Scissors.
I jumped past the blackened sweatshirt, the disabled Taser, the growing stalks of jagged flame, and ran toward the bedroom.
Parker turned and sneered. Threw the door shut.
Still two strides away, I had no time to stop; I careened into the wood, the impact jarring my depleted frame.
A loud crack rang through the condominium.
“Brianne!” I yelled.
I lifted a leg and thrust my heel against the handle. Another crack rang out, then screws popped loose, the strike plate peeled back like a half-opened tin can, and the door panel sprang free. Before me was a room with glowing sconce lamps and plush curtains that matched tan and cinnamon patterns on the king-size bedspread.
Brianne, on her knees, had both hands joined around the butt of a gun. The drawer of one nightstand was open and dangling, about to fall.
On the carpet, Leroy Parker was dying.
Curled on his side, he had blood throbbing from the holes in his back and chest. I could see she’d nailed him as he’d turned and shut the door, then again after he’d fallen.
The scissors were open on the floor beside the fallen parole officer. In his hand, he held blond strands matching the bare patch above Brianne’s right ear. He must’ve cut them during their struggle in the bathroom.
“Why did he make me shoot him?” Brianne was shivering. “Why didn’t he stop? Why?”
With tears spilling over soft freckles, she clicked the safety on the gun, ejected the clip into her palm, and set it on the bed.
Activated by the gathering flames, sprinklers kicked on. Brianne was motionless. She stared at the man on the carpet, letting the water soak her from above, as though it were a healing shower capable of cleansing her stain.
Leroy Parker’s blood had spread into the tan carpet, and he was dead.
Brianne continued to stare.
There was something surreal about the moment. We were together again, facing the horror of humanity gone bad. A part of me shut down, refusing to process the obvious.
“The fire,” I blurted out.
I grabbed a towel hanging from the bathroom shower rod, ran it under the tap—gritting my teeth as water hit my burns—then helped the sprinklers by beating out the blaze in the hall. The smoke was noxious, scratching at my throat. I crouched beneath its deadly haze and moved toward the ICV man at the far end.
He was still out, stone cold. His chest was moving up and down.
I stood guard and called to Brianne to pick up the phone and dial 911. Guilt was her enemy now, able to paralyze. I knew all about that.
When the sprinklers turned off, I flicked on the lights.
No doubt about it. It was the same man who’d been in my shop. He’d acted so casual, complimenting me on the drink and dropping change into the tip mug before killing Mr. Michaels to keep him from passing on secrets to me.
I shook my head. At least Mrs. Michaels might find bittersweet justice for her son’s death.
Brianne nudged up behind me.
“Make sure he doesn’t move,” I said.
“Where’re you going?”
“My hand.”
She recoiled at the sight of blistered skin that was elastic and angry red. “There’s gauze and ointment under the sink. Let me help you.”
“I’m fine. Keep an eye on him.”
After running the wound under cold water, I wrapped it gently. My fingers throbbed, and a flash of dizziness swept over me. I gripped the sink with my good hand and looked into the mirror, willing myself to deal with the pain.
Two men had crept into the condo and ambushed us soon after the cops’ departure. Was there anyone else? How had they gotten in? What about the anarchist dude who’d jumped me in the alleyway? Where was he? I made a sweep of the condominium, checking every closet and dark space. In Brianne’s bedroom, I stepped around the dead man on the floor—focus on your objective, Aramis—and noticed her window cracked open with dirty footprints as evidence on the carpet.
“Brianne, has he moved at all?”
“Nope.”
I checked under her bed, peered into the walk-in closet. Talk about a penchant for footwear. Brianne’s collection was impressive. What is it with women and shoes? I swept my arm along dresses, skirts, and jackets, all hung in immaculate rows.
Nothing to worry about. No one hiding behind the hosiery.
“Everything all right?” Brianne asked upon my return.
I nodded.
She pointed at the unconscious man. “You must’ve got him good.”
“It’s the man from the shop. The one who shot Darrell Michaels.”
“Then he deserves whatever you did to him.”
Her words were bitter. I put my arm around her shoulder, comforting her in the way she had done for me in Black’s. She seemed smaller now, shrinking inward. She was gonna have a rough next few days, facing her own demons.
“Brianne.”
She tucked her head against my chest.
