Fatal Connections

Chapter 43

I was in the midst of cuffing Troy, when he rolled over and shoved me back. One cuff dangled from his arm. I stumbled but somehow managed to stay upright. Troy's eyes looked wild. Oh, for God's sake. This was the downside of working solo on this shit.

As Troy wobbled his way into a crouch, I ran out the door and down the stairs, where I waited beside a short retaining wall supporting the sloping lawn. Eventually, Troy stumbled down the front steps, still a bit woozy from the stun gun, the dangling cuff now a potential weapon. I didn't wait for him to come to me. Instead, I made like a heat-seeking missile and went straight for him.

This time I used the stun gun to catch him in the groin. His eyes widened as he gasped for air. I smashed a foot down at what I hoped would be just the right angle to hobble him a bit. He cried out in pain right after I felt, rather than heard, a crisp snap where the ankle met the foot. Whoops! So maybe I hobbled him more than a little.

That and the stun gun managed to subdue Troy enough that I could slap the cuffs on him and get him into my car. After taking Troy to the police station to be processed and giving Mitch the good news, I wondered about the phone call I received while waiting for Troy. The name was starting to seem more familiar. As I drove home, I tried to remember when the name on the caller ID had come up during the last few days. Not to mention who brought it up.

The paperwork and other formalities that came with turning Troy over to the police took long enough that I ended up dining on stale potato chips from an ancient vending machine. Exhausted, I tabled all thoughts about my cases until I arrived somewhere where I could review my notes. Then, I thought about contacting Amy again. It would be really nice to know why she wasn't at her own parents' memorial service, but it might be better not to ask her outright.

Even though I was exhausted, I somehow managed to recharge on the way home. The walk up to my apartment was more like a long slow hike. Tackling Troy had done a number on my back. It complained and my head echoed in agreement as the pounding inside my skull resumed. Had I suffered more than a mild concussion from that attack at The Void? And was it connected to the panic attack I had later at the church?

Once inside my apartment, I tossed everything in the general direction of the sofa and headed straight for the bathroom. I heard a few things fall to the floor behind me, but I also heard the call of the last of my stash of Oxy.

I half-collapsed onto the floor and dug out the pill bottle. Twisting off the cap, I stared at the few remaining pills and nearly succumbed. But then I thought about Nick and Susan, the leader of my therapy group. Even Two-Bit Terry. They would be so disappointed. I can't do it.

I turned toward the toilet and held the bottle over the open bowl. Then time seemed to stop. I have no idea if it was ten seconds or ten minutes that I stood there like that, as if posing for a portrait. Portrait of a Marine/drug addict. Semper fi.

You got this. My hand turned slowly as if it was remote-controlled by another brain. Then I tilted the bottle enough to make the pills start sliding toward the opening. I squeezed my eyes tight shut and tried not to hear the splash as the pills dropped into the toilet one by one. Plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop. Done.

I slumped against the cabinet. Click, click, click. Three pills stubbornly clattered back to the bottom of the bottle. I briefly considered dumping them, but I screwed the cap back on and breathed deeply, like a diver resurfacing. And once again, my temptation was stowed away with the rolls of TP under the sink.

After the usual restless night's sleep, I somehow felt sufficiently recovered to review what I knew about the Harcourt murders at this point and decide what to do next. I wondered where the cops were on the case. By now, you'd think they would have arrested me if they really had the grounds. But I'm sure the timing of that phone call from Marian Harcourt must weigh heavily on their minds. I know it did on mine. There had to be an explanation, but what was it?

A few possibilities came to mind. Either Marian Harcourt really did call me for protection, knowing the killer was close, maybe right next to her. Perhaps somebody forced her to call me. If it was not Marian on the phone, someone had done an amazing impression of her voice.

Any of those scenarios could have been the prelude to setting me up. The first possibility allowed for a scenario in which setting me up was opportunistic. The other two strongly suggested the frame was deliberate and I was the target. And if I was targeted specifically, was it because they knew the Harcourts had hired me or because they were aware of my less-than-squeaky-clean background?