Chapter Forty-One
“Didn’t you learn anything from our first go around in Texas?” Dauscher’s lip pulled back in a sneer. “You can’t win. I’ll always outsmart you.”
River glared at him. It might be the good-natured detective who held the gun, but it was Kent who manipulated the strings. And the puffs of air streaming from the bastard’s mouth indicated the supernatural speed and strength he’d used to overpower River had taken a toll. Perhaps he wasn’t omnipotent after all.
“So? How do you see this playing out?” He coughed and struggled not to wince or move his hand to his side. Damn ribs hurt like hell. Probably got cracked when the asshole tackled me. Instead, he focused on the demon that possessed the best partner he’d ever had. “You going to shoot me with my own gun?”
Kent shrugged. “That’s the plan.”
“Internal Affairs will have more than a few questions.” He clenched his teeth. Shit, I’ll have to come up with a story of my own for IA…after I’ve killed Dauscher. And damn it to hell. How am I supposed to explain to his grandmother I let her grandson get murdered? River shoved the distractive thoughts aside and focused on his partner. That wasn’t Theodore Dauscher holding a gun on him. It was Kent Lee Rowton, his dead ex-partner from Austin. The Valentine Killer.
“So, I tell IA the truth. Detective Chastain and I were tracking the kidnapper through the marsh. It was dark. We got separated. You must have discovered him, and there was a fight for your gun. The kidnapper came up with it and shot you.” Kent smirked, triumphant arrogance rolling from him in waves. He gestured to the side with his free hand. “Unfortunately, the murders will resume. But as a tribute to your death, I’ll volunteer to hunt the copycat Valentine Killer. He’ll never be captured, of course. Because I’ll just pick up where I left off. Servant to the public by day. Psychotic killer by night. Collecting my girls.”
River’s gut twisted. Holy shit. Kent plans to live forever. To kill forever.
A desperate plan formed in his mind. He fell forward, let his hands catch his fall. To hell with not showing weakness. He needed to do something. Now.
Taking deep breaths, he forced his icy-white exhales to dance in the air between him and the sand. He swiped his hands across the cool granules, his fingers smoothing the surface in front of him.
“Oh God.” He forced the words through his lips, injected as much agony as he could muster.
Kent snorted. “Your god can’t help you.”
River leaned to his right, dragged his fingertips through the malleable sand. When he leaned to his left to complete the circle, his ribs screamed in misery. He cringed but managed to draw the first line of the star.
“I have to admit.” Kent tilted his head, assessed River over the end of the Glock. “There’s something different about you. You seem more…I don’t know. Open-minded.”
“Did I ever tell you how full of shit you are?” River shook his head and pulled another line through the sand.
The asshole threw his head back and laughed.
Taking advantage of his distraction, he finished the star. All that remained was the pointed capital D. Would drawing Kent’s symbol alter anything? Who the hell knew? But staring down the barrel of a gun sis things to a man, forced him into strange, inexplicable acts of desperation.
“But seriously, you know we could change our relationship.” Kent ran a hand across his chin, smudging a thick line of blood. He shifted his stance, and the moon reflected in his eyes, bestowing an eerie appearance. “I could let you live, and we could go back to being partners again. I could teach you the ways of Thurisaz.”
“I guess we’d pick out the victims to sacrifice together, too.” Bile spewed into River’s throat. The thought of ever partnering with the psychopath again appalled him. The son of a bitch was pure evil.
“That could work.” Kent grinned. “And just think, we could live forever, watch the world transform, have a hand in history. Damn. Makes a few measly murders seem pretty trivial compared to immortality. And Thurisaz can give it to us.” He jabbed a thick index finger against his broad chest. “I’ve already proved it works. So how about it, partner?”
River gritted his teeth. This is it. The symbol will either alter the situation somehow, keeping me bullet hole free, or it won’t.
“Go to hell, Kent.” He held his breath and drew the pointed D in the center of the pentagram.
Kent brought his free hand up to the gun for added support and aimed at River. “Your way, then.”
He steeled himself. Hope it’s quick. One between the eyes and done.
A high, tight explosive report from a small caliber weapon fractured the air.
Dauscher jerked. The shoulder of his jacket exploded, and polymer stuffing, fragments of tissue and blood spit through the air. His eyes widened with shock. Pain scored his face followed by a feral cry of agony that ripped from his lungs. His finger twitched, and the Glock jumped in his hand.
Fire spewed from the muzzle, a boom assaulted River’s ears. Then something tore through his side. Brutal heat burst through him, testifying he’d been shot. Well, hell. So much for no bullet holes.
