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How the hell was she going to get out of here?
“Not good.” Li squeezed her eyes shut as pain bolted its way up her back. “Not. Freaking. Good.” Through narrowed eyes, she focused on the door at the top of the stairs. Had Amelia locked it? Why couldn’t she hear Foster or Amelia talking above her? She had to get up. She had a kid and a family. She had a partner. Gathering one giant inhale that rattled every rib in her chest, she bit her lip and went for it, pushing past her body’s protestations. Her screams, as loud as they seemed to her, were no match for her suffering. She could barely see through the tears.
CHAPTER 77
Foster moved back out of striking range of the knife, but Amelia charged, giving her no time to defend herself. The knife came at her fast, and Foster raised her arms to protect her face, the first strike slashing across her right forearm, cutting through her jacket sleeve, cutting into flesh. Amelia pushed in, knocking them both back against the wall, her frenzied face just inches from Foster’s. Amelia was deranged, Foster thought, and in another place.
Foster could feel blood streaming down her arm, feel the sting and ache of the gash. “Stop.” But Amelia didn’t. It didn’t even look like she had heard her. This wasn’t the same woman she had interviewed at the station, the one poised and confident and so, so sure of herself; that woman was gone.
“Get out,” Amelia growled. “It’s my house now.”
Amelia broke free from Foster’s grasp, and the knife came down again, this time slicing across Foster’s right hand. Foster yelled out like a wounded animal and tried backing away again, but Amelia barreled forward, and they both went down hard. Foster could smell her own blood as it colored her hand and began to pool beside her, a madwoman on top of her, intent, it seemed, on making another hole and then slitting her throat. Foster searched Amelia’s face for even a tiny glimpse of sanity, something she could reason with, but there was only madness.
Foster gripped Amelia’s wrists and held on to them, trying desperately to keep the knife away from her throat, but she could feel herself losing the struggle. Amelia was strong and bent on killing, and Foster’s bloody grip was slipping.
“You’re going to die today, Detective Harriet Foster,” Amelia said, her voice low, menacing, her knife inching closer to Foster’s throat.
For Foster, there was a flash of resignation, a moment in which she considered what dying here would mean. She could be with Reg. The pain of his loss would stop. She would no longer be a worry to her family. Good things. But as she held on to Amelia, struggled to fight her off, as she eyed the bloody knife as it got closer to her, wondering whose blood was already on the blade, she quickly dismissed the thoughts and her moment of weakness. She didn’t have just herself to think about. Her partner was in the basement. Li had a husband and a baby, a life. If Amelia got by her, Li would surely be next.
“Amelia. Stop!” Foster screamed as she gathered what was left of her strength and pushed back.
Amelia leaned down, close to Foster’s ear, and whispered, “You ruined everything. You and her. I’d barely begun to perfect my craft. But you just wouldn’t stop coming.”
The pain she was in was off the chain, but there was no way Foster wanted the last eyes she saw on this earth to be those of Amelia Davies. “Anika!”
Amelia startled at the mention of her birth name, and her focus broke. Suddenly, an agonizing wail from the basement pulled Amelia’s attention away from killing. It was all the chance Foster needed. She pulled her hand off the knife and elbowed Amelia in the stomach, then followed up with a blow to her jaw. When Amelia flew back and rolled away, Foster scrabbled away on her knees, flinging herself into a corner across the room, leaving a trail of blood behind her. She needed to stand but couldn’t yet. It looked like Amelia couldn’t either. Facing off from their respective corners, the two were like spent boxers between rounds, waiting for the bell.
Amelia chuckled, though nothing at all was funny from where Foster sat. She watched as Amelia gleefully wiped her blood off the knife, then ran the blade along the leg of her jeans, back and forth, each slow pass cutting into her own skin. Blood quickly soaked the denim. Then Amelia held the knife up to the light from the window, admiring the blade. “This is his, you know. He gave it to me so that I could . . . follow. It’s not big enough to sever hands or feet. I needed a saw but didn’t have one . . . yet, so I had to symbolize the cuts with the lipstick—wrists and ankles. Hands and feet. Hands and feet.” The slow singsong in her voice turned Foster’s stomach. “And a spot of blood, one to the other. Like signing a painting. Genius, right?”
