Death by the Book

~24~

Annabelle Kasprowicz stretched out her foot and pressed Peterson’s arm.

“Think we should call an ambulance?” said Jack.

She ignored him, crouched down beside the body and reached into the jacket for the white envelope.

The detective’s right trouser leg had come up a little. Jack could see the edge of a black leather holster strapped to his ankle.

“Let’s go, baby,” said Annabelle. “Quickly.”

“Can I get a ride?”

“I don’t think so, Jack.”

“No? We could stop for coffee somewhere on the way, chat, have a laugh. Maybe some chocolate cake? My shout.”

“Always the funny man.”

“Better than psycho woman.”

Annabelle took the gun from Louisa. “I don’t want to kill you, Jack,” she said. “That’s for Ziggy to worry about. But maybe you don’t need two nuts.” She pointed the gun at his crotch. Her lips pressed together into a hard line.

Jack had never seen this woman before. “I thought you liked my nuts?”

“I like balls, Jack.”

“That’s good. You’ll get plenty in the women’s penitentiary.”

Louisa walked over and peered through the curtained window. “Shouldn’t we tie him up or something?”

“We’ll lock him in the bathroom, there’s —”

“Mum! I think I just saw someone out there!”

“Get away from the window!”

There was the sound of a crash, of smashed glass and splitting timber.

Detective Sergeant Keith Glendenning ran in through the back door. “Put the weapon on the ground! Now!”

Instead, Annabelle fired. Glendenning’s shoulder snapped back, his body spinning around to follow it. Before hitting the ground his gun fired once: all the bullet did was put a small hole in a lot of air.

Jack dived to the floor, grabbed at Peterson’s trouser leg. Then somebody started yelling from outside. More guns opened up, shattering the front windows of the house. He pulled the gun free of the holster.

There was blood on the sleeves of his suede coat. If only Peterson had grabbed the goddamn black denim jacket …

He held the gun up, lying across the detective’s body. Annabelle saw him and fired. Jack fired too, squeezing the trigger three times. One of the bullets found Louisa over by the window.

“Louisa! Louisa!” Annabelle ran to her daughter.

Shit. Jack sprang to his feet and dived onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Glendenning was not there anymore. And the gun had slipped out of his cuffed hands, nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

He pressed himself up against the kitchen cupboards. He stuck his head out, looked across the room and saw Annabelle crouched over her daughter. After a moment she stood up, turned her head and locked her eyes onto his like a homing missile. Then she advanced on him, right arm stretched out before her, police-issue Glock in hand. The red flashes from the barrel did not correspond with the sound, like the discrepancy between lightning and thunder. A bullet hit the cupboard just above Jack’s head. Fuck.

He dived through the back door. He landed in a lot of wetness. Fantastic. Now his two-hundred-dollar pants were ruined, too.