Oh my God was right, D.D. thought. She stared at Phil. Phil stared back at her, then together they looked at the table, the sprawling, full color collage of two women’s murders.
“Charlie,” D.D. said urgently. “Tell me about Abigail. You need to remember Abigail. Because somehow, some way, she’s become a Boston detective known as Ellen O, who at the very least has killed three sex offenders, as well as probably murdered your two best friends. Your sister’s not only alive, but she’s coming for you, Charlie. In a matter of hours, you’re dead.”
Chapter 39
THE PROBLEM WITH BOXING is that it’s a relatively civilized sport.
You face off squarely against your opponent. You use only your fists. You aim only above the waist.
From a self-defense point of view, this strategy is not as effective as say, an all-out brawl. Certainly, there were other disciplines I could’ve studied that might have been more appropriate for fighting off a murderer, while also being more efficient for a girl.
But from the very beginning, I loved boxing.
I think I’ve waited my entire life to stand before my attacker and stare her in the eye.
Fortunately, my boxing coach, Dick, taught self-defense classes for women. He also hinted of a misspent youth, where knocking heads and kicking ass seemed the easiest solution to all of life’s problems. For the past year, after our bouts, he’d shared some of his secrets with me. J.T., my firearms instructor, had done the same. Trust me, if you want to learn how to fight dirty, ask a guy who used to be Marine Force Recon. Apparently, when it comes to warfare, they really do believe the end justifies the means.
I didn’t complain then, and I wasn’t complaining now, as I went through my final preparations.
Three forty-five P.M. Daylight already fading.
Nightfall would bring me cover. I could leave Tom’s apartment, home in on my final target, and start making amends for past mistakes. Assuming I wasn’t already too late.
I started with the easy tricks. Ballpoint pen thrust into the elastic at the base of my ponytail, where it would be easily accessible. From Tom’s bureau, I’d helped myself to one long white athletic sock. Now I stuffed the foot with the four D batteries, tied a knot in the ankle, then whipped it around a few times experimentally. The heavy weight in the toe stretched it out and would pack quite a punch, enabling me to inflict damage, while also staying out of strike range.
I used the duct tape to fashion a sturdy knife sheath, then attached it to my ankle. Into the sheath I thrust a short, serrated kitchen blade. Not optimal, but if I was at the stage where I needed a knife, I was already in trouble. I didn’t have those kinds of skills. Wasn’t even sure I had that kind of stomach. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.
I heard footsteps out in the hall and froze. A quiet quick rap.
“It’s me,” came Tom’s low voice, then I heard his key in the lock.
Quickly, I grabbed the remaining items and shoved them in my pants pockets. Already, I was breathing too hard, my heart rate accelerating. At the last minute, I dropped and loosened the laces on both my heavy boots.
I was just straightening up when Tom walked in.
And that quickly, it was game time.
January 21.
Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.
I’d like to think that Detective D. D. Warren’s shocking declaration had opened the floodgates of my mind. I magically remembered my long-lost sister Abigail. I magically understood Detective O and the relevance of the twenty-first, and why my best friends had to die. I even understood why a respected sex crime detective had started shooting perverts, leaving the same disturbing note with each body, while framing me for her crimes.
I didn’t.