Cut to the Bone(4)

Emily grabbed the pitcher of Infusion Juice and poured it over her head. She gasped as the icy slush melted on her steam-ironed body. The bells fell silent. She scrabbled to her feet, punched her arms through the sleeves of the too-large terry-cloth robe, wrapped her hands around the butt of her gun, and sprinted to the lobby.

“Good Lord,” she breathed at the explosion of tomato soup.

Marty was on his knees, blowing air into a young, pretty woman. Her face was white as spun sugar. Blood fizzed from her chest and neck when Marty exhaled. Emily knew instantly the CPR was form, not substance.

“I’m a Naperville Police detective!” she announced, ready to fire if the shooter popped out of the crowd. “Which way did he go?”

No answer, just a frantic fear-buzz.

“Did he leave?” she demanded. “Come on, somebody talk!”

“He didn’t say a word,” a manicurist blubbered. “Just shoved a knife in Zabrina and took off.”

Emily looked around, didn’t see a weapon. Maybe still on him. “Which way?”

The manicurist pointed at the main door.

“Parking lot,” Marty said, looking up. “Watch yourself, Detective. I’ll be there soon as someone takes over.” He surveyed the crowd. “All right, who knows CPR?”

Emily charged across the striped asphalt, robe flapping, eyes everywhere. Nobody fleeing. Nobody sauntering too nonchalant. Nobody jumping in a Dumpster or darting behind a store.

She ran her emerald eyes over the closest group of cars. Nobody hiding. No doors slamming. Ditto the next, the next, the next-

“Look out!” Marty yelled.

Emily whirled to see an Audi streak from a slot and charge her. Shooting was useless - it’d be on her in a heartbeat. She jumped straight up, desperately clawing air to clear the metallic blue bumper that would mash her to roadkill-

“Aaaah!” she screamed as her body shoveled up and over the hood. She crashed into the windshield, heard a sickening crunch. Glass or shoulder, she didn’t know which.

The driver jammed the gas pedal. The sucker punch of acceleration flipped her up on the roof. She windsurfed a moment, scrabbling for a hold on the hot, slick metal.

A sharp swerve bucked her off.

She slammed into the rear gate of an ancient pickup truck. She and rust rained to the pavement. She rolled the moment her body touched, to avoid breaking her neck. The Glock skittered out of her hands. She quick-crawled after it, vision jangled, skin on fire.

Marty triggered a pair of hollowpoint bullets. She saw the flames but didn’t hear the blasts. The rear passenger window shattered.

She reached her gun and fired at the driver’s head. Three sheet-metal craters opened in the door. Too low. She adjusted, re-aimed.

The Audi careened onto Ogden. She couldn’t shoot. Too much traffic.

She grunted to her feet and broke into a sprint, triangulating the lot, gulping and blowing, trying to cut the gap with the fleeing-

She toppled, clutching her leg.

“Officer down!” Marty bellowed. “Someone call nine-one-one!”

“I’m not hit!” Emily yelped.

“What is it, then?” he said, flopping down next to her.

“Scar!”

She’d taken a bullet in her left calf two years ago during a nightmare encounter with a serial killer. The knotty wound healed enough to pass the department’s medical exam, but when pushed to extreme physical limits - like now - it could squeal like a ripped pig.

“Dig into it, Marty,” she begged. “Make it stop. Oh God, it hurts.” She prayed the sirens were paramedics bearing needles of painkiller.

“I’ve got you, Em,” Marty reassured, his big knuckles drilling for oil. “I’ve got you . . .”

The first Naperville Police cruiser skidded into the lot.

She clutched Marty’s waist and pulled herself sitting, fighting the sudden blizzard of panic. Her killer was back, choking her life away. She made herself breathe deeply and slowly, four seconds in, four seconds out. In. Out. In. Out.

Better.

“Woman’s . . . dead?” she wheezed, massaging both sides of her neck.

Marty nodded.

“Who knifes . . . receptionist . . . at a spa?”

“Dunno,” Marty said, hugging Emily close. “But we’re sure as hell gonna find out.”





11:08 a.m.

The Executioner whipped into an empty slot, his blue eyes pulsing radar.

No cops. Not even a curious civilian.

He turned off the engine. As he’d learned from his numerous practice runs, this medical-office parking lot on Sherman Avenue - thirty seconds from the spa, nicely screened by trees and buildings - made an ideal place to switch cars.

Though the advantage wouldn’t last if he dawdled.