Page 94 of Madison Square Murders
Dead.
Doyle.
Doyle’s dead.
Doyle’s dead.
Larkin was thirty-five, and he was still terrified. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry. All he could do was raise his left arm with the SIG, and it didn’t even feel like he was in control—it felt like his spirit wasn’t even attached to his body anymore.
Harry swung the bat against Larkin’s left forearm.
Snap.
Larkin dropped the SIG and lurched forward, instinctively cradling his arm to his chest. His vision doubled, blackened, seemed to narrow to a pinpoint. Then Harry bellowed. He raised the bat and took another swing, but Larkin dropped to one knee, narrowly avoiding having his head lopped clean off. Instead, Harry slammed the barrel of the bat into the drywall and flecks of white rained down on the old wooden floorboards. Undeterred, Harry raised the bat high overhead and brought it down. Larkin fell backward on his ass to avoid the next assault, and he watched as Harry ended up beating the floor with the bat instead, the reverb going through his hands and arms making him grunt in pain.
Larkin scrambled to his knees, pushed himself up with one hand, went for the SIG. Harry gave another feverish cry and kicked Larkin in the ribs. Larkin let out awhooshof air and dropped, curling into a ball.
“Are you certain it was seven o’clock?” Harry leaned over Larkin, repeating back one of his statements from their conversation Monday morning. “You arrogant little fucking cocksucker! I knew then I was going tolovebashing your brains in!” He grabbed a handful of Larkin’s blond hair, yanked his head up, and shoved it against the wall. He pinned Larkin in place with the bat’s endcap against his neck and spat in Larkin’s face.
The sound of a gunshot consumed the small apartment space, caused it to warp inward and then expand out again like a bubble that refused to pop. Blood spurted across Larkin’s face, and for a brief second, he thought he’d been shot and his body simply hadn’t yet acknowledged the pain, with all of the adrenaline pumping through his veins. But Harry sagged forward, then slowly back, released his grip on Larkin, and collapsed to the floor.
Larkin looked down. A clean shot to Harry’s chest. It looked like it’d shattered his collarbone. Harry was bleeding, still breathing, but clearly without considerable labor. In contrast, Larkin could feel his own chest rising and falling in a mess of sharps and flats and impromptu rests. He couldn’t hear anything except that high-pitched ringing left in the aftermath of gunfire, but he was alive. Larkin looked down the hall.
Doyle, breathing hard, his right eye nearly swollen shut and a nasty gash across his forehead bleeding all over, lowered his Glock from firing stance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Larkin sat on the side of an emergency room bed in nothing but a pale blue hospital gown. His forearm had been given a temporary splint in the time between him being divested of his clothing and the operating room being prepped for his visit. His left flank hurt like a motherfucker, but the X-ray technician had sworn up and down he’d only been on the receiving end of two bruised ribs. Larkin’s forearm hadn’t been so lucky. Harry had fractured both the radius and ulna with his goddamn baseball bat, and apparently it was the kind of break that needed surgical correction before they’d slap a cast on and send Larkin on his way.
He studied the granular patterns in the tile floor and listened to the murmur of emergency room nurses nearby and the constant drone of various machines beeping. The room smelled like recycled air and harsh cleaning products, but it was better than a bloated body in a bathtub. Larkin closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with his good hand. The curtain rings rattled on the overhead metal railing around his bed. He raised his head, expecting staff arriving to whisk him off for surgery. But it wasn’t hospital personnel.
It was Doyle. He did a double check over his shoulder, like he damn well knew he wasn’t allowed back here but was going to break the rules anyway, then moved into the space. He smiled, but the black eye and bandage across his forehead had a way of muddling the effect that killer look usually had. Still, though, it buoyed Larkin.
“Hey,” Doyle said in a low murmur.
“Hi.” Larkin pointed. “How’s…? Are you…?”
“I’m fine,” Doyle insisted. “Looks worse than it is. A nick in the bat sliced me open, but after a few stitches, I’m good to go.” He studied Larkin for a long moment. “How’re you?”
“Physically, I need surgery. Probably won’t lie comfortably for a few days either.” The recycled air suddenly felt stronger, like an Arctic gale. Gooseflesh broke out across his exposed legs. Larkin studied the tiles again as he said, “I saw that baseball bat and froze.”
Doyle took a few more steps before his wingtips came into view.
Larkin shook his head, cleared his throat, and looked up. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He had to work his mouth so Doyle wouldn’t see his chin quiver, but there wasn’t a way to hide the tears welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
“You didn’t. Harry was hiding in the closet, and it was my fault for holstering my weapon before properly clearing it.”
“But I froze. If I hadn’t—”
Doyle leaned down a bit awkwardly, given his height, in order to press their foreheads together. “I’m alive. You’re alive. And better still, I didn’t blow that human-sized piece of shit into next week, so they’re gonna patch him up and then we can question him to our hearts’ content. Ask him why he stopped with the Polaroids. Why he transitioned to cast iron when it meant forging the mask at work and taking a huge chance with his safety. How many victims, where he left them, what their names were…. Evie, you caught this sick son-of-a-bitch red-handed.” Doyle straightened his posture a bit. “In the closet there was a gym bag full of the cast-iron masks. I think he didn’t go out the window when you heard the lock, because the first cruiser had already pulled up. He was a caged animal.”
Larkin quietly considered this.
Doyle drew his fingers through Larkin’s hair a few times. “Jessica Lopez is still alive. That bat is likely the original murder weapon used against all those womenandAndrew. Three days ago, no one knew who Andrew Gorman even was, now he’s going to get the justice he deserves. Please tell me you understand that you’ve done something incredible?”
Larkin nodded. He looked up when Doyle dropped his hand. “I wouldn’t have been able to without you.”
Doyle sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Listen.”
