John Lutz - In for the Kill

The weird guy nodded, but Riley didn't for a second believe him.

There was no reply to his knock.

"I don't want the other guests disturbed, you got that?"

Another nod from the spring head. "Yeah. Yeah."

Riley knocked again. Louder.

Still no response.

"Okay," Riley said. "You stay out here and I'm going in and take a look. For all we know somebody might be in there taking a shower."

That seemed to really disturb the weird guy, but he said nothing.

Riley used his pass card on the lock and the door opened, which struck him as wrong, since usually by this time of night the guests had fastened their security locks.

He stuck his head in. The light on the desk was turned on.

"Hello? Anybody?"

Then he noticed the desk chair was gone. Then he saw it lying sideways on the floor near the bed. Then he saw the woman taped to the chair, and the phone off the hook and lying near one of her feet.

Riley charged all the way into the room, the skinny guy right behind him, almost pressed to his back. He heard the guy cry, "Lauri!"

She was alive, at least, Riley saw, as he stooped beside the girl. Her eyes were wide and staring at him. As gently as possible, he peeled the duct tape from across her mouth. She drew in a deep breath through her mouth, worked her lips, licked them. Then she said something odd.

"Wormy?"

Riley pulled the small pocket knife he carried from his pocket and began cutting the tape that was binding her arms. The blade was dull from cutting cardboard and envelope flaps, and he had to saw with it frantically. It was slow going, but he was getting there.

"Call my dad!" the girl said, looking pitifully up at him. "Please! He's in the duct."

He frowned at her. "Duck?"

"Duct!"

Riley stared at her. "Your dad's in a duct?"

"Not my dad! Call my dad!" She spat out a phone number.

Riley wasn't listening. He was concentrating on cutting away the tape without damaging flesh, making sure the girl was all right. She was young like the skinny weirdo, probably not even twenty. Talking like she was on drugs.

"My dad's Detective Frank Quinn," she said

Riley stopped cutting. "Give me that phone number again."

She did, then glanced beyond the ridiculous fringed epaulet on Riley's shoulder and saw Wormy wriggling his way up through the bathroom ceiling vent.

Neeson stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor and looked up and down the long, carpeted hall.

No sign of Riley.

The elevator door closed behind him with a soft rushing sound.

Neeson turned left, toward room 724. The hall was softly lighted by fancy-frosted glass sconces every ten feet or so. His shoes made no sound on the plush carpet as he walked swiftly and observed the even room numbers, making sure he was going in the right direction, unconsciously counting cadence.

Seven-sixteen.

Seven-eighteen.

Seven-

He saw that one of the doors ahead was open and he walked even faster, no longer observing numbers.

Now was the time.

Sherman somehow knew that all his celestial luck was with him in this single moment. When he felt like this, he'd never failed.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, he eased his body forward, lowering his head through the vent opening into the bathroom of Mom's suite.

Take your time…

He stuck his left arm through the vent, letting it dangle, and touched, barely touched, the white plastic shower curtain, simply to acclimate himself, to begin the process of becoming one with his surroundings so he could move with the necessary sureness and stealth.

The only sounds he could allow himself to make now would be his bare hands contacting the tile floor when he eased his way headfirst through the vent opening and the balance of his weight shifted, and then the soft thud of his stocking feet landing on the tiles. He had to manage to keep his balance. That would be the only real challenge.

It would be almost done then.

He'd move silently, through the partly open door to the bedroom, avoiding touching it so as not to risk even a hinge squeaking and alerting Mom.

Then the knife.

The knife.

Neeson entered room 726 cautiously, his gun drawn, and saw Riley kneeling alongside the bed. Then he saw the girl taped to the overturned chair.

Riley was pecking out a number on the phone, which was on the floor. He glanced over at the girl and said, "You're gonna be okay, sweetheart. You're safe now."

The girl, who looked familiar to Neeson, stared at him with wide eyes and said, "Duck."

"What?"

"Duct," Riley said. "She's Quinn's kid. Says whoever did this to her is in the ductwork."

It took Neeson about three seconds to process this.

He holstered his gun as he crossed the room

"Give me the phone."

Sherman emerged halfway from the ductwork, his upper body dangling from the vent opening.

Things had to happen fast now. Quietly, but fast.

He inched his body forward, and was about to lower himself into the bathroom, when he felt his right pants leg snag on something.

What the hell?

Cautiously he moved the leg, maintaining his precarious balance. He needed to free the material of his pants leg from the nail or screw or whatever it had caught on.

Wha-?

Something was trying to clasp his ankle now. Ouch! Sharp! Fingernails? Teeth?

Something about to clamp down on him in an alligator grasp?

Jesus!

He panicked, kicking both legs furiously, not caring now if he was making noise. He only knew he had to get out of the duct, away from whatever had him. He felt the soles of his stocking feet brushing something. His left foot made solid contact and he pushed with it while continuing to kick as hard as possible with his right. There was no pressure on his ankle now, but his pants cuff, worked out from where it had been tucked beneath the band of his sock, was being tugged. He could feel the tautness of the material.

He kicked even harder, bruising his heels and bending back a toe.

Free!

Suddenly free!

He'd managed to yank his leg away from whatever had it.

But with freedom came a sudden shift of weight, and he fell to the bathroom floor too abruptly to get his hands properly positioned for a soft landing.

He landed with a thud and a clatter on the hard tile floor, rolled painfully onto his left shoulder, and lay sprawled with one leg up on the commode. The leg must have dragged across the vanity top, too, because several cosmetic bottles were on the floor, even a small tube of toothpaste.

Knife won't work. She'll be awake! Cops on the way. Not the knife now.

He was glad he'd taken precautions. Immediately scrambling to his feet, he reached for his gun.

Not there!

The gun was no longer tucked in his belt.

Damn it!

There were sounds outside the door, which in his fall he must have kicked all the way closed. Someone running! Voices!

He glanced around desperately.

There was the gun. On the floor, half concealed by the skirt of the shower curtain.

He dived for it.

Allsworth flung open the door and ran into Mynra Kraft's bedroom without knocking, gun drawn.

Only Myrna.

The expression on her face, where she was looking…

Without hesitating, he made for the bathroom door. He remained aware of the startled figure in the bed, sitting bolt upright and staring, and held up his free hand palm-out in a signal for her to stay put.

Noise, like glass or plastic clattering, coming from the bathroom!

Allsworth clenched his jaw hard enough to break a tooth, gripped his nine-millimeter with both hands, and kicked the door open.

Quinn and Pearl were the first to approach the door to room 620. Neeson was sprinting down the hall toward them. Quinn was aware of the uniform who'd been posted on the landing converging from the other direction, a heavyset man laboring, not moving as fast as Neeson.