Jericho's Razor (11 page)

“He was being an asshole!”

“That's because he is one! But he is
my brother
, you stupid fucking maniac! And when you tossed him out with the trash, you tossed me in with him!”

I had nothing to say to that. “Sorry” might have been a good start. Except I wasn't sorry. Despite costing me my relationship with Katrina, I hadn't regretted tossing Preston in that Dumpster for one second. And Kat knew it. She knew that if I had it to do over, I would do the same exact thing.

As I fumbled for something to say, I saw Kat's eyes flash at something over my shoulder. Before I had time to move, I was grabbed by a corn silo with feet wrapped in a black Brute Squad T-shirt. Standing behind him was Eric Watts. The security guard hammered a meaty fist into my gut. Every breath of air I had ever taken suddenly blew out of me in one violent burst. My vision was fuzzy, and I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Through the fog, I saw Watts approach. The club owner was far removed from his football playing days, but still an imposing figure. He threw a hard kick into my stomach.

“Nice of you to drop by, Jericho.”

“Thanks, Eric. You kick like a one-legged girl. No wonder the Raiders cut your ass.”

Watts followed his kick with three more. I resisted the urge to puke, but eyed his boots.

“Hey, what size are those?”

“What?”

“Your boots. What size are they?”

“Tell you what. After I toss you over the side, you can measure the marks on your ribs.”

The guard hoisted me like a 180-pound bag of trash and dragged me to the ledge. I was vaguely aware of my shoes dragging across the surface of the roof, of people's voices in the background. I suddenly noticed what was in front of me, or rather below. Just over two stories down, sitting in the alley from which I had entered, was a Dumpster. Its lid was open, and it looked packed.

“Oh, the irony of it all. The congressman is going to love me for this. Too bad you have a thing for screwed-up women, Sands.”

The next thing I knew, I was falling. Watts snapped a picture with his phone.

Consciousness returned to find me in darkness and pain. Several parts of my spine felt like they were no longer arranged in the order nature intended. A splinter from a broken beer bottle jutted out of my leg. My pants and jacket were covered in detritus from the popping trash bags.

Karma can be a real bitch.

The screen on my phone was cracked, but I could still read the time display. It was 10:37
PM
. I had blacked out for roughly forty minutes, and thanks to the alley being shielded from Main Street, my swan dive had gone unnoticed. As my hands groped for the edge of the Dumpster, I heard yelling in the alley. I pulled myself up and saw people running out the side door, screaming, trampling each other to get out. Dark waves of smoke trailed in their wake. Screams of “
Fire!
” rang through the walls of the alley and bounced around like bullets.

I climbed out and immediately fell to the ground, still too weak and battered to keep myself upright. The beer bottle shank slid further into my leg, burying itself under the skin. Nobody noticed me laying in the path to freedom, and I had to roll out of the way to avoid being trampled. After getting clearheaded and rising to my feet, I yelled into the melee to ask if anyone had seen Katrina. Nobody answered. Nobody even glanced in my direction. They were all too busy fleeing certain death. I pushed my way against the tide, getting knocked around by bodies, fighting my way through the crowd until I was back inside the building. Smoke filled most of the room. It moved in dark angry waves across the club, climbing the walls and covering the ceiling. The crackle of flames sounded like rising souls from Hell looking for people to drag back down with them.

If before the Dungeon was an admirable facsimile of Hell, it was now the genuine article. Demons and vampires rushed in chaotic abandon, backlit by rising flames. In the center of the room, Dracula's cape caught fire; he ran in panicked circles trying to extinguish the blaze until the fire crawled upward, advanced to his body, and forced him to the ground.

I ran toward the stairs and found a door. It was closed and bore a sign that read
RESTRICTED ACCESS
.
KEEP THE FUCK OUT
! Eric's office, with a custom sign because a normal
KEEP OUT
sign just wasn't badass enough for him. I reached for the doorknob just as a voice in my head shouted,
Don't!
Too late. The scalding metal seared my hand. I jerked it back and kicked the door open, cursing myself for being stupid enough to grab it. I did not expect to find anybody inside. Katrina and Eric were likely among the first to escape. They were probably long gone.

But I was wrong.

Eric Watts was slumped back in a chair behind the desk. A gunshot wound was dead center in what was left of his head. On the wall, next to a collage made of Eric Watts's brain cavity, was the number 4. The murder weapon had been a .45 caliber revolver with a ten-pound pull on the trigger. Smooth action and moderate kick.

Mine.

I saw it on the floor beside the chair, cast aside just as my chainsaw had been. Eric must have grabbed it on the roof before ordering me tossed over the side. I thought about making a grab for it when someone shouted behind me.

“Freeze!”

I did. I could feel his presence directly behind me, just to the left. He would be aiming his weapon at the square at my back, just like his partner had the night before.

“Hey, Torrez. Glad you could make it.”

Screams rose outside the office. Above it, I heard Jagger's voice from a radio.

“I'm inside,” Torrez answered.

“What? Get the hell out right now!”

Smoke filled the office carrying the scent of burning wood and seared flesh.

