Guilty

Chapter 8

Alone.

Perry's breath came sharply at first, in quick inhales and exhales, as though he were hyperventilating. After holding his breath to appear unconscious, his lungs were desperate for oxygen. He had underestimated how long it would take Ainsworth to work his way free from the fallen gurney and trays. Reason slowly returned, and with it the reminder he needed to take slower, deeper breaths. Although it seemed an eternity, calm settled over him and the fear he carried with him was pressed down to a manageable level.

Use your head, Mason. There's still that camera aimed at the gurney. Only two things have kept the other Ainsworth from storming in here: he is distracted by his brother's injuries and the light is out. Dear Lord, it's darker than an abyss in here!

With the gurney on its side, he didn't have much in the way of structural support. Even with his arm freed from the collision he was still tethered to the metal slab, and the scalpel to which he had clung with as tight a grip as a drowning man held on to a life preserver was somewhere on the floor, obscured among the other fallen instruments and the deathlike pitch darkness. He allowed himself one long sigh of frustration, then ordered himself to get on with it.

You don't have even a moment to waste. With those two maniacs, there is no telling when you'll have company again. And while Jason Ainsworth is formidable, at least you knew what to expect. His twin? You're working blind.

The humor of the thought brought a slight uptick to the corners of his mouth, but then his mood intensified. He grunted, then straining to reach the floor with his free hand, he let his fingertips search the area, hoping to find something—anything—among the scattered instruments with a sharp edge. He needed to cut away the remaining restraints as quickly as he could.

It took a while. Between the awkward angle and the pain, he had to keep bringing his arm back until the discomfort was manageable again. Time and time again he repeated the pattern until he was exhausted and ready to give up. Then an image of Della as she had looked the month before settled in his mind. He saw her with one hand on her hip, the other pointing at something on his desk. Her eyebrows, sometimes more expressive than her words, were arched in that familiar way that told him she was surprised, bordering on disappointed, by something he had said or done.

"You're going to give up, just like that, Chief? And what about all the others? Once this madman is finished with one victim, he already has his next in his sights." He could hear her voice, velvet steel with a trace of compassion, as she reminded him of his duty.

Very well, Della. I'm not going to give up. What if you're the next name on Ainsworth's list? I'll be damned before I let him come near you!

With a renewed vigor, he shot his hand out, unintentionally knocking some of the instruments out of the way. A second later he felt something slice his finger, and although the pain was sharp and immediate, he rejoiced. It was the razor. Unmindful of the damage he was doing to himself, he worked it closer to him until he could grasp the handle.

The victory was thrilling, but not complete. Pausing long enough to assure himself no one was heading for him, he listened to his own breathing. The thud of the heartbeat was loud to his ears, but no other sound reached him. He worked swiftly then, slicing through the leather restraints holding his other arm, then gingerly cutting away at the collar that held his neck and head firm.

Easy does it, Genius. One slip and no one will hold Ainsworth responsible for your death.

The leather came apart and his head dropped, making him momentarily lose his balance. Once again debris from the fall scattered as his palms touched the floor. Somehow he managed to right the gurney. From that point forward it was easy enough to identify the other bindings and cut himself free.

Once again he went silent, waiting, straining to hear any other noise in the outside corridor. None came. He didn't stop to analyze the reason why. Instead, he rubbed his legs, willing the blood flow to return to them after being trussed up for so long. His fingers ran the length of his leg, pausing at the cut inflicted on his inner thigh. He could tell by touch that the wound had already clotted.

Slowly and carefully, using the gurney to steady himself, he stood. He felt like a newborn colt on wobbly legs. Pins and needles cascaded down his limbs. It took every last ounce of will within him not to cry out in agony. Sweat beaded his forehead with the effort of staying silent, even as he shook first the left leg and then the right to restore circulation. The cold air in the room interacted with the moisture from his efforts, chilling him instantly.

At least my eyes are accustomed to the darkness now. There has to be something . . . There! A lab coat. It's better than nothing. There are probably a million ways to meet my Maker in this godforsaken place, but death by exposure is not one I'm willing to take.

Finally, finally his legs decided to cooperate. He took stuttered steps at first, mindful of the things in his path. Then gaining confidence, he moved quickly, grabbed the lab coat from where it hung and pulled it on, not bothering to close it. It came to his mid-thigh, but the most important parts were now covered.

"Time to go," he said aloud, his voice little more than a dry whisper.

