William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

He reached the top of the stairs. He spotted a light switch and flipped it; nothing happened. Trixie must’ve cut the breakers. She was taking no chances on being caught.

The top of the stairs unfolded upon a long hallway that stretched in two directions. Tomlinson saw several doors on both sides; the rooms must be the size of closets. Enough room for a cot and a change box—that was all that was required.

He opened the door to the first room on the left. “Trixie? Trixie, I promise I’m not—”

There was a sudden shrieking, and something hit him in the face. He staggered back, disoriented, panicked. Whatever it was, it was still there, clinging to him. Something cut him; he could feel blood trickling out. He flailed desperately, trying to break free, trying to see, reaching up for—

It was a cat. He grabbed the furry beast and tossed it across the room. He had to laugh, despite the fact that he was dripping with sweat and trembling from head to toe. It was just a damn cat, for Pete’s sake. A cat had jumped up and scratched him. And he’d practically had a cardiac arrest.

The darkness was definitely getting to him. He was breathing in short raspy breaths, and his shirt was clinging to his skin. If he could just find some candles, or a flashlight. Maybe he should go back to his car—

But if he did that, Trixie would leave, and he might never find her again. He had to track her down now, while there was still some hope of regaining her trust.

He heard a noise downstairs. He couldn’t quite identify it—probably the cat racing outside, trying to escape the tall, dark monster it had encountered in the dark. It couldn’t be Trixie. He would’ve heard her going down those creaky stairs.

“Trixie! Please come out. Turn the power back on so we can—”

And that’s when it occurred to him. Maybe that hadn’t been the cat he heard downstairs. Maybe—

He froze. His chest heaved, but other than that, he couldn’t move. Maybe the noise hadn’t been the cat slipping out, he thought. Maybe it had been someone else slipping in.

Tensing all his muscles, he forced himself into action. He ran to a window overlooking the front door. Sure enough, a black van with smoked glass windows was parked not twenty feet down the street. He couldn’t read the license plate.

He cursed himself bitterly. The driver hadn’t sped off. The driver was right here with him. In the dark.

As quietly as possible, Tomlinson sidestepped back into the hallway. It was so quiet—was there something outside, some noise, some hint, some echo? Something soft and regular? Footsteps? Breathing? Or just his imagination?

“Trixie?” he whispered. “Is that you? If it is, please come here. We’re safer together. I can protect you.”

Abruptly, the soft sound stopped. It was the absence that proved its existence; Tomlinson was only certain he had heard a noise when it ended.

“Trixie?” he repeated.

If it was her, she wasn’t coming any closer. Could it be—the other? He was sure the driver of the van couldn’t be upstairs yet. Those stairs creaked so badly; he couldn’t possibly have come upstairs without being heard.

Tomlinson placed one hand on the handle of his revolver. He pressed himself flat against the wall. He scanned the hallway as well as possible in this killing obscurity.

There was nothing there. Nothing, nobody. He released his breath in an outpouring of relief. How long had he been holding his breath? He walked to the head of the stairs. That would be the safest, smartest place. The driver couldn’t get upstairs without being heard, and Trixie couldn’t leave without going through him. “His confidence began to return. This was a workable plan. Foolproof, really. He was embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner. He’d been letting the dark get to him, letting it affect his performance as a police officer.

There was nothing here to worry about. Nothing that could hurt him—

The hands wrapped around his neck in a tight choke hold, cutting off his breath. Something hit him hard in the stomach. Tomlinson grabbed his gun, but one of the hands applied crippling force to his palm. He heard his fingers snap; his gun fell to the floor. The pain was unbearable. He felt dizzy and sick.

Suddenly, it was even blacker than before. Something had been pulled over his head, something cold and thin. It crinkled like plastic. He tried to catch his breath, which made the plastic cling to his mouth and choke him all the worse. He tried to struggle, to move, to get away, but his assailant held him tight. Whoever it was must be incredibly strong; Tomlinson couldn’t move at all.

He lost his footing and stumbled off the top stair. It didn’t matter. The strong hands held him upright.

He felt something tighten around his throat. He knew he was fading. He tried to kick, but his feet only touched empty air. He tried to shout, but he couldn’t make a sound. He was absolutely helpless.

Trixie! he wanted to cry out, but the words would not come. He could barely think, his chest throbbed so. He felt his consciousness escaping as the world swirled around him. Bright white lights flashed before his eyes. What would happen to Karen, and Kathleen? He fell to his knees, wanting to cry, wanting to beg for mercy, but helpless to do anything at all.

And then everything turned to black.

PART THREE

Toward Chaos

33

THE DRIVER OF THE VAN exited on the Eleventh Street side of the corner. His black boots tapped along the pavement, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The wind tousled his meticulously styled hair. Annoyed, he pushed the errant strands back into place.

He opened the glass door to Denny’s and approached the counter. He waved at the waitress, smiling a handsome smile.

“Excuse me. Did you work here last night?”

“That I did.” She placed her order pad inside her apron and leaned against the counter. “Why? D’you fall in love and come back to marry me?”

“No,” the man said, grinning. “But I may yet. I’m looking for someone.”

“ ’Zat right?” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Why would you be doing that? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No. Not by a long shot.” He took a Polaroid photo out of his pocket and passed it to the woman. “This is the girl I’m looking for. I believe she goes by the name Trixie.”

The woman glanced at the photo, men passed it back. “What you be wantin’ with Trixie?”

“I owe her some money. See, I’m a…well, a former customer, if you know what I mean. Kind of a regular, actually. I was short of cash last time, and I wanted to make up the difference.”

“Sonny let you leave without paying in full? That’s not the Sonny I know.”

“Exactly. That’s why it’s so important that I find her quickly. I don’t want her to get into any trouble.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure that’s all you want?”

The man hesitated before answering. “I guess I can’t fool you, can I? It’s not just the money. I thought I might arrange another…date.”

“You got the money this time?”

“Gobs. I was hoping I could arrange one of those pricey picnic jobs. Thought we might go to The Playground with a few of my friends.”

“The Playground. What on earth would you be doing out there?”

“Searching, for eternity,” the man said. “Scaling the final barrier. Achieving a sense of closure.”

“Sounds weird to me.”

“I’m sorry. I tend to wax metaphysical from time to time. Do you know where I might find Trixie?”

“Normally, I’d say right across the street, but she doesn’t seem to be there tonight. Come to think of it, she wasn’t there last night either.”