Mean Business on North Ganson Street (29 page)

The killer was somewhere else.

Exhaling steam, Bettinger proceeded toward the east side of the house. His body functioned mechanically as he considered the situation.

The detective knew that he had to approach this tableau as he would any other. He was a professional law enforcer, a decorated bloodhound, and he could not abandon his intellect and observational skills because of his deep emotional investment in the situation. The hostages were not his beloved wife Alyssa, and his two children, Gordon and Karen, but three dead people whom he was trying to bring back to life.

Bettinger reached the side of the house and saw a square hole in the dirt that had probably held a For Sale sign up until very recently, when the vacant home was chosen as a parking space by the killer.

The detective crept toward the fence that divided the front and back portions of the half-acre lot. Cautiously, he opened the gate, passed through, and surveyed the backyard.

A tire hung from a nearby tree, and a mat covered an aboveground swimming pool that was attended by a score of pale lawn chairs. Nothing moved.

Bettinger hastened across the grass toward the familiar copse that divided the block. Cold winds blew as he proceeded, and somewhere, a dog barked.

The detective soon entered the wooded area. Bobbing and weaving like a boxer, he navigated leafless branches until he reached the far side of the copse, where he stopped and looked east. Lighted by the veiled moon were a swing set, a covered grill, and a hitch trailer, all of which Bettinger recognized. This was the backyard of the house that was just south of his own home.

Staying within the trees, he proceeded north. His footfalls were quiet but not silent.

An anomaly garnered his attention as he walked, and he paused. Amidst the dark limbs and four feet off of the ground was a pale swath—the raw wood of a broken tree branch. Somebody had recently passed through the copse.

The crumb of hope that was in the detective's back pocket disappeared. A killer was with his family.

Bettinger continued through the wooded area until he was hidden behind his own backyard. Carefully, he approached the edge of the shadows and appraised his property.

Dull moonlight shone upon dead grass, a bench, a cylindrical grill, nine pine trees, and a hammock, which was stretched between two bald oaks. Behind all of this was the small, salmon-colored house that the night had turned gray. All of the windows were dark.

The tableau told Bettinger nothing, but he knew that he had to act quickly. A passive approach would ensure the deaths of all three captives.

For three seconds, the detective considered the layout of the little salmon house. The bedroom that he shared with Alyssa was the only place that had windows facing the front and back halves of the property, and so it was the most likely spot for a bad guy to position himself. (This conclusion followed his presumptions that the killer was both alone and intelligent.)

Staying within the copse, Bettinger walked north until the larger of the two distant oak trees blocked his view of the rear bedroom window. Concealed by its knobby trunk, he hastened onto the lot, holding his breath as he ran so that no drifting steam would betray his movements. (There were a lot of reasons to hate the cold.)

Bettinger reached the tree, pressed his shoulder to the wood, and glanced at the bedroom window, which was just over thirty feet away. Its curtains were completely closed—an anomaly that all but confirmed the location of the killer.

The detective exhaled steam into his parka, painfully aware that at any moment, a gunshot might ring out and ruin his life.

Every second mattered.

Bettinger crawled toward a pine tree that stood less than ten feet from the back of his house. Blades of gray grass whispered underneath his hands and knees as he progressed, and he hoped that the quiet susurrations were not audible through the pane of glass.

The detective reached his destination, collected a few white stones, and rose to his feet, keeping the pine tree between him and the three-by-four bedroom window that was now less than eight feet away.

His heart pounded inside his temples and fingertips. The worst gamble that any loving husband or father could ever be asked to make was immediately before him, and he had to roll the dice. Hesitation or passivity would yield one dead wife and two dead children.

Bettinger brushed pine needles from his gun, exhaled into his jacket, and drew a deep breath. Pressing his chest against the tree, he tilted his head sideways.

The floral curtains that covered the bedroom window were dark and still. Everything was quiet.

The detective slid his left hand into his parka and withdrew one of the small white stones. A second later, he flung it into the air.

The pebble was inhaled by the dark sky, and for a moment, the world was the same.

