Larkin only nodded as he moved slowly down the third-floor hallway. Ahead of him, a door opened and a woman his age, her hair done in two long pigtail braids so as not to catch on her hoop earrings, stepped into the hall. Larkin trained his pistol on the floor and jerked his head, whispering, “NYPD. Back inside.”
She immediately backtracked, slammed the door shut, and threw the deadbolt.
Larkin waited, listened, then crept closer to 3G. The door wasn’t open, but it wasn’t closed and locked either. Larkin pressed himself to one side of the threshold, Doyle mirroring the motion, and then he tapped the door with his shoe. It creaked open. Light filtered into the hall. No movement came from inside.
Doyle whispered, “Backup.”
They’d come this close. No reason to make stupid mistakes now. Harry might still be home—he might not be. And whether he was destroying evidence that very second or was going to be caught red-handed, the stink of putrefaction told Larkin that Harry was accelerating out of control, and they’d be next if they went in balls-first. But before Larkin could nod in agreement, the light inside went out.
Larkin heard a very quietthwiiickand his brain’s Rolodex spun out of control to place the sound.Cupboard or drawer—no. Cocked firearm—no. Lock—maybe. What kind? Door—no. Window—Larkin turned, studied the layout of the hall, the stairwell, then whispered, “Fire escape.”
Doyle mouthed, “Fuck,” with all of the facial grammar of a scream, which would have been funny at a different place and time.
Larkin reached a hand out, pushed the door, and let it fall open the rest of the way. “Harry Regmore, this is Everett Larkin with the NYPD. I have a warrant for your arrest.” He listened but heard nothing again. The smell of rot wafted into the hall. “Make yourself known at once.”
Poking his head around the corner, Larkin took in a very quick assessment of the dim interior. A hall led to what he suspected was a living room on the right. Directly ahead was an empty kitchen. The hall continued on the left side with two closed doors—bedroom and bathroom, most likely. Looking at Doyle, Larkin nodded, raised his SIG P226, and slipped inside.
The living room wasn’t exactly tidy—a shared space that’d been haphazardly converted into a bedroom. A balled-up blanket and pile of pillows lay on the couch, an overflowing laundry basket of men’s clothing sat on the floor, and a few empty plates and beer bottles were on the coffee table beside a stack of what looked like dubious-consent skin magazines. The curtains were drawn on the right window, the faint shadow of security bars visible in the setting sun. The left was partially drawn back, the lock undone, but no obvious sign it’d been opened to utilize the fire escape. Larkin shot the walls a quick look, and in the dimness, was able to count one… two… eleven…thirteentotal picture hanging hooks. No prize for correctly guessing what had been so blatantly displayed prior to their arrival.
Motioning to the hall, Larkin left Doyle so as to clear the rest of the apartment. The first door was unlocked and opened onto the bedroom. The bed was unmade, blankets and sheets yanked to the floor like someone had gotten tangled and struggled to free themselves. Nearby was a walker, and the nightstand held a number of prescription bottles, as well as a discarded mask attached to a portable oxygen tank. The room had the vague appearance of a nursing home suite. Had Harry taken in an elderly family member?No, Larkin thought. That wasn’t right. This had been the parent’s home and Harry was the one crashing, hence the impromptu setup in the living room.
Larkin cleared the corners before backing out. He moved to the last door, the stench even stronger now, and he knew this wouldn’t bode well for whoever usually laid their head down in the master bedroom. Trying the doorknob, he found it locked. “Harry Regmore,” he called loudly. “NYPD. Open the door.”
Stillness. Silence.
Larkin glanced down the hall. Doyle stood there, weapon raised and waiting. So he took a step back, elevated his leg, and slammed the heel of his shoe against the lock plate. The flimsy interior door immediately shattered and crashed inward. He trained his weapon on the empty room, but was nearly bowled over by the rancid stink of decay. Larkin put the bend of his elbow to his nose and mouth, took a deep breath, then held it as he stepped inside. No one behind the door. He yanked back the shower curtain.
She had been old and frail and who Larkin could only presume was Harry’s mother. She lay dead in the tub, the side of her skull caved in. The blood was dry and rigor appeared to have dissipated from her limbs.
He swore and stepped out. “She’s probably been dead since Monday.”
“He’s panicking and spiraling,” Doyle said as he holstered his weapon.
Larkin nodded as he pulled shut the broken door as best as he could. He looked at Doyle and said, “The hooks.”
Doyle nodded. “I saw them. Backup should be here any minute. Let’s take a look around for the masks.” He returned to the living room.
Larkin took another breath through the bend of his elbow. The smell of death was stuck in his nose and had probably permeated his suit. He’d smell it when they’d leave, smell it in the car, smell it at home—well, no, probably not home. He shook himself. That was a problem for a later time. Larkin adjusted the grip on his SIG and returned to the bedroom to do a more thorough check for Harry’s collection.
Larkin heard a closet door open in the living room, and then a sudden scream. Like an animal, like rage, like seeing only red. It seemed to fill every corner of the apartment. The crash of bodies followed, a shout of protest, thethumpandwhackof two full-grown men knocking into drywall. Larkin ran into the hall in time to see Doyle heaved from the living room like he was a sack of potatoes. He crashed against the hallway wall to the right of the front door before raising both hands and grabbing onto a baseball bat that took a swing at his body. Harry Regmore stepped into view, shoving Doyle against the wall a second time with the force of the bat they both struggled to maintain control of. He heaved, and the momentum cracked the back of Doyle’s head against the wall. Doyle cried out, lost his grip, and Harry was able to yank the bat free. Spinning it around, Harry raised the knob of the bat and struck Doyle across the head. Blood spurted in an arc and Doyle was knocked to the floor.
Harry turned his attention on Larkin. He looked fanatical, incensed,no, say it—insane. He didn’t say anything. There was no villain monologue. He just spun the bat to hold properly, hollered at the top of his lungs, and charged.
Larkin saw only the bat.
It was night again. It was raining again. Thunderboomed so loud, it rattled the teeth in his skull. Bootssquished in the thick, sloppy mud as that man entered their campsite.
Disgusting.
Immoral.
Hell.
Larkin had been seventeen and terrified. Because that monster had raised his bat, swung, and he’d heard his own skullcrackbefore everything had gone black. And when he’d woken up, Patrick was dead.
Patrick’s dead.
Patrick’s dead.
