Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

Frost gestured for one of the cops to follow the pier. He led the way with the other cop to the trail overlooking the green water. He could see the island and the prison buildings of Alcatraz a mile and a half away across the white-capped surface of the bay. Gulls lined the rusted fence along the water and hunkered down against the storm. The paved trail led behind the firehouse and then ended at the steep, forested parkland that hugged the shore.

He didn’t see Cutter or Tabby, but he heard a woman’s voice from somewhere inside the trees.

One word. His name.

“Frost!”

He bolted along the waterfront. The other cop was at least ten years older than he was, and Frost easily outdistanced him. He pushed through a gap in the fence where the trail ended and found himself among dense trees. The damp ground fell away to the rocks at the water and climbed the hillside on a slippery bed of mud and pine needles. There was nowhere to go but up, and he could hear them above him, already near the top of the slope. He shoved his gun back in his holster and assaulted the hill. The wet earth fought him, and he struggled upward for nearly thirty feet until the cliff finally leveled off at a wide, paved bicycle path. From up here, the bay spread out like a postcard, with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

Two sets of muddy footprints showed him the way. They headed downhill where the path cut like a terrace along the hillside. He ran, and the trees gave way, opening up the vista below him.

There they were, nearly at the base of the trail. A long pier curved like a crescent moon into the bay, creating a circular cove and beach just beyond Fisherman’s Wharf. Tabby looked over her shoulder and saw him. She screamed for him again, but Cutter grabbed her by the neck and dragged her forward as she squirmed in his grasp. He had a knife in his hand.

Frost charged downhill after them. He could hear sirens wailing from the city, getting closer, roaring in from Van Ness and from the Wharf. Cutter was trapped, with nowhere to go, but trapped men had nothing to lose. Cutter looked back at Frost through the rain, and then he pulled Tabby down the crescent pier over the bay.

It was a one-way trip, ending at the water. There was no coming back. They both knew it.

Frost reached the pier seconds later. Cutter and Tabby struggled down the middle of the wide concrete platform fifty yards ahead of him. Behind him, the lights of squad cars flashed in the gray morning. He ran after Cutter, with the wind shoving him forward and rain falling across his face in waves. The pier stretched for a quarter mile, but Cutter couldn’t go fast with Tabby in his grasp, and Frost closed the gap.

They were nearly to the end of the crescent when Cutter suddenly stopped and turned to face him. Waves on the bayside hit the pier and cast up clouds of spray. They were surrounded by the water, the hills, and the skyline of the city behind them. On one side was the Golden Gate Bridge, on the other side the Bay Bridge. It was just the three of them out here. No one else. Frost held up his hand, stopping the cops who were following on the pier behind him. He didn’t want Cutter spooked.

“Let her go, Rudy.”

He had to shout to be heard. He took another step closer and then another. His gun was pointed straight ahead, but he had nothing to shoot at. Tabby was in front of Cutter. Frost couldn’t see more than an inch or two of Cutter’s face. And even if he wanted to fire, he could barely hold his arms level because of the onslaught of cold wind that buffeted his body. He was like a boat thrown around by the waves.

“That’s far enough, Easton,” Cutter said. “Stop.”

Frost stopped, but he didn’t lower his gun. “This is over, Rudy. You know that. There’s no way out of this.”

Tabby struggled like a honeybee inside a glass jar, but she was locked in Cutter’s grasp and couldn’t break free. His left arm trapped her waist. His right forearm kept her neck in a headlock, with the blade of the knife pressed tightly against the bulge of the carotid artery on her neck. Any tighter and he would cut her open. The more she squirmed, the less of a shot that Frost had on the man behind her.

“What are you going to do, Easton?” Cutter called to him. “Are you willing to shoot? It’s windy. You might miss. What if you kill her yourself? Can you live with that?”

Frost felt a roaring in his head. It was more than the wind. It was anger and despair creeping up on him. “Let her go. You don’t need to do this. It won’t change a thing.”

“Not for me, but it will change everything for you, won’t it?”

He knew that Cutter wanted him to see it happen. Frost had found the bodies of Katie and Jess; he’d felt the life go out of Maria Lopes in his arms. But he hadn’t seen the blade go across the throat, seen the spray of blood, heard the cry of pain. Cutter was going to kill Tabby right in front of him. He didn’t have a single doubt about that. Nothing he said, nothing he did, was going to change it.

“What do you want, Rudy?”

He kept using Cutter’s first name, trying to make a connection with him. But there was no connection to be made.

“I don’t want anything at all,” Cutter told him. “You know that.”

Frost needed a clear shot to drill through Cutter’s eyes, but Tabby blocked the way. If he pulled the trigger, he’d hit her. If he fired into Cutter’s arm, the bullet would go through him and into Tabby’s chest. The only way to fire without hitting Tabby was to get a clean angle on Cutter’s head, and he didn’t have it.

Meanwhile, Tabby flailed, hot and angry. Cutter held her. Frost stared down the barrel of his gun and tried to hold it steady as the gusts pushed around his arms. He kept blinking as the rain flooded his eyes. The bay went wild around them.

“Drop the knife!” Frost shouted, as if through sheer force of will, he could get inside Cutter’s brain and turn him around. As if he could change the future. As if he could rewrite the past.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, something came over Cutter’s face. It was as terrifying as the whiteness of a shark’s eyes as it rolls them back before an attack. Cutter wasn’t on the pier anymore. He was in a tiny bedroom, standing over the body of his child in the pool of blood where his wife had killed herself. It was 3:42 a.m. The muscles of his hand tightened. Fury and bottomless grief brought a steely line to his mouth. This was the moment; this was the horror.

Frost could see the next ten seconds of his life. The slash. The scream. Another woman lying at his feet; another woman he’d failed. Katie. Jess. Maria. And now Tabby. Dying in his arms.

It was going to happen. Right. Now.

“Frost.”

The voice startled both of them. Frost froze. So did Cutter. It was Tabby, calling to him. She wasn’t moving anymore. She was absolutely calm, absolutely still, her knees locked against the wind, her body unmoving. Her green eyes weren’t afraid in the least. Only her wet red hair blew like a wildfire. Cutter was still behind her, his head impossible to reach, impossible to kill. The only thing visible, the only target Frost had, was Cutter’s arm draped across Tabby’s torso, with the knife at the end of his hand.

Tabby said four words to him. That was all she needed to do.

“Shut up and dance,” she said.

Frost didn’t hesitate for a millisecond. He fired. He fired perfectly . The bullet traveled across the short space of air, faster than Cutter could shove in the blade, faster than the sound of the gun. The bullet burrowed into the exact square inch Frost had targeted, carving through the bone, muscles, and nerves of Cutter’s forearm, paralyzing his wrist and causing the knife to clatter harmlessly to the concrete pier.