Postcard killers Page 23

  "Do as I say," Sylvia said, "or I'l cut her throat! She'l die right here."

  Her voice was becoming less control ed, but Jacob believed every word she said.

  He tightened his hold on the grip of the pistol. Instinctively he adopted the posture he had practiced so many times back home in New York.

  He closed an eye, focusing his aim, slowing his breathing as best he could.

  He studied Sylvia's ice-cold expression next to Dessie's terrified face.

  There she was, the woman who had kil ed his Kimmy, holding a knife to Dessie's throat. Another knife but the same kil er.

  Suddenly he felt his pulse relax.

  "Put the gun down!" Sylvia roared. "I'l cut her throat! Put it down! You 182 want her to die?"

  So much for al her talk of art and conceptual creation.

  When it came down to it, she just wanted to save herself. And maybe her crazy brother, her lover.

  He squeezed the trigger: a cautious click, then the explosion and recoil.

  Dessie dropped her cel and screamed. She screamed and screamed. Oh god, no, he'd missed!

  Dessie must have moved at the last second.

  What had he done?

  Chapter 138

  Dessie was covered in blood, and she was stil screaming. But then Jacob realized it wasn't her blood after al.

  It was Sylvia's. It was pieces of Sylvia's brain that were splattered across Dessie's face and Windbreaker. It was Sylvia who sank to the ground, who dropped the knife, as Malcolm came running over to her.

  Dessie staggered away and leaned against one of the buses. Jacob rushed at Malcolm with his pistol raised.

  "Get on your knees, hands above your head!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

  He was screaming to make himself heard above the ringing in his own ears, but Malcolm seemed not to hear him. The man sank down beside his sister's body and took her in his arms. With a wild howl, he rocked Sylvia back and forth, back and forth, completely deaf to the uproar around them.

  Jacob went up to him, weapon aimed at his chest.

  He fished out the handcuffs from under the belt of his trousers with one hand as he tried to make contact with the dazed man.

  "Malcolm Rudolph – the police are on their way. Put the body down. Get on your knees. Hands behind your head!"

  The howling subsided. Malcolm's shoulders slumped. He laid his sister's body gently on the asphalt.

  Jacob saw that he had hit her between the eyes, just above them in the forehead. The entry wound gaped red, and the woman's eyes stared blindly at the sky. The back of her head had been blown away.

  "You kil ed her," Malcolm said. His arms hung by his sides. His back was bent like an old man's. "You kil ed my Sylvia."

  "You and your sister kil ed my daughter," Jacob said.

  He opened the handcuffs and leaned down to secure Malcolm Rudolph's arms behind his back.

  From this angle, Sylvia's dead eyes seemed to be watching him.

  He didn't see the knife coming.

  In a fast move, the brother leapt up and stabbed the knife toward Jacob's 183 chest. Instinctively, Jacob shifted a few inches to the right.

  The blade cut through the outside and lining of his suede jacket, biting into skin and sinew and muscle. Then it tore veins and arteries and lung tissue.

  Jacob heard someone scream, a woman screaming.

  He felt warm blood pulsing out of his body and saw the world spin and turn sideways, as if he could fal right off it. A shot rang out, the echo ringing through his head.

  The kil er in front of him sank to the ground with his hands over his stomach.

  Then someone was holding him, laying him on the ground, tearing his shirt away.

  It was Dessie, his Dessie. No, it was Kimmy, his Kimmy. Of course it was!

  "Kimmy," Jacob whispered. "I knew you'd come back."

  Epilogue

  Chapter 139

  Bay Ridge, Brooklyn,

  USA

  The wind carried with it the smel of the sea and also exhaust fumes from Leif Ericson Drive. It made the leaves above his head rustle, the electrical wires sing.

  Jacob was sitting on the porch outside his smal house, watching the boys from the neighborhood play basebal on the patch of grass on the other side of the street.

  The heat and extreme humidity had final y broken, leaving a hint of autumn behind it.

  The sun was no longer high in the sky, and the leafy trees threw deep shadows along the street.

  His lung had healed. The pain in his arm was almost gone. The wound had started to itch instead. Sometimes he thought that was worse.

  He looked down toward Shore Road.

  Stil no taxi.

  He pul ed at the shoulder sling in irritation.

  Next week he could take it off.

  They said he must have had a guardian angel.