The impact sent him sprawling over the sand. He ground his teeth, forced himself to breathe. He glanced over at Kent, who’d fallen to his knees and sat hunched over, blood leaching through the jacket’s nylon shell—but damn if the gun didn’t remain in his hand.
River pushed back onto his knees. Peering down at his own bloody coat, he yanked the zipper down. What lay beneath would tell the tale. He eased the edge of his jacket to the side. Damn. Too much blood. Needing to know the extent of the situation, he pulled up the bottom of his shirt.
Okay then. A nice-sized chunk of skin missing from my side, but no major organs. He lowered the shirt, a shaky sigh of relief hissing through his lips. Hurts like a son of a bitch, but I’ll live.
He glanced toward the woods. Who’d fired the shot?
Movement within the shadows beneath the oak tree caught his eye. He struggled to his feet, wincing with the searing pain. He shuffled in the direction of the trailhead. Eyes squinted, he tried to assemble the shapes into a cohesive form.
Vicki stepped into the moonlight, the olive drab backpack he’d left in the grass slung over her shoulder. She wove her way through the tall grasses and reeds, her gaze riveted on the man she’d shot, the sleek pistol in her hand. Where the hell did she get that?
He looked back at Kent. The bastard sat on his heels in the sand with his head bowed. His hand clutched the jacket near the exit wound. His other hand rested on his thigh, the Glock clutched within his fingers.
River loped toward him. He needed to get his weapon back, end this thing once and for all. Send the evil demon back to Hell where he belongs.
With each step he took, fiery pain erupted in his side, radiating through his torso. The grumble of thunder above seemed to empathize with his plight. But he forced himself to disregard his wound and focus on retrieving his Glock. After all, he’d managed to sidestep destiny for a second time. This was his chance to take control, put the world back to a more logical, familiar state.
Unfortunately, now the genie had escaped the bottle, was there a way to send it back to Hell?
Vicki waited a reasonable distance back in the grasses. Her knitted brow and tight grimace conveyed her concern over his injury. A slight nod indicated she would remain where she stood while he faced off against his possessed partner. Vigilant, she kept her pistol trained on the demon’s back.
“Took you long enough.” Dauscher raised his head, agony clear on his face.
River stopped. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, triggering a wave of nausea. Did I really believe I’d just walk up to the bastard, pluck my gun from his hand, and say thank you?
“God, River.” The big guy bared his teeth, sucked in a breath. “Never been shot before. Hurts like hell.”
Something about the words, the way Dauscher spoke them, caught him off guard. He scrutinized the detective’s face. Was it possible?
“Dauscher?” He took a tentative step forward. Instinct curled his hands into fists as he prepared to take action if the need arose.
Dauscher nodded, and a flash of the old bulldog morphed his features. “I can’t…hold him off for long. Shit, he’s strong.”
River rushed forward, dropped to his knees in front of his partner. “Fight him, Dauscher. Kick his ass.”
“Can’t.” He shook his head and met River’s gaze, acceptance of the inevitable clear in his eyes.
River grimaced. Damn it. Dauscher’s a good man. Gotta save him. “Don’t you quit.”
“I saw it, River. Everything. Sonovabitch made me watch while he attacked that dark-haired artist. Knocked her out with chloroform. Threw that reporter across the room. And, God, River, he enjoyed every second. The things I saw myself doing….” A growl laced with agony erupted from deep inside his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“It’s okay, man.” Anger shuddered through him with the realization of the torture his partner must have gone through. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t you.”
“Here.” Dauscher pushed the gun down his thigh. “Take it.”
He reached out, pried the gun from his partner’s chunky fingers.
A sigh rippled through the big guy. “Now, do it, River.”
“What?”
“One. Between the eyes.”
“No!” Horror crashed through him, tore the air from his lungs.
“I’ve been sitting here ever since I got shot, trying to force the barrel of your gun into my mouth. But the sonovabitch is just too strong. Couldn’t lift it off my leg.” He chuffed, the rush of air a wispy puff from his lips. “But then, the bastard couldn’t move it either. And, man, he wanted to shoot you. Bad.”
Oh, shit. The internal battle between Dauscher and Kent had saved his life.
“You’ve got to shoot me.”
“I can’t.” He didn’t bother to hide the desperation in his voice, which mirrored the anguish in his soul. “There’s another way.”
“Damn it, River! End it. I don’t want to watch him take that butcher knife of his and cut up innocent girls.” His eyes begged him to pull the trigger. “To hear their screams. Get their blood on my hands. I’ll go insane.”
