The two men’s gazes remained locked. Quinn saw in the killer’s eyes a feverish fear and desperation as well as anger. And there was something else, unmistakable and infuriating: It took Quinn a few seconds to realize that riding the crest of the killer’s fear was a glint of something incongruous but undeniable: amusement. The bastard was actually amused by what was going on around him. Hell was about to break out, and he relished the coming carnage.
The killer said, “I think I’ll save Fatso for last, then strike out for new methods and arousals.”
Turning to see the effects of his words on Castle, the killer instead stood shocked.
The paunchy, terrified man apparently hadn’t been as paralyzed as he’d appeared. He’d managed to escape silently into the garden’s hedge maze.
Quinn took the opportunity to unholster his revolver, but only managed to touch the gun with his fingertips. The killer had quickly swung both his guns to point toward the real and immediate danger. Quinn. Not the bloated phony who had fled in fear into the hedge maze.
The killer had spent hours memorizing the maze from a high window across the street. But he wasn’t sure he would know the maze’s mysteries better than the man who’d possibly designed them.
Another possibility: Was Quinn bright enough to have misled him? Maybe the terrified fat man hadn’t entered the maze at all.
Either way, he was surely free of the maze by now.
As if to confirm the killer’s thoughts, there were sounds of activity from out in the street, beyond the garden and maze.
Then, yes, the fat man’s voice. Almost surely.
The killer, his gaze and guns still fixed on Quinn, listened intently. He hadn’t made out what the man said. Only that someone was really out there. But something surely was wrong.
Quinn, for the first time, saw vulnerability in D.O.A. Something essential had changed. Hunter had become hunted, and knew the heightened senses of the doomed.
Traffic beyond the garden. But not enough. So quiet . . .
The killer understood what the silence meant. Others who hunted him were arriving, arranging themselves strategically. Positioning and preparing.
But they wouldn’t be prepared quite yet. Wouldn’t be in place.
Opportunity. Limited, but exactly what the killer wanted.
Without warning, he sprinted to the hedge maze’s dark entrance.
Quinn, who hadn’t had time even to consider taking a shot at the killer, ran toward where he’d disappeared in darkness, and followed him into the maze.
Into blackness almost complete.
And isolation.
The only sound was the faint brushing of legs and shoulders against the hedges, both men moving fast, each knowing the other’s mind. It was like a dance where neither partner could see the other.
Both knew where the maze would lead.
81
Quinn ran as fast as possible through the hedge maze. He couldn’t build up much speed because of the frequent right-angle turns that required almost complete stops. If he wanted to keep up with the killer he had to dig in toe or heel and pivot sharply with each turn.
He could hear D.O.A. crashing along on the other side of the hedgerow to his right. It sounded as if the killer was directly opposite him, only five or six feet away. But Quinn couldn’t be sure enough to take a blind shot through the thick hedges. Even if his sense of hearing provided enough accuracy for his bullet to find its mark, the hedge’s thick branches and foliage might be enough to divert it to God knew where.
Quinn ran hard, feeling the pain in his thighs and chest, using his ears to direct his feet. He tried to calculate if he was gaining ground on the killer. Now and then he’d make a wrong turn, and he’d have to try to crash through the hedges to the next pathway. That never worked, but he was lucky enough to gain gradually on the killer, to stay close enough to gauge their respective positions.
But not so close as to chance taking a shot.
Luck. Good for me, bad for the killer. He’ll run out of hedgerows eventually.
Then Quinn suddenly wondered if it was luck. The killer was younger and should be able to outrun him.
But the killer didn’t seem to have gained ground.
Wrong. Something was wrong.
Quinn was being led.
Short of breath, his legs and lungs aching, Quinn realized the killer had deliberately lured him through the maze in a circuitous route, back to where the chase had begun.
He wanted to be sure that Quinn understood. That he’d been led. The killer was in control and had chosen the time and place. He wanted death, and knew he was going to die. And he wanted Quinn to die with him, knowing that he, Quinn, had lost the game.
The game that meant everything. Quinn understood now the keen amusement in the killer’s eyes.
Timing was so important.
Both men broke from the hedge maze at almost the same moment, simultaneous to an armada of police and emergency vehicles arriving at the scene. And there were plenty of news media representatives. Vans with tower aerials mounted on their roofs, media wolves already dismounted and on foot, units of camera and lighting professionals, and well-coifed media stars, all running toward police barricades that were already in place. The scene was epic. The night electric.
The killer felt his heart swell. This was what he wanted, even better than he’d anticipated. Here was a drama that would dominate every news outlet, every Internet scan, and hold the population in thrall. The finale of the hunt, with the hunted and hunter locked in deadly combat.
Quinn would understand what had happened, even as his life faded. He’d know he’d been outmaneuvered.
Let the fools of the world think what they may. Quinn would breathe his last knowing he’d lost the game.
And the world will be watching.
Quinn and the killer were both clear of the hedge maze now, and through the garden. Uniformed cops advanced across the street toward them, along with darkly clothed members of the Tactical Unit. They were approaching at slight angles, allowing for a cross fire.
The killer thought his bulletproof vest would keep him alive at least as long as Quinn lived.
Quinn wasn’t so sure. He raised his police special revolver, dropping to one knee so he’d be a smaller target, and opened fire on D.O.A.
The killer seemed invulnerable in his bulky vest. He was smiling as he leveled the Kalashnikov at Quinn.
That was when one of Quinn’s bullets found its way beneath the side of the vest and lodged in the killer’s chest. He dropped hard and didn’t move, supporting himself on one elbow.
Still without a clear shot, the Tactical Unit held its fire.
Wounded in the same leg that had been shot years before, Quinn limped toward the killer, who had struggled up and was now seated cross-legged on the pavement, his arms and hands hanging limply at his sides.
As Quinn came near, he saw again the madness and amusement in the killer’s eyes. The eyes were hypnotic, and Quinn was distracted enough that he didn’t see until it was too late the killer raise a handgun that had been concealed beneath his right thigh.
Quinn knew that from this range, he was dead.
The killer hesitated, savoring the moment.
Steadied his aim.
Pearl shot him.
The heavy Glock round slammed into the killer’s head, just behind his right ear.
As he lay dying, the killer stared up at the night sky and knew he’d be huge in tomorrow’s papers. Where he’d always wanted to be. Above the fold.
Quinn had a round left in his revolver. He stood and started to walk over so he could shoot the killer again in the head. He needed to be sure that D.O.A. was finally and forever dead. There was no pain, but his right leg gave out and he was on his knees again. He looked down and saw that his thigh was bleeding.