“Drop the knife, Jim. Drop it or I’ll drop you.” She glanced at her partner. “Sorry, Harry. We lost him on the beach. It was so dark we couldn’t be sure if he’d come into the house or not.”
Suddenly Vicky realized her position in the room was all wrong. Harry was directly behind Morgan, right in Vicky’s line of fire, just as she was directly in his. Neither she nor Harry could use their weapons without the risk of hitting each other. She began moving to her right, but Morgan had seen it as well. He lashed out with his left hand, the hunting knife slicing across Vicky’s gun hand and sending her Glock clattering to the floor. In the same motion he lunged past her and crashed through the screen door. Within seconds he was out of the house and into the enveloping dark of the beach.
Harry leaped forward, barking into his hand-held radio as he hurried to Vicky’s side, telling the others outside that Morgan was loose and escaping along the beach. He looked at the wound on her forearm. It was deep but not life threatening. “I’m going to call in an ‘officer down’ so you can get some medical help.”
“Screw that,” Vicky shot back. “Tell me where your bandages are and I’ll be right behind you.”
“We’ve got enough people out there.”
“Just tell me,” she snapped. “Then get the hell out of here and catch that cop-killing son of a bitch.”
“The bathroom off the master bedroom,” Harry shouted as he crashed through the screen door and raced to the dunes.
The dark closed around him and the crashing surf cut off all other sound. Harry lay in the dunes, his eyes searching for movement; ears tuned to any sound that might point the way toward Jim Morgan. He fought the tension that was infusing his muscles, tried to keep his body loose. Morgan would use the knife if he could to avoid the giveaway bark of his Glock and Harry knew he would need to react quickly. He also knew that Morgan could be lying only a few feet away and he’d never know-not until that hunting knife lashed out in the darkness. Farther out along the beach, flashlights came on as other members of the department began searching. Harry had turned off his radio when he’d entered the dunes. Now he turned it on again to warn the others that he was coming out on to the beach. The last thing he wanted was to be shot by one of his own men.
When the answering call came that his message had been received, he heard a brief rustling to his left, then the sound of movement heading south along the beach. Morgan, he realized, had indeed been lying in the dunes. Now, after hearing Harry’s call to other searchers, he’d bolted and headed away from the probing lights.
Harry followed, keeping his body low to the ground, aware he was backlit by the lights of the buildings facing the gulf. Morgan, conversely, was hidden by the dark water and the moonless sky. Trying to reverse those positions, Harry gambled and raced toward the surf, turning back when he reached the water. Nothing came into view. He paused, turning in a slow circle. Morgan had either flattened his body against the sand or had entered the water. Harry reversed their positions mentally, trying to decide how he would elude his pursuers if he were Morgan. Then it came to him and he raised the radio to his lips.
“This is Doyle. Are the streets covered?”
Pete Rourke’s voice came back. “We’ve got a blanket out there, Harry; our people and Clearwater P.D. You have any idea where he is?”
Harry hesitated. If he was right, he knew he couldn’t answer Rourke’s question. “I think he may have gone into the water. You need to get some men into the surf, but tell them to watch the beach behind in case he slips through. We could use some big lights to illuminate the area.”
“They’re on the way,” Rourke answered.
Harry entered the lanai, his Glock out in front, eyes scanning ahead. Sliding doors led to both the living room and the master bedroom. A trail of Vicky’s blood headed back toward the darkened bedroom where the sliding door stood open. Harry entered in a shooter’s crouch, weapon swinging from corner to corner. Vicky stood against a far wall, deep in shadow.
“Hello, Harry. Aren’t you the clever one?”
Jim Morgan’s voice seemed to float out from behind her, and as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark Morgan gradually came into view. He was standing behind Vicky, back against the wall, and he had pulled her body tight against him. The hunting knife was in his left hand, the edge resting along her neck. One slicing move and Vicky’s life would pour out onto the bedroom floor.
“It’s time to give it up, Jim. There’s no place left to go.”
“Maybe I’ll just go to Jesus,” Morgan said, ending the sentence with a cold laugh. “Maybe I’ll take Vicky with me. Do you believe in Jesus, Vicky? Do you believe in everlasting life?”
“Fuck you, Jim,” Vicky rasped.
Jim pressed the knife against her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “Uh-uh. Wrong answer, Vicky.” He let out a disjointed laugh. “Besides, no one’s done that to me since I was a small boy. Betty Higgins was the first, she and her husband. They took turns; first one and then the other. They took turns watching too. They liked to watch, you see. They said it was fun. But it wasn’t fun for me, Vicky. It was never fun for me.” His eyes seemed to glaze as he spoke.
“Drop the knife, Jim.” Harry took a step forward. Carefully, he placed the sawed-off shotgun on the floor, pulled his Glock from its holster, and leveled it at Jim’s head. His thumb disengaged the safety and his finger tightened on the trigger.
“Shoot the son of a bitch,” Vicky said.
Jim slipped his head behind Vicky’s, only one eye looking out just past her right ear. “Put it down, Harry. Put it down or she’ll die right now.”
Harry lowered his weapon and raised the radio to his mouth.
“Don’t…” Morgan said, but Harry was already speaking.
“This is Doyle. He’s in the house. He’s holding Vicky hostage.”
“Harry, are you sure?” It was Pete Rourke.
“He’s five feet away from me.”
Morgan glared at him. “That wasn’t very smart, Harry.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Jim. That’s the bottom line.”
“Then Vicky’s dead!” he shouted.
Harry took another step forward, until his legs were almost touching the bed that separated them.
“Stop!” Jim yelled.
Harry continued the conversation, grasping at anything that might distract him, anything that would keep him from slicing Vicky’s throat. “Are you going to Jesus with an innocent woman’s blood on your hands, Jim? She’s not a sinner like the others. She hasn’t hurt any children. She hasn’t lusted. She’s gone to church her whole life.”
Jim shook his head vigorously. “No, no, she hasn’t. She told me she stopped going to church. She’s a sinner, Harry.”
“What if you’re wrong, Jim? What if she lied to you about that? Maybe she was afraid you’d laugh at her. No, Jim, you can’t take the chance. You can’t go to Jesus that way.”
The words seemed to confuse Morgan. His eyes blinked several times, then suddenly hardened. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, no!” He jabbed the knife at Harry as he repeated the word.
Vicky felt his grip slacken and she slammed her heel into his instep, then drove an elbow into his solar plexus. Jim gasped and she threw herself to her right.
Jim recovered quickly and swung the knife, trying to catch her fleeing body, but Harry had already launched himself over the bed and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall as he drove his Glock into the side of his head. Jim crumpled to the floor with Harry on top of him, one hand still holding his wrist, the Glock jammed up under his chin.
Vicky moved in and pried the knife from Jim’s hand. From the living room they both heard a key twisting in the lock securing the front door. Moments later Pete Rourke was in the bedroom, a small army of deputies behind him.
“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Morgan said from the floor.
“Lock your fingers behind your head,” Rourke ordered.
Morgan complied and Harry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and helped him stand.