Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

Wasn't this a picture. Alone in this dark, quiet place with a gay guy and it didn't bother him a whit. Years ago…

“He was supposed to go back there with a microphone and a tape recorder,” said Milo. “I'll go back there but if the drapes are drawn, I won't be able to see anything. I don't like it, but Dr. Delaware's in there already.”

“See what you mean,” said Gene. “Daniel also said it would probably turn out to be nothing.”

“Hopefully. Dr. Delaware's putting himself on the line.”

“Dedicated, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“You know,” he said, “I worked a case with Sharavi. Serial killer before they were calling them that. The guy's righteous as they come. Never met a better detective.”

Sturgis kept looking around, those wild eyes on full alert. As if he heard something that Gene wasn't hearing.

Gene said, “Now that I'm here, at least you have backup. Let's get some signals.”

“We were supposed to use cell phones but that's fucked, too. I had all the stuff at my house before they grabbed me at the station.”

“Except the gun.”

“Except that. Had it in a pants holster, the driver never searched me, they were trying to make it look like something positive, getting called downtown.”

“A driver,” said Gene. “You've got to worry when they escort you.”

Sturgis gave a weird half-laugh, half-grunt. Big lunk, you'd never know he was gay.

“Okay, signals,” he said.

Gene waited a long time for him to come up with something. Deferring, because Sturgis was still active-duty, knew more details than he did.

Finally, the guy said, “How about this: You stay here, keep a special lookout for cars-”

“Saab ragtop, Chevy van, Mercedes.”

“Good. Two could be in the garage, though I've been up here several times today, never saw them enter or exit. I go in back of the house, step out every half-hour, over there, in that space between the houses, and hold up my hand to let you know everything's okay. You'll be able to see me because of the lights shining from those houses in the distance. I'll only hold it up for a second, so we need to get our times straight. If I don't come out, wait another five minutes, then come checking. If you don't see me right away, pull some distraction-”

“Knock on the door?” said Gene. “Pizza man? Chinese-food delivery?”

Instead of answering, Sturgis looked around some more, though Gene still couldn't see any reason why.

“Yeah, fine, whatever works,” said Sturgis. “Okay, let's play bad spy movie and synchronize our goddamn watches.”

Both of them peeled back their cuffs. Gene was squinting at the dial of his Seiko Diver when sudden activity threw him off-balance. He had time to see a black-gloved hand chop down on Sturgis's gun arm, sending the Glock falling to the ground with a dull clunk.

As he watched Sturgis fall back into darkness, he was grabbed from behind, arms pinioned, yanked behind his back, and cuffed- Sturgis, too. Glove leather over both their mouths.

Black-garbed figures coming out of the shadows.

Out of nowhere- where the hell had they been-

At least three of them, armed for bear and more- Jesus, look at those machine pistols, Gene had seen them in gang roundups, never fired one because, unlike lots of other cops, he'd never been much of a gun freak.

Sturgis was dragged out of his vision and Gene felt himself pulled in the opposite direction.

Damned Keystone situation and now he was probably gonna die from something else, not the damned diabetes.

Fool, fool, fool- never underestimate the enemy- a cop like Baker would be a serious enemy- but, still, both he and Sturgis were pros, how could they have-

Hands guided him down the hill.

“Shhh,” a voice said into his ear, and he blotted out images of Luanne's reproving face.

Oh, honey.

Yeah, I screwed up, baby. Joining you soon.

My eyelids slammed as tight as metal shutters. My mouth tasted metallic. Breathing was difficult, each inhalation a rip in my lungs, and the pain in my head was a scarlet-orange-black thing.

Drowsy, but I hadn't lost consciousness. I tried to open my eyes. Too heavy. I could hear, smell- so much metal- feel, think- feel myself being lifted, pressure at wrists and ankles. Meaning at least two of them… bumpy ride.

Steps- the stairs down to the bedroom.

Lowered onto something soft. Perfumed.

Zena's perfume- Zena's bed.

New pressure bore down. Wrists, ankles, belly. Weight- dry, warm, crushing weight, like a big dog sitting on me.

The snap of clamps; now I couldn't move.

The back of my head was hot and caustic, as if something larval and fanged had hatched inside my skull and was chewing its way out… lesser pain in the crook of my right arm.

Cold sting- an injection.

I tried again to open my eyes. A sliver of light before they collapsed.

Everything okay, because Milo and Daniel knew. Daniel was listening.

Then I wondered: Not a sound had been made since I'd entered the house and said hi to Zena.

Were they assuming Zena'd made good on her promises, the lovemaking beginning spontaneously, silently?

Or were they unable to hear- an equipment malfunction? Those things happened. Space shuttles went down.

Waiting for some kind of signal from me?

My lips wouldn't function.

Rest up, stay calm, regain your strength.

The plan had been for me to open the living-room curtains. Did the fact that I hadn't alarm them?

Where were they?

I needed to say something for the parabolic mike.

Breathing was so hard, my throat a pinpoint- now I did black out.

Up again, no idea how long it had been. Eyes wide open, pupils aching as they expanded to take in the bright light of the bedroom.

The bedroom ceiling, I could see little else.

White ceiling, sparkle-sprayed.

The light from a cheap plastic fixture. White, circular, brass finial in the center, like the nipple of a big, white breast, Zena's breasts so small-

I pressed my head to my chest to see what was holding me down. Leather restraints. Thick, brown hospital restraints; as an intern on the psych wards, I'd wondered what they felt like…

Flashes of color off to the left. I struggled to get a better look, my neck tremoloed with pain that traveled down my spine, as if someone had run a filleting knife down my center.

Say something for the damned mike.

My tongue was a soft, useless pillow, taking up space in the garbage can claiming to be my mouth.

I strained some more, studying the color to my left.

Eyes. White eyes with flat black irises.

Dead eyes- plastic.

Stuffed animals, what seemed to be a mountain of them stacked against the left-hand wall. Behind them, another curtain. Behind it, no doubt, another glass slider.

Teddy bears, a gigantic panda with a lolling head. Disney characters, a killer whale that was probably a souvenir from Sea World, more kapok and felt that I couldn't make out clearly.

Zena's collection… that surprised look. I'd taken it for wide-eyed arousal-

The wire around her neck, gritted with blood, just a twist away from decapitation.

I moved and the restraints compressed my chest and my forearms and my shins.

But I was breathing better.

“Good,” I said.

It came out “Guh.”

Loud enough for the mike to pick up?

I tried to relax. Pace myself. Save the energy for talking.

As I worked myself up for another syllable, a face blocked out the light.

Fingers pinched my left eyelid, lifted it, let it snap as something tickled my nose- bristly, the face so close I couldn't focus.