That emboldened him and, waving the knife in concentric circles, he prodded Grace toward the rear wall of the garden. Once they reached the wall, no escape, a woman left vulnerable as a rib roast. Confidence loosened his movements.
Grace busted his expectations by charging toward him.
Aiming herself straight at his blade and that confused him the way she hoped it would and he looked down at the weapon as if wondering why it no longer frightened her.
She veered to the right. No knife for her, concealed in her right hand, as it had been from the time she entered the garden, was her lovely little Beretta .22, eleven and a half ounces of lethality.
A gun Shoshana had derided. “Might as well slap a bad guy with your hand.”
But a petite weapon had its time and place and thinking for yourself was always best.
Her would-be killer wasn’t smart enough to imagine. Never looking down at her hand, he growled and lunged and Grace stepped just clear of the arc of his blade and he ended up slashing air.
Before he could recoup, she thrust forward, pressing the Beretta’s stubby barrel against his chest.
Knowing she’d found the spot where his heart resided, she pulled the trigger and danced backward.
His clothing and his body muffled the gunshot but the sharp pop-slap was still an assault on early-morning silence and Grace hoped she wouldn’t need to fire again.
He stood there. Surprise slackened his face. His arms dropped. The knife fell to the grass.
Still bleeding from the gouges on his cheek, he lurched, stumbled, fell flat on his face.
Grace waited, saw no movement, approached him and stepped hard on his back.
No reaction. Gone, he had to be. She checked for a pulse. Zero. She jostled him hard.
Definitely lights-out.
Standing over him, she appraised the situation. His cheek wound and the bullet hole were smack against her pretty lawn.
She’d have to find a way to clean the grass.
Among other things.
Chapter 23
One down, one more to go?
Leaving the dead man in her garden, the .22 still pressed to her flank, Grace eased her way out of the gate. Expecting another nasty surprise; this time she’d be ready.
The street was empty.
Again, she walked west — away from the Chrysler — rounded the corner and passed the front of the cottage and was sure no one was lurking there before continuing to the nearest corner where she turned right.
It took a while to reposition herself half a block behind the boxy sedan.
Feeling a visceral sense of purpose, muscular and savage, that she’d never experienced before.
Maybe the gravity of what she’d done — the ending of a human life — would rebound on her but at this moment to hell with the bastard who may have ended Andrew’s life.
With his fat friend.
She was alive.
Now I’m more than a murderer’s daughter.
She slinked closer to the Chrysler, knew black glass could conceal anything but continued anyway and got right up against the car’s rear bumper. Gun in hand, she kicked the rear bumper softly.
No response.
Her second kick was harder. The vehicle remained the stolid inanimate object it was.
Crouching low, she scurried to the front passenger window, pointed the Beretta at the glass. Rapped the window hard with her knuckles.
Silence.
She tried the door. Locked. Same for the driver’s side.
If Beefy was in there, he’d have reacted. She retreated and waited anyway. Ten minutes, twenty thirty forty.
The car sat there.
So tonight had been a one-man mission. Maybe Beef had been injured when she’d run him into the berm.
Or he was fine and the two of them simply figured Grace an easy victim.
Invade her space, search her records, and if Mr. Average Size was lucky enough to find her, gut her and slit her throat and dump her in a dingy, demeaning place.
Best-laid plans.
Now he was no-man.
Chapter 24
Back in the garden, Grace bypassed the corpse and walked to the cottage’s rear door. Unlocking and disabling the alarm — he’d never gotten in — she headed for the patient bathroom and retrieved a box of rubber gloves from beneath the sink. Part of the gear used by her once-a-week cleaning woman, Smeralda.
Who, she realized, would be by in three days.
Plenty of time.
Returning outside, she gloved up and shined her Maglite on the corpse. As she’d expected, no exit wound. She prodded his back anyway; not even a bulge. Shifting her beam to the lawn, she searched for the ejected cartridge, finally located it a few feet from the body, nestled in grass.
Pocketing her find, she kneeled by the body, carefully turned it on its back, and illuminated the inert face.
Her initial impression had been on point: forty give or take, unremarkable features leaning toward coarse, two or three days of beard growth, a short, bristly haircut, dark on top, graying at the temples.
The wounds she’d inflicted on his cheek looked deep but were surprisingly pallid and not leaking much blood. She’d figured she’d done more damage. Then she understood: His nonbeating heart had stopped pumping juice to his skin.
His polyester jacket was unremarkable but for the sizable hole above his left breast. Blood rimmed the edges of the shredded fabric, but again, nothing copious.
Like Grace, he wore dark cargo pants, probably for similar reasons. Same for the Nikes on his feet.
Dress for success... Mr. Knife meets Dr. Blades...
Speaking of which... she found the weapon, wiped it down, laid it on the grass, and unzipped his jacket. Underneath he wore a light-colored V-neck T-shirt. No pockets. But the pants offered plenty of storage and Grace found a cellphone, a steel ring hosting a dozen or so delicate-looking lock picks, and a short chain bearing four keys and an alarm trigger with a Chrysler logo.
She took another look at the knife. Nasty little push-blade thing.
She fought off a thought: This could be him looking down at me.
Slipping out the garden door again, she scanned the street, found it empty, made her way back to the Chrysler. Beeping the car alarm off, she waited.
Nothing.
Time to have a look.
The interior was spotless but the glove compartment gave up a fat wallet and a folded, legal-sized manila envelope secured by an eyelet and a string. In the trunk, she found three weapons in black nylon cases: a shotgun, a rifle, and a gray-metal handgun, larger and heavier than her Glock.
He’d come with a personal armory but had left all his firepower in the car.
Take a knife to a gunfight...
Overconfidence or wanting to avoid undue noise?
Either way, Grace knew she’d been lucky. It took her two trips to get the weapons and the other contents of the car back to her garden, another while to wipe the car down.
Now, seeing the body, she felt nothing but serenity. One day she might wonder what that said about her. Right now, introspection was an enemy; she had three hours until sunrise, needed to use the time wisely.
Yet another silent walk up the street led her to her rented Jeep. Keeping the headlights off, she rolled slowly to her garage. Remote-controlling the door open, she backed into the space vacated by the Aston, sealed herself from view with another click.
A second inspection of the body revealed no additional seepage but when she lifted it at the shoulders, she spied a ten-inch patch of grass where the chest had made contact that was tamped and moist and dark. Above that, a smaller blotch where the cheek wounds had leaked.