The Watcher in the Wall (32 page)

Minutes passed. Gruber caught his breath, summoned his strength. Heard a siren over the rush of traffic on the bridge, knew it wasn’t a coincidence. They were coming for him. That was fine. So long as Earl suffered first.

He forced himself out of the car again. Grit his teeth and reached in for the shotgun, ignored the throbbing pain in his shoulder, his side, the way the blood blackened his clothes.

There was nothing after Earl. There was only tonight. Gruber would ensure he made the most of it.

<
123
>

Windermere and Wheeler
worked the radios as Stevens sped them toward New Albany. They had the local PD en route to Sanderson’s apartment, FBI backup coming out from Louisville. Took time to get these things sorted, however, and Gruber had a head start. Windermere figured she’d feel a hell of a lot better once she and Stevens were on scene.

Maybe Gruber’s not even looking for his stepfather,
she thought.
Maybe he’s just trying to disappear
.

She knew this was wishful thinking. Knew the way this case had played out, they were heading for some new kind of violence before Gruber went away.

Any old time, she’d have relished the idea. The prospect of taking out a scumbag like Gruber, putting him down, letting him in on her own personal interpretation of justice. But this time was different.

This time, she was seeing Adrian Miller, R. J. Ramirez, Shelley Clark, and the rest of Gruber’s victims. She was seeing Rene Duclair walking the hallways, hurt deep and betrayed. She was seeing Wanda Rose laughing, not giving a shit.

She was playing back all of Ashley Frey’s chat logs, all the ways Gruber had preyed on his victims. All the insidious ways he’d turned them to his cause. The sick pleasure he’d derived from his watching.

Give me one more shot,
she thought as the Charger devoured road.
Give me just one more shot at this scumbag. I’ll make sure he pays for what he did to those kids.

<
124
>

Earl’s building
wasn’t much better-looking at night.

It was late, after midnight. Most of the windows were dark. There was a lighted doorway at street level, the other end of the building from the bar. A glass door scrawled over with graffiti, a broken buzzer.

Gruber’s jacket had plenty of pockets to store ammunition. He emptied the boxes on the passenger seat, loaded up on .44 Magnum cartridges and Black Magic slugs, made sure to bring as many of each as he could carry.

He took the shotgun from the case and loaded it, slung it over his shoulder. Checked the revolver, stuffed it back in his waistband, prayed his wounded arm would hold out long enough that he could steady the bigger gun.

Gruber stepped back from the Lincoln and took off his glasses, cleaned the smudged glass with his grimy T-shirt. Replaced the glasses, shouldered the shotgun again. Slammed the Lincoln’s door closed and limped across to the apartment.

The door was locked. The buzzer was broken. No matter. The Magnum rounds would shatter the glass. Gruber leveled the revolver, took aim, was about to fire when a figure appeared on the other side of the door. A man.

He was about Gruber’s age, a Cardinals basketball hoodie and a brown, curly mullet. He was halfway out the door before he saw Gruber. Saw the revolver, the shotgun.

He blinked. Stared for a moment. The siren grew louder and the man glanced down the block and then back at Gruber, his thoughts coalescing.

“Oh,
shit
,” he said, his hands up. “I didn’t see nothing, man, don’t worry. I won’t tell them shit.”

He looked back in through the doorway. Gruber shot him. The revolver kicked, hard, the gunshot echoing around the empty street, bouncing off walls as the man crumpled to the ground. Gruber skirted past him, ducked into the building.

So much for the element of surprise.

<
125
>

It took ten minutes
on the deserted highway to get back to the lights of New Albany. Stevens piloted the Charger into the little town, Wheeler leaning forward between the two seats, passing directions.

“We’re five minutes out,” he told Stevens and Windermere as the Charger screamed toward the base of the bridge. “I snagged some Kevlar from my truck if you want to strap in.”

Kevlar. Windermere wondered how much good body armor would do against ordnance designed to kill a black bear. Figured she might as well do the trial run. She let Wheeler pass her a couple of vests, set one aside for Stevens and slipped off her jacket, slid the other vest on herself. Felt her blood pumping, adrenaline and fear, as the Charger sped
into the heart of New Albany, the Ohio River to their right, the whole town oblivious to what was about to transpire.

