"What?" Josh asked.
Larry thrust the seven-inch knife into the side of Josh's neck. That's better. Josh stumbled backward, his eyes open wide in shock. Larry kept a firm grip on the knife, and it came free with a wet rip. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, splattering the kitchen in a shower of gore. Josh pressed both hands to his neck. He tried to speak, an inarticulate, wet, burbling sound. That doesn't sound good. Larry stabbed him in the chest and the sound stopped. That's better. He pulled the knife free, and Josh Santee's body dropped to the floor.
The apartment was quiet. Something was missing. Larry stepped to the door and opened it, searching the hallway. There was nobody there. Downstairs, a TV blared. He walked down the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door to apartment 3A. There was something out of place. Why is my hand wet? He absentmindedly wiped his hand on the front of his shirt, then knocked again.
A woman's voice responded. He didn't understand what she said. The door opened a crack, revealing a wide-eyed woman in jeans and a tank top. She looked familiar. She babbled something. There was something wrong with her. He thrust through the crack in the door, burying the knife in her abdomen. That's better.
He threw his weight against the door, shredding the security-chain housing and forcing his way into the apartment. A fat man sat on the couch, holding a beer, his eyes wide with shock. There was something wrong with him.
Robbie pulled into the parking lot, grabbed the Italian rolls off the front seat, and headed for the back door. A woman shrieked. He took the stairs two at a time, his service revolver drawn. The screaming stopped as he reached the third-floor landing.
He listened at the fire door. Behind it, he heard panting. He grabbed the handle with his left hand and pulled. He rolled his body around the door, weapon-hand leading. At the end of the hall, Larry Johnson sat on the floor with a young woman. She lay on her stomach, but her head rested face-up in his lap, her eyes wide open. They were both covered in blood, as were the walls and floor. Naked feet stuck out from the doorway to 3B. A pool of blood spread into the hall.
"Jesus Christ, Larry," Robbie said. "What happened?"
Larry looked up at the sound of his voice, a puzzled look on his face. He staggered to his feet, dropping the woman to the floor, then bent over and picked up a kitchen knife.
"Larry?"
No response.
Larry walked toward him, holding the knife with white knuckles.
"Larry?" Robbie choked up the revolver. Larry took another step. "Put the knife down, Larry." He took another step. He was ten feet away.
Robbie aimed the revolver at Larry's right thigh. "One more step and I'll have to shoot you, Larry." Larry took another step. Robbie pulled the trigger. The bullet entered and exited the leg in the blink of an eye, a clean shot straight through the muscle. Without reaction, Larry Johnson took another step. Oh, shit, Robbie thought.
Robbie shot him in the other leg. Larry fell to the ground without so much as a whimper. He stabbed the knife into the floor and used it to pull himself forward an arm's length, dragging his face across the floor without bothering to lift his head. He did it again. Robbie got out his handcuffs and stepped on Larry's wrist to pin the knife in place.
Larry grabbed Robbie's ankle with his other hand and yanked him off his feet. Robbie hit the ground hard; the handcuffs clattered across the floor, but he managed to keep hold of the gun. Kicking frantically, he tried to dislodge Larry's hand. Larry didn't react, as if he didn't even feel it. His scratched face still looked befuddled as he yanked the knife from the floor and looked from Robbie's face to the ankle he still held.
"Don't," Robbie said. He aimed the pistol down the length of his body, right at the top of Larry's head. "Please." Larry raised the knife. Robbie shot him through the cranium at point-blank range. Larry's head dropped to the ground, and his body relaxed. The knife clattered to the floor. Blood gushed from the wound, thick and red.
Robbie scrambled to his feet and took out his phone. He stared at the body as he auto-dialed his office. A pleasant male voice answered the phone, "FBI St. Louis, Agent Barnhoorn's office."
"Chet, we have multiple civilians and maybe some officers down. I need an ambulance, police, and forensics at the Glenview safe house. Send a team, maybe two. I'm not sure this is over." The calm of his own voice surprised him. He couldn't stop shaking.
"Got it, Robert," Chet replied.
"And Chet? Contact Gene Palomini and Doug Goldman."
* * *
December 24th, 6:28pm CST; Home of Agent Robert Barnhoorn; St. Louis, Missouri.
Doug wiped up the juices from the Christmas ham with a piece of bread and shoved it whole into his mouth. He dumped his plate in the sink and returned to the living room.