  The little town on the Arctic Circle where his lung had been punctured and his arm almost sliced off had had no hospital, but there had been a local health center with an emergency room and a Hungarian doctor who specialized in microsurgery. The Hungarian had stitched his muscles and blood vessels together while they emptied the center's supply of blood plasma into his body, and somehow he had survived.

  Malcolm Rudolph hadn't been so lucky.

  Jacob's wild shot had hit his liver. The kil er bled to death in the helicopter ambulance. Good riddance to him, and his sister, too. Horrifying bastards.

  When Jacob woke up and remembered what had happened, he started to prepare himself to face the Swedish judicial system. He assumed that he would get away with the actual shots. After al, Gabriel a had heard the whole sequence of events over Dessie's phone. It was obvious that he had fired only in self-defense.

  On the other hand, he would have to explain his weapon, the one he'd purchased in Italy.

  The Europeans were very serious about the il egal possession of firearms.

  When Mats Duval had visited him in the hospital, Jacob had been expecting to face charges.

  But the police superintendent had merely informed him that a preliminary investigation could not be carried out. Al suspicions had been dropped through lack of evidence. That was what happened in cases like this, he had explained curtly.

  The Swedes weren't quite as rigid as he had thought.

  But his gun was confiscated when he left the country.

  Jacob watched as the neighbor's son got a clean hit on the other side of the street. The bal shot off like a missile toward Johnson's Garage (which, natural y, was no longer Johnson's, but belonged to a Polish family, whatever their name was). Jacob held his breath until the bal hit the brick wal, just inches from a window.

  Once upon a time he had played basebal on that same patch of grass. He had broken the windows of Johnson's Garage on a couple of occasions. He stil lived in the house where he'd grown up, where his father had grown up, where Kimmy had grown up.

  Maybe he could take off the wretched rag around his neck. What was the worst that could happen? His arm was hardly going to fal off, was it?

  A taxi came slowly along the street and stopped at the sidewalk below the porch.

  Jacob raised his good arm and waved. He even managed to smile.

  Chapter 140

  Jacob didn't get up as Lyndon Crebbs got out of the backseat with his scruffy navy bag in tow.

  "So, here you sit, you one-armed bandit!" the FBI agent said.

  Jacob shifted to make room on the step for his old mentor. "How did the operation go?" he asked.

  Lyndon sighed as he sank beside him on the steps.

  "Wel, I'l never use my dick for anything but pissing from now on, but you have to be grateful. Smal mercies."

  They sat there next to each other. Good friends, the best kind. Through thin and thinner.

  The bal -playing boys on the other side of the street started arguing about something, and a halfhearted fight broke out before they drifted off home, one by one.

  "What happened up in Montecit
o?" Jacob asked.

  "They found the remains of a woman behind the Mansion," Crebbs said.

  "She wasn't buried very deep. Hadn't been there long. Four or five years, according to the coroner."

  "Any ID?"

  "Not yet, but it's probably the missing girl, Sandra Schulman. Her throat was cut. More of Sylvia's artwork, I'm sure."

  They sat in silence for a while.

  "What about the murder of the guardian?" Jacob asked. "And the parents?"

  Lyndon Crebbs shook his head.

  "Stil open cases. My guess is that they'l stay that way… Do you want to know what I found out about Lucy?"

  Jacob looked over toward Johnson's garage. It was Lucy Johnson's childhood home.

  "Not right now."

  Lyndon Crebbs glanced at Jacob.

  "How did it go with the girl from Stockholm? The one named after the princess?"

  "She's going to finish her doctorate," Jacob said. "As far as I can tel, it's going pretty wel."

  "Isn't that what I've always said? The smart ones are always best. Where did she end up, anyway?"

  Jacob felt his face crack into a grin.

  "There she is, down there," he said, pointing with his healthy arm toward Narrows Avenue.

  The only thing Dessie had bought since she moved in was a seven-speed women's bicycle with a shopping basket on the front. And now she was pedaling along Seventy-seventh Street with the basket ful of leeks and other rabbit food.

  Leaving the bike and the groceries in the driveway, she came over to the steps.

  "Mr. Crebbs? I've heard a lot about you."

  Dessie and Jacob's friend shook hands.

  "Nothing but crap, I hope."

  Dessie smiled at Jacob.

  "From a romantic guy like this? What'd you expect?"

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-f66ea1-dbbe-8348-1392-770f-8076-662c89

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 11.09.2010

  Created using: Fiction Book Designer software

  Document authors :

  Source URLs :

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/