Killing Ruby Rose (2 page)

But he’d stuck to his guns, or “our” guns, as they actually were, and never stopped training me.

Sometimes I chalked it up to his undiagnosed post-traumatic stress from his time as a Marine, or the violence he saw every day in law enforcement, or simply that I took the place of the son he never had. Whatever the reason, he kept on with my training—and I took to it.

Like a fish to water.

Opening the false bottom of my console, I looked down at the shimmering weapon—aka Smith, my .38 Special Revolver with built-in laser sight that I’d gotten for my Sweet Sixteenth. Gleaming underneath Smith was the accompanying laminated concealed-weapons license that Dad had personally signed for me two weeks before his death. As I ran my finger over his signature, I couldn’t help wondering (for the umpteenth time) what he’d think of seeing his little girl and her gun now. Surely, he’d never envisioned his young scholar turning into a vigilante stalker.

Yeah, well, I never saw him being ripped from my life without any answers, either. So, whatever.

I grabbed the manila file labeled “LeMarq” and flipped through the pictures, timelines, and notes, focusing on my target instead of my sorrow. I knew almost everything about the sicko by now.

He liked prepubescent girls. He liked violating them, choking them, and leaving zero forensic evidence behind. Some of his cohorts called him Cherry Charlie, not only because of the string of cherry tattoos he sported on his left forearm, but also because of what each cherry represented: the theft of a young girl’s innocence—and, inevitably, her life.

I’d never been able to zoom in close enough to be sure, but I’d counted at least a dozen cherries on his arm. A crop that should have earned him at least a dozen life sentences.

My dad died before he could catch LeMarq, but shortly after, another detective nabbed the creep. My mom was the lead prosecutor. I stared at the newspaper clippings in my hands now, remembering the injustice. His expensive attorney (provided by a rich relative), a procedural technicality (provided by an inept member of my mother’s prosecution team), and a hung jury (provided by the great State of California) sent him walking. It was only a matter of time before he killed again, and neither my mom nor the police were likely to stop him. They only had another 113,000 or so registered sex offenders to worry about.

I slammed shut the file, disgusted with his ugly mug, his stupid baby-blue pedophile van with Louisiana plates he still hadn’t registered (not even a misdemeanor crime), and the infuriating lack of evidence against him. I knew he’d be skipping jurisdictions again before long. If I didn’t catch him soon, he could keep getting away with murder forever—and those little girls would never see him coming.

I shoved the file back into the console and looked out at the beach parking lot. The five-foot replica of Bill Brandon’s toothy grin stared back at me. Brandon was my mom’s increasingly nasty mud-throwing opponent in the upcoming District Attorney race. His campaign poster was plastered on the side of a parked advertising truck: “A Vote for Me Is a Vote for Change.”

“What’dya think, Bill?” I asked. “Should Unruly Ruby change? Should I take a night off from my rogue ways to be wooed by one of the hottest guys in school?”

He just smiled with that charming set of veneers only money could buy.

I looked at the dashboard clock. I still had thirty minutes before LeMarq would get to the bar. Once there, he never left his drinking hole in less than an hour. I had a window of opportunity. I could go play Regular Ruby for a minute, find out if this whole Homecoming thing was happening, and get back to LeMarq before he left the bar. If there was any chance Liam really wanted to ask me, I had to find out.

I blew out a deep breath and plugged the Water Street address into my GPS system. With a stomach full of butterflies that felt more like fully equipped hornets, I let my GPS’s Mary Poppins voice guide me toward the terrifying unknown. That’s right—I felt more comfortable trailing a known murderer than being asked out on a date.

At least with LeMarq, I had a secure vehicle, a weapon, and a cell phone to use in case I needed to call for help. But if anything went wrong with Liam, I had nothing.

No protection. No backup. I’d be totally vulnerable.

The closer I got to the little destination star on my GPS screen, the more I questioned my decision. Every song that came up on my shuffle seemed to have strange overtones or dark undercurrents—“A White Demon Love Song” by The Killers, “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie, and even my man MJ had to pipe in with “Thriller.” I finally turned it off.

As I drove farther downtown and into the dark heart of the shipping harbor, I wondered how Liam was going to pull this off. Rose petals and candles hardly seemed dreamy among empty beer cans and broken meth needles. I imagined a trail of Hershey’s Kisses leading me through a camp of homeless people until I found a balloon with a note inside reading, “I’d pop if you’d go to Homecoming with me!” Or something equally idiotic.

I really hoped Liam wasn’t
that
guy. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he had something totally non-lame planned. Yet, looking around this neighborhood, all I had were doubts—and an increasingly bad feeling.

“You have reached your destination,” said the eerily pleasant Mary Poppins voice.

“If you could see where I am, Mary, you wouldn’t be so chipper,” I responded in my best British accent, realizing I’d rather sit in the car and have conversations with billboards and GPS systems than real people. My therapist would be so disappointed.

