“What is your problem, woman?”
“My problem? Well let’s see, I was beaten, raped, hung by a rope around my neck and left to choke to death. You let the men who did that go free for your own personal political gain, and the gain of the system and politicians you represent. Those criminals went on to beat my friend and boss nearly to death. He may not live the night. You, Mr. Babington, made all that possible. You were an accessory to both crimes.”
Clearly not intimidated by her gun, he zipped up his pants. “Put that gun down or I’ll see to it you go to jail for the rest of your life for pointing a firearm at an officer of the court!”
“Then I guess, if I’m going to serve the time, I might as well do the crime.”
“I followed the law with those undocumented aliens. The people of this state want them protected. That’s what I did—the people’s bidding.”
“What you did, Mr. Babington, was side with killers rather than their victims.”
He stood in a huff. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, young lady, but I’m leaving. You’re a fool to think you could get away with this. People would miss me and come looking. You harm me and you will go to jail for attempted murder.”
She tilted her head. “How do you suppose anyone is going to know where to find you? You left your phone in your office so that no one would know you were going off to blackmail yet another innocent woman. How many times have you done this? How many women, Mr. Babington?”
He scowled defiantly as he gestured dismissively. “You’re only the second. You and Tiffany—that’s all.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you? Hmm?”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. I’m leaving. Expect the police to be here within the hour.”
“Move either foot and I’ll pull the trigger.”
She could see in his eyes that he was trying to decide if he believed her and if he dared to try to leave.
His gaze went from the gun to the tattoo across her throat. When he saw the words “DARK ANGEL,” his confidence faltered.
“You let those four men go,” she told him. “Those men are killers. This isn’t only about me. It’s about all the other victims you condemn to suffer, like Barry tonight. How many people have been brutalized or even murdered because you let killers go, or you let them plea-bargain, or you lowered the charges as a favor to their attorney? How many monsters have you let go back on the street to kill again?”
“I only follow the law.”
“The laws you represent are as corrupt as you are.”
“All right, you win,” he said as he held up his hands as if to ward her off. “I’ll file charges of attempted murder against those four men. I’ll have them prosecuted. I’ll see to it that they go to jail for a good long time. How about that? Do we have a deal?”
“Is that how the law works, Mr. Babington? That the way it’s done? You only enforce it when you’re afraid for your life? Not when the victims of violence are afraid for theirs?”
Angela had gone to sleep many a night having fantasies about torturing this man to death. It would be easy enough, and he would certainly deserve what she could do to him.
But she was worried for Barry and she just wasn’t in the mood. This man sickened her. The system he represented sickened her. She was sick of looking at him, sick of listening to him.
While keeping the gun on him, she lifted open the hatch.
Angela gestured with her gun. “Kneel over here.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so, that’s why.”
He reluctantly knelt, thinking it might somehow get him out of this. He peered down into the darkness below.
“Take everything out of your pockets and toss it to the side.”
“Please,” he said as he followed her instructions with trembling hands. There was no longer any trace of arrogance in his voice. “I’ve learned my lesson—I swear. Let me go and I will just forget this whole ugly incident. I’ll have those four men arrested and I will charge them with attempted murder, like you want. Just let me go.”
Angela didn’t answer. She walked around behind him and without further ceremony fired a bullet into the back of his skull. A .22 could easily penetrate the thick bone of the skull if fired at a direct angle. Angela’s fired at a direct angle. The sound of the shot echoed around the small basement, making her ears ring.
John Babington tumbled forward into the hell hole.
Angela leaned over, watching his lifeless body descend into the darkness.
“Karma is a bitch.”
FORTY-TWO
After John Babington had vanished into the darkness of the hell hole, Angela tossed the gun down after him. She watched it fall, glance twice off the granite walls on the way down, and finally fade away into the darkness until she could no longer see it. She had learned long ago not to bother waiting to hear things hit bottom.
Once she had used a gun to kill someone, that gun became forever tainted with the potential for all kinds of trouble. There was forensic evidence she could only begin to imagine—blood spatter, serial numbers, as well as distinctive marks left by the magazine, the firing pin, and gun barrel rifling.
Once she had used a gun on someone, that gun would never be used again. It always went down the abyss along with the killer. Owen was the only man so far that had not ended up in the hell hole. Of course, the knife she had used to kill him had, along with everything she’d been wearing that could have had any blood evidence on it.
Angela could easily have enticed Owen to her house and spent several days initiating him into hell. But it had been more important to her that Carrie’s remains be found so that her family would have closure than it was for Owen to be sent down the hell hole. She hoped that he was in hell, the real one, for the rest of eternity.
Angela removed her boots, with her knife and sheath inside the lining, and tossed them down into the hell hole. Like the gun, they could potentially have a wealth of forensic evidence on them. After her boots, she removed her shorts, underwear, and her top and threw them in as well.
Even if they never found John Babington’s body, a bullet penetrating the skull created internal pressure that often blew blood droplets, as well as tiny specks of brain matter and hair, back away from the hole. It was inevitable that some of that, even minuscule amounts, would end up on her clothes. He’d had his hand in her pants; they could probably find skin cells from his fingers on her thong.
If any tiny speck were to be found on her clothes, the police forensic department could test DNA from his relatives and tie it to Babington. Even without a body, they could probably still convict her of killing him on circumstantial evidence alone.
Truly evil men often got away with their crimes because of legal technicalities, or things like Babington dropping the charges for political reasons. Even when politics weren’t involved, the victims were routinely ignored as unimportant while thugs like Boska were granted favors and leniency. Time after time they were let go for any reason someone could come up with. Rap sheets of violent crimes grew to multiple pages with nothing done to stop, much less punish, the violent criminal. Babington was part of that whole corrupt system. It took something like a minivan to finally end the injustice.
But Angela knew that if it was her they would go to the ends of the earth to make sure she spent the rest of her life in prison. They couldn’t have people killing prosecutors, no matter how much they might deserve it. That’s the way government officials were. Protect their own at all costs.