John Lutz - Night kills

"You're the one who shot the poor bastard," Quinn said, not posing it as a question. Just making conversation here. The idea was to get Stone to admit it in his own words.

Quinn held his silence. He waited, waited…

"I killed him," Stone said. "I'm not averse to doing the wet work when I must." He managed to shrug. "Business is business."

Quinn whistled out a long breath in relief.

It was over. He and Fedderman exchanged a look. Quinn thought Fedderman might have smiled.

With Stone alive and an admitted killer, and with Jill's testimony, the case against E-Bliss.org was solid. And when they found the new Madeline Scott, she'd have little choice but to reveal her true identity and testify for the prosecution.

"I think," Stone said, "I won't say anything more until my attorney is present."

Which struck Quinn as odd, considering Stone had just confessed and confirmed that they had the right man.

Very odd.

He cuffed Stone's uninjured wrist to the banister.

Pearl had reluctantly taken Quinn's earlier advice and returned to Jewel's apartment. She wasn't sure where Jill was. Weaver might have taken her someplace safer.

After cleaning up as best she could, combing her hair without looking closely at the two-inch-square bandage on her right cheek near her eye, she decided to go downstairs and check on Jill, make sure she wasn't still in her apartment.

As she turned from the bathroom mirror, the light penetrating through the narrow window was like a lance in her right eye. She put on the black eye patch the paramedic had given her and then did assess her appearance carefully in the mirror.

She decided she looked like a pirate after a run-in with the Royal Navy.

Aargh! she almost said softly. Then she decided nothing was funny and looked away from the pathetic face in the mirror.

She went downstairs and knocked on the door to Jill's apartment.

The light behind the peephole in the door changed and she knew Jill-or someone-was there. Jill, probably, too shaken to immediately open the door to anyone's knock. After what had happened to her, Jill might not trust anyone for months.

"Me," Pearl called. "Jewel." The alias had become a secret password.

The light behind the peephole remained constant.

The man peering through the peephole sized up the woman at the door. She was small, didn't look like much of a threat, and seemed to have been in some kind of accident. She was wearing an eye patch and a glob of white bandage on her face.

If he waited her out, she might simply go away. He'd already searched the apartment, looked in all its hiding places, and knew Jill Clark wasn't home. She must have been placed somewhere else for her protection. This woman-Jewel, she'd said her name was-obviously knew Jill. Maybe she'd know where Jill was. She seemed to be alone.

He decided to make the woman tell him what he needed to know, then kill her. If he could somehow get to Jill, everything might still go as planned.

The cops hadn't left that long ago. There might still be some around. He'd have to move fast and noiselessly.

He holstered the gun he was holding and drew a knife.

The door suddenly opened and a dark-haired man with fierce brown eyes clutched Pearl's arm painfully and yanked her inside the apartment. She hadn't had time to think, much less offer any resistance.

I don't recognize him. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Who the hell is he?

Now what?

He was showing her a knife, slowly revolving the blade in the air. Obviously displaying it for effect.

He grinned meanly as he held up the long-bladed knife, figuring terror would melt the woman into something he could easily handle. It had always amused him that women reacted that way when they saw a knife that might be used on them. Perhaps it was a natural fear of penetration. Something sexual. Whatever, it made them inert and helpless.

Pearl kicked him in the knee.

The man roared with pain and slashed out at her with the knife. Pearl stepped inside the arc of the swing and punched him in the stomach. He grunted and shoved her backward, almost making her lose her balance. When he came at her she sidestepped his charge, barely avoiding the flashing blade. She was terrified that he might slash at her from the other direction, her blind side.

Damned patch!

But she was afraid to tear the patch off now, afraid of sudden brilliance and pain that might be worse than vision with one eye.

She remembered a tacky glass vase on the table near the sofa, swiveled her head so she could see it through her left eye. Fixed its image in her mind. When the man charged her again with the knife, she avoided the blade and dodged left, toward the table.

He whirled and came at her low, using the knife underhand this time. It would be harder to avoid his upward slashes, more difficult to see them coming from below eye level. Pearl felt for the cheap vase, a florist's pressed-glass giveaway designed to hold one rose. She fumbled it, feeling it slide from her fingers.

Then she lowered her hand and caught the vase as it toppled. She got a good grip on it and slammed it into the man's face.

It didn't shatter. She swung it again and felt it make solid contact with the man's head.

The force of the blow made her lose her grip on the vase. It bounced on the floor and passed from her range of vision.

She no longer had the vase as a weapon, but it had bought her precious seconds. She knew how to use them. She bolted for the door.

Had her fingers wrapped around the knob.

Was pulling the door open.

But she knew she wouldn't be fast enough. She was trapped in one of those horrible slow-motion nightmares.

She was aware of the knife suddenly protruding from the door frame, near her face, where it had penetrated enameled wood after the man's desperate throw, his attempt to cut her on the run.

At least he isn't armed now.

Gunfire exploded behind her.

Oh, shit!

He's got a gun, too! And he's determined!

So was Pearl. She had the door open and was almost in the hall. If she could get around the corner, out of sight, she might make it to the stairs. Screw the elevator. No time.

She felt the familiar smoothness and grit of the hall's tile floor under the sole of her left shoe.

Gonna make it!

A truck slammed into her back.

She knew she'd been shot. She stumbled forward, then seemed to strike an invisible wall and bounce off it. Her balance shifted, as if the floor tilted.

Pearl felt herself moving backward, back, back into the apartment on numbed legs. Exactly where she didn't want to go.

The impact of the second bullet was greater than that of the first. It flung her against the door, slamming it shut and trapping her inside with her assailant. Everything around her began to whirl, making her dizzy.

She was looking up at the door. It was square in her one-eyed vision and moving farther and farther away, getting smaller.

Odd…Am I floating…?

She realized she was on the floor, her upper body on soft carpet, hardwood floor solid beneath her bare heels. Had the force of the shots knocked her out of her shoes? She'd seen it happen.

She looked again and found the door. It was standing wide open. There was more noise, banging sounds, but she could barely hear them, as if they were coming from far away.

Gunfire?

There was Quinn, crouched in the doorway in shooting stance, filling the doorway, blasting away with that antique revolver of his.

Quinn.

It was strange how calm she was now.

Quinn. Looking so serious. A serious man, Quinn. So simple and complex. A good man. Hard to find, hard to lose. She was going to miss him so…

She thought she might have smiled at him.