I brought Big Black to a stop outside an industrial-sized warehouse. Building 366’s entrance was barely visible through the low-lying harbor fog. Only a few sickly yellow patches of light glowed over the large roll-up garage doors, all of which were closed.

Growing anxiety and a waft of fish-flavored air prompted me to raise the windows. I pushed aside all my instincts to bolt by convincing myself that leaving Liam hanging would not be socially acceptable. Or nice. Which lately wasn’t a very strong argument for me, but this was Liam Slater.

So where was he? What if this was some kind of mean joke?

Easing off the brake, I let Big Black roll around to the side of the building. I flipped on the windshield wipers for a quick clean—and rubbed my eyes to do the same.

That’s when I saw it.

Beside an open door was the familiar old blue van I’d been following for months.

And it wasn’t Liam’s.

CHAPTER 2

It took a few stretched-out seconds for me to process the fact that the text wasn’t from Liam at all.

My stomach plummeted as I realized who owned that van: Charlie LeMarq. I fumbled to double-check the locks, pressing the lock a few extra times to be sure. My heart thumped in my ears. And my mind reached out for some invisible chain of logic.

Had LeMarq discovered I’d been trailing him? Had he brought me here to teach me a lesson? But how could he have known? And how would he know to fake a text from Liam?

I grabbed my night-vision binos and zoomed in on the threat. Written across the back window’s condensation was the dripping question: “You think you can stop me?”

Then a bone-chilling scream from inside the building stabbed me like a dagger—a young girl’s desperate call for help. He had a child in that warehouse.

Simultaneous flashes of heat and penetrating coldness warped my senses, debilitating my instincts to move, while images of horrifying scenarios consumed me.

I fought the escalating pins and pricks of panic. I had to act.

I reached into the false bottom of my console again and traded the heavy binos for the lightweight steel of Smith. Curling my fingers around the revolver’s grip, I dialed with my other hand.

Almost immediately, I heard, “911, what’s your emergency?”

“Send all available units to 366 Water Street. There’s been a child abduction
…
and if help doesn’t arrive soon
…
a probable homicide.” I tried to sound in control.

“OK, 366 Water Street.” Pause
…
typing
…
“Help is on the way. Please tell me your name.”

“Ruby Rose. Daughter to District Attorney Jane Rose and the former SWAT Sergeant Jack Rose—”

“Sweetie,” she cut me off. “Did you say Jack R—?”

“I have to go,” I said, pressing “End.” She didn’t need to call me sweetie. Right now I was anything but
Sweet
Ruby, and I wasn’t going to wait for the sirens to tip off Mr. LeMarq so he could slit the girl’s throat and escape. I knew his MO: no survivors, no witnesses. Just lifeless little girls with no forensic traces of his filth. I had to get in there. Whoever just screamed had no chance if I didn’t at least try.

I exited Big Black and raised Smith securely in front of me with both hands, just like Dad had taught me. My hands trembled, like they knew this wasn’t pretend—this wasn’t a simulation. I stared at the van and the dark brick building looming behind it, wondering if I was capable of stopping a dangerous man like LeMarq. Especially without my father.

I could almost hear Dad whispering over my shoulder. Telling me to slow my breathing, raise my awareness of every sound and movement surrounding me, and slowly put one foot in front of the other.

You can do this, Rue. You have to.

I did as he said and crept past LeMarq’s decrepit van, cursing when I inadvertently stepped in a puddle of muck and felt the nasty water enter Penelope’s peep toe.

Another scream escaped out the cracked warehouse door ahead of me. A weaker, more defeated cry. And something swept through me—an inner surge of strength, a shot of adrenaline, a wave of determination. Whatever poetic crap it was, I used it to fight the fear. I wouldn’t let her die.

I entered the building and found cover behind the metal skeleton of what used to be a large piece of machinery. Dad wouldn’t have fit, but I did easily. He always said my small size was one of my biggest assets.

At the far end of the sprawling space full of old machinery left to rust and rot like robot corpses, the shadow of the grotesque monster stood dark against the wall. The only light in the warehouse emanated from his corner. As I rounded the perimeter, I hushed my Penelopes by moving on the balls of my feet. I tried to hear what he was saying, but he was too far away. Steadying my breath, I checked my watch—it had been approximately ninety seconds since the 911 call. I had another ninety seconds, maybe, before the sirens would be heard. Somehow I had to get close enough to trap LeMarq. I moved through the shadows and around the haphazard machines until I was close enough to his voice to stop and find a vantage point.

I crouched behind a large, dead, steel apparatus. Its wires and electrical board had been ripped out like a medieval disembowelment. I raised my head up enough to catch LeMarq’s wicked eyes flicker in the unnatural blue light of a camping lantern he’d set up on a makeshift table. The sight of him caused shots of fear to rip through me. I clenched Smith tighter.

And then I saw the girl. Sitting on the ground, her back against the wall on my right. Tied at the wrists and ankles. I was no more than thirty feet away from her, yet I was miles away from knowing how to save her with LeMarq standing between us.

