And he pulled the trigger before even finishing the sentence. Belsamo gasped and grabbed at his chest as though he could snatch the bullet out before it could do any damage, but Hershey pulled the trigger again and this time a bright disc of red blossomed on Belsamo’s left cheek.
An instant later—less than an instant later—blood and what appeared to be teeth gouted out of Belsamo’s mouth. Dog collapsed to the floor, one hand pawing at his chest, the other grasping at his ruined face.
Jazz thought maybe he’d passed out for a second. Just a second. A wave of giddiness passed over him. The expression on Belsamo’s face was priceless—shock and horror intermingled with a kind of guileless reproach, as though he’d just been slapped at a fancy dinner party.
The Dog Killer heaved out one last, heavy breath and went still, propped up against the workbench.
One down, Jazz thought, giggling inside. One down and one to go!
Get a grip, Jasper Francis. It was suddenly G. William’s voice in his head, after so many years of Billy. Think fast, kiddo, and figure out what you can tell this prick that’ll make him let you go. You got a pretty little girlfriend back home and a best friend and some folks in the sheriff’s department who’ll miss you if it all ends here.
He minced along the concrete floor. Another inch closer to Morales… and he couldn’t help it. The pain was too much. A squeak of agony popped from his lips like a bubble.
Hershey turned to him, aiming the gun. “Really—do you think I’m stupid? Stop moving toward her gun. I will shoot you in the face and eat your eyeballs one at a time while you die.”
Right. Got it. Keep him talking, Jazz. If he’s talking, he’s not killing.
“The game’s over, right? So what did you win? What will Ugly J give you?”
A stab in the dark. But he was hoping to get a reaction like the Impressionist’s. Instead, he got a shrug. “I’ve been training for this my whole life,” Hershey said, without a hint of braggadocio or self-satisfaction. It was just a statement of fact.
“Me, too,” Jazz said. See, man, we’re like brothers. Don’t shoot me again.
Hat cracked the smallest of smiles. “But my life is longer than yours.”
He took the eyes. He’s the one who wanted the eyes.
And then Hershey knelt down by Morales.
“Don’t you want her eyes?” Jazz heard himself say. “Aren’t you going to take them?” He tried to make it sound as appetizing, as sensual as possible, but somewhere between the subtle manipulation in his head and the actual words coming out, they became desperate and frightened. He couldn’t help it. For the first time in his life, he was absolutely terrified. All he could do was try to manipulate this freak into mutilating Morales’s body. That was his only chance. Because then the guy would put down the gun. And then maybe Jazz could—
“There are a lot of eyeballs in the world,” Hershey said. “Everyone has them.”
I just want to live. Please. I just want to live. I don’t know if that makes me normal or if that makes me as bad as these guys, but either way, that’s what I want.
Hershey patted down Morales quickly, keeping the small gun aimed at Jazz. His other hand seemed to want to linger on her, but evidently found no pleasure in the flat planes of her bulletproof vest.
To Jazz’s terror and anguish, Hershey soon came up with Morales’s service weapon.
Keep him talking. Jazz blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes again. They kept clouding over. He couldn’t afford to sink into unconsciousness. He had to stay awake. Couldn’t let shock claim him. He would keep himself talking, even if Hershey shot his foot off next.
“If the game is over,” Jazz said, now beginning to shiver, “then where do you go to be crowned as winner?” He was guessing wildly now, kicking under the covers in the throes of a nightmare, hoping to knock away one of the dread dream beasties threatening him. He threw out another guess: “The Crow King. Billy’s the Crow King, right?”
Hat sighed, relaxing a bit for the first time. “Billy? No. The Crow King is much, much worse than Billy.”
Another desperate gamble: “What about Ugly J? What will Ugly J think of all this?”
Hat favored him with a mildly baffled expression. “Ugly J will be happy that the game is over, I suppose.” He flicked the end of the gun at Dog, and Jazz tensed. But the gun pointed back at him right away; no chance to dive at Hat. “This one was poor competition. And a pervert, to boot. Can you imagine cutting off a man’s special part? And keeping it?”
Yeah, that’s over the line. Raping women and taking their eyeballs is completely normal, though.
“He was so sloppy,” Hat went on. “Leaving his little ‘homages’ to Ugly J here and there… that’s why he had to go. That’s why he couldn’t win the game. That’s why there was never any chance he could ever win the game. It’s one thing to… We had to send pictures, you understand. To prove we’d done it. But that was all. Actually marking his territory like that… he was a dog. A mongrel. It was always destined to be me.”
“He tempered you,” Jazz said. “Like you said before. He upped the ante and you had to respond in kind. It was a test, to see if you could keep up. He cuts off a penis, you have to cut off a penis.”
Hat shuddered, but the gun remained steady. “It disgusted me, having to touch them there. But such are the rules of the game. Well, were the rules. This time.”
Jazz perked up. “This time?” It spilled out before he could help himself.
Hat’s expression changed for the first time, into an almost beatific smile. “The game is ancient. The game goes on forever. I would explain further, but you have no need for hearing.”
He’s gonna shoot me. He’s totally gonna shoot me. Jazz tensed, ready to roll to one side. Anything to give himself an advantage. “But I want to learn!” he protested, buying time. “I want to hear more!”
“Enough talk,” Hat said. “It’s time for me to go. To claim my reward and move on.” He stepped into the unit and took the battery-powered lantern. If Jazz hadn’t been shot, he could have run like hell or tackled the guy. But right now all he could do was stare at the…
At the ceiling…
Looking straight up, he realized that he might be seeing his salvation. Maybe.
He had to time it just right.
Still shivering, his body definitely sinking into shock, Jazz forced himself into a sitting position.
Hershey walked past with the lantern, the only source of light in the storage unit. He was going to kill Jazz and leave the bodies here, and who knew when they would be found?
With an agonized shriek of pain, Jazz levered himself up from the floor, pushing off with his hands. He tried to keep weight off his left side, but it was impossible, and a fresh wave of hell erupted along that side of his body as he reached out for the rope he’d noticed hanging from the ceiling. Hershey, distracted for a moment, almost dropped the lantern. Raised the gun.
Pulled the trigger.
Just an instant too late.
Jazz had grabbed the rope and pulled with all his might, collapsing to the floor again to add his body weight to the tug he hoped would save his life. The corrugated steel door to unit 83F came crashing down between him and Hershey lightning-fast. It was so loud that Jazz didn’t hear the sound of the gun going off again, but in the last instant of light before the door slammed down, he saw tiny dimples erupt in its steelhide.
Despite the pain plastered to his side like lava, Jazz found the strength to throw himself at the door. There was a metal lip inside the unit where the door met the floor and Jazz pressed down on it and leaned into it. Outside, Hershey cursed and pulled at the door, trying to raise it again, but Jazz refused to budge, holding it down.
No way. No way in hell. You are not getting in here. Not a chance. At least now there’s a door between that gun and me.
Cold comfort, as the blackness surged around him.
Finally, Hershey stopped tugging at the door. Even though every muscle and nerve in his body begged Jazz to relax, he couldn’t. He knew that it would be a trick, that as soon as he let up, Hershey would fling the door back up and open fire.