“I have Sands. He is standing over the dead body of Eric Watts.”

“What? Repeat that.”

“Eric Watt's is dead. GSW to the head by what is almost certainly Jericho's gun. He tried to make a grab for it when—” Torrez lowered his radio and began coughing hard enough to make me worry about him reflexively pulling the trigger.

“Eddie, the fire department is inside. They say it's moving too fast for them to contain. You have to get out!”

“Dammit, Torrez, lower the gun and listen to your partner!”

“You're not going anywhere,” he said.

“Okay. So what's the plan? Secure the crime scene? Call in the forensic crew? Get real, man, the whole damned building is coming down!”

“Just like you planned it!”

Torrez began another bout of coughing. I joined him. Smoke hung like a shroud over our heads. The cackle of the flames could be heard right outside the door like crunching fall leaves. If we did not leave soon, we never would.

“Hands behind your back.”

“Screw you. I'm not going to try and run out of here in cuffs.”

“Do it, or I'll shoot you and leave you here!”

I did as instructed and Torrez cuffed me while Jagger ran inside. Torrez gave directions to secure the murder weapon as firefighters rushed inside and yelled at all of us to get the hell out. Torrez grabbed the body and tossed him over his shoulder, contaminating the hell out of the evidence but probably deciding it was preferable to letting it barbeque. Part of Eric's skull fell off and landed on his shoes. He hardly flinched.

Jagger explained that I would lead the way out, covered by her and followed closely by Torrez. She added that if I made any attempt to run once we were clear of the building, she would empty her weapon into my spine. We hurried like that, all of us coughing and fighting our way through curtains of black smoke.

Chapter Eight

I sat in a hospital room with four police officers guarding the door. My leg bore a large gash where the sliver of beer bottle had been removed. Second-degree burns covered most of my left hand. Nurses submerged it in cool water and wrapped it loosely in gauze in attempt to control the damage. But it did nothing for the pain, a searing agony that felt like I had grabbed a handful of red-hot coals. My right hand was in far better condition. It was also handcuffed to the hospital bed.

There was a quick knock on the door and a nurse entered. It was the same one who had treated me earlier, an African American woman in her forties who talked about running marathons. She had introduced herself as Martha and warned me that if I tried anything funny, she was an expert in self-defense and would snap my neck before I knew what was happening.

I liked her immediately. She was smart and tough and didn't take any shit. Nurses are notoriously overworked and underappreciated. They watch doctors waltz in and out as they please while they work fourteen-hour shifts. Martha gently examined my hand, frowning while I did my best to choke down screams.

“Have you come around on accepting those painkillers yet?” she asked.

“No.”

“Your decision.” She said in a tone that made it clear she thought I was being stupid. In fact, anything that could dull the searing pain would have been welcome. But I knew that Torrez and Jagger were close by and circling like sharks. At any minute they would come through the door looking for blood, and I wanted to be clearheaded.

“I've heard some of the staff talking,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“What's the tally? How many of you think I'm the second coming of my father?”

Martha turned her head toward the door. Her voice lowered. We were alone, but I was sure the move was just a habit. Nurses are notorious gossipers.

“You really want to know?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“You're not looking too good, honey. I'd say about eight out of ten think you are guilty as sin.”

I nodded. “Probably to be expected.”

“Was me, I think I would lay low for a while. Someplace warm maybe. Let this sort itself out.”

“Not really an option.”

“Figured you'd say that.” She looked over her shoulder again. “Those detectives are waiting to talk to you. They don't look happy.”

“I imagine not.”

“Their boss just left. He read them the riot act. Heard him yelling from down the hall. They're catching a lot of heat over this.”

“Really? Isn't that a fucking shame?”

“Don't be cursing at me, mister. And I'm just saying, maybe you want to keep in mind you're both on the same side. You both want to catch this guy.”

“So you don't think it's me?”

“No. I heard some of the cops say that you ran into a burning building. I can't figure the person who started it doing that. But like I said, I'm in the minority. Your best bet is finding whoever it is.”

The doctor came in and made some uneasy small talk. He was one of the eight out of ten, clearly. He explained that my CAT scan was negative. My head was no more messed up after the fall into the Dumpster than it was before. No bones were broken. I was being discharged into the care of the detectives. He cleaned his hands of me.

Jagger and Torrez came in right behind him. They passed a lot of looks between them, as though unsure of how to start. Jagger stepped up. She wore a pair of black jeans and a black-and-red Hell Kat T-shirt.

“How's the hand?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“We need to talk to you about what happened.”

“Am I under arrest?”

There was a pause. “Not yet.” Torrez finally said.

“Then I want this,” I rattled the handcuff against the bed railing, “taken off.”

The detectives passed another look between each other. Torrez spoke up.

“I think we're going to hold off on that for right now. Just until we can be certain that you are not a danger to yourself or others.”

It was a pretty good “cover your ass” line. By admitting I was not under arrest, he would have to remove the cuffs. This way, he could play both sides. Smart.

“It is your right to have a lawyer here,” Jagger said. “We can wait outside while you call one.”