“Li!” Foster called out, but her partner didn’t answer back. Where was Tom Morgan? Was he in the basement as well? Foster tried reaching for her gun, but her bloody fingers wouldn’t work. She stared over at Amelia, but though Amelia stared back, Foster doubted she knew she was there. As she struggled with her holster, Foster stalled for time. “Amelia Davies, you’re under arrest.” The snap on her holster popped free. The gun, she knew, would be difficult to grasp when she got to it. How would she even lift the weapon, let alone aim it and shoot it?
Amelia snapped back from wherever she’d gone in her head, and Foster doubled her efforts with the gun—faster, more determined to get it loose—but no amount of hurry or level of necessity had any impact on her injured hand. Amelia worked her way up onto her feet. Foster got to hers too. If she was going to die, she’d do it standing. Foster slowly raised her arms in front of her, like a fighter, shielding her throat and chest, waiting for Amelia.
“You can’t arrest me,” Amelia said. She shook the knife. “I have this. I intend to make my mark with it.” With the knife she traced a lazy pattern in the air. “I’ll sign you. Like I signed all the others.” She pointed the knife in the direction of the basement. “And then I’ll sign her.”
Foster took a quick inventory. Right forearm sliced, bleeding. Right hand slashed, the cut deep, bleeding, fingers swollen, nearly inoperable. She was beginning to feel light headed. If she lost consciousness, she was dead. “Put the knife down and back away from it.” She meant it as an order, but Amelia paid her no heed. Instead, she stood in Foster’s way, a human blockade between her and the basement door.
“Maybe I kill her first, if she isn’t dead already. Save you for last?” Amelia chuckled like a wicked child playing a dangerous game.
Foster stepped forward. The chuckling stopped. “It’s not going down that way.”
Amelia charged again.
CHAPTER 78
Li was sitting up. That was progress. Whenever she moved or shifted, there was a sharp punch to her spine, and when she ran her hand along the back of her head, she felt a giant goose egg right at her nape. And then there were the twisted knee and broken ankle.
“Sitting’s good,” she muttered. “Sitting’s great.” Li glanced up at the ceiling, at a network of cobwebs hanging off dusty rafters. She hated spiders. She hadn’t hated basements before today, but now she hated them too. Sweat drenched the front of her shirt, she was covered in black, greasy grime from the basement floor, and every bone, every tendon, every bit of cartilage in her body cried out for a doctor and an emergency room. The sound of a violent struggle above her breached the basement door. Foster.
Li reached for the phone in her pocket to call for help, but her fingertips brushed up against only pieces of jagged plastic. The device had been smashed to bits when she fell. She thought of Nowak across the street. He might wander back over to see what was taking them so long, and then again, he might not.
Bodies fell and crashed upstairs. Foster was in trouble. Li pushed up and fought her way to her feet, using the bottom step to lean against. It took a few seconds before her vision cleared. “I’m up. All right. I got this.” She felt for her gun at her side. Still there. Still in one piece. “In business.”
Li looked around, hoping to orient herself. The dark room felt drafty and deep and smelled of sewage and mold, but a shaft of dull light coming from somewhere was just enough to help her make out a bare light bulb three feet from her. Hopping over, keeping her broken ankle off the floor, she pulled the cord, but the bulb was low watt, and the light it gave off was not enough to do much good.
Li turned back and hobbled toward the stairs. There were a lot of them, and they were steep. The struggle upstairs had stopped, but there was no way of knowing whether that was a good thing or a bad one. She grabbed hold of the railing and planted her left foot on the bottom step, ready to go. She’d have to pull herself the whole way up. She had braced for the climb and was about to shove off when something bathed in shadow propped behind the staircase caught her eye.
It looked like a person leaning against the wall. She let the railing go, drew her gun, teetered on one leg. She aimed, but she had absolutely no confidence in it. “Police. Step out.” Her eyes narrowed. She could swear there was someone sitting there. She could just make out the outline. “I said step out. Now.” She prayed she wouldn’t have to shoot. She prayed even harder that whoever it was didn’t come out fighting.
