Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [88]
So Evelyn Hunter had to be compelled to stab her husband, Jonathan, in his bare chest repeatedly.
The man playing Philip Kindred delivered his lines with gusto. But it was hard to believe in the lines, to truly inhabit them, because he knew exactly how this would play out. After all, he’d read the rest of the script.
There was no way Evelyn Hunter here would stab her husband, Jonathan, in the chest. No way. Even with her kids’ lives on the line. Mann had put the statistical probability at 0.5 percent. No. All psychological profiling pointed to the likelihood that the Hunters would prefer to die together rather than live on with the death of yet another family member staining their souls.
So, when all the lines were run, and all the tears were shed, the man playing Philip Kindred was supposed to pull the trigger and put a bullet into the back of Evelyn Hunter’s head. Immediately to be followed by two in the chest for Mr. Hunter, right in the pumper.
Then it would be time to make their getaway through the back, the path already cleared for them, the keys in the black van, ready to go.
And the kids?
Again, the woman playing Jane had it easy. The kids had to live, because the Kindreds never killed kids—supposedly they identified with them way too much. Which seemed to be even more cruel than the alternative, forcing them to watch their parents die horribly and begging for their lives… but hey, he wasn’t the one writing the script.
Still, “Jane” didn’t even have to kill anybody, while “Philip” would rack up a quadruple murder.
And no lines! “Jane” had no fucking lines!
So now it was winding up, and the fake Philip was already thinking ahead to the shot, trying to steel himself for it, because no matter how many ethical games you play with yourself, you’re still squeezing the trigger and putting a bullet into the back of a living, breathing person’s head. No matter how much of a badass you think you are, that still gets to you. Deep inside.
And then the front door blasted open and this crazy-looking guy in an LAPD shirt and bloody jeans raced in, guns in each hand, charging right for them, and the man playing Philip thought to himself—did he miss a page or two of script or what?
This was not what Hardie expected.
He expected Topless or Tallboy or one of the other faceless minions skulking around, flicking their fingernails against a syringe, trying to get the air bubbles out, unzipping body bags and working over every surface with a rag and a can of Pledge.
He didn’t expect to see two punks with guns holding a family hostage in the middle of a modest, tastefully appointed living room.
Frankly, he didn’t expect that they’d still be alive. Hardie thought he’d burst into this room on a mission of pure vengeance, a biblical reckoning.
Hardie lifted his right Glock and fired. The bullet struck the male punk in the shoulder and spun him like a top, sending him crashing into a small table littered with framed photographs.
Then Hardie turned and pointed the gun at the punk girl, who was already on her feet and climbing backward over the living room couch. Hardie gave her one in the arm. She shrieked as the bullet propelled her off the top of the couch and sent her crashing to the floor. She shrieked again, in one hot, angry burst, then started moaning.
Hardie closed the distance between himself and the fallen male.
“Stop stop stop,” he was murmuring, actually cowering as Hardie approached. “Please don’t shoot me again, this is not what you think, oh God, please.”
A voice behind Hardie croaked to life.
“That’s Philip Kindred. He’s a serial killer, along with his sister over there behind the couch. Don’t listen to anything he says, because it’ll be a lie.”
Hardie turned to the shirtless man who’d spoken—Jonathan Hunter—and instantly felt twin pangs of kinship and guilt. Kinship because they were two fathers who wanted nothing more than to keep their families safe. Guilt because Hardie knew the secret history of the Hunters’ worst nightmare. In another life, they could have had a beer together. The sort-of cop