Crossing to the door, Perry sent up a silent prayer that the twins had been too busy to lock it. He gritted his teeth as he grabbed the handle and twisted it to the right. It didn't move. Despair almost engulfed him, but he shook it off. Reversing direction, he almost gasped when the knob turned and the door moved soundlessly.

This time when he waited for any sounds from his captors, he was met with success. Ainsworth's screams and oaths reverberated through the low-lit hall, but he could pinpoint the origin of them somewhere beneath where he was standing. With his back along one of the walls, he inched away from the "operating room" until he came to an open window.

Night. Street lights from somewhere nearby illuminated a fenced perimeter. He was at least four or five stories up, and by changing his position slightly, he could tell he was on the top floor. There was no traffic, at least not on the side of the building where he was, and it was both a concern and a relief. Without traffic he would have a hard time getting help—getting away at all, even—but at least no one just passing by could be taken or harmed.

Paul said we should check out abandoned warehouses. Paul! Did Tragg find him in time? If not . . .

Giving himself yet another mental shake, he moved further down the hall in search of a stairway. He tested each door he came to, and although they all opened without any resistance, none provided a means of escape. Empty rooms only signified potential tombs. With just two doors left to go, he spotted the one marked STAIRWAY.

The time for caution was at an end. He didn't hesitate. Taking the steps as quickly as he could, his momentum sent him down the first set of stairs in less than three seconds. He rounded the landing and was halfway down when he heard the ranting. Ainsworth, obviously enraged, was railing at his brother again.

"I'm going to make him suffer ten times more than the others! He's going to regret hurting me! He's not . . ."

The sound of a hand making contact with a face stopped Perry in his tracks. The report from the slap felt like it echoed for miles.

"Stop that laughing, you moron. Get up here and help me or I swear you're next!" There was another slap, this time followed by a bellow. "You damned incompetent! You don't hit me just because I hit you!"

Perry smiled. As long as the two were bickering, he had a chance to slip past them. He started moving again, but Ainsworth's next order had him reversing course as soundlessly as he could.

"Help me to the stairs." The angry tone was gone, and the calm, placid one was back. It was eerie the way the man could turn his anger on and off like that. "When you turned out the light, we lost any kind of visual image of Mason. And I know better than to underestimate him."

Perry ascended the stairs, then picked one of the empty rooms closest to the stairway. After all, the two had to get back to the lab before they would know he was missing. That should give him enough time to take the stairs again. Unfortunately, in his haste to escape, he had overlooked one tiny detail. The door to the lab was standing open, like a mouth agape.

The room he chose had no lock on the door, but there were a few boxes that could provide cover if either Ainsworth opened the door to check. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Jason Ainsworth had reached the top of the stairs, his brother half-carrying him because of the makeshift splint on his leg. As they started down the hallway, he suddenly stopped, staring at the open door to his lab.

"I thought you closed the door," he said, a crease cutting between his brows.

"I did Jason, I know I closed it." Jonathan's voice did not sound so childish as it had before. It was different somehow, more certain. There was still a note of fear in it, though. "I did. I closed it. I put you on my shoulder, killed the light, and slammed the door. This isn't my fault. Please don't hurt me."

The low lighting in the hallway was more than enough to confirm Ainsworth's suspicion. "Damn! Damn it! Damn it to hell!" He controlled his outburst, but his face was almost purple with rage. "Mason's escaped. Find him. Check all these rooms. He can't have gotten far."

So this is how it ends, Perry told himself, bracing for the showdown. So be it. I prefer it this way. I may not have anything but my wits and reflexes, but I know I'm on the side of the angels. That, at least, is something. He listened as door after door was opened, then closed. I should have told Della the truth. I should have told her every damn day. I should have said everything I wanted to, until I made her believe me. Until she understood exactly how I feel, and that nothing will alter it. He shook his head, helpless to stop the regret from surfacing. Wait a minute! Why am I thinking about defeat, when I'm seconds away from—

The door handle turned. Flattening himself against the wall, he waited for the door to open. It didn't. Instead, he heard someone—the other Ainsworth?—rummaging around in the next room. Outside the door he heard a heavy sigh. There were only seconds left.

Perry knew there was only going to be one chance. Casting off the lab coat, he threw it as far away from him as he could, then took cover behind the boxes, crouching on the very legs he still wasn't sure were going to hold him up much longer.

The wait was over. The door was thrown open, banging against the wall with a force that sent the handle through the drywall. Jason Ainsworth, eyes blazing in a face white with pain and crazed indignation, filled the doorway. Even with his leg in a splint, he moved with dexterity and purpose. His eyes rotated first to the right, then to the left. When they landed on the lab coat, twin flames of blue fire sprang up. He moistened his lips, almost savoring the taste of his recaptured prey.

