1:20 a.m., Greenbeck Dermatology

Jake

We don’t have much of a plan.

That’s all I can think as Kristy and I pull up to the curb in front of “Skin Perfection by Greenbeck.” Even at this time of night, the façade of Al and Nina’s medi-spa is fully lit, spilling colorful light onto the street like some gaudy casino on the Vegas strip. In stark contrast, the main office, which is set back half a block from Greenwich Avenue, looks dark and lifeless, its entrance obscured in shadows.

Like a steel trap, set to spring.

I kill the lights, letting the car roll closer. The parking lot is far from empty, since the Greenbecks lease out parking spaces for nighttime use. Still, Kristy has no trouble spotting her husband’s car.

“He’s already here,” she whispers, pointing to a dark BMW sedan.

The same sedan from the video, I realize, digging my fingernails into the steering wheel when I think of Jess. What if she’s still inside the trunk, or worse?

Kristy touches my shoulder, like she’s reading my mind. “Roy won’t hurt your wife.”

“How do you know?”

“Because having her gives him an edge. He’d never give up that kind of leverage. Not until he gets what he wants.”

“And once that happens?” I reach for the duffel bag tucked under my seat – the bag that contains my contaminated lab coat, thumb drive and hard copies of Harley’s protein analysis. Every last shred of evidence linking Roy Caulder to my patient’s death. “What then?”

“We’ll work something out,” Kristy answers, eyes darting back to the front entrance.

“You know that’s not true.” I hoist the duffel over my shoulder. “That bastard only wants us here for one reason. I’m supposed to die tonight, and you… you’re supposed to watch.”

“Well, I won’t just be watching.”

As she says these words, she pulls a handgun out of the glove compartment, then holds it up to the dashboard light to load. She completes the motion with one smooth wrist flick, like she’s done this kind of thing a thousand times before. Then she turns to me, eyebrows arched.

“You’re carrying a .357 Magnum, right?”

I nod, patting my jacket pocket.

“Ever fired it?”

I shrug. “A couple of times in the shooting range. Why?”

“Because it kicks like a mule. What kind of accuracy do you have?”

I frown, remembering how many times I missed the target. Truth is, I probably couldn’t hit the side of a barn.

“I thought so,” she says, reading my expression. “Take this.” She hands me her gun. “It's a Colt Diamondback. More accurate for a beginner, and easier to conceal.”

“Then what will you use?”

She grins before reaching into my pocket to take out the Magnum. “I’ve always wanted to shoot one of these. It’ll blow a hole right through that fucker. Here…” She leans over the gear box. “Let me show you how to work the safety on that Colt.”

Once I’ve gotten the hang of it, she pats me on the shoulder.

"How do you know so much about guns?" I ask.

"My dad was into personal safety. Wanted his girl to know how to defend herself." She smiles wistfully. "Some good that did me, right?" 

"Well, it's coming in handy now," I admit, "but I still don't want you going inside."

"We've talked about this," she says in a firm voice. "I've got your back, remember?"

I nod, realizing there's no point in arguing with her. We don't have the time, and she'll do what she wants anyway.

“Good. You'll go in through the main entrance,” she reminds me, going over our rudimentary plan, “and I’ll follow you five minutes later, coming in from the side door. Here…”

She reaches into her jacket to hand me a key chain attached to a small metal canister. “Pepper spray. Just in case he pats you down and takes the Colt. When you get a clear face shot, use it to disorient him. Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you. Now are you ready?”

She gives me a nod, eyes filled with steely determination. They're soldier's eyes. The kind of eyes that could kill.

Who is this woman?

It’s a thought that lingers as I watch her seconds later, slipping, cat-like, into the shadows.

Following our plan, I activate my stopwatch, then make a bee-line for the main entrance.

I peer inside. Nothing but darkness. The overhead lights are motion-activated, so that leaves three possibilities: Caulder’s not here yet, he’s inside but not moving, or he’s found a way to inactivate the sensors.

I get my answer when I enter my access code, then take a cautious step into the reception area.

The overhead lights stay dark.

He’s here.

I reach into my pocket to grip the Colt, thinking Kristy was right: he’ll probably try to pat me down. But not if I put a bullet in him first.

My eyes adjust to the dim emergency lighting, familiar landmarks rising from the darkness. Nursing station. Computer Monitors. Reception desk. Rows of waiting room chairs. Beyond reception, the clinical area looms as a dark, gaping space, illuminated only by the dull red glow of a few hanging exit signs.

I check my stopwatch. Three minutes inside. It’s time to announce my arrival.

“Caulder!” My shout echoes through the hallway like a thunderclap. “You wanted to talk, so here I am!”

A full minute ticks by with no response.

