Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (26 page)

49

I CREEP TO the side of the door and lift the compact to the level of the peephole. The trick works. Inconceivable. Somebody’s there! I see his eyes lower in the direction of the doorknob.

I crouch into a shooting stance.

Boom.

The world explodes and I feel a blazing pain sear my side.

I’m hit. I fall backward and almost drop my gun.
Boom. Boom.
The door is splintering and a man as big as a mountain is pushing his way through.

I get the Sig up and fire a first shot. He jumps back and crouches to the side. I start blasting holes at the door until the clip is empty. How bad am I hurt? Is he coming in? Can I defend myself?

Boom. Boom.
Two more gun blasts ring in my head and then I hear a thud of steps receding down the hallway. Neither of the last two shots was aimed at me. Did I scare him off? I pray so. I am breathing. I just might be alive.

I breathe heavily, in and out, in and out. My mind won’t slow down. I have an appointment with Dr. Andrews tomorrow that I suspect I will miss. I’ll bet I have to make it up. I bet they add more sessions after what just happened.

I touch my side tenderly and it feels like I’ve stabbed myself with a hot poker. And then twisted it. I look at my hand. Bright red goo is dripping. I need help.

My hand jabs at the ground looking for my phone. I get it in my hand and swipe the screen to turn it on. Now the screen is a red gooey mess and isn’t detecting my finger motion—or it’s grossed out by what it sees.

I rub the screen against the pajama shorts I’m wearing. They will
soon join the new outdoor gear I got for Christmas in an evidence bag. Years from now someone might try to donate them to Goodwill but I doubt Goodwill will accept anything stained blood red. I dry my finger on my sweatshirt. Oh man, I am going to lose my faithful friend that everyone has been telling me to throw away for years.

I feel light-headed. I’ve got to call 911. My phone vibrates and chirps first. Klarissa. I jab the red button to refuse the call and it chirps again. Squires. I’ve got to get an EMT over here soon. I pick up his call.

“Don! I’ve been shot. Get an ambulance over to Klarissa’s ASAP.”

He laughs. Do I joke around that much? No time to convince him. I hit the red button and call 911 on my own. The operator is extremely quick and helpful because he’s already been dispatching police and emergency crews to my location.

I’m feeling loopy. Squires’ name pops back up on my screen. I hit green but can’t say anything.

“Conner? Kristen? KC? Tell me you’re joking.”

“Don’t sweat it, Don,” I rasp out. “I got hold of 911 myself. They’re sending an ambulance.”

“You better not be joking! What is going on?”

I really am going to stop kidding so much. No one knows when to take me seriously and it’s going to kill me. Literally.

“Kristen?” I hear Don yelling.

I want to answer but my head is reeling.

I drop the phone. The only thing I want in the world right now is to sleep and wake up alive.

50

HOW DID SADOWSKY find me? Spotting the car he loaned me would be like finding a needle in the haystack. Med scowled and smacked his head. The detective. He knew I was hitting the detective.

Medved was carefully driving the speed limit. If he got pulled over he was done. Even if an officer didn’t see the bright red circle on the front of his coat, he would undoubtedly smell the alcohol. He poured some of it on his wound and some of it down his throat. Some people drink vodka because they claim no one smells it on your breath. That’s more than a little exaggeration he thought. Even if the officer didn’t see the blood or smell the alcohol he might notice two handguns on the passenger seat and a sniper rifle on the backseat.

He had been parking Sadowsky’s car in the back lot of a motel a mile from his. He didn’t mind walking in the cold. He grew up north of Moscow. This was child’s play. But now he had a bullet lodged in his chest.

Do I risk parking closer or do I walk?

He looked at the near empty bottle beside him. Maybe one big swallow left.

That will be enough to keep me warm. That and the memory of shooting one of Sadowsky’s bulls between the eyes. One shot from fifty feet—with a bullet in my chest—that’s impressive. Best shot ever.

How in the world did I let that skinny detective shoot me? It had to be the vodka.

Time to get back to the motel room and dress his wound. Unless it was within an inch of the surface, he would probably leave the bullet in to be removed later. It might not have to come out ever. He had an uncle who left a bullet lodged in his head as a souvenir of getting out of Afghanistan alive.

One small stop for supplies. He pulled into the parking lot of a Walgreens. It was impossible to be discreet at 6’ 7” and 350 pounds. Med did the best he could, keeping his head down and making eye contact with no one. He looked at the aisle signs and headed for the first aid section. He scooped up two bottles of rubbing alcohol, a brown bottle of peroxide, a packet of rubber gloves, a disinfecting soap, antibacterial ointment, gauze, and tape. He went back for two bottles of iodine and some tweezers, just in case.

