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One minute later I was using Mrs. Kubek's phone. But to no avail.
Either Cindy was still unconscious from the sedative, or…
I didn't like to think of "or." But it was obvious that Tommy Byrnes meant to get each of us in repayment for the death of his uncle.
I slammed the phone and asked Bonnell if he had a siren on his car.
I didn't even give him time to say yes. I just pushed him toward his Pontiac.
I had left home so quickly I hadn't noticed the red Mazda at the far end of my parking lot.
As Bonnell's headlights swept over the cars in the lot, I noticed the red vehicle and realized whose it was.
Merle Wickes's.
I was out of the Pontiac, running, before Bonnell had fully stopped.
I slipped on the ice as I ran toward the car, banged my knee against the pavement, swore, but kept running.
I skidded over to the Mazda, glanced inside, then quickly glanced away.
I had never seen anything like it. In the average experience of the average man, seeing a person with his throat cut is not a common experience.
Tommy had found Merle with no problem. I looked in once again, only to confirm the horrible image that had been pressed on my eyes moments before. Merle was still in there, his throat slashed-his hair, ironically, in perfect composure.
Behind me, Bonnell was saying something, but I didn't hear the exact words.
I was already on my way up the stairs. Terrified that I was too late.
I reached for the banister to help my flight be faster. Something sticky clung to my palm. I knew what it was without looking. I moved two steps at a time now.
My apartment door was slightly ajar when I reached it, the crack between door and frame dark.
I stopped, not out of fear for myself but afraid that Tommy might not have hurt her-and that my sudden presence might panic him into doing so.
My breathing crashed in my ears-I was dripping with sweat and freezing at the same time-as I eased up to the door and put my fingers on it.
I could hear Bonnell thundering into the vestibule below.
I pushed the door open and went in.
In the moonlight through the large living-room window, I saw him.
He stood silhouetted in the window, facing me, leaning against the ledge as if he were perfectly relaxed.
He held a gun and it was aimed directly at me.
"You're too late," he said. "She's dead."
His statement stopped me completely. Rage, disbelief, the first wave of shock-all moved through me at the same time.
I would have lunged at him, unafraid of his weapon, but I had no strength.
All I could do was stand and breathe and try to collect my thoughts into something coherent-but something that did not face what he'd just told me.
"You killed him," he said.
"I didn't," I said after a time. "I didn't have anything to do with it. Neither did Cindy."
"Just by being who you are, you killed him," Tommy said. "Your kind of people…" There was a rage in his voice that matched the rage in my heart. "They blackmailed him into helping with the robbery. They'd found out about a drunk driving rap he'd had one time-they threatened to tell his bosses."
Tommy had started crying.
"I'm sorry, Tommy," I said, and I was.
"He was the only thing that kept me going in the orphanage," Tommy said. "He would've taken me if he could've afforded it."
"I'm sure he was a good man, Tommy," I said. Then I thought of Cindy and my pity for him waned.
I wanted to kick him as I'd kicked Stokes earlier tonight. Only Tommy I wanted to kick to death.
"It doesn't matter anymore," Tommy said, "who lives or who dies. It just doesn't matter."
In silhouette I could see him raise the gun. I heard the safety come off.
I gathered myself enough to stall him a little.
"Another killing," I said.
"Like I said, it doesn't matter. It didn't matter to them about my uncle. They killed him, anyway."
"Tommy-" He raised the gun.
It happened so quickly I scarcely realized what he'd done. Turn the weapon on himself. Directly to his forehead. Squeeze the trigger. Once.
Which was more than enough.