I took the money, locked the trunk back up, and left the apartment.
Satisfied that I knew who I was dealing with, I bided my time until ten P.M. Then I could finish the job.
As promised, Lyle had left the door open for me.
The house was dark and quiet, just like the neighborhood. I walked down Christiana and up the porch stairs without encountering a soul. Once inside, I locked the door behind me and held my breath, listening for sounds of life.
Nothing.
The lights were on in the living room, and I held my Glock before me and did a quick search of the first floor. The furnishings leaned towards the feminine side: pink drapes and flower patterns on the couch. On the end table, copies of Glamour and Cosmo. In the kitchen, a half-eaten container of lowfat yogurt sat on the counter, a spoon alongside it. I checked the back door, found it locked, and then crept over to the staircase.
The stairs were carpeted, but they squeaked with my weight. I paused after every two steps, ears open. I didn’t hear a damn thing.
The second floor revealed an empty bathroom, an empty guest room, and a bedroom.
The bedroom was occupied.
A woman was tied to the bed, naked. She was white, late twenties, her blond hair tangled up in the red leather ball gag buckled around her mouth. Leather straps around her ankles and wrists twisted around the four bedposts. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she screamed when she saw me, the sound lost in her throat.
There was a note next to her head.
Give it to her. And leave the gag in, or she’ll wake the neighbors.
The room was unusually well-lit. Besides the ceiling light, there were lamps on either side of the bed, one in the corner next to the mirrored closet, and an extra work-light — the portable kind that clips to things — attached to the bed canopy.
“Hello,” I said to the woman.
She screamed again.
“Shh. I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
I took two steps backwards, toward the closet, and then spun around, facing the mirrored sliding door. My free hand pulled back the handle while my business hand jammed the Glock into the closet, into the chest of Lyle Tibbits.
Lyle yelped, dropping the camcorder and trying to push me away. I brought the gun up and clipped him in the teeth with the butt.
He fell forward, spitting blood and enamel. I gave him another chop on the back of the head, and he ate the floor.
“Don’tkillmedon’tkillme!”
I put my foot on his neck and applied some weight, glancing back to check the rest of the closet. Empty. The mirror was one-way, and I could see the bed through the door’s glass. The original mirror rested against the rear wall.
“Who is she, Lyle?”
He yelled something, the carpet muffling his words. I eased up some of the pressure from my foot.
“I just met her last week!”
“She’s not your wife.”
“No! She’s just some chick I’m dating!”
“And you hired me to rape and kill her so you could videotape it. I saw the other films back at your apartment. Does snuff sell for more than kiddie porn?”
Lyle wiggled, trying to crane his neck around to look at me.
“It’s worth a fortune! I’ll cut you in, man! It’s enough money for both of us!”
I glanced at the woman tied up on the bed.
“How much money?” I asked.
“I’ve got over half a mil in advance orders! We’ll be rich, man!”
“That’s a lot of money, Lyle. But I’m not greedy. I don’t need that much.”
“How much do you want? Name the price!”
“You’re worth eighty grand to me.”
“Eighty grand? No problem! I can—”
I knelt on his back, cutting off his breath. Pressing the Glock to the back of his head, I yanked the handcuffs out of my pocket.
“Put your left hand behind your back, Lyle.”
He complied. I yanked his arm back in a submission hold, slapped on the cuffs, then climbed off.
“Let’s go into the bathroom, Lyle.”
I was a bit too eager helping him to his feet, because I hyper-extended his arm and felt it snap at the elbow.
Lyle howled loud enough to hurt my ears, and I gave his broken arm a twist and told him to shut the hell up. In the bathroom, I chained him to the drainage pipe under the sink, then I went back into the bedroom.
“You’re safe,” I told the woman. “No one can hurt you now. I’m going to call the police. Are you okay to talk to them?”
She nodded, frantic. I took off her gag.
“He was gonna kill me.”
“I know.” I picked up the phone next to the bedside and dialed 911, then placed it on the bed next to her mouth.
I walked out of the room as she began talking.
I was in a drugged haze when Jack called on my cell.
“Missed you on Monday.”
“Sorry. Been busy.”
“Remember that guy you called me about? Lyle Tibbits? He got picked up a few days ago.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It seems as if Mr. Tibbits was planning on making a snuff film, but someone came and rescued the snuffee.”
I wiped some blood off my nose. “Sounds like she got lucky.”
“She said it was a bald man.”
“Poor guy. It’s tough being bald. Society discriminates.”
“It would help the case if this mysterious bald man came forward and testified.”
“If I see him, I’ll let him know. But you probably don’t need him. If you check out Lyle’s apartment, you might find plenty of reasons to lock him up for good.”
“We did that already. Mr. Tibbits will be eligible for parole when he’s four hundred years old.”
“So why the call?”
“The woman who was saved wants to thank her hero. In person.”
An image flashed through my head of Linda, my fiancée. I’d left her because I didn’t want her to see me suffer and die.
No one should be subjected to that. To me.
“That’s not possible,” I told Jack.
“I’ll let her know. Pool Monday?”
“I’ll try to make it. Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“They holding Tibbits over at Cook County?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“General population?”
“I think so. He’s in for kidnapping and attempted murder. The state’s attorney is putting together the illegal-porn case.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
I staggered to the bathroom and rinsed the blood and powder off my face. Then I threw on some clothes, left my apartment, and staggered to the corner news vendor. The daily paper set me back a buck. I sat on the curb and read the police blotter until I found what I needed. Then I picked up three cartons of Marlboros and took a cab to Cook County Jail on 26th and California.
I spent two hours waiting before I was able to see Jerome Johnston. He was black, twenty-two years old, a member of the Gangsta Disciples. Jerome was being held for first-degree murder.
“Who the hell are you, cracker?” he said upon meeting me in the visitation room.
“I’ve got a deal for you, Jerome. A good deal.” I handed him the three cartons of smokes that the guards had already searched. “This is for your valuable time.”
“What do you want?”
“There’s a white boy in your division. Name of Lyle Tibbits. He’s a baby raper. Likes to have sex with five-year-old boys and girls.” I stared hard into Jerome’s lifeless eyes. “I want you to spread the word. Anyone who takes care of him will get twenty cartons of cigarettes. He’ll be an easy mark — he’s got a broken arm. Here’s a picture.”
I handed him the photo I’d taken from Lyle’s apartment.
“How do you know me?” Jerome asked.
“I don’t. Just read about your drive-by in the paper. Thought you’d be the right man for the job. Are you, Jerome?”