The kid working the cash register didn’t even look at him—or at least pretended not to. Good thing I bought a dark coat at Dollar General. Makes it harder to see the blood.

Sadowsky took the call at Minsky’s, expecting to hear that the Bear was dead. No one looked at him when he talked on a special line that had so many relays and cutouts it was next to impossible to know its actual location. If any of the men huddled in small groups, drinking and talking quietly, had been watching, never a good idea, they would have seen a first. Sadowsky’s teeth clenched shut and his pasty white face turned red with rage.

The Bear was alive. One of his men was shot dead. Another was taken into custody.

What is going on in New York? Everyone kept telling him all would be settled and fine within days. So why is their smoke and fire blowing into my city?

51

GRACE CONNER LOOKED up from her crossword puzzle. Who could be at the door at this time of night? She checked her memory. Yes, she turned the knob on the door handle and both deadbolts. You can never be too careful living in the big city. Murder might be down significantly in the United States, but not in Chicago. It just happened on my street.

She picked up her cell phone. They say you’re not supposed to put 911 on speed dial. She put her finger on the seven button. They say a lot of things you shouldn’t listen to.

She looked through the peephole. Two uniformed officers were on the front stoop. Their faces were different—somehow younger—but they looked just as solemn as they did five years ago. The night her Michael was shot. The night that changed everything.

Tears were already streaming down her face as she fumbled at the locks and pulled the door open.

No. Not Kristen. Dear God, no. Not Kristen. Not my baby. But she knew in her heart of hearts they were here because of her daughter.

Before the officer could say anything she had sunk to her knees sobbing as a wail from some part of her she didn’t know existed pierced the night.

The call to Jimmy came late, even for a pastor. He got up quickly from the table where he, Kaylen, Kendra, and James were munching on pizza. The baby was asleep upstairs.

Kaylen looked up when he reentered the kitchen. His eyes were welling with tears.

“Kaylen . . . we need to call a neighbor to watch the kids.”

“What . . . what’s going on?” she asked as her heart sank. “Not Kristen.”

“What daddy?” Kendra asked, wide-eyed. “Did something happen to Aunt Kristen?”

“Aunt Kristen is hurt, Kendra. Maybe not very bad. Mommy and daddy need to go find out.”

Don’t cry in front of the kids, Kaylen told herself, as she burst into sobs.

Six-year-old James just stared, frozen in place.

“Austin, I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“Then don’t say it, Leslie. I’m just a hammer and I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. I don’t have an IQ that Stanford-Binet calls very advanced.”

“IQ has never been your problem, Austin.”

“That’s good to know even if you’re reminding me of my myriad of other problems.”

“Don’t be so surly, Austin. I’m actually thinking of you and your good, which I admit I didn’t do a good job of in our marriage.”

Reynolds wanted to nail Van Guten with a quick quip but held his tongue in check. It would only get her going on explaining the deficiencies of him and everyone else who wasn’t Leslie Van Guten, PhD, MD, and whatever new initials she’d acquired. They were cruising at thirty-five thousand feet in a Gulfstream the FBI kept on call for bigwigs, which in this case, despite his relationship with Willingham, was not him.

“I know you, Austin. I can see it unfolding. Things didn’t work out between us so you are in a compensation mode. You are bonding with someone who is my diametric opposite.”

“You mean someone with a heart? Or just not very smart?”

“There you go. Don’t you see?” she said. “You are still angry with me. That’s what you need to deal with. Me. Us. Until you do, I don’t believe you will be capable of an authentic relationship.”

The scary thing was she actually believed what she was saying. He would explain the abject narcissism of her comments to her, but she would only deflect and turn it on him. Is it possible to make a narcissist recognize that they make the world about themselves?

What was on Klarissa’s list to win the heart of Kristen? Go to church? Not sure my heart is in it, but I could do it. Heck, I haven’t gone to church since I was a kid. It’s probably about time to get back. I basically believe in God. Babysit the kids? Sure. I like kids. Fight on the mat? Heck, yes. Tell her I love her? I might be there already. That might be the easiest part. Agree to anything she says? If it means not listening to a narcissistic egomaniac on a three-hour flight from New York to Chicago, I’m at least open.

Conner doesn’t drink. Don’t know how big a deal that is to her. But that wasn’t on the list. I don’t drink much myself but desperate times call for desperate measures. He held up his glass to the flight attendant. She brought him another Woodford Reserve. Just in the nick of time.