Stevens kept them rolling. Windermere checked her vest. Checked the action on her Glock, checked it again.

Five minutes. Nothing to do but wait.

<
126
>

Earl lived on
the third floor. Gruber cursed the bastard for it.

He made the second floor with difficulty, his legs aching, his side burning, his clothing damp with sweat. Paused to catch his breath on the landing, then resumed the climb. Reached the third floor, the top of the building. Opened the fire door and peered down the hallway, listened for movement. Heard nothing, no sirens even. Just the low, maddening throb of the music from the bar, the whole building a subwoofer.

He drew the revolver again. Moved down the hall as quiet as he could, as quick as he dared. It wasn’t easy. The shotgun jostled his shoulder. His side howled with every impact. He was out of breath, panting, dizzy from the pain and the exertion. He pressed on, knowing the cops were right outside. Hoped Earl would be somewhere ahead.

A door opened. A woman peered out. Saw Gruber and froze, her eyes wide, her skin gone bleach white. Gruber raised the revolver, fired a shot at her. Relished the way she cried out as the doorframe exploded above her.

She slammed the door closed. Locked it. He walked past, reaching into his pocket for more ammunition. Heard her crying through the door, knew he’d scared her straight. Knew she wouldn’t poke her head out again.

The police would be here soon. He had moments to spare. The numbers on the doors counted down, 307, 306. Five units to go. Four. Then Earl. Then the end.

<
127
>

The radio crackled
in the Charger. Stevens reached over to the dashboard, turned it up, caught the end of it.

“. . . just pulled up to the building and there’s a body out front, adult male, probable gunshot wound. The Lincoln’s here, too.”

“That’ll be Gruber,” Windermere said. She handed Wheeler the handset. “Make sure those investigating officers have backup. And plenty of firepower.”

Wheeler relayed her instructions as Stevens stood on the gas pedal and wheeled the Charger out from behind a slow-moving Honda, steered into the oncoming lane, lights flashing and horn blaring, a blinding wall of headlights ahead.

Windermere braced herself for impact. It didn’t come. The Charger swerved back out of danger, raced forward, the Honda wallowing behind.

Stevens let out a kind of laugh, a long ragged breath. Any other time, Windermere would have been impressed by his driving—hell, turned on, even. Right now, she was just wishing he could get them there even faster.

“End of the next block,” Wheeler called from the backseat. “Lock and load.”

<
128
>

When Stevens pulled
the Charger up to the apartment building, there was one cruiser parked out front, its red-and-blues flashing color on the dirty brick wall, a couple of uniforms on the sidewalk.

There was a body on the ground between them. Windermere felt it like a kick. Another poor bastard dead, at Gruber’s doing. How many more to come?

“Dead when we got here,” the nearest uniform was telling Stevens as they climbed from the Charger. “Whoever your guy is, he’s got a hell of a big gun.”

“At least two of them, actually,” Stevens said. “No sign of him?”

The cop jerked a thumb in through the lobby. “We just got here,” he said. “But I imagine he’s inside somewhere.”

Stevens studied the windows, the apartments above. “Third floor,” he said. “That’s where he’s heading. Get on your bullhorn and tell
everyone to stay in their rooms, on their floors, stay out of the halls. This guy is coming in hot.”

The uniform hurried back to his cruiser. Stevens turned to Windermere. Gave her a look like
We’ve done this before.

“Reinforcements are coming,” he said. “What do you think? We lock this place down, get the building surrounded? Let the tactical guys earn their paychecks?”

Windermere knew he was laying out the smart play. They had Gruber contained; they could take their time. Establish a perimeter and sit back and wait. Hell, if he wanted to settle the score with his stepfather, Windermere figured that wasn’t any skin off her back. They could both die in that building, easy-peasy.

But it wasn’t just Gruber and Earl Sanderson in there. There’d been a woman in Sanderson’s apartment the last time they were here. There were other occupants, too, other residents, who could get hurt in the cross fire while Gruber and Sanderson aired out their differences.

Anyway, Windermere wanted to see Gruber again, before it all played out. Wanted to make sure he got his, the right way.

