Power Play
Page 59
He wasn’t like every other pathetic human being that walked the earth, the common herd who had to work or steal what they needed. He never had been like them, and he wouldn’t accept it now.
He’d had to use his knife twice to get money, and already he’d hated knowing what he’d become. At least now he had Agent Sherlock’s gun. He spotted a twenty-four/seven on a side street without much traffic. He waited for one customer to close the door behind him, leaving only Blessed and an older woman behind the counter. He fingered the agent’s Glock in his pocket. He knew the old biddy was eyeing him suspiciously, maybe getting scared. Do it, do it. And so Blessed looked her right in her dark, rheumy eyes and said quietly, “Open the register and give me all your cash.”
He hadn’t realized he’d be afraid, afraid she might scream and pull out a gun. He wasn’t afraid she would shoot him, only afraid he’d fail. He nearly puked as he waited, his heart pounding, his eyes never leaving her face. But she smiled at him and opened the old-fashioned cash register. “No o-ones or f-f-fives,” he said, stuttering with relief. He watched her pull out all the tens and twenties. Then she lifted the cash drawer and pulled out a neat pile of fifties and a couple hundred-dollar bills.
“Please put all the money in a bag.”
She did, handed it to him.
“Thank you,” Blessed said, and turned to leave.
“What’s going on here?”
It was an old man, probably the woman’s husband, and he was pointing a shotgun at Blessed. “You, jerkface, put my money back on the counter! Now, or I’ll blow your head off!” The old buzzard lifted the rifle, aimed it at Blessed’s head.
Blessed was ten feet away from the old man. Too far, too far. He laid the bag of money on the counter. The old man hollered, “What’s wrong with you, Meg? Woman, get yourself together and call the cops!”
But the old woman only stood there, a small smile on her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” He turned back to Blessed, stepped toward him, his gun up. “What did you do to her?”
Blessed looked into his faded old eyes and said, “Please shoot Meg. In the head, I think.”
The old man said, “What? What did you say?” Then he blinked, turned the shotgun, and shot his wife’s face off.
Blessed jumped back so he wouldn’t get splattered by the mess the shotgun made. Pieces of flesh and brain matter splattered against the shelf of cigarettes behind the counter, and blood fountained in all directions. He couldn’t see her now, and was grateful she’d fallen, not making a sound.
He didn’t want to puke now. He wanted to shout with the pleasure and relief he felt. He’d done it; with just one look, one command, he’d made the old guy shoot her—blam! He was back. Blessed walked to the counter, took the bag of money, careful not to look down at the woman, and added over his shoulder as he walked out toward the door, “Now shoot yourself in the chest.”
Through the glass, he saw a middle-aged couple coming toward the store, arguing about something. He walked out of the store, walked right up to the couple. Even as the shotgun blasted out again, he said calmly, “Hi. You didn’t see me.”
He nodded to the couple and went on his way, whistling. He never missed a step when he heard the screams, the shouts. He was half a block away when he heard the first siren.
Blessed got into his stolen Toyota and drove to Georgetown, parking two blocks away from the Savich house, to be on the safe side. He saw Savich and Sherlock climb into the hot red Porsche and pull out of the driveway. A little boy stood beside a woman in the open doorway, waving at them.
He looked at the little boy, and wondered.
Criminal Apprehension Unit
Friday morning
Sherlock was working with Dane Carver on four bizarre strangulation murders in Omaha, Nebraska, when Savich stuck his head out of the office and called to her.
She knew immediately something was very wrong. She was inside his office in a flash. “What happened?”
Savich drew in a deep breath. “It’s all right. That was Gabriella. I’d showed her Blessed’s photo, told her to be on the lookout. Before she took Sean to school, she checked out the front window and saw an older man slip from behind a tree and move behind another. She recognized Blessed. She locked the doors and called the cops, without Sean ever knowing anything was wrong. Then she managed to sneak in a call to me. I kept her on the line until I heard the knock on the door and knew the police had arrived. Gabriella put an Officer Blevins on the line, and I told him about Blessed. They’re out looking for him right now.”