When nothing happened, she hobble-hopped forward, wincing, sweating, her eyes now adjusted to the half-light, the scraping sound of her right foot dragging across the concrete floor. She got just close enough to stare down into Tom Morgan’s eyes. He was dead. His chest had been savaged and his throat cut. He was sitting in a pool of his own blood. Li moved back toward the stairs, holstered her gun, then grabbed the railing, and started up. No love lost for Morgan, she thought. In fact, it was better than he deserved.
CHAPTER 79
Foster shoved Amelia back, but not before the blade sliced along her side, nicking the skin along her ribcage. Foster slid her way along the wall, trying to get closer to the basement before Amelia clocked back in. It had been a few minutes since she’d heard any sound from that direction. What if Amelia had shoved her knife into Li’s back before she’d pushed her down the stairs? What if she was bleeding to death? Amelia stood looking out on the backyard through the window, her father’s knife at her side. Foster took a step. If she ran for the basement, could Amelia run her down before she got there?
“I see you,” Amelia said.
“Where’d you get the leaves you covered Peggy Birch with?” Foster asked, hoping to distract Amelia.
“Details. Details. Just like you people.” Amelia turned her head. “I found them in a bag in an alley. No one wanted them, so I took them. In my trunk. Until I needed them.”
“In a duffel bag,” Foster said. “With that Rover out back waiting.”
Amelia shrugged. “Naturally.”
Foster stole a look at the entry to the kitchen. It felt like it was miles away. “Since you’re talking, where’s Tom?” Foster asked.
“Up or down. I’d bet down.”
She turned to face Foster, the knife behind her back now. “Why should I care? He’s a kidnapper, a killer, a liar. Who are you really? You’re hiding something.”
“None of your business who I am,” Foster said. “Put the knife down and move out of my way.”
Amelia chuckled. “I bet Detective Li’s not happy down there. There aren’t any cabinets.” She laughed. “He killed in our basement, you know. When we were kids? We saw one. I don’t know how many more there were. We ignored it. He expected it.” She pressed the knife tip to her chest. “I’ve only taken four. Red hair is rare. That’s why I got so angry when that one girl lied. Wearing a wig isn’t fair.”
“We found Tammy Bergin,” Foster said, sliding along.
The name confused Amelia. Her brows furrowed. “Bergin? Who’s . . . ? Ah, the driver. She talked too much. She was a consolation prize. I couldn’t get the one I wanted. Her boyfriend saved her. Seth.” She paced the floor. “He made me this way, you understand. I didn’t start it. He made me believe I was something I wasn’t. Bodie too. I’ve been thinking, in a way it’s like I’ve been killing my mother—isn’t that funny?”
“No, it isn’t.”
Amelia chuckled. “You’re always so serious. You’re also bleeding a lot.” She took a step toward Foster. “You’ll bleed more later.”
Foster pushed up higher on the wall, tired of inching, tired of listening to Amelia deal with her fake-daddy issues and try to justify the unjustifiable. “No. I won’t.” She lifted her left hand, the gun in it. It shook, but the right end was pointed in the right direction. She didn’t have to be that precise to put Amelia down. “Throw it down. Step away.”
Amelia screeched like a wounded banshee and then came running.
Foster fired.
CHAPTER 80
Foster missed, and Amelia plowed into her hard, knocking the gun out of her grip. With the last of everything, Foster grabbed hold of Amelia’s shirt and flung her back and off her feet, then lunged for the gun that had hit the floor and landed beyond her reach. She clawed for it, on all fours, not wanting to die here. She could hear Amelia coming, feel her feet pounding on the bare floorboards. This was it. She’d live or die in the next few seconds.
Time slowed. Foster’s hand found the gun, she flipped onto her back, and she fired once. Two shots rang out. Foster panicked at the sound of the second shot, until she saw Li sliding down the wall, her gun in her hand. Li looked like death warmed over, but she was alive. Amelia stumbled back, clutching her chest, a stricken look on her face. Blood began to pool on her shirt in two places. Two rounds. One objective. Amelia went down hard.
