K Is for Killer

Lorna and Danielle. Was I the only one who really cared about them? I held the missing piece of the puzzle, but there were no options open to me, no means of redress. There was something humiliating about my own ineffectiveness. I crossed the room and paced back, feeling powerless. The phone rang again and I snatched up the receiver.
    "This is Cheney..." His voice was oddly flat.
    "Hey, great. I was hoping you'd call back. Surely, between us, there's a way to do this," I said. I thought he was calling to apologize for being such a hard-ass. I expected him to offer a suggestion about some action we might take, so I was completely unprepared for what came next.
    "That was St. Terry's on the line. The ICU nurse. We lost Danielle. She just died," he said.
    I felt myself blink, waiting for the punchline. "She died?"
    "She went into cardiac arrest. I guess they coded her, but it was too late to pull her back."
    "Danielle died? That's absurd. I just saw her last night."
    "Kinsey, I'm sorry. The call just came in. I'm as surprised as you are. I hate to be the one to tell you, but I thought you should know."
    "Cheney." My tone was rebuking while his had become compassionate.
    "You want me to come over?"
    "No, I don't want you to come over. I want you to quit fucking with my head," I snapped. "Why are you doing this?"
    "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
    The line clicked out and he was gone.
    Carefully, I set the receiver in the cradle. Still standing, I put a hand across my mouth. What was this? What was happening? How could Danielle be dead while Roger was beyond reach? At first, I felt nothing. My initial response was a curious blank, no sensation at all attached. I took in the truth content of what Cheney had told me, but there was no corresponding emotional reaction. Like a monkey, I plucked up this bright coin of information and turned it over in my hand. I believed in my head, but I couldn't comprehend with my heart. I remained motionless for perhaps a minute, and when feelings finally crept back, what I experienced wasn't grief, but a mounting fury. Like some ancient creature hurtling up from the deep, my rage broke the surface and I struck.
    I picked up the receiver, put my hand in my jeans pocket, and pulled out the card I'd been given in the limousine. The scribbled number was there, some magical combination of digits that spelled death. I dialed, giving absolutely no thought to what I was doing. I was propelled by the hot urge to act, by the blind need to strike back at the man who had dealt me this blow.
    After two rings, the phone was picked up on the other end. "Yes?"
    I said, "Roger Bonney killed Lorna Kepler."
    I hung up. I sat down. I felt my face twist with heat, and tears spilled briefly.
    I went into the bathroom and looked out the window, but the street beyond was dark. I went back to my desk. Oh, Jesus. What had I done? I picked up the phone and dialed the number again. Endless rings. No answer. I put the phone down. Hands shaking, I pulled my gun from the bottom drawer and popped in a fresh clip. I eased the gun into the waistband at the back of my jeans and pulled on my jacket. I grabbed my handbag and car keys, turned out the lights, and locked the door behind me.
    I hit the 101, heading out toward Colgate. I kept checking my rearview mirror, but there was no sign of the limousine. At Little Pony Road, I took the off-ramp and turned right, continuing past the fairgrounds until I reached the intersection at State. I stopped at the traffic light, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in impatience, checking my rearview mirror again. Along the main thoroughfare there was only one touch of color, words written out in red neon on the drugstore I spotted. SAV-ON, the sign said. The shopping mall to my left was apparently having a gala all-night sale. Klieg lights pierced the sky. White plastic flags were strung from pole to pole. At the entrance to the parking lot, a clown and two mimes were motioning for passing cars to turn in. The two mimes in whiteface began a playlet between them. I couldn't tell what silent drama the two were enacting, but one turned and looked at me as I pulled away from the light. I checked back, but all I saw was the painted sorrow on his downturned mouth.
    I sped past a darkened service station, the bays and gasoline pumps shut down for the night. I could hear a burglar alarm clanging, apparently in a shop close by, but there was no sign of the police and no pedestrians