Bettinger pointed his gun at the window.

The stone reappeared, falling, and cracked against the roof.

Something thudded against a wall inside of the dark bedroom. A deep voice that belonged to an adult man muttered a couple of unintelligible words.

The curtains wavered. A shadow appeared on the fabric, and the detective tilted the barrel of his firearm down a fraction of an inch to center his target.

Two yards from the nose of his gun was a battered, bloody face that belonged to Alyssa. Panties filled her gory mouth and dangled out of a swollen hole that had once contained her left eyeball.

Horrified, Bettinger surveyed the room. Floating behind his wife's right shoulder was the face of the devil.

It took the detective a second to realize that he was not dreaming or insane, but looking at a mask.

Neither Alyssa nor the killer had seen him, and he knew that he had to act now. Even though the window would shatter in his wife's face—and possibly pierce her remaining eye—he had to shoot. This might be the only chance that he ever got to save the people whom he loved.

Aiming at the space between the devil's horns, Bettinger steadied his hand and squeezed the trigger.

White fire boomed.

The window shattered.

Glass covered Alyssa's face, and the killer's head snapped back on his neck. Together, they fell from view.

The mattress squeaked, and a body thudded against the floor as Bettinger charged the window.

He arrived, stabbing his gun through the opening. Ten feet away and facedown upon the bed were his children, bound, gagged, and naked, looking at the killer who had fallen across their legs. The man's hands were empty.

Bettinger scanned the room for other bad guys, saw none, and pointed his semiautomatic at the killer. A white indentation sat between the devil's horns rather than a hole.

The mask was bulletproof.

Aiming at the killer's heart, the detective fired twice. Lead slammed into a ballistic vest, cracking ribs.

The devil groaned.

Bettinger trained his firearm on the killer's exposed neck, but Karen's spine was right next to the target.

A gun materialized in the devil's right hand and touched the girl's head.

Bettinger's stomach dropped.

The world shrank.

Gordon slammed his face into the killer's arm, and the semiautomatic flashed. The shot punctured the bed directly beside Karen's ear.

Twisting around, the devil pointed his gun at the teenager.

Bettinger fired.

Bullets cracked the killer's sacrum, knocking him to the far side of the mattress, where he grabbed Gordon by the neck and pulled him over the edge. Bodies thudded.

Unable to see his son or the devil, the detective lunged. Glass bit into his hands and face and tore up his parka as he passed through the window. The floor pounded his chest, emptying his lungs.

Bettinger saw Alyssa—nude and mutilated, but still breathing—as he staggered to his feet.

Gordon yelled into his gag on the far side of the bed.

The detective ran.

A gun flashed.

Bettinger's stomach lurched, and an instant later, he saw the awful tableau. The devil was bent over the naked teenager's twitching body. Smoke was in the air.

Instantly, the detective put his gun to the back of the killer's head and squeezed the trigger.

White fire boomed. The devil mask flew into the air, smacked against the wall, and ricocheted.

Gurgling posthumously, the killer collapsed. Next to him lay Gordon Bettinger, whose thoughts were spread across the carpet in dark red clumps.

Karen screamed.

“Don't look,” said the detective.

The girl's white eyes turned into black creases.

Slotting fresh cartridges into his clip, Bettinger asked, “Is there anybody else here?”

Karen mumbled the word “No” into her gag.

The detective set a pillow atop his son's blasted head, but the soft white rectangle was not quite big enough to conceal the mess.

An avalanche of despair threatened to overwhelm Bettinger, and thus, he focused his thoughts on the well-being of his wife and daughter. He locked the bedroom door, checked the bathroom, put a trash basket over the killer's ruined face, grabbed a pair of scissors, sat on the bed, and cut the plastic ties from his daughter's mouth, wrists, and ankles. The girl spat out a ball of underwear as the detective covered her shivering shoulders with a blanket.

They hugged.

Bettinger looked toward Alyssa, who lay unconscious upon the bedroom floor. “Let me go help Mommy.”

Karen did not let go.