The entire house went quiet, except for the echo from the rounds. “You okay there, Li?”
“No.” Li tried to reposition herself on the wall. It looked painful. “You?”
“I’ve been better.” Foster worked her way to her feet and approached Amelia carefully.
Li tried straightening her right leg out but didn’t get far. “Please tell me she’s dead.”
Foster leaned over and felt for a pulse. She found one but wasn’t sure if she considered that good news or bad. “She’s still breathing.”
Li squeezed her eyes shut. “Fuck. I need to get back to the range. Tom Morgan’s dead. In the basement . . . for real this time.”
The front door swung open and Nowak burst in, gun drawn, eyes sweeping right to left. “Police!”
“Yep,” Foster called out. “Mind calling it in?” She looked over at an unconscious Amelia. “And cuffing that.”
But before Nowak could make the call, there was the urgent sound of approaching police sirens.
Li smiled, then grimaced. “Ah, the cavalry.”
Foster took a good look at her bleeding arm and hand. “Griffin’s going to kill us.”
Li managed a grim smile. “I knew that the second I landed at the bottom of those stairs.”
The house quickly flooded with cops and paramedics. Davies was rushed out on a stretcher; Foster and Li followed right behind on stretchers of their own. The techs came for Morgan. He’d been dead for hours. Obviously, Amelia had gotten over her “daddy worship” and had decided to make him pay for killing her mother and deceiving her.
Griffin wasn’t happy when she walked into Foster’s emergency room bay an hour later. She had been stitched up, bandaged up, her arm placed in a sling, but that didn’t mean Foster would get an ounce of sympathy from the boss. Li was a couple bays down getting a cast put on her broken ankle. She’d gotten luckier with the knee. It was only sprained. None of it was good, except the part where they’d caught two maniac killers and hadn’t died. Foster hoped that would temper Griffin’s anger somewhat.
Griffin took one look. Foster saw her jaw clench. This was no courtesy visit. “Let’s hear it.”
Foster cleared her throat and ran it through again from the second she and Li had breached the door to the moment they’d shot Amelia. When she had finished, Griffin was almost the color of an heirloom tomato, and her eyes looked as inky as a snake’s. “Are you a hot dog, Foster?”
“I am not, boss.”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“We were following a lead . . .”
“No backup,” Griffin said, cutting her off. “With nobody knowing where you were going. If it weren’t for Lonergan finding the address to that house on Li’s desk, we’d have had no idea.” She stepped closer. “I could have lost two cops today. Two. In one day.”
“Yes, boss.”
Still, Griffin wouldn’t let Foster’s eyes go. “You want to play Russian roulette, you’re going to have to do it somewhere else.”
Foster shook her head. “This is not that.” It didn’t look like Griffin believed her. “It was a bad call.”
“Which one of you made it?”
A beat went by. “I did.”
Griffin glowered. “Li said it was her. I don’t know whether to pat myself on the back for putting you two together or kick myself in the ass for doing it.”
“I’ll take the fallout,” Foster said.
Griffin stood there, steaming, but Foster barely knew the woman, so it was difficult to work out what else was going through the woman’s head. “Yeah, you will. Li will too.” She yanked open the door. “I’m not sending either of you any damn flowers . . . friggin’ Rambo bullcrap.”
“Amelia?” Foster asked.
“Lucky for you two, she’s too evil to die.” Griffin stormed out and let the door ease closed behind her. Foster leaned back in bed and thought about how close she’d come to not being here, how she’d actually stopped for a moment midstruggle to work out whether she was okay with dying by Amelia’s hand. That she’d chosen correctly was a positive. It confirmed that she was strong enough, invested enough, to stay. Why hadn’t Glynnis been?
Foster stared down at her shoes, at the flecks of blood on the leather. Her blood, and Amelia’s too, likely. She decided then that they’d meet the trash the second she could get them there. “The world keeps turning,” she muttered absently. Spotting a paper clip on the instrument tray along with what was left of the bandages and gauze used to wrap her wounds, she picked it up and slid it into her pocket.
