Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“It’s so perfect, Alan. I mean, that you’re the first to know. It couldn’t be better. Because really, if you think about it, without you, none of this could have happened. Seriously. This is all because of you.”

She squeezed one of his hands, helping it to massage her belly a little harder as she told him her wonderful news.

TRACY JACOBS LET OUT a groan. Small and gurgling. Ross nudged her with the toe of his shoe. Oops, he thought. DNA all over my Lazzeris. So she was alive. Barely, he was sure. It didn’t matter. Maybe some duct tape on her ankles and wrists, to be safe. Certainly on her mouth. Ross aimed his flashlight beam at the wall, where several tools were hanging. There was the duct tape, just where he knew it would be. He wrapped the woman’s ankles together, then her wrists. He scraped the bloody hair back from her mouth and allowed her to complete her next groan before securing a large piece of tape on her mouth. He decided that the kind thing was to stick some duct tape over her eyes as well. She really didn’t need to see what was coming next.

Ross straightened. God, his knees ached. Isn’t aging a bitch. He shone his flashlight down at the black water lapping against the sides of the Whaler-paper-thin sheets of ice had formed-then trained the light back on the wall, stepped over to it and lifted the hacksaw from its nail. He returned to Tracy and eyeballed the distance between the edge of the dock and the gunwale of the boat. If he attempted to roll her into the boat, he could well miss and she would go toppling instead into the water. Not good. Not here. And not all in one piece.

He’d have to lift her at least partway. This would be the awkward part. He set the flashlight down on the wood so that its beam was trained on Tracy. He set the hacksaw down next to it. Taking a deep breath, he knelt and wrapped his arms around the woman’s shoulders and hugged her torso to him, then rose to a squat. For a cute young thing, she was surprisingly heavy. Ross adjusted his grip and pulled her closer. Her head flopped onto his shoulder.

It was then that he heard a noise and looked up to see the boathouse door opening.

THE CONE OF LIGHT from a flashlight was illuminating a body lying prone on the wooden dock. A long slender boat bobbed between Megan and the body. It took Megan several seconds to realize that the body-it was a woman-was bound at the ankles and wrists and that something was terribly wrong with her face. Then she saw, directly behind the woman, a pair of legs, a shadowy figure. It was holding something metallic, something that caught a portion of the flashlight ray.

“Drop it!”

Megan fell to one knee, her Glock aimed at the area just above the illuminated legs. A silent shriek was whistling in her ears. If he has a gun, I’m dead . She shouted again. “Drop it! Police! Show me your hands!”

It was duct tape on the woman’s eyes and mouth. Her forehead was smeared with blood. The figure standing over her was not moving. Megan registered that what the figure was holding was a handsaw. Panic raced through her system. The Swede! Her gun wavered.

“Drop it! Now !”

Her words echoed in the hollow structure, almost as if a second Megan were straddling the narrow roof beams up above, calling out from up there. The figure standing over the bound woman knelt down slowly and set the saw on her hips. A man. He was wearing a fedora-style hat that partially covered his face. As he set down the saw, Megan heard a small scraping sound. Of course it wasn’t Albert Stenborg. The Swede was very dead. Even so, Megan strained to make out Albert Stenborg’s nearly invisible blond mustache. He’d stood straddling Helen just like this, his clumsy six-five frame rocking gently with the movement of his fetid-smelling houseboat, obsessively stroking his imperceptible mustache.

“Get down!” Megan ordered. “Lie down right next to her! On your front. Do it !”

“I’d just as soon not, thank you.” His voice was every bit as calm as Megan’s was aflame.

Megan could make out his outline better now. Her eyes were adjusting. Directly in front of her, the narrow boat wobbled in the water. The faint lapping of water sounded like tiny slaps. Megan’s finger tightened cautiously on the trigger. He killed them. He killed them all. This is him. This is the one. She could taste salt on her lips. Her face was blazing hot.

“Lie down on your front. Let’s just do this calmly. Hands out in front.”

“You’re trespassing,” the man said. “You shouldn’t be here. This has nothing to do with you.”

Megan rose slowly from her crouch, tracking her aim as she did, keeping it trained on the area of the man’s chest. “Do what I say.”

Ross scoffed, “And if I don’t? What then? What exactly are you going to do, Detective? Are you going to shoot me? Is that it? In cold blood?”

Megan took a sharp breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. The Glock bucked in her hand and the barrel flashed. In the confined space, the noise was a thunderous roar. The shot sailed well to Ross’s right. As intended. He ducked seconds late.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

She’d gotten his attention.

“I’m fine,” Megan replied. “Now let’s just end this thing quietly. And for your sake, I hope that woman is still alive.”

Megan’s vision was sufficiently adjusted that she could now make out the contours of the boathouse. There were two boat slips, the one between her and Ross with the Boston Whaler in it, and a second one behind Ross, where a larger boat rocked gently in the black water. Ross was essentially trapped. The only escapes were the door behind Megan or the water at the end of the dock. Assuming Ross wasn’t foolish enough to take the icy leap, he’d have to go through her first if he wanted to get out.

“There’s no point in this,” Megan said, beginning to edge to her right. “You’re a smart man, Ross. I don’t know why you did all this, but it’s finished. Okay? Just do what I’m saying and let’s get on with it. If that woman’s still alive, we’ve got to get her to a hospital.”

Megan edged farther, keeping the pistol trained on the man. She didn’t want to glance down at the bloodied body at Ross’s feet, but she couldn’t help herself. It had to be Tracy Jacobs, though there was no way she could identify the pulpy face of the woman lying on the dock. It dawned on Megan that there was no way Ross could have delivered such damage with his bare hands. Not the handsaw. It wasn’t nearly heavy enough.

The bastard has a weapon.

“I want your hands, Ross! Right now!”

“I don’t think-”

She jerked the gun and fired again, this time toward the larger boat. Its triangular windshield exploded. The gun muzzle swung immediately back to Ross. “ Now !”

Ross brought both of his hands up slowly in front of him. Something long and skinny and black was in his right hand. A crowbar. Megan took another step. I can shoot him. The bastard has a weapon. He came at me with it. I had no choice. Rule number one: defend yourself at all costs. I can blow this bastard into the water.

But Megan didn’t want to fire from here. She wanted her pistol barrel jammed up right against the bastard’s tonsils.

“Drop the crowbar, Mr. Ross.”

He did. With a flick of his wrist, the crowbar dropped into the water, next to the boat. In the same movement, Ross snatched up the flashlight and flicked the beam directly into Megan’s eyes. She could see nothing but white spears.

Shoot! Now! He’s going to come at you. Shoot!

Ross flicked the light away from Megan’s face and trained it on Tracy Jacobs. Megan was still somewhat blinded. The prone body shimmered blue and out of focus. Ross lifted a foot and placed it on the woman’s back. He nudged slightly, rocking the prone body. She let out a soft groan.