He’d had to use his knife twice to get money, and already he’d hated knowing what he’d become. At least now he had Agent Sherlock’s gun. He spotted a twenty-four/seven on a side street without much traffic. He waited for one customer to close the door behind him, leaving only Blessed and an older woman behind the counter. He fingered the agent’s Glock in his pocket. He knew the old biddy was eyeing him suspiciously, maybe getting scared. Do it, do it. And so Blessed looked her right in her dark, rheumy eyes and said quietly, “Open the register and give me all your cash.”
He hadn’t realized he’d be afraid, afraid she might scream and pull out a gun. He wasn’t afraid she would shoot him, only afraid he’d fail. He nearly puked as he waited, his heart pounding, his eyes never leaving her face. But she smiled at him and opened the old-fashioned cash register. “No o-ones or f-f-fives,” he said, stuttering with relief. He watched her pull out all the tens and twenties. Then she lifted the cash drawer and pulled out a neat pile of fifties and a couple hundred-dollar bills.
“Please put all the money in a bag.”
She did, handed it to him.
“Thank you,” Blessed said, and turned to leave.
“What’s going on here?”
It was an old man, probably the woman’s husband, and he was pointing a shotgun at Blessed. “You, jerkface, put my money back on the counter! Now, or I’ll blow your head off!” The old buzzard lifted the rifle, aimed it at Blessed’s head.
Blessed was ten feet away from the old man. Too far, too far. He laid the bag of money on the counter. The old man hollered, “What’s wrong with you, Meg? Woman, get yourself together and call the cops!”
But the old woman only stood there, a small smile on her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” He turned back to Blessed, stepped toward him, his gun up. “What did you do to her?”
Blessed looked into his faded old eyes and said, “Please shoot Meg. In the head, I think.”
The old man said, “What? What did you say?” Then he blinked, turned the shotgun, and shot his wife’s face off.
Blessed jumped back so he wouldn’t get splattered by the mess the shotgun made. Pieces of flesh and brain matter splattered against the shelf of cigarettes behind the counter, and blood fountained in all directions. He couldn’t see her now, and was grateful she’d fallen, not making a sound.
He didn’t want to puke now. He wanted to shout with the pleasure and relief he felt. He’d done it; with just one look, one command, he’d made the old guy shoot her—blam! He was back. Blessed walked to the counter, took the bag of money, careful not to look down at the woman, and added over his shoulder as he walked out toward the door, “Now shoot yourself in the chest.”
Through the glass, he saw a middle-aged couple coming toward the store, arguing about something. He walked out of the store, walked right up to the couple. Even as the shotgun blasted out again, he said calmly, “Hi. You didn’t see me.”
He nodded to the couple and went on his way, whistling. He never missed a step when he heard the screams, the shouts. He was half a block away when he heard the first siren.
Blessed got into his stolen Toyota and drove to Georgetown, parking two blocks away from the Savich house, to be on the safe side. He saw Savich and Sherlock climb into the hot red Porsche and pull out of the driveway. A little boy stood beside a woman in the open doorway, waving at them.
He looked at the little boy, and wondered.
Criminal Apprehension Unit
Friday morning
Sherlock was working with Dane Carver on four bizarre strangulation murders in Omaha, Nebraska, when Savich stuck his head out of the office and called to her.
She knew immediately something was very wrong. She was inside his office in a flash. “What happened?”
Savich drew in a deep breath. “It’s all right. That was Gabriella. I’d showed her Blessed’s photo, told her to be on the lookout. Before she took Sean to school, she checked out the front window and saw an older man slip from behind a tree and move behind another. She recognized Blessed. She locked the doors and called the cops, without Sean ever knowing anything was wrong. Then she managed to sneak in a call to me. I kept her on the line until I heard the knock on the door and knew the police had arrived. Gabriella put an Officer Blevins on the line, and I told him about Blessed. They’re out looking for him right now.”
