Compulsion

CHAPTER 34

I heard the scuffle before I saw it.

Tasha shivered, grabbed a branch for support. Leaves rattled.

I said, “Don’t budge an inch.”

“You don’t have to convince me, sir.”

I followed Milo ’s pathway up the street.

Twenty feet from the house, the details kicked in.

Milo ’s feet planted. Two-handing his 9mm. The weapon aimed at the smiling face of the man who called himself Nicholas Heubel.

Fast, uphill run, but not a trace of raspy breath.

Heubel wore a scooped-neck peasant blouse, white culottes that exposed hairy ankles, red Bakelite earrings, red lipstick. A two-day beard stubble and granny glasses rounded out the ensemble.

Bad joke, if not for the arm around the short-haired woman’s neck, forcing her backward, so that her spine arched and her eyes watched the sky.

In Heubel’s other hand, a little black pistol pressed against the top of the carton.

Seemed to be piercing the carton – embedded in a hole at the top.

The woman said, “Please let him go. He doesn’t have much air.”

Milo said, “Good idea, Dale.”

Heubel didn’t respond.

The woman said, “My baby,” and Heubel put weight on the gun, drove it deeper into the box.

He said, “Maybe the merciful thing would be to blow his little tot brains out.”

“Please!” howled the woman.

Lights went on in a house midway down Altair.

Heubel said, “Now look what you’ve done,” and pushed the gun so deep the barrel disappeared into the box. Cardboard flexed. He kicked the carton. Noise leaked from within.

Muffled cries.

“Oh God, please, please, I beg you,” said the woman.

Heubel choked off her voice with an arm twist.

Milo said, “Bad idea, Dale.”

Heubel said, “I’m the idea guy,” in a strange, vacant voice.

“I called for backup, Dale. The smart thing is defuse this now.”

“Dale,” said Heubel. “Who in the world is that?”

The cries from the box got louder.

Then: coughing.

The woman said, “He can’t breathe!”

Heubel said, “Life is transitory. Makes us appreciate what we have.”

“Please! He’s only two!”

Milo took a step closer.

Heubel kicked the box again.

Milo edged nearer.

Heubel said, “Sneak up like that again and I’ll bam-bam Bam Bam.”

“Emilio,” said the woman. “He’s got a name.”

“Let’s just take it easy,” said Milo.

“Good idea,” said Heubel. “I’m as mellow as layer cake. Anyone for… anagrams?”

The woman whimpered.

Milo said, “They’ll be here any moment, Dale.”

Heubel said, “Don’t insult my intelligence, I know it’s only you and you don’t have a radio.”

“I called, Dale.”

Quick arm twist. The woman gasped.

“Shush, now,” said Heubel. “I believe in happy endings, don’t you, chiquita?”

“Yes, yes, please let him go-”

“I guess my definition differs from yours.”

Milo said, “The last thing I want to do is insult your intelligence, but-”

“Your presence insults my intelligence.” Grinding the gun into the box.

Milo said, “Nice outfit. Who’s your tailor?”

Heubel gave a start. The gun hand loosened for a second.

I jumped out, shouting.

“Freeze drop the gun drop it!” Or something like it, who remembers.

Heubel’s head swiveled hard toward the intrusion, relaxing his choke hold long enough for the woman to twist her head lower.

She bit down on his arm.

He shook her off, said, “Bye-bye, Emilio.”

Milo emptied his weapon.

Heubel stood there for an instant. Threw up his hands, as if surrendering. Fell.

One of his earrings flew off like a speck of hail.

The woman dove at the box, managed to keep it upright. Ripped the lid off, screaming.

Pulled out a sobbing flailing toddler and held him to her breast.

Heubel made an odd little squeaky noise.

When the child calmed down, the woman carried him over to Heubel’s body. Kicked viciously.