Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

Her breast just brushed the door; the hinges gave a single, small squeal. She didn't stop. Freezing now could be disastrous, if he had heard that betraying squeak. She slipped into the small, dark bathroom, grabbing the towel with her right hand and the hairspray can with her left. She didn't bang against anything, just moved smoothly and quietly. After wrapping the towel around the cap, she twisted it off. That, too, made a slight sound, less carrying than the creak of the hinges. Turning around, she faced the bathroom door, standing just where she wouldn't be visible through either the opening or the crack. Quickly, she checked behind her, to make certain the mirror couldn't be seen, but from the angle of the open door, all that was visible was the tub and shower enclosure. Holding the can in her left hand with the nozzle pointed outward, she waited. She didn't like being caught

in this tiny space, but after the squeak of the hinges, she didn't dare step out into the bedroom again. She already knew he could move quietly, because she hadn't heard him enter the apartment. He could be standing on the other side of the door, playing cat and mouse, silently waiting for her to come out. Her scalp prickled again. She could almost feel him there, a patient, malevolent presence. But she could be patient, too. The one who moves first is the one who loses, her father had said. How could she remember all this? She had been only a child, and he was a scary stranger, though she knew he was her father. But he had talked, showing her how to be a successful sniper, and she had listened. She didn't have a gun in her hand, only a can of hairspray, but that knowledge had been her father's legacy to her, and perhaps now it would save her life.

She didn't hear any sounds coming from the living room. If he hadn't heard the hinges, he would be searching as he had before, moving about normally, making noise. The apartment was silent; he had heard her.

She gauged the distance to the door. If he shoved it open, it would hit her, knocking her off balance and ruining her aim. Silently, she stepped back against the vanity, hoping that would be enough clearance. She raised the can and waited.

She had a slight advantage in that she knew he was there. He suspected her presence, but he didn't know—unless he had noticed her purse. Or the telephone under the pillow. Oh, God . Picture what you're going to do, Dexter had said. Be prepared to do it without warning. Don't hesitate, or your ass is dead.

Karen didn't want her ass to be dead. She wanted to live a long, long time—

The door crashed violently inward. Instantly, she extended her arm and sprayed at the head of the menacing shape silhouetted in the doorway. "Aghh!" He staggered back, his hands going to his eyes. One of those hands held a gun.

Karen hit him in a rush, shoving him with all her strength and sending him sprawling backward across the bed. He grabbed at her, catching her gown and pulling her with him. She screamed, hoping the sound would go through the pillow and that the 911 operator was still on the line. He rolled, pinning her down; she saw his contorted face, his red and streaming eyes, and she hit him with another blast of the hairspray. She missed his eyes, and the spray went up his nose. He choked, gagging. She sprayed him again, kicking violently, squirming, hitting him in the face with her right fist. Her foot hit the lamp and knocked it off with a crash, the ceramic base shattering.

"You… bitch!" he howled. Blinded, he struck out with his fist and caught her on the cheekbone. The impact bounced her head on the mattress, blurred her vision. She wasn't aware of pain, only of the stunning force of the blow. She hit him across the nose with the can, splitting the skin and sending blood spraying across her and the bed. She managed to get her legs up and kicked out with both of them as hard as she could, one foot hitting him in the stomach and the other lower, almost in the groin. He staggered back, his breath exploding out of him. Karen rolled off the bed, scrambling on her hands and knees for the door. He pulled the trigger then, enraged, cursing, but he couldn't see, and the bullet punched a hole in the wall above her head, sending plaster flying.

The carpet burned her knees as she lunged through the door. Panting, her vision still blurred, she staggered to her feet and lurched for the front door. Another shot exploded through the wall.

She wrenched the door open as he stumbled out of the bedroom. Wiping his sleeve across his streaming eyes, he raised his arm. Karen dove out the door, sprawling in the hallway and rolling as she hit. The shot splintered the door. She surged to her feet, stumbled for the stairs, and ran into two policemen who were coming up the steps with their weapons drawn, faces white.

Dizzily, she sank to the floor. Down the hall, she saw a blurred face in the doorway of one of the other three apartments on this floor. "Get down!" she gasped.

Hearing her voice, the burglar staggered through the door, arms extended, pistol in a two-handed grip. Both policemen reacted instantly, firing so close together that the two shots sounded like one. The impact of the bullets slammed the burglar back against the wall, and for an instant a look of mild surprise crossed his face. He looked down at the red stain spreading across his chest, blinking his streaming eyes as he tried to focus them.

"Drop the gun! Drop it!" both policemen yelled.

The burglar laughed. The sound gurgled in his throat, but it was a laugh. "Fuck you," he said, and lifted his pistol, pointing it in Karen's direction. He pulled the trigger just as both policemen fired again.

Chapter 14

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McPherson punched in a number on his secure cell phone. "This thing is getting curiouser and curiouser," he said when the call was answered. "Dexter Whitlaw was killed the same day in New Orleans, which isn't all that far from where Rick's body was found, same caliber weapon. The detective working the case is a sharp son of a bitch; he made me the minute I walked in his office. He put in the request for info on Rick on a hunch. I'd say he's got a hell of an instinct."

"Who's Dexter Whitlaw?" said the voice on the other end. "I don't know him."

"He was a Marine sniper in Vietnam, damn good one. Sneaky son of a bitch. Patient. He could outwait the second coming of Christ. Anyway, we got acquainted with Dex in Saigon, and he and Rick were…

well, I don't know that I'd go so far as to say friends, but they respected each other, you know?"

"So he and Dad met up in New Orleans."

"Seems like it. Don't know why, though. But it made someone nervous, someone who didn't want the two of them together."

"That means it was someone who knew both of them." The voice was cool, unemotional.

"I'd even say it was someone who knew them from Nam. As far as I know, Dex dropped out of sight after he got back from Nam. Couldn't handle it; went native. The detective said he'd been living on the streets but evidently had a source of income because he was healthy and well fed."

"His family probably sent money to him. I'll check out his next of kin. Has Vinay found his leak yet?"

"No, and he's damn pissed."

"I'll stay outside channels when I talk to him. About this detective. He made you. Does this need taking care of?"

"Only if you're thinking of recruiting him—which wouldn't be a bad idea, by the way. He looked at my shoes and pegged me for NSA or the Company. He's that sharp, that quick. He doesn't need two twos to come up with four."

A sigh came over the line. "Those damn Guccis."

"I couldn't see buying wingtips for the occasion."

"So you think we should use him as an asset?"

"Unless you recruit him outright."

"He might be more valuable where he is."