My heart missed more than one beat when I focused on her face.

She looked—exactly like me! Well, me when I was about ten. We could have been twins. That had to be a coincidence
…
didn’t it?
There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Rue,
I heard Dad remind me.

“Just wanted to say thanks for the
delivery
,” the monster said. But he wasn’t talking to the girl. He was on his cell phone. Who was he talking to? “Just beautiful.” He stared at her on the floor, admiring his catch.

I looked again—her long blonde hair parted in the middle, her pale-gray eyes, her petite frame. Mini-Ruby was trembling with terror.

“OK, ten-four, brother.” He shut the phone and moved toward her.

The girl’s eyes were full of fear as she shuddered under his gaze. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a shining blade. She screamed again and tried to push herself further against the cement wall, as if it might give way and save her.

No, only I could save her now. But there was no way for me to position myself between them. As soon as I announced my presence, he’d be able to grab her and use her as a shield. And he’d kill her. What other option did I have, though? He reached out toward her and—

“Stay where you are or I’ll shoot,” I called as I cut out of the shadows to confront him.

He grabbed the girl.

“Who the hell are you?” he yelled in my direction with an expression I didn’t quite understand.

I paused, wondering what drug he was on.
He’d
brought
me
here! I must’ve looked different with a gun in my hand. Or maybe he didn’t expect me to get here so soon.

“I’m the person who’s finally going to stop you from killing one more innocent girl,” I said calmly. “Now, let her go!”

I raised Smith to a higher sharpshooting position, and turned on the laser sight, aiming the little red light directly at his overgrown unibrow.

He laughed. “You! You think you’re gonna stop me?” He slid the blade under the girl’s neck. Her eyes exploded with terror, and my soul exploded with rage.

I took two balanced steps forward, fighting my growing anxiety. It was clear he didn’t take me seriously—after all, I wasn’t much older than the girl he had in his arms. But he was wrong not to. “That’s right, LeMarq. I’m going to stop you.” I glared at him to make sure he knew I meant it.

“How’d you know my name?” He took two crooked steps backward, dragging the girl with him.

“Don’t play games. You know who I am, just as well as I know who you are. You texted me. You wrote the message on your van!”

His face scrunched up like he was trying to manually restart his useless brain.

“Girl, I don’t have a clue who the hell you are or what message you think is on my van, but if you want her to live, you’ll drop your piece. Now!” He barked like a chained pit bull with more balls than brains.

Was he telling the truth? The surprise in his eyes seemed so genuine. And he didn’t seem to have laid any traps. I studied his face for any tells, noting every strained gesture. If he
really
didn’t know who I was, then someone else had brought me here. Suddenly, everything felt wrong.

I reanalyzed the situation: The police should arrive any second. He would hear them and drag her out as a shield—then kill her and run. I had no doubt that’s how it would go down. This was the time. Dad’s voice was loud and clear.

Take the shot, Rue. Find the largest target area and pull the trigger. Save the girl.

LeMarq’s legs were well shielded despite the girl’s small frame. His left bicep was exposed but wrapped around the girl’s chest. The winged demon on his shoulder was practically calling out to be exorcised. But my bullet would pass through the girl’s shoulder after his, and dangerously close to her heart.

My only shot was his forehead—the one exposed area that would mean a sure kill. As much as I despised him and wanted him punished, I didn’t want to kill him. His life wasn’t mine to take. I silently begged him to just leave the girl and run. Yes, there was the risk of leaving evidence behind, sending him to prison for sure this time. But the bigger risk was me pulling the trigger and sending his brains somewhere far worse than prison.

A wicked wind swirled across the space, and dust flew into my eyes. I was about to lower my weapon to shield myself from the grit, but the sound of sirens blared in the distance, pulling me out of my hesitation. It did the same for LeMarq. He pressed the knife into her skin. Blood sprayed. I pulled the trigger.

The deafening gunshot rang out.

Time stopped.

The world changed into a black-and-white movie with a river of red flowing all around me.

A ruby-red river of my own making.

I ran to the girl and carried her a few feet away, applying pressure to her gushing neck, and shielding her from LeMarq’s dead body just a few feet away. She’d already been through enough. She didn’t need to see that.

We didn’t talk. We didn’t cry. We searched for meaning in the gauzy haze of shock hanging over us. We waited in each other’s eyes, the same gray eyes, communicating without words. She was scared of dying. I was scared I might not have saved her.

I willed her to stay alive.

Soon a swarm of uniforms, white gloves, and disembodied voices cut in and out of my consciousness. Questions were asked, one-sentence answers were given, and the girl was ripped out of my arms and strapped to the stretcher.

And then she was gone.

Even when my mom appeared on the scene, wrapping me in a scratchy police blanket to shield me from the arriving paparazzi and escalating interrogations, the darkness seeped inside.

I was a killer now, and nothing would ever change that. No matter how Dear D. A. Jane Rose played this one, I was guilty.

But of what, I wasn’t quite sure.