The Cold Nowhere

58

‘Stride!’

Ken McCarty’s voice boomed through the graffiti graveyard, calling him closer. The shout came from below, fifty yards away, in the belly of the creek. Stride ran through the snow, dodging the concrete pillars. When he reached the creekside wall, he crouched and switched on his own flashlight, expecting a bullet over his head.

Nothing happened.

He left the flashlight on top of the wall and crab-walked ten feet, where a rusted set of bedsprings was propped against the stone. He pushed himself up on the metal frame, high enough to swing his torso over the top of the wall and point his gun down toward the water.

Ken stood in the ankle-deep creek. The light captured his cocky grin, which hadn’t changed since he was a baby cop. He stood behind Serena with one muscular forearm locked around her throat. His other hand held a gun against her temple. Three feet behind him, Cat and Brooke stood in frozen silence.

‘It’s been a long time, Lieutenant,’ Ken called.

‘Let her go, Ken,’ Stride said. ‘Let her go, and put the gun down.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Stride didn’t have a shot, and Ken knew it. Half the cop’s face was hidden behind Serena. He saw Serena struggling to breathe as Ken’s grip choked off her air.

‘Ken, you know it’s over. The police are surrounding this area right now. You’re not going anywhere. If you want to stay alive, let her go, and drop the gun.’

Ken jammed the gun into Serena’s face and she struggled in his grasp. ‘Actually, Lieutenant, my odds just got better. I have a hostage. Someone you care about. I don’t think you’re going to let anything happen to her.’

‘You’re not walking out of here.’

‘No? Then shoot me. Go ahead, take the shot. I hope you’ve spent time on the range lately. It’s dark. The angle’s bad. Chances are, you blow your girlfriend’s head off instead of mine. Are you willing to take that risk? I’d hate to think of you grieving about it the rest of your life. How many women are you willing to lose, Stride?’

Stride said nothing. They both heard sirens on the streets outside the graveyard.

‘They’re coming for you, Ken.’

‘Then get on the radio and tell them to back off! Serena and I are getting out of here right now. No cops, no guns. If I die, she dies in the crossfire.’

‘Where do you think you’re going to go?’ Stride asked. ‘You won’t last a day on the run.’

‘I got away for ten years, Stride. I’ll get away for ten more. I don’t need much of a head start. Let me go and I’ll release Serena when I’m safe.’

‘That’s not going to happen,’ Stride said.

‘Then you better shoot me.’

Stride’s hand tensed on his gun. He saw Ken’s forehead lined up in his sights, but the cop’s body jerked, going in and out of focus. It was too dark, too far, too cold. Serena’s green eyes gleamed in the light, and he knew she wanted him to shoot. She’d wrench away and give him a split-second, but he couldn’t do it. He tried to tell her with his eyes. No.

Ken took a step and pushed Serena forward with him. She was going to bolt; she was going to wrestle away. The ice crushed into white frost. Stride had to make a choice.

‘Stop!’ he called.

‘I’m getting out,’ Ken said. ‘Keep your girlfriend alive and let me go.’

Stride aimed the gun again. His finger slid on the trigger. As he searched for a moment to fire, he spotted movement in the shadows directly behind Ken. His eyes flicked to Cat and saw the girl’s face wrenched with emotion. Tears ran down her face. Her mouth was slack with fury and horror.

As Stride watched, Cat knelt down and slid her hand into her boot. She came out holding a knife.

STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP.

No no no no … oh God … oh God …

Please … I’m dying … I’m dying …

Cat clutched the knife in her hand. She could hear her mother’s voice ringing out in agony, as clear as it had been that night. Even when she’d clasped her hands over her ears to drown it out, she could still hear it. The knife going in and out of her body. Her mother. Crying. Bleeding. Dying.

This man caused it. This man standing in front of her. This man took them all away. Her mother. Her father. Dory. Now he was holding Serena. He was going to take her away, too.

She couldn’t let it happen. She had to stop it. Please, Mother, give me the strength to stop it. All she had to do was stab him. Raise her arm, drive the knife down, penetrate his flesh, take away his life. Pay him back for what he’d done, plunge in the blade over and over and over and over the way he deserved. It would be so easy, so right. Kill him. Stab him.

Cat could see the dimple in his back, underneath his neck, where she would strike him first. Blood would spurt. She’d seen it before. He would cry in pain, and she would have no mercy. She would pull the knife out, slash again, pull the knife out, slash again, pull the knife out, slash again. She would count. Ten times, twenty times, thirty times, forty times, until the black creek was red with his blood.

Raise her arm, drive the knife down, penetrate his flesh. Mother, make me strong.

Michaela was silent from the grave. Cat realized she was calling out to the wrong parent. It was her father who would guide her, her father who would teach her to be brutal and ruthless, to call out the devil in her soul. Marty Gamble wouldn’t hesitate to do what had to be done. He would take the knife and cast out every weak emotion and rain down death and pain and blood.

I must stop him, Father. Show me how.

Mother, forgive me.

But it didn’t matter how long Cat stood there. She couldn’t do it. She stood paralyzed, wracked by trembling, the knife quivering in her fingers, and she couldn’t do it. She told her arm to move, and it wouldn’t move. No matter how much she wanted to, no matter how much she needed to, she couldn’t lift the knife; she couldn’t sink it in another person’s body. This man, this murderer, was going to get away because she was weak.

Cat felt cool fingers on her hand, the hand that held the knife.

It was Brooke Hahne, standing beside her. Brooke’s eyes were calm and determined.

She peeled the knife away from Cat’s hand and in a single motion, a graceful arc, she buried the blade to the hilt in Ken McCarty’s neck.