Agony roiled inside him. If he shot Dauscher, he would stop Kent. But knowing the demonic murderer could jump into another body rendered the sacrifice temporary. He’d just take someone else over and pick up where he left off. And if I let Dauscher live, Kent will eventually overwhelm him and find a way to resume his heinous activities anyway.
“River.” The word burst from Dauscher in an anguished howl. He doubled over, and his hands balled into fists while he battled the demon residing within him. “I can’t hold him. Can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Now.” He straightened, gave him a hard stare. The commanding bulldog had taken over, and with a growl, he leaned forward, got in River’s face. “Pull the damned trigger, River.”
“I’m sorry, Dauscher.” With the gun in his hand and no acceptable answer available, he reared back and smashed his fist into his partner’s jaw, cold-cocking him.
The large detective’s eyes rolled back, and he toppled to the ground, unconscious.
“Oh my God,” Vicki gasped and rushed to River’s side. “You knocked him out.”
“Yep.” He shoved his pistol in his shoulder holster then tucked his aching hand beneath the opposite armpit. The cold always made everything hurt more, and with his hand caught between his gun and Dauscher’s jaw, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d broken a finger. In addition, he’d twisted and thrown his weight behind the punch, so not only did his hand throb, but his injury screamed as well. Warm blood trickled down his side. Sitting back on his heels, he tried to catch his breath.
Vicki dropped her purse on the ground then flicked the safety on her pistol and pushed the sleek gun into her front pants pocket. Her hands empty, she shrugged the backpack from her shoulder and opened it, the zipper snicking over the heavy plastic teeth. Reaching inside, she pulled out one of the four-pound boxes of rock salt Lenny had stashed into the pack. “So, you were right about Kent finding a new body.”
“Looks like it.” He stared at his unconscious partner. How do I get Kent out without killing Dauscher?
She set the backpack down and pried open one end of the container in her hand, creating a pour spout. Leaning over, she tipped the box. A cascade of snowy white pellets streamed to the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought it was obvious.” She glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’m making a ring of salt.”
“Oh.” River clenched his teeth against the pain radiating around his torso.
“Lenny said it would keep evil stuff like ghosts and demons inside it.” She finished the circle and straightened to study her handiwork. With a nod, she closed the box and placed it back within the pack. “Supposedly, they can’t step over a line of salt. However, he wasn’t too clear on the hows or whys of it all. Just that the salt line could either keep them out of a place or trapped inside.”
“Yeah, he told me about that.” He gestured at the bag. “He put that backpack together for me.”
“Did he?” She dug in a large exterior pocket on the bag. “Oh, bless you, Lenny.” She knelt next to River and opened a medium-sized white box. Assorted first-aid paraphernalia lay inside.
“Seems our reporter friend planned for the worst.” He shrugged off his jacket and bit back a groan.
“Good thing, too.” She yanked the top from a spray bottle and lifted the edge of his shirt. “This’ll be cold, but it should help with the pain.”
When the liquid hit his skin, he jumped, but after the initial sting, the ache in his side subsided to a more manageable level. “We get through this, I’ll be buying Lenny a beer for sure.”
She retrieved a large bandage and paused, staring at it.
“What?”
She lifted her gaze, her eyes filled with fear. “I had another vision…of you.”
“Huh.” He glanced at his unconscious partner. Icy anger balled in River’s gut. Will the son of a bitch ever die? “Makes sense. Kent’s still here. What’d you see?”
She held up the bandage. “A white square.”
He nodded. One down. “And?”
“A white paper, four red lines, black smoke, and….”
He swallowed. “The killer’s symbol?”
She averted her eyes, concentrated on folding the bandage in half and pressing it to the wound while he held his shirt out of the way. “Yes.”
Well, damn. Destiny has one hell of a sense of humor.
She tore two long strips of medical tape and secured the dressing in place. Closing the kit, she looked at him, her eyes filled with sympathy. “Best I can do.”
He forced a smile, trying to convey his appreciation. “It’s much better.”
Dauscher moaned and shifted his position. His movements remained sluggish, but it wouldn’t be long before the man regained consciousness.
Still kneeling next to River, Vicki stared at the large detective who lay a few feet from them. Her fingers curled against her palms, and her brow knitted. “So. A ring of salt.”
Could salt really keep a demon at bay? He snagged the backpack and dragged it to him. “Lenny’s the expert in this kind of stuff.”
“Yeah.” She glanced at him. “Think it’ll work?”
Dauscher’s eyelids fluttered—or was it Kent’s eyelids? Who had control?
River shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think we’re about to find out.”