onto Aaron.
Sighing, she retraced her steps to the front doors. She had five different excuses to tell Paul, none any good, and decided to just breeze in as if she owned the place and let him rain the litany of her transgressions down on her head. Take the bitter pill and get it over with.
Drawing a breath, she strong-armed the mahogany front door and wondered why Paul wasn’t standing at the ready, poised to berate her. As the door swung shut behind her she stepped through the atrium and turned toward Jessica’s desk, a question on her lips as the door swung shut behind her, and then she saw the carnage in the office.
Paul de Fore was splayed on the tile floor face down, blood pooling beneath his open mouth from a gunshot wound to the back of his head. She could hear moaning from beyond him. In a dream state she stepped over Paul and went to Jessica’s desk, giving a quick look over the top to see the receptionist on the floor behind her chair, curled up in the fetal position, blood blooming around the mounds of her breasts from a wound to the chest, small mewls issuing from her lips.
A roaring started in Liv’s ears. She glanced to the partition of her own desk, her blood pounding, a voice screaming loudly. She clapped her hands over her ears to stop it and realized the shrieking voice was coming from her.
She clamped her jaw shut; her lips trembled violently. Heart beating so hard she could see it jumping through her clothes, she cautiously stepped forward, half-expecting the gunman to jump from behind the partition. She was quaking so much she could scarcely stand. From around the corner that led to the executive offices, she saw the outstretched hand of a man wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt: Kurt Upjohn.
Liv staggered toward him, peeking reluctantly around the corner. Upjohn was lying half-in, half-out of his office. Beyond lay Aaron’s body. Both of them were riddled with gunshot wounds.
Kill you. Kill you!
Backing away, she threw a glance toward the stairway and the geeks upstairs and Phil. That door was always locked. Shivering as from ague, her brain unable to process, she staggered back to Jessica’s desk and hit the main phone line, punching out 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“There’s—been a shooting,” she said in a stranger’s voice. She gave the address, then the receiver clattered from her hand as the operator begged her, “Don’t hang up. Don’t hang up,” and she didn’t. She simply let the receiver drop to the ground just like she had in her kitchen a few nights before.
She stood frozen for the space of five rapid heartbeats.
Then with a cry she ran back out the front door, her thoughts pinging around in her head as she considered how close she’d come to being gunned down as well.
It’s you they’re after. You! Always you , the paranoid voice in her head warned. Go home. Get your own gun. And RUN.
“Nine!” Detective George Thompkins bellowed from his swivel chair at the far end of the squad room.
Detective September “Nine” Rafferty, named and nicknamed for the month she was born, jumped as if goosed. She’d been filling out some paperwork but the tone of George’s voice drove her instantly to her feet. She was a newly minted detective and so she stood ramrod straight. “Yes?”
“Just talked to D’Annibal. He’s on his way in.” George cast a glance to the darkened glass cubicle that was their superior’s, Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal’s, office. D’Annibal was on the last hours of his vacation and that left George in charge, a dubious honor for a dubious commander. George liked to squeak his heft in his swivel chair and remain at his desk and that was about it. Now he swiveled around and said, “Jesus Christ. There’s been a shooting at Zuma Software. Patrol’s on the way. Get over there and see what’s what. D’Annibal’s orders.”
“And me?” Detective Gretchen Sandler demanded in her nasal tone.
Sighing, she retraced her steps to the front doors. She had five different excuses to tell Paul, none any good, and decided to just breeze in as if she owned the place and let him rain the litany of her transgressions down on her head. Take the bitter pill and get it over with.
Drawing a breath, she strong-armed the mahogany front door and wondered why Paul wasn’t standing at the ready, poised to berate her. As the door swung shut behind her she stepped through the atrium and turned toward Jessica’s desk, a question on her lips as the door swung shut behind her, and then she saw the carnage in the office.
Paul de Fore was splayed on the tile floor face down, blood pooling beneath his open mouth from a gunshot wound to the back of his head. She could hear moaning from beyond him. In a dream state she stepped over Paul and went to Jessica’s desk, giving a quick look over the top to see the receptionist on the floor behind her chair, curled up in the fetal position, blood blooming around the mounds of her breasts from a wound to the chest, small mewls issuing from her lips.
A roaring started in Liv’s ears. She glanced to the partition of her own desk, her blood pounding, a voice screaming loudly. She clapped her hands over her ears to stop it and realized the shrieking voice was coming from her.
She clamped her jaw shut; her lips trembled violently. Heart beating so hard she could see it jumping through her clothes, she cautiously stepped forward, half-expecting the gunman to jump from behind the partition. She was quaking so much she could scarcely stand. From around the corner that led to the executive offices, she saw the outstretched hand of a man wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt: Kurt Upjohn.
Liv staggered toward him, peeking reluctantly around the corner. Upjohn was lying half-in, half-out of his office. Beyond lay Aaron’s body. Both of them were riddled with gunshot wounds.
Kill you. Kill you!
Backing away, she threw a glance toward the stairway and the geeks upstairs and Phil. That door was always locked. Shivering as from ague, her brain unable to process, she staggered back to Jessica’s desk and hit the main phone line, punching out 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“There’s—been a shooting,” she said in a stranger’s voice. She gave the address, then the receiver clattered from her hand as the operator begged her, “Don’t hang up. Don’t hang up,” and she didn’t. She simply let the receiver drop to the ground just like she had in her kitchen a few nights before.
She stood frozen for the space of five rapid heartbeats.
Then with a cry she ran back out the front door, her thoughts pinging around in her head as she considered how close she’d come to being gunned down as well.
It’s you they’re after. You! Always you , the paranoid voice in her head warned. Go home. Get your own gun. And RUN.
“Nine!” Detective George Thompkins bellowed from his swivel chair at the far end of the squad room.
Detective September “Nine” Rafferty, named and nicknamed for the month she was born, jumped as if goosed. She’d been filling out some paperwork but the tone of George’s voice drove her instantly to her feet. She was a newly minted detective and so she stood ramrod straight. “Yes?”
“Just talked to D’Annibal. He’s on his way in.” George cast a glance to the darkened glass cubicle that was their superior’s, Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal’s, office. D’Annibal was on the last hours of his vacation and that left George in charge, a dubious honor for a dubious commander. George liked to squeak his heft in his swivel chair and remain at his desk and that was about it. Now he swiveled around and said, “Jesus Christ. There’s been a shooting at Zuma Software. Patrol’s on the way. Get over there and see what’s what. D’Annibal’s orders.”
“And me?” Detective Gretchen Sandler demanded in her nasal tone.
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