheeled and at the same time slipped his Amalgamated shirt over his head, whipping it inside out. He tossed the shirt up over the razor wire that topped the fence and launched himself after it.

For a few seconds it worked. Then the razor wire came through the thin material of the shirt and sliced into Roy’s arms. He glanced back and saw Quinn still coming, and he panicked, flailing his arms and desperately trying to gain enough grip despite the pain so he could pull himself up and over. It was pure primal reaction now. He had to escape! The razor wire was like fire. He was surprised to see one of his fingers sliced almost all the way through and dangling limply by a flap of skin.

He heard Quinn calmly say his name behind him.

All right! Enough…

Roy released his grip on the razor wire. Part of his shirt ripped away and fell with him like a bloody flag as he dropped from the fence and slumped exhausted with his back against the chain link. He cradled the section of ripped shirt wrapped around both bleeding hands.

Quinn holstered his revolver and knelt beside him, as if to administer an act of mercy.

But what Roy saw in Quinn’s eyes wasn’t mercy; it was curiosity.

“Where’d you get the ticket stub?” Quinn asked.

“Same place I got the others,” Roy said.

“You gonna tell me now, or later?”

Roy told him, and then told him everything else, not liking it at all, but not minding what was going to happen to Jock Sanderson, thinking ex-wives, what a pot full of trouble they are.

Quinn thought it was over. He shifted his weight so he was squatted near Roy, reaching out to adjust the bloody strips of shirt wound around his injured hand.

That was when Roy pulled the carpet tucking knife out from the bloody rags with his good hand. The wickedly hooked blade flashed through the narrow space between the two men. Quinn got his arm up right away, or the blade would have severed a carotid artery, and Roy would have had the pleasure of seeing him bleed to death. The gash in Quinn’s arm gushed red as he backed away, drawing his revolver from its holster. He slashed sideways with the gun and knocked the knife out of Roy’s hand and away, on Roy’s second attempt to kill him.