"I know you're in here, Mason. Come out and I'll go easy on you." His voice was flat again, conversational rather than adversarial.

Hobbling toward the middle of the room, he turned in a half circle with his back facing Perry. A millisecond later Perry launched, catching him squarely in the back. Off balance because of the splint and not expecting the ambush, Jason Ainsworth pitched forward. His momentum propelled him toward the only window on the wall. Before he had time to formulate a thought, the glass shattered and his outstretched hands grasped nothing but damp air. His scream split the night apart, then abruptly cut off into final silence as his body impacted the concrete below.

"Jason!"

Perry picked himself up and scrambled back behind the boxes. The sound of rushing footfalls made it seem like a stampeding herd of cattle were chasing him. The big man rushed into the room, but unlike his brother, he didn't bother to waste time looking around. Instead he charged, arms outstretched, hands like claws, straight for the boxes. They were tossed aside in his wake, and this time Perry had no real time to react.

"You killed my brother," he bit out through clenched teeth. "I will do the same to you."

A second later he had Perry's left shoulder gripped in his right hand while his other was drawn back, ready to strike.

Perry had little doubt that when the blow came, it would be enough to break his neck. The man was built like a Sherman tank and his arm looked like it weighed as much as a tree trunk. As the arm came forward his eyes widened in terror.

Three shots, fired in rapid succession, exploded, filling the room with deafening noise and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Jonathan, surprise widening his eyes, looked down at his chest in curiosity. There were holes where his stomach should have been, but there wasn't any pain. His hold on Perry's arm slackened, then dropped. Turning to face the door, he registered the shape of what looked like two men, then snarled in animalistic outrage.

Three more shots stopped him in his tracks. He fell forward, dead before his face hit the floor.

Perry's legs finally gave out and he dropped to his knees. Blood coated his torso, and although it wasn't his, on his naked frame, no one could tell the difference. He felt rather than saw the movement from the doorway but was too spent to raise his head to look at his rescuer.

Arthur Tragg, fedora pushed back on his head, blew away the rest of the smoke from his revolver and then tucked it into its holster. Paul Drake, no worse for wear, shouldered past him into the room, then stopped to stare down at the very dead Ainsworth. Tragg moved around him, hurrying to Perry, and helped him to his feet again. A moment later Paul pulled his friend into a tight hug.

"I thought that scream was you, Pal!"

Perry didn't even bother with a response. He needed the physical support to stand, and the warmth of the hug was comforting.

Tragg cleared his throat. "Uh, Drake? You might want to find your pal's clothes, if they still exist. I hate to mention this, but the press might get wind of your clinch when I take Perry in on a charge of indecent exposure."

Paul shot him a withering look. "Way too soon to tease, Tragg. Besides, if I let go of him, Perry will likely drop, and you'll be the one holding a very naked," he paused, taking in the blood, "very messy, lawyer."

Perry shivered then managed a small laugh. "So glad to see my trauma has the two of you in yet another verbal skirmish. There's a lab coat over there," he indicated with his head, "if one or the other of you care to hand it to me."

Tragg retrieved the coat from the floor and tossed it to Paul, who gently helped Perry into it. Guiding him to a wall, Paul acted as a shield while his friend fumbled with the buttons.

"Did you bring backup, or did you two cowboys come here all on your own?"

Tragg grimaced. "I wouldn't have brought him, but he threatened me with a weapon." Paul glared, but didn't reply. He shrugged then admitted, "The rest of the cavalry is on its way up. Dr. Hoxie is here, too. You'll need to be examined before we can get you in an ambulance."

"You're kidding!" Paul protested hotly, but Perry put a hand on his arm.

"He's right, Paul. I'm wearing evidence on my freshly-shaved birthday suit."

"Wearing, nothing! Hell, Perry, you are evidence!" Tragg shook his head. "I'm just sorry this slimebag won't be spending the next seventy years behind bars. Damned bullets are too good for him."

"He wasn't even the bad one," Perry said absently. His eyes wandered to the broken window. "I guess it wasn't exactly how he planned his exit strategy, but it was effective nonetheless." He bowed his head for a long moment, then lifted it slowly and asked, "Anyone got a cigarette?"

Paul pulled out his pack and shook one free. Lighting it for his friend, he passed it to him, noting how badly Perry's hand shook.

Taking a deep drag, then blowing smoke toward the ceiling, Perry gathered his wits, then slung his arm around Paul's shoulder. "Let's get the hell out of here."