Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [88]
He swallowed, fingers pressing the top of his desk until the fingertips turned white. “I don’t understand. I mean . . .”
I smiled at him. “Let’s just face it, Bruce. You are not equipped to handle murder. It isn’t in your training, now is it?”
“Well, no, but . . .”
“Then just give me a time to come back tonight and see Malcolm.”
“I don’t know. I . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. Malcolm is the head of the church. He’ll take care of it.”
He was nodding, too rapidly. His eyes flicked to Ronnie, then back to me. He flipped through a leatherbound day planner on his desk. “Nine, tonight.” He picked up a pen, poised and ready. “If you’ll give me your full name, I’ll pencil you in.”
I started to point out that he wasn’t using a pencil, but decided to let it slide. “Anita Blake.”
He still didn’t recognize the name. So much for me being the terror of vampireland. “And this is pertaining to?” He was regaining his professionalism.
I stood up. “Murder, it’s pertaining to murder.”
“Oh, yes, I . . .” He scribbled something down. “Nine tonight, Anita Blake, murder.” He frowned down at the note as if there were something wrong with it.
I decided to help him out. “Don’t frown so. You’ve got the message right.”
He stared up at me. He looked a little pale.
“I’ll be back. Make sure he gets the message.”
Bruce nodded again, too fast, eyes large behind his glasses.
Ronnie opened the door, and I preceded her out. She brought up the rear like a bad-movie bodyguard. When we were out into the main church again, she laughed. “I think we scared him.”
“Bruce scares easy.”
She nodded, eyes shining.
The barest mention of violence, murder, and he had fallen apart. When he “grew up,” he was going to be a vampire. Sure.
The sunshine was nearly blinding after the dimness of the church. I squinted, putting a hand over my eyes. I caught movement from the corner of my eye.
Ronnie screamed, “Anita!”
Everything slowed down. I had plenty of time to stare at the man and the gun in his hands. Ronnie smashed into me, carrying us both down and back through the church door. Bullets thunked into the door where I’d been.
Ronnie scrambled behind me, near the wall. I had my gun out and lay on my side pressed against the door. My heart was thundering in my ears. Yet I could hear everything. The wrinkle of my windbreaker was like static. I heard the man walk up the steps. The son of a bitch was gonna keep coming.
I inched forward. He walked up the steps. His shadow fell inside the door. He wasn’t even trying to hide. Maybe he thought I wasn’t armed. He was about to learn different.
Bruce called, “What’s going on here?”
Ronnie yelled, “Get back inside.”
I kept my eyes on the door. I would not get shot because ol’ Bruce distracted me. Nothing was important but that shadow in the door, the halting footsteps. Nothing.
The man walked right into it. Gun in his hand, eyes searching the church. Amateur.
I could have touched him with the barrel of my gun. “Don’t move.” “Freeze” always sounds so melodramatic. Don’t move, short, to the point. “Don’t move,” I said.
He turned just his head, slow, towards me. “You’re The Executioner.” His voice was soft, hesitant.
Was I supposed to deny it? Maybe. If he had come here to kill The Executioner, definitely. “No,” I said.
He started to turn. “Then it must be her.” He was turning towards Ronnie. Shit.
He raised his arm and started to point.
“Don’t!” Ronnie screamed.
Too late. I fired, point-blank into his chest. Ronnie’s shot echoed mine. The impact raised him off his feet and sent him staggering backwards. Blood blossomed on his shirt. He slammed into the half-opened door and fell flat on his back through it. All I could see were his legs.
I hesitated, listening. I couldn’t hear any movement. I eased around the door. He wasn’t moving, but the gun was still clutched in his hand. I pointed my gun at him and stalked to him. If he had so much as twitched, I would have hit him again.
I kicked the gun out of his hand