Three thoughts scurried through Cal's brain in rapid succession as his innards pooled with ice. "Emily." "Gillian." And "I'm the biggest fucktard."
In contrast to his insides, the muscles in his arms were burning with strain as he struggled to push the gun away from him. Everything slipped into slow motion, the man's eyes, his grin, his comment of "Nothing personal."
Hell, it was personal. Or at least it got that way really bloody fast.
The finger on the trigger began to squeeze. How he could see that was beyond him. He'd probably be able to see fleas walking a tightrope at 30 yards the way he was feeling. The barrel was pushing painfully into his cheekbone and in his alcohol induced weakness he wasn't able to shove it to his right. Just a few inches would make all the difference. Just a few inches might risk his ear being blown off but at least his face would stay intact.
But Cal couldn't do it and the man's grin widened.
He wanted to call out, scream for someone to call security but his voice seemed caught in some tiny confine just above his diaphragm. It refused to work.
All this because he'd purposely pissed off Gillian. All this because he couldn't tell her the truth.
The breath whooshed out of him and he closed his eyes, wondering if he'd feel anything or if it would be instant darkness and profound nothingness. He wasn't a religious man so he had little hope of anything beyond this. Even if there were something, he'd be taking the wrong turn anyway. He remembered reading that Mark Twain had once said: "Heaven for the temperature, Hell for the company." It had made him smile at the time.
Eternity didn't come though.
Cal opened his eyes to see fury on the man's face.
The gun had jammed.
I am officially the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. The thought flickered past his death nonsense before his instincts kicked in. Taking advantage of the momentarily lapse, he stepped forward and slammed his forehead into the man's nose. The move was standard but effective.
Blood ran down from the man's nose, coating his upper lip and chin. His lips pulled back as he bared his teeth as he used the gun as a club instead. Cal managed to dodge the brunt of it but it still glanced off the side of his head, pulling out hair and ripping his scalp causing him to stagger back.
At that moment, the killer turned in a panic. And it was very obvious to Cal that he was, in fact, panicking. The tough guy visage was gone. He pulled the door open with a gloved hand to swiftly move into the hallway.
But Cal was right behind him, launching himself at the larger man, managing to knock him down to the carpet by sheer momentum. The gun bounced away and clattered off the wainscoting.
At that point Cal finally found his voice. "SOMEONE CALL SECURITY!" He only hoped that he wasn't ignored.
He landed a kidney punch and heard the "oof" but was soon knocked aside with a blow to the temple. Once again the man tried to climb to his feet and run but Cal kicked out and tripped him, his face slamming against someone's door as he went down. Twisting around, the man struck out again, his fist connecting with Cal's cheekbone but it was quickly reciprocated with a hit to the throat and the man started to cough and wheeze.
Where the hell was bloody security? Cal's adrenaline spike was quickly depleting and he needed help.
He pulled his fist back and connected with the man's nose again. A spray of blood and a wail of agony escaped the dark eyed man before he fisted both hands together and slammed them into Cal's solar plexus.
The breath and fight went out of him in a whoosh as he rolled to the side, trying desperately to suck in oxygen that currently had nowhere to go. He could only watch helplessly as the woman's killer stumbled to his feet and made a beeline for the stairwell.
No, no, no…
At that moment, the cavalry finally arrived. Such as it was. Cal watched the man falter before changing direction. One security guard pursued him while the other went down to his knee next to Cal.
Cal wanted to tell him not to bother but air was only just trickling back in and speech was impossible.
Detective Brady ran brown eyes over his face and Cal was getting tired of it. They'd managed to catch the woman's killer but still fell compelled to harass him. He was one giant ache and all he wanted was to go home and pass out.
"So, you've never seen this guy before?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." The words were a growl.
"So." The detective looked down at his notes. As if he really needed to. "How did you know Ms. Crandon?"
Cal's insides tightened again. He didn't know her. Not really.
"We'd just met." Cal's voice was low. Shame was wracking him but he wasn't about to let this plonker know that. "At the hotel bar."
"I see." The two words were full of innuendo and Cal didn't respond.
"Did Ms. Crandon know the man?"
"I wouldn't know would I?" His growl came back.
"So there was no familiarity?"
"She got up, said 'Oh my God' and he shot her. I don't know if she knew him but she probably had a clue what it was all about."
They were quiet for several moments.
Finally Brady let out a gust of air. "Alright then. I'm going to let you go for the moment. No leaving town or anything. At least until we get this mess all figured out."
Cal nodded, staring past the other man.
The body was being removed from the hotel room and Cal had an image of a woman that looked way too much like Gillian. One with a bullet in her head. He shut his eyes and hoped he wouldn't throw up.
"You should let the EMTs take a look at you." Brady was looking at him closely again.
"I'm fine."
"You look like crap."
"I'm fine."
The detective shrugged. "Suit yourself but I'll have a car take you home."
"Not necessary."
"Yes it is. Can't have you passing out at the wheel. You could run over some little older lady or someone's pet dog."
Cal glowered for a moment before deciding he was too tired to argue. "Whatever."
Emily wasn't home. He never thought that he'd feel happy about that particular fact but he was. At least in Chicago with Zoë, she didn't have to see what a fuck up her father was.
The house was way too quiet though. Normally he didn't mind but tonight it seemed ominous. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV for noise. Not much better.
Even though the woman's killer was currently is custody, both Cal and the cops knew that he was just a cog. He had bosses and they had reasons for wanting Barbara Crandon dead. Whatever those reasons were, the hit man wasn't saying. At least not yet.
Very gently, he lowered himself into the corner of the sofa and rested his head back. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but he was asleep almost immediately.