J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

They run for it.

Neither Lorna nor Bud are in the best physical condition, but fear is a powerful motivator, and they make it to the car in under ten seconds. From first shot fired until now, less than a minute has passed.

Lorna expects the parking lot to be swarming with pigs, but the two cops she sees are running inside the ER. They probably think she’s still in Bud’s room.

“Keep your head down, Bud.”

Lorna pulls out of the parking lot, forcing herself to drive slow and careful and not attract attention. She drives past all the reporters, turns on the road to the interstate, and merges onto the expressway.

“I knew you’d come for me, Lorna.”

She reaches down, patting his bald head.

“Family takes care of its own, Bud. We help each other.” She wrinkles her brow, trying to remember what to do next.

“We gotta ditch the car, get you some clothes.”

“And then what?”

“Then we got a score to settle in Chicago. Against that bitch cop who took away our Charles.”

She presses in the car’s cigarette lighter.

“I want her alive, Lorna. She’s a sinner, and needs to be taught the error of her ways before we send her to meet her Maker.”

“We’ll teach her, all right, Bud. She’s gonna repent all of her sins. By the time we’re through, she’ll be repentin’ other people’s sins.”

The cigarette lighter pops out. She hands it to Bud, the end glowing orange.

“Here you go, baby. Play with this while I think.”

There’s a sizzle, and a squeal, and a smell like bacon frying.

Lorna smiles.

It’s good to have her Bud back.

I WAS QUESTIONED for over six hours.

I’d forewarned Holly that the fastest way to get through it was to tell the truth. Which is what I did. It meant disclosing I’d taken a civilian to Indiana to interrogate a suspect, and then snuck her into the Cook County morgue – neither of which were recommended police procedure.

But stopping a serial killer still counted for something in the eyes of the state’s attorney, and Caleb Ellison was indeed a killer.

Besides the grisly tableau in his basement, Caleb had almost twenty snuff videos, many of them duplicates of Charles Kork’s collection, but some of them new. Caleb had been smarter than Kork – he’d kept his face out of the picture – but not by much; weapons he’d used in the movies were discovered in his apartment. The camcorder seemed to be a match. Caleb also had a collection of Polaroid snapshots of posed murder victims, one more revolting than the next.

Another interesting bit of evidence was discovered in his bedroom – a cache of Michigan driver’s license templates, and the equipment and software to create fake IDs, including an algorithm program that generated accurate driver’s license ID numbers based on name and date of birth.

Checking his database uncovered several aliases for Caleb Ellison and for the recently deceased Steve Jensen. Background checks on these aliases revealed criminal records; their paper trails had ended several years ago because they’d committed their recent crimes and done their time under false names. We still had no idea what had dissolved their partnership, or what prompted Ellison to kill Jensen so horribly. But psychos really didn’t need much provocation.

The Crime Scene Unit, and the Feebies, had practically moved into Caleb’s apartment, continuing to gather evidence and build a case against a corpse.

I was finally cut loose at four in the morning, without charges filed against me.

Even at that late hour, the media had camped outside the station, and in a rare moment of lucidity I gave a decent statement.

“The Chicago Police Department is a meticulous, highly tuned crime-fighting machine, unlike how it’s portrayed on certain television shows. Stopping Caleb Ellison was the result of the hard work and dedication of dozens of officers, from the superintendent on down.”

Maybe that would score me some brownie points.

Once home, I unplugged my phone, fended off a cat attack, took a long shower, slapped on some burn cream, tugged one of Latham’s old T-shirts over my head, and crawled into bed.

I was exhausted, but unable to relax. Sleep mocked my attempts, keeping me awake with thoughts of Caleb’s basement, of my mother, whom I hadn’t visited in a few days, of Herb, of Harry’s wedding, which I had to get ready for in just a few hours, of Holly, who was still being questioned as far as I knew, and still hadn’t bought a wedding dress.

I managed about ten winks out of a possible forty, and at nine a.m. I got up to face the day. It began with a call to Herb, who was being prepped for his bypass surgery.

“I saw it on the news this morning. You’re catching psychos without me. I’m obsolete.”

“Sorry, Herb. Next time I’ll wait until you’re feeling better before I do my job.”

“I appreciate it.”

“How was my sound bite? Did I look okay?”

“Thin. You looked too thin. Have you been eating okay?”

Bless that man.

“Thanks, Herb. Have yourself a good operation. Don’t give the doctor any trouble.”

“I’ve got it easy, compared to you. Aren’t you standing up at that idiot McGlade’s wedding today?”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Can you swing by the hospital and pick up the gift I made for him? I haven’t wrapped it yet. It’s still in the bedpan.”

I laughed, then realized I hadn’t gotten McGlade a gift myself. The ceremony was at noon, at the Busse Woods forest preserve in the suburb of Elk Grove. Maybe I had time to pick up something on the way.

I bid good-bye to Herb, rushed through a shower, and spent all the time I saved on the shower staring dumbly at my closet, wondering what the hell to wear. A formal gown? Not to a forest preserve. Slacks and a blouse? Not dressy enough. I didn’t own a clown outfit, so that was out, and finally decided on a Bob Mackie brocade suit, pink, with a white blouse. The skirt was knee length, the jacket had shoulder pads and a rounded collar, and I never wore it to work because it was, well, pink.

I matched it with a strappy pair of DKNY two-inch heels with an open toe, but had no nylons without runs in them. I used some scissors to get a good leg from two separate pairs, and held them on with a garter belt that Latham had bought me during the inevitable “naughty underwear” phase of our relationship. I didn’t expect to have as much fun wearing it this time.

I kept the makeup fast and light, refreshed the cat’s food and water, and rushed out the door, almost running into my weirdo neighbor, Lucy Walnut from the Sanitation Department. She was wearing the same crusty uniform I’d seen her in the last few times. Perhaps she slept in it.

Before I had a chance to ask why she was standing in front of my apartment, she bent down and picked up a flower arrangement that had been resting between her feet.

“This is for you.”

Taking flowers from creepy ex-cons set off all kinds of warning bells. Walnut must have sensed it, because she shook her head.

“It’s not from me. Got delivered to your place last night. You weren’t home, the florist guy asked me to hold it till you got back.”

I took the flowers, a vase full of roses, carnations, violets, mums, and baby’s breath.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Whatever.”

She trudged back to her apartment, and I brought the arrangement inside.

It had a small card, and the envelope had been torn open. Walnut? I could knock on her door and yell “J’accuse!” but didn’t see the point. Instead, I took it out and read the message.

I still love you too. Let’s talk. Latham.

I’ll admit to a very unfeminine whoop , and maybe a few fist pumps in the air. I won’t admit to grabbing Mr. Friskers and dancing around the kitchen with him, giving him kisses on his nose. I won’t ever admit to that.