Page 95 of Hell Bent

“Fuck it,” said Turner. What else were they going to do this morning? King Tut was their only lead, and no way Big Car was getting jammed up on an illegal search. Turner drew his weapon, took a few steps back, then slammed his shoulder into the door, feeling it give way.

Before he could even ask Car what they were doing, Car had a finger to his lips and was pointing up the stairs. “There’s someone up there. I heard it.”

“Heard what?” Turner whispered.

“Could have been a cat. Could have been a girl. Could have been nothing.”

The prickle spread from the back of Turner’s neck. Not nothing.

“Clear the ground floor,” said Car. “I’m going up.”

Turner did as he was told, but there wasn’t much territory to cover. A living room with a stained mattress and dirty clothes heaped on top, a bare kitchen where nearly every cupboard was open, as if someone had searched it. Two empty bedrooms, a bathroom with a rotting floor where it looked like a pipe had burst.

“Clear,” he shouted. “I’m coming up!”

He had one foot on the bottom step when he heard Car shout. A shot rang out, then another.

Turner sprinted up the steps, weapon drawn. He felt it squirm in his hand, looked down, and saw nothing but the hard black shadow of his sidearm.

Fear was messing with his head. Not fear for himself. Fear for what he might do, who he might hurt, his brother’s voice in his head: You like that badge and gun. Turner always said the same prayer. Please, God. Don’t let it be a kid. Don’t let it be one of us.

“Carmichael?” he called out.

No answer came. No sound. The layout of the second floor was almost identical to the floor below.

Turner spoke into his radio. “Detective Abel Turner. I am at 372 Orchard. Shots fired, request backup and medical.”

He didn’t wait for the response, sweeping through the first bedroom, the bathroom. As he entered the second, he saw a body on the floor.

Not Carmichael. His mind took a minute to understand. The man on the ground, a boy really, couldn’t be older than twenty, a hole in his chest, a hole in the floorboards beside him. Carmichael standing over him.

Turner recognized Delan Tuttle from his file. King Tut. Bleeding out on the ground.

“Shit,” said Turner kneeling beside the body. “You hit?” he asked Car, because that’s what he was supposed to say. But he knew Car wasn’t hit, the same way he knew this kid wasn’t strapped. His eyes scanned the room, hoping a weapon might materialize.

“I called a bus,” Carmichael said.

That was something at least. But an ambulance wasn’t going to do Tuttle any good. The boy didn’t have a pulse. No heartbeat. No weapon.

“What happened?” Turner asked.

“He took me by surprise. He had something in his hand.”

“Okay,” Turner said. But he wasn’t okay. His heart was hammering away in his chest. The body was still warm. Tuttle had been hit almost directly in the center of his chest, as if he’d stood still for it. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans. He had to be cold, Turner thought. The heat wasn’t on in here. There was no furniture. It had snowed just two days before. And the room was barren—no old cigarettes or food wrappers, not even a blanket. There were no signs he or anyone else had been squatting here.

He’d come here to meet someone. Maybe Carmichael.

“We don’t have much time,” Car said. He was calm, but Car was always calm. “Let’s get our stories straight.”

What story was there to get straight? And where was the mysterious object Tuttle was supposed to have had in his hand?

“Here,” said Car. He had a white rabbit by the neck. It was wriggling in his fist, its soft feet treading the air, its eyes wide, the whites showing. Turner could see its heart thumping against its furry chest.

Then he blinked and Car was holding a gun out to him. “Wipe it,” he said.

Turner had meant to be stern, but he found a nervous smile spreading across his face. “You can’t be serious.”

“Ambulance is gonna be here soon. Rat squad and the rest. Don’t screw around, Turner.”