Edward Trisco was standing in the doorway watching him. His eyes were the color of morphine-the same shade of amber Teddy had seen in the IV bag upstairs. There was a glow about them that flared up, then appeared to die out in the smoke of his ravaged face. He wore a short robe and a new pair of Nikes. His body was thin, his muscles still well defined.
Trisco took a step closer, passing the pump gun leaning against the doorjamb without noticing it. Teddy’s heart skipped a beat. If Trisco spotted the gun, he’d snatch it up with one sweep of his hand. The safety was off, a round in the chamber, the weapon ready to rock and roll.
“Help me,” Teddy said. “She’s dying.”
Trisco took it in, surprised by the request and gliding his hand over the hundreds of cuts and scratches etched into his face. Then he spawned his rotten teeth and smiled. Teddy had to admit that asking for the madman’s help was ridiculous. But it had given him a chance to adjust his legs. If he needed to, he was ready to spring.
The sound of a door opening and closing came from somewhere in the basement. Trisco had heard it, but didn’t move, his eyes locked on Teddy’s.
Teddy struggled to hold the glance, searching the perimeter of his vision for the madman’s other hand. Although he couldn’t look directly at it, he didn’t think Trisco was armed. A muscle in Trisco’s neck rose and began twitching. After a moment, Trisco backed into the house and vanished, so smooth on his feet he might have had wings.
Teddy shuddered, hyperventilating. He looked down at Rosemary’s face and caught her staring at him. As he smoothed his hand over her forehead and hair, he noticed that she’d stopped fidgeting. He dug his arms into the snow, raking the flakes over her until her body was entirely covered. And then he heard the sound of a gunshot.
Teddy grabbed the pump gun and ran back into the basement. The sound had been muffled, and he guessed it had come from one the rooms behind the closed doors at the other end of the studio. Bolting past the greenhouse, Teddy kicked the door open and raised the gun. As he found his mark, saw it standing before him, he felt the blood in his veins heat up and boil over.
It was the district attorney.
It was Alan Andrews, in the room and crouching over Trisco’s body. He held a semiautomatic in his right hand, pressing the weapon into Trisco’s head as if he wanted to take another shot but had just been interrupted by a witness. Trisco had been hit in the mouth. He was pawing at the wound, gasping for air, unable to swallow the blood gushing out as he lay on the floor.
Teddy stared at the missing piece to the puzzle and shuddered. Andrews wasn’t protecting Trisco and didn’t have plans to ship his mistake off to an insane asylum. Andrews had come to get rid of it. He’d seen his way out. Murder Eddie Trisco and prosecute Oscar Holmes for the crimes in spite of his innocence. Teddy took the jolt, his mind racing. The district attorney had read their profile and knew they were looking for an artist. But he’d also known about Trisco. That’s the only possible explanation for why he made the deal with Barnett so quickly. Andrews wanted to rush Holmes through and win a conviction. He’d known about Trisco since he read the profile. Andrews was on his own, trying to keep everything secret.
“You knew,” Teddy said.
“Lower the gun,” Andrews shouted.
There was a gas mask on the floor. Trisco reached for it and was trying to place it over his face.
“You knew,” Teddy repeated.
“Lower the fucking gun, kid.”
Teddy shook his head. Andrews glanced at him, then turned back to Trisco. He kicked the gas mask away, wiped his forehead and seemed overwrought.
“You think I did this?” Andrews shouted. “I just got here. It’s an obvious suicide.”
“Bullshit.”
Teddy flicked his eyes around the room. He saw the open door directly behind Andrews. To the right was a passageway leading to the stairs. On the other side of the hall was an open door to the room he’d found Rosemary in. The dead room.
“Lower the fucking gun,” Andrews spit through his teeth.
Teddy shook his head again. Andrews was staring at him now, mulling it over with a crazed expression on his face. He knew the way it looked. The way it really was. After a moment, he raised the semiautomatic and pointed it at Teddy.
The man had come to murder Eddie Trisco.
In the end it was his only way out. His misguided attempt to save face, continue his career and become the city’s next mayor. Teddy adjusted his grip on the pump gun. The dots were finally connected, the picture drawn.
Andrews fired the gun.
The piece of shit actually did it, bolting for the door and slamming it behind him. Teddy felt the round crease his shoulder. Blood splattered onto his cheek and something shattered behind him. He swung the Winchester toward the door and pulled the trigger. The sound of the three-and-a-half-inch magnum was deafening and shook the house. The door broke away from the hinges and blew back into the room. He could see Andrews scrambling through a second doorway and trying to get away.
Teddy pumped the slide and pulled the trigger. The round exploded through the room and he heard Andrews scream.
He pumped the slide again, stepped over the broken door and stopped, listening to the spent rounds dissipate into silence as he peered into the second room. The lights were out. Teddy noted a door cracked open at the other end of the room and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The furnace began to appear in the shadows. Tools leaning against the wall. A bin used for storing coal a long time ago. He didn’t see Andrews and started across the room.
Three steps in was all it took before he heard the sirens approaching the house. Then something brushed against the ceiling and he felt Andrews drop onto his shoulders from above. The shotgun fired and he crashed to the floor with Andrews on top of him. He saw the district attorney’s pistol slide across the concrete. The man was like a live wire, clawing at his face and neck and reaching for the gun. Teddy tried to pull Andrews’s hand away, but his arm was pinned down and felt heavy from the wound. Andrews inched forward and stretched out.
Then someone else entered the room and stopped in the darkness. Michael Jackson, Teddy thought. Maybe even Trisco. It was over. The police wouldn’t make it in time.
Andrews wrapped his hand around the gun. The figure moved closer, his face grazing a shaft of light. Teddy spotted the color of his eyes as they glistened and cut through the darkness like headlights.
Cat’s eyes. Cobalt-blue and heavily dilated.
Nash grabbed a shovel and swung it down with his teeth clinched. The blow was devastating, the steel shovel pinging like a tuning fork as it smashed against bone and crushed it. Andrews took the hit on his forehead and dropped onto the concrete floor like a dead soldier. People were rushing down the stairs and shouting, everything moving in a blur. The gun fell away from Andrews’s hand and he wasn’t moving. Yet Nash stepped on the district attorney’s hand and raised the shovel in the air, giving Andrews a second hard whack over the head just to make sure. Then the lights switched on, and Teddy saw Powell’s face. She was running toward him and bending down. Vega and Ellwood were right behind her. Their eyes seemed fixed on his left shoulder.
SIXTY-NINE
The veil had been ripped away from Andrews’s face. In spite of his pleas to the contrary, everyone knew who he was and what he’d done. How deep and far he’d slid into the cosmic hole to nowhere.
Teddy lay on the gurney, watching Powell and Nash approach Trisco’s skin painting as a medic worked on his shoulder and two others dug Rosemary out of the snow. He saw their eyes drifting across the canvas, then stop, their faces flushing with dread. The bar had been reset, and he could tell that’s what was on their minds. Trisco had advanced the cause of the unthinkable. Pushed it another mile or two down the road. And Powell and Nash were seeing it for the first time. Feeling the challenge. Wondering what came next.