Yep, that pretty much sums me up. But how does . . . how does she . . .
I swat with my left hand at whatever’s under my chin. Unable to open my eyes but hearing a sharp, muted thwip of a sound.
“Now just hold on a second,” Vicky whispers. The cold steel thing stuck under my chin again. “This thing isn’t going to hurt you. Here, touch it.”
I touch it. It’s smooth, a long cylindrical shape, like that silencer thingy I used . . .
. . . wait, why would . . .
“Goodbye, Nick Caracci,” she says.
82
Vicky
His eyes pop open as I pull the trigger. His head jerks backward as the back of his head sprays against the wall. His left hand falls limply onto my leg.
I breathe out. I don’t move for a moment.
I climb off him carefully, holding the gun up in my right hand. I get to my feet and step away, look down at myself. No spatter that I can see. Maybe something microscopic but nothing visible. I don’t look like someone who just committed murder.
I hold the barrel of the Glock with one gloved hand and unscrew the suppressor with the other. I wish I didn’t have to use a suppressor, but I couldn’t have gunshots heard by the neighbors.
I put the suppressor in my coat pocket. Taking that with me. One more thing.
The gun could’ve fallen out of his hand, but from what I’ve learned from my former cop buddy, Rambo, that doesn’t usually happen. The hand usually stays wrapped around the handle, the finger still on the trigger, as the hand falls to the side after suicide.
I carefully slide the gun into his lame left hand. I won’t risk wrapping his index finger around the trigger. I’ve already fired one more bullet than intended. I don’t need another one.
Hopefully, the two times his hand was near the gun—the first time, when he swatted it away and the gun accidentally discharged, or the second time, when he touched the suppressor—might cause some gunpowder residue to settle on him. Possible but unlikely. There’s not nearly as much GPR when you use a suppressor, anyway.
I remove the bottle of valium from my pocket. I wrap his right hand around the bottle, impressing his fingers hard on it. Then I unwrap his hand. I take the bottle and spill it over on its side, the pills falling haphazardly to the floor.
Okay. Done. Not perfect, though. God, was I stupid. I should’ve just fired right away. But no, I had to let him know that I knew his name, that I knew his plan. I couldn’t leave well enough alone.
And now I have a bullet up in the corner of the wall to show for it.
I take another long breath. It’s over now. I can’t recover that bullet. I shouldn’t touch anything. I’ve already cleaned, dried, and replaced the glass of bourbon I poured for myself.
And I’ve already cleaned, dried, and replaced the glass of bourbon he drank, removing any trace of the drugs I put in it.
The bottle of bourbon, Basil Hayden, is still sitting on the coffee table in front of him.
I take one more look at him. His eyes are open, looking upward. Looking for forgiveness, Nick?
I head down the stairs and into his garage. I pop open the garage door, walk into the alley, and type in the code on the outside pad. The garage door grinds down behind me. Cool, fresh air on my face.
Things are looking up. Whatever else—
“Hi, Vicky.”
A strong grip on my arm, yanking me, pulling me farther into the alley before I can react.
“Keep those hands where I can see them,” he says. “And don’t even think about screaming.”
The barrel of a gun against my cheek.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Gavin says. “And decide what the fuck is gonna happen next.”
83
Vicky
Gavin walks me halfway down the alley and pushes me into a gangway, dark and empty. He shoves me up against a fence next to a dumpster that shields us from view.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he says, pressing the gun under my chin, just like I did to Christian.
I close my eyes, shake my head.
“Yes, you do. Tell me or we say goodbye right here. Another streetwalking skank murdered in the city.” He brings his face close to mine. “Fucking tell me.”
“You’re . . . Gavin Finley,” I say through a clenched jaw.
“And Christian?” he demands.
“Nick Caracci.”
“Okay, so you did your homework, Vicky Lanier. Vicky Lanier from Fairmont, West Virginia, right? Ran away from home back in 2003?”
I don’t say anything.
“Which is weird,” he goes on, “because a couple months ago, they found the skeleton of a girl by that name buried in some mountain in West Virginia.”