Then, just as I’m about to take another step forward, the hallway brightens. The change is barely perceptible, just enough to let me know a light’s been turned on somewhere deep inside the clinical area.

I approach the nursing station, gripping the handgun in my pocket like a talisman, something to ward off evil.

Five minutes inside.

“I have what you want!” I announce. “Now where’s my wife?”

My iPhone vibrates in response. It’s a photo of Jess, her head lolled forward, body duct taped into an exam chair.

I check the time stamp. Taken three minutes ago.

Bzzz. Another text.

GO TO THE NURSING STATION

I do as I’m told, realizing I don’t have much choice. Bzzz.

FOLLOW THE LINE ON THE FLOOR

I look down, horrified to find a red trail leading away from my feet.

God no! Jess!

I drop to the floor and run a finger through the crimson mark. The line won’t smear and smells toxic, like gasoline fumes.

Ink, not blood.

Calder’s toying with me. Well, let the sadistic fucker play his games. The longer he takes, the more time Kristy will have to get into position. She should be inside by now.

Jaw clenched, I follow the red line as it curves around the nursing station, then trails down the hallway into Pod Three.

Pod Three. The clinical area where I do all my Replacidin treatments. Where Jean Clark died, less than four days ago.

That’s what I realize as I follow the trail.

Caulder’s leading me to the same room where he murdered my patient.

It’s the same room where I know I’ll find Jess, guarded by the psychopath who wants to kill me.

I set down the duffel bag and pull out the Colt. Click off the safety, then creep toward the door.

Deep breath… hand on doorknob… now turn and…

I fling open the door and burst inside, gun drawn.

“Jess!”

Thank God she’s alive! But where’s Caulder?

When she sees me, Jess shakes her head wildly, straining against the tape that’s binding her to the exam chair. Her eyes dart to the right.

Trying to warn me, but not in time.

Before I can react, something solid strikes my head, blowing a fuse. The Colt skitters across the floor.

Now I’m down, gripped by a pain so intense it feels like someone just rammed a chisel through my skull. Thoughts come in fragments. Cover your head. Roll forward. Move before he hits you again. Where’s the gun?

I can’t escape. The next blow comes from Caulder’s boot, a vicious kick that lifts me clear off the floor. I tumble forward, terrified I might black out. One more head blow and I’m done.

But he doesn’t go for my head. Instead, he presses his boot heel to my neck, forcing my face into the floor. Frozen like that, the noises flood in. Jess’s muffled cries. Caulder’s cruel laughter.

I arch my back and kick at his shin, finding my mark. When he jumps back, I whip out the canister of pepper spray and hit him with a blast.

He ducks to avoid most of the toxic cloud, but enough reaches his lungs to make him cough and sputter. Enough to buy me the seconds I need.

I launch myself for the gun like a sprinter off the block. Grab the handle and spin. Both hands. Shooter’s stance. Now squeeze the trigger.

Pop!

The gunshot thunders in my ears, freezing Calder mid-charge.

Pop! Another round slams him into the wall and – Pop! – a third drops him to the floor.

I stare at the gun in my hand, time expanding like an overstretched rubber band, then snapping back to the present.

I just killed a man.

“Jake!”

I turn to the door to see Kristy standing there, gun drawn. Which one of us shot Caulder? I’m too dazed to know or care. All I know is the bastard can’t hurt us anymore. It's over.

“Is he dead?” Kristy asks, lowering the Magnum.

I nod, then run to Jess. She’s trying to say something as I tug on the tape to free her, her words still muffled. Frantic.

“Sshh,” I soothe. “It’s over, honey. It’s over.”

But then an image of Caulder’s body flashes to mind, sprawled out on the floor behind us. Something’s wrong. The silhuoette... it just didn't look right.

I flip on the wall light switch and stare at the dead man's body. Marine’s build. Closely cropped blond hair.

Who the hell did I just kill?

“Kristy…” I blurt. “This isn’t your husband.”

I focus on the stranger's thuggish face, and that’s when it hits me.

“Holy shit! It’s the guy from Boston.” Mouth hanging open, I turn to Kristy for confirmation. “You know, that asshole from the Gypsy Bar. The one who was hitting on you. I swear to God, it’s him!”

But then I realize something else makes no sense. There’s no blood. None on the floor. None on the body.

I stare at the gun in my hand, the one Kristy traded for my Magnum. There’s no way I missed all three shots.

“Kristy?”

She’s standing in the doorway, just staring at me, eyes swollen with guilt. Oh, no. No, no, no!

“Jesus, Kristy. What have you done?”

She bites her lip, looking away. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want it to end this way.”

A split-second later, Jess gasps and screams: “Jake! Behind you!”

But it’s too late.

I don’t even see the blow coming.

***

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