Erica Spindler: Copy Cat

“It’s over, isn’t it?”

His words came out choked. She felt for the little boy whose life had gone so terribly awry. That such evil existed, that it was so often directed toward children, broke her heart.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “Free me. We’ll go to the police. I’ll try to help you.”

He curled into himself and rocked back and forth, like a small child seeking comfort. “It’s my fault, all my fault. I’m stupid. And careless, just like he says.”

“You’re not stupid, Lance.”

“He’s all I have. He’s going to be angry, so angry.”

“I’ll protect you.”

“You can’t.” He met her eyes, the expression in his hollow and hopeless. “Only he can.”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. He meant to kill her. He was sweating and shaking.

Lance Castrogiovanni didn’t enjoy killing; weirdly, he felt it was his duty.

“Don’t do this, Lance!” she cried loudly, to signal Kitt. “We can make it work. I’ll go to my chief and-”

Sobbing now, he stood and went for the Smith amp; Wesson.

The same moment her cop’s sixth sense alerted her that Kitt was in the room, she stepped out of the shadows.

“Put your gun on the floor at your feet, Lance,” Kitt said softly. “Then turn around slowly, hands in the air.”

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

12:45 a.m.

Lance did as Kitt asked. Gun at his feet, he turned to face her. She was surprised by his expression-he looked relieved, almost grateful.

Lance Castrogiovanni didn’t want to kill anyone else.

“That’s good,” she said. “Keep your hands up and step away from Detective Riggio.” Again, he did as she requested. She motioned him toward the wall. “Hands up. Feet apart.”

She frisked him for another weapon, then cuffed him. “You have the right to remain silent, you son of a bitch. You have the right to-”

Her cell phone vibrated. She let it go while she finished reading him his rights, then flipped it open as she crossed to free M.C. “Lundgren here.”

“Hello, Kitten.”

She had expected to hear Sal’s very angry voice. She had expected to be sharing this good news and minimizing the trouble she was in.

She smiled grimly. This was a very satisfying runner-up. “How nice to hear from you now. This very minute.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’ve won. I know who you are. I have your accomplice, the so-called Copycat here with me. Or should I call him your brother?”

He laughed softly, the sound unconcerned.

“Perhaps you think I’m joking,” she said. “I assure you, that’s not the ca-”

“Do you have your weapon, Kitten?”

“Of course. And it’s aimed at your brother’s head.”

“What a coincidence. But you’ll understand why in a moment. For now, I’d like you to lay down your gun. Then turn around with your hands in the air.”

This time it was she who laughed. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because, once again, I hold all the cards.”

The lights snapped on. Kitt made a sound of surprise. And revulsion.

They were standing in a kind of art gallery. On display were photographs, matted and framed. Very professional.

Of all the little angels.

Photos of them very much alive-at school and at play, shopping with their mothers, exiting church, daydreaming, laughing.

Six beautiful little girls, their whole lives ahead of them.

Tears swamped her. That wasn’t all. On the wall were images of them in death. She recognized each girl; this vision of them had been burned onto her brain long before today.

She shifted her gaze. The grandmothers were represented as well. In life-and in their gruesome deaths.

They reminded her of crime scene pho-

“Hello, Lundgren.”

He stepped into the room. She heard M.C.’s sharply drawn breath, even as she registered her own shock.

Kitt turned slowly to face him.

Snowe from ID.

She choked back the cry that raced to her lips. And he had Joe.

He held a gun to Joe’s head. He had sealed Joe’s mouth with duct tape and shackled his wrists behind his back. Judging by Joe’s bloodied face, he had put up a fight.

“I see by your expression that I am, indeed, the one in charge here.” Snowe lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t have told me what you cared about, Kitten.”

He meant Joe. That night on the phone, she had told him how much she loved him. “Let him go, Snowe. Please, he-”

“Lay the gun on the floor, then kick it my way.”

She did, though he didn’t make a move to retrieve it. “Do you like my memorial gallery?” he asked, sounding pleased with himself. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They’re vile.”

“Capture the memories,” he mused. “Didn’t some photographic company use that as a slogan?”

“You’re a sick bastard.”

“Remove the handcuffs from my brother’s wrists.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Bad idea, Kitten. If I undo the cuffs myself, you and your ex here won’t be alive to see it.”

She obeyed, thoughts racing, searching for a way out of this. She glanced at M.C. and saw by her intent expression that she was doing the same.

“Back up,” Snowe ordered. “I want you where I can see you.”

She did. He nodded. “Lance, take her gun. Give it to me.”

Lance hurried to do what he asked, flushing at the disgust in his brother’s voice.

“Now pick up the Smith amp; Wesson. Stick it back in your pants, little man. We’ll talk about that later.”

“Why are you talking to him like that?” M.C. demanded. “He’s not a child. He’s not stupid.”

“You,” Snowe said, “can shut the fuck up. Or be shot.”

Kitt jumped in, not putting it past M.C. to test Snowe’s resolve. She knew from their conversations, he would neither hesitate nor show mercy. “Let Joe go,” she begged. “He has nothing to do with this. Please, he-”

“Of course he’s a part of this. He was my last move, my final bargaining chip. Grow up, Kitten.”

M.C. snorted with disgust, struggling to free herself. “You’re a police officer. How could you betray your oath this way?”

Kitt held her breath, wondering if Snowe would shoot the other woman; instead he laughed.

“A police officer? Law enforcement? You think I give a shit about our oath?” He released Joe with a shove that sent him stumbling forward. He landed face-first with a sickening crack.

Kitt screamed his name and leaped forward. The blast of Snowe’s gun discharging ricocheted off the walls, drowning out a second scream-M.C.’s.

It took Kitt a moment of blinding pain to realize that Snowe had shot her. Just like that.

Kitt’s legs gave and she sank to her knees. She brought a hand to her chest, near her collarbone. It was wet, sticky. She felt light-headed.

Room spinning, she shifted her gaze to Joe. He lay completely still. Blood leaked from his nose. Not dead, she prayed. Please, not dead.

She’d always vowed she’d solve the Sleeping Angel case, if it was the last thing she ever did.

It looked like it just might be the last thing.

“A nonfatal wound,” Snowe said, tone conversational. “Of course, you could bleed to death, if you don’t get treatment.”

Her stomach rolled, and she fought being sick.

“Our old man was the law. Oh, yeah, carried a gun and wore a badge. He was smarter and stronger than everyone else. Especially me and Lance.”

He glanced at his brother. “Isn’t that right, Lance? We were stupid and worthless and weak. Isn’t that what he told us? He proved it with his fists.”

Lance didn’t reply. Kitt saw that he was staring at her, a kind of horror in his eyes.