Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [139]
“It’s me,” Wilber said.
He then calmly pumped three bullets into Mark Lavetti’s chest.
The first two found flesh and bone.
The third shattered the bottle of nitro Rev. Jim had slipped inside the pocket of Lavetti’s black windbreaker.
The explosion sent Wilber flying onto his back and killed anyone on the back grass who wasn’t already dead.
Rev. Jim saw the blast from the second-floor balcony. He shook his head and turned away.
“Some friends you found yourself, Lavetti,” he said.
• • •
MRS. COLUMBO WALKED along the wall leading to the second-floor den. Gunfire erupted throughout the house and thick plumes of smoke filtered down the halls, tearing her eyes. She had a .38 Special in her right hand, held down against her thigh. There were scattered bodies and debris everywhere.
She stepped over a black-suited shooter, face down in his own blood, and turned a curved corner, bumping into a tall man with deep lacerations on his face and arms.
“You must be the one they call Mrs. Columbo,” Wilber Graves said in a voice revealing his British boarding school education. Graves was born to a life of luxury and had the habits to prove it. But at a young age he had trained his full attention on doing what he liked to do best—kill.
Mrs. Columbo went to lift her gun, but his hand was faster. Graves reached out to hold it in place with a powerful grip. She heard the snap of a switchblade and watched as he moved closer, the fear of the knife stalking her once again, paralyzing her.
She saw the blade come up but could do nothing.
She waited but the knife came no closer. Wilber Graves had noticed her vest, knew the knife in his hand wouldn’t penetrate. Mrs. Columbo smiled.
“I’m not making it easy for you, am I?” she said.
“I prefer you didn’t,” Wilber said, smiling back.
Mrs. Columbo lifted a knee to Wilber’s groin and brought the bone of her elbow flush against his nose, breaking it and blinding him with his own blood. He let go of her hand and fell to his knees. She lifted her gun hand and rested the pistol against the top of his head.
“Pull the trigger,” Wilber whispered.
Mrs. Columbo made the error every cop dreads.
She hesitated.
She flashed back to the night she was attacked, her body ravaged by a madman’s angry knife. She could see the blade swish up and down and felt the pain each time it cracked through skin. She was meant to die that night on that street.
Instead, it would be another man, holding another knife, who would decide the ending to her life.
Wilber Graves shoved the blade of the knife into her knee and twisted it. Mrs. Columbo let out a low groan and dropped the gun. Her left leg went numb and she felt dizzy, holding on to the wall for support. Wilber lifted his right hand and slid her down next to him. He pulled the knife out of her leg, reached behind her to undo the vest. Mrs. Columbo looked at the ceiling, her eyes barely able to focus, her upper body cold, the side of her leg warmed by the flow of blood.
“I’ll miss you, Mrs. Columbo,” Wilber told her.
“Wish I could say the same,” Mrs. Columbo said.
Wilber lifted the edge of her vest and rammed the knife deep into the center of her stomach, sliding it up until he bumped against the muscle of the chest cavity. He left it lodged there, too deeply imbedded to remove. Mrs. Columbo looked at him through glassy eyes, a sharp rush of pain mingled with a soothing numbness. She turned her head to the wall, closed her eyes, and thought about her son.
No one could harm her anymore.
• • •
BOOMER WAS THE one who found her.
He fell to his knees, slipping on her blood. He lifted her head and cradled it. She was still breathing, if barely, tongue licking at her lips. She opened one eye and did her best to smile.
“It took this to get you to hold me,” she whispered.
Boomer didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak.
“I told you I could handle the rockets,” she said.
He nodded.
“You proud of me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Very proud.”
“Means a lot,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“I love you, Mary,” Boomer said. But