“It’s more than just Sanderson in there,” she said, checking her Glock, turning to the door, trying to ignore the pain in her wounded arm. “We don’t have time to wait.”

<
129
>

As Gruber reached
Earl’s door, he heard voices on the stairs, far behind. Urgent voices, heavy boots, climbing fast. The police.

He wondered if the two cops who’d nearly killed him at the trailer park were here. Were they leading the charge? He felt the revolver in his hand, the shotgun on his shoulder. Felt his wounds aching and wondered if he’d get the chance to return the favor.

No matter. So long as you find Earl. Look him in the eye, just once, and show him what he made you. Show him who you are.

There was sound coming from inside Earl’s unit. Cheesy music, a laugh track—the TV blaring. Like whoever was inside didn’t know he was coming. Didn’t realize there was an angel of death at the door.

Gruber tried the handle. It was locked. He pounded on the door, hard as he could.
“Earl,”
he called through the flimsy material. “I know you’re in there, shit stain.”

The TV volume diminished. Gruber listened, heard a man’s voice, muffled. Angry. Then another voice, higher pitched, urgent. A woman.

Gruber tapped the revolver against the door. “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he called out. “I just want to see Earl. I just want to talk to my stepdad for a minute, okay?”

No answer. No one came to the door. Gruber heard movement, heard—
crying
. The woman was sobbing in there.

“Open up,”
Gruber said.
“Open up, and I won’t shoot you, I swear it.”

Still no response. Gruber felt his frustration mounting. Glanced
back down the hall toward the stairway. The cops hadn’t arrived yet, but they’d be here soon. He had to get through this door.

The woman was still crying on the other side. No one was letting him in. Time for a new tack. Gruber stepped away from the door. Swung the shotgun around on his shoulder, aimed it at the handle, the lock.

“I’m coming in there,” he called out. “Whether you like it or not.”

<<<

A mad dash
through a trailer park. A high-octane car chase scenario. A standoff at an apartment building, an armed maniac at the top of a couple tall flights of stairs. Stevens was pretty well winded by the time he made the third floor.

Better than the good old days, anyway. Before I met Carla Windermere, I would have passed out from exhaustion back in Shady Acres.

Windermere was waiting for him on the third-floor landing. She looked down at him, impatient, like she was raring to jump into the hall and start shooting. Like she didn’t give a damn if she got shot up or not, so long as she took Gruber down.

There was a door at the top of the stairs, heavy steel. A little window, wire-reinforced, a hallway beyond. Gruber at the end of it, holding a shotgun.

“That hallway’s a kill zone,” Stevens told Windermere. “If we run out there and Gruber comes around with that boomstick, we’re both toast. We have to be careful.”

But Windermere was already reaching for the door. “I’ll take him,” she said. “You hang back, give me cover. I’ll neutralize him from here.”

“With that wing of yours? Not a chance,” Stevens said. “Anyway, it’s too risky. It’s a shooting gallery if he sees you.”

“I’m not asking you, partner.” Windermere inched the door open. “Hang back. Give me cover. Let me put this asshole to bed.”

Stevens opened his mouth to tell her no, he didn’t like it, she was too hurt for this cowboy stuff. Didn’t get the words out before the world exploded down the hall.

<
130
>

The shotgun was a monster.
It roared, kicked, nearly knocked Gruber flat on his ass. Screwed up his aim, too, not that it mattered much. He fired three slugs, point-blank, blew the flimsy door off its hinges.

Somewhere in the apartment, the woman was screaming. No sign of Earl. The door hung ragged and loose; Gruber kicked it aside. Stepped into the doorway just as the cops burst up from the stairwell behind him.

“Freeze, Randall!”

A woman called his name, and a high-powered flashlight searched the wall behind him, then another light. Gruber turned, saw the beams coming at him through the smoke from the shotgun, couldn’t see anything past them. Didn’t matter. He was here for Earl. He would find him.

He’d made it ten feet into a small living room—an ugly old couch
and the TV playing a sitcom, the cops still shouting behind him—when he came across the woman. She was in her fifties or so, rail thin, a bruise under one eye. She stared up at Gruber from behind a flower-print easy chair, shivering, crying.