“You did what had to be done,” I said. “You’ll be okay.”
She glanced toward the bedroom, where Parker’s feet were visible in the doorway.
I asked, “What did he mean, about you living up to your end of the deal?”
“I told him that I …” She hung her head. “That I’d let him have his way if they’d just let you go. I was so scared. I thought they might kill you.”
“Don’t ever let a guy like that touch you. He was scum.”
“And I killed him.”
“He was armed and threatening you.”
“Will I go to jail?”
“What’ll happen to me?”
“You had every right, Brianne. I mean, the guy was coming at you with a pair of scissors.” I ran my good hand over the thin spot above her ear. “Maybe we should’ve let him finish the haircut. Kinda cute.”
“Aramis.” She screwed her eyes shut as sirens wailed in the distance. “That’s not even funny.”
“Sorry.” I took her hand in mine. “Listen, we’ll get through this.”
“We?”
The sirens were close now. Staring into her emotion-wracked face, I saw a fair maiden waiting for the knight to raise his standard and declare his love. After years of reckless decisions, I wanted to prove I could be honorable, could be that hero every boy dreams of being.
“You and me,” I said.
She wrapped herself in the words. “You and me.”
Was it brash and illogical? Why do men turn goofy and goggle-eyed in the presence of beautiful young women? Was I setting up Brianne—and myself—for a crushing fall?
I’d only known her for eight days. Criminal psychologists can give you case after case in which life-threatening situations have created inexplicable bonds between people. Fellow victims call each other years later to rehash jarring moments no one else understands. Romantic inclinations flourish. Of course, this link can become a sick thing too. Hostages and kidnappers have formed symbiotic and emotional relationships, now recognized as the Stockholm syndrome.
I guess I realized it was unwise, ill-advised.
She felt warm and comforting, and she needed me. Sometimes that’s enough.
“Aramis?”
“Yeah. Just me, Johnny.”
I closed the front door of the brownstone and paused in the entryway. Did I really wanna talk to my brother?
“How’d dinner go?” Johnny inquired. “One in the morning? Does this mean my little brother’s back in the saddle and done moping around?”
“Give it a rest.”
“That bad? Well, just keep swingin’. You got a message today from Los Angeles, so that’s a good thing. Carla Fleischmann says you and Uncle Wyatt, you got the green light.”
“Great.” I kicked off my shoes.
“They’ll be flyin’ you outta here on the eighth of November.”
“Together?”
“Separately.”
“Smart thinking.”
I braced myself in the kitchen doorway and watched him dice carrots, his version of a midnight snack. The man’s not right in the head. He turned to see my disheveled appearance and knew instantly to drop his line of questioning.
“The cops got him,” I said. “The dude who murdered the Michaels kid.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“He broke into Brianne’s place. Ambushed us.”
“Are you kiddin’? You’ve had one heckuva week, kid. How’s she doin’?”
“She’s in a hotel for now. Shaken up a bit.”
“If I know my brother, the man didn’t last long.”
“Yeah? Well, after he Tasered me a couple of times, I busted his head open.”
“Tasered? Is that what happened to your hand?”
I looked down at the gauze and grunted. “Let’s drop it. I’m dog-tired.”
“In the morning I’ll expect details, the whole shootin’ match.”
“Deal.”
“Glad to see you alive.”
I stopped. “I need to talk to Dad.”
“Out like a light on the couch. The man likes his booze, but he’s pretty harmless. Not as torn up as he used to be, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
“Not really.”
“Sorry about the other night. Guess we were pretty rough on you.”
“I wasn’t exactly on my best behavior either.”
“Dad’s been wrestlin’ with a lotta things, and I think it’s done him some good. Cut the ol’ man some slack, Aramis. All this trouble you’ve been facin’? I’m figurin’ it’s all tied together.”
“He’s got some stuff to explain.”
I stalked to the sink, filled a glass of water, and marched toward the living room. Johnny Ray followed, picking up the intensity in my stride. He set a hand on my forearm and asked where I was going.
I stiffened and stared down. “Let go, Johnny Ray.”
“You’ve had a long night. Why don’tcha take a minute to calm down?”
“Let. Go.”
He let go.
I spun toward the slumbering figure on the couch. In a movement that barely scratched the surface of the aggression racing through my mind, I flung the water flush into the face of my prostrate father.