Sitting between his battered wife and his dead son, the fifty-year-old man from Arizona held his daughter. He felt as insignificant as a flea.

“I need to help Mommy.”

“Is Gordon gonna be okay?”

“He'll be okay.”

“Really?” The girl was smart enough to know that her brother was dead, but old enough to deceive herself. “He'll be okay?”

Bettinger squeezed his daughter and rubbed her back rather than maintain the sad charade. “Let me go help Mommy so we can go.”

The girl nodded her head against her father's parka. “Okay.”

The detective wrapped up his daughter as if she were an infant, walked into the bathroom, and retrieved some medical supplies. His hands were shaking, and when he closed the cabinet mirror, he avoided his own reflection.

Bettinger approached Alyssa. The nude woman's nose and lips were smashed, and shards of glass protruded from her face. Panties dangled from her mouth and left eye socket.

Food raced up the detective's throat.

Leaning through the window, he launched his insides at Missouri. Putrid steam rose from the puddle, and soon, the fellow withdrew his head, taking a deep breath.

Bettinger kneeled beside Alyssa, pulled the underwear from her mouth, and cut through her plastic cuffs. Gently, he removed pieces of glass from her caramel face and applied butterfly bandages to the wounds, none of which appeared to be especially deep. The detective then laid a throw blanket over the woman's shivering body and felt her wrist. Her pulse was slow, but steady.

Leaning close, Bettinger examined the underwear that depended from Alyssa's left eye socket. Fury claimed his senses, and for a moment, he was paralyzed.

“Is she okay?” asked Karen.

The detective cleared his throat. “She's gonna be fine.”

“Can I help?”

“Just stay over there and keep warm.” His words were steam.

Bettinger pinched the loose end of the underwear and held his breath. Slowly and gently, he pulled.

The fabric tautened, and Alyssa's head titled forward. Clear fluid trickled down her cheek, but the fabric did not come loose.

The injured woman groaned.

Bettinger cradled Alyssa's head and laid it back down upon the carpet. Trembling, he reclaimed his scissors.

The detective cut the underwear so that only the portion inside his wife's eye socket remained. Her ripped eyelid flickered, trying to close over the fabric, and he had to look away.

Bettinger then dressed Alyssa in underwear, a sweat suit, a wool jacket, socks, and sneakers. Afterward, he took Karen up the hall into her room, where she put on so many layers of clothing that she looked like a miniature football player.

The two of them returned to the corridor, and there, he opened the linen closet, grabbed the darkest blanket that he could find, and looked at his daughter.

“You need to close your eyes.”

Terror shone upon the girl's face. “Don't leave me alone.”

“I won't. I promise. But there are some things you aren't allowed to see.” Bettinger lifted the hem of his parka. “Grab my belt.”

Two little hands clutched the band.

It was already clear to the detective that this terrible night had changed his daughter. “Close your eyes, and keep them closed until I say.”

“I will. I promise.”

Worried eyes became horizontal creases, and Bettinger towed Karen into his bedroom. There, he removed the pillow from atop Gordon's head, took a breath, and unfurled the dark brown blanket. The shroud drifted down and covered the corpse.

Fighting the avalanche of despair, the detective kneeled on the carpet, exhaled steam, and wrapped up his son's body. His daughter never let go of his belt.

“We're going to the car.”

“Okay.”

Bettinger carried Gordon into the garage. There, he rested the body in the trunk of Alyssa's blue compact, which he then closed.

The detective looked over his shoulder. “You can open your eyes.”

Dark creases were replaced by white ovals. The girl looked around the garage, disoriented and shivering.

“Let's get Mommy,” suggested Bettinger.

Karen nodded.

Together, they returned to the bedroom.

Snowflakes drifted through the broken window and landed on the floor, the bed, and the dandelion array of short curls that sprouted from Alyssa's head.

Bettinger pocketed his wife's neon green cell phone and scooped her off of the floor. A weak moan issued from her mouth, and he cradled her to his chest, hoping that she would not regain consciousness before she was in a place where a doctor could provide both assistance and medication.