“I can’t let you go, Foster. I’ve taken too many risks lately.” I raise the blade to his chin. “You’ve proven that tonight.”
I give him a few seconds to absorb the reality of his situation. What will he do? He’s surprised me once—maybe he’s capable of more.
He lunges for the weapon.
His beefy grip on the knife results in a slash to his palm. Red spreads to the cuff of his coat. He manages to knock me off balance, taking me to the dewy earth. Spittle flies from his mouth as he grunts from above, still trying to wrangle the knife from my grasp.
“You cost me everything, you fucker.” Enraged, Foster throws a blow toward my head. He strikes my ear, and I release my grip on the weapon.
I’m able to nudge my booted foot under his ample stomach and shove him off. He lands on his back, knife in hand. I get to my feet and stand over him. “Dr. Noble is above you. Skulking around her like a prick with a hard-on reveals your incompetency.”
He wheezes in a breath. “I’m not the only one with a hard-on for the doc,” he says. His hand shoots out quicker than I predict. The razor-sharp edge of the blade slices into my shin. The pain is delayed; my adrenaline too ramped. I stomp on Foster’s wrist, pinning his hand, and extract the switchblade from his meaty digits.
“Besides,” I say as I wipe the blade clean on his collar. “You’re wrong about her. Your preoccupation with the good doctor is giving you tunnel vision. You need to cast your net wider.” Hands on knees, I get close to his face. “Unless that’s your plan. To frame London.”
Debilitating fear clouds his expression, hindering my assessment. I’m unable to get a clear read on him. Foster trembles with a combination of rage and anxiety, masking any hint of shock on his part.
“What are you talking about, you psycho?”
His response is disappointing. Since I can’t have him getting in the way any further…
“We should make this look good,” I say. “It would be too much of an embarrassment on your part if I got away too easy, don’t you think?” I plant my foot on his forearm and grab his wrist.
Confusion draws his eyebrows together, until the sickening crunch of bone snapping reverberates off the tombstones. Finally, real emotion displays on his face. I feel the crack of Foster’s radial bone beneath my boot.
A litany of foul words imbue the night as Foster moves through the stages of shock, pain, fear. And finally, rage.
“You motherfucker—” His tirade persists, spittle flying, as he draws his broken arm to his chest. Sprawled on his back, the detective resembles a flipped turtle, limbs striking the ground with no ability to right himself.
“A broken wing won’t stop you for long.” I prod beneath his waist and unclip the set of handcuffs. Then I drag Foster toward the staked headstone where I kicked up the stone. It’s not an open grave, but it will do. Besides, I can’t have the detective traumatized. We still need him.
His feet kick out at me, but he’s too preoccupied with his pain to put up much of a fight. I fasten one cuff to his chubby ankle, the other to the exposed rebar of the cheap headstone. He cries out as the steel cuff bites into his flesh.
“You should think about a diet, old man.” I pocket the handcuff keys, thinking they’d look beautiful strung around London’s neck.
After a useless attempt to work the cuff free of the rebar, Foster relents. Breathless, he glares up at me. “I don’t care what the media says, you’re a killer. Just a fucking killer like any other homicidal criminal locked up in prison.”
I squat next to him and—I give him credit—he doesn’t flinch. “Do you really think now is the time to have me come to God?” My tone is brutally serious.
Real fear flashes in his eyes. For the first time, the detective who’s looked death in the eyes every day of his career realizes that today might be his last.
I reach into the inseam of his coat and take out his phone. “You have two choices,” I say, setting the cell next to his head. “Get yourself out of the handcuffs, or call for help.”
His gaze narrows. “You’re giving me options?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Not much of an option. You can chew through your ankle rather than face the degradation of your department and every other official…not to mention the media you so loathe. But I just don’t think you have the stomach for it.”
Cradling his wounded arm, Foster glances between me and the phone. I stand. “Good luck.”
As I start off, he says, “Just tell me she’s in on it.”
My eyes close. “You just can’t leave it alone. Even for your own good.”
“I’m a detective,” he says around a grunt. “If the doc was a conspirator in your escape, I’ll figure it out.”
No, he won’t.
I turn around and collect Foster’s phone. Scrolling through the messages and recent calls, I shake my h