Love You More_ A Novel - Lisa Gardner [135]
“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, slicing down the black T-shirt.
Purcell’s eyes widened. He stared at me uncertainly.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Dying in the line of duty. A suitable end to an honorable gangster.”
Last shirt button. Pop. Last inch of T-shirt. Shred.
I used the blade to peel back his shirts. His stomach was unexpectedly pale, a little thicker around the waist, but defined. He trained. Not a big guy. Maybe a boxer. He understood fitness mattered in his line of work. Got to have some muscle to lug unconscious bodies down to the basement and strap them to the table.
Gotta have some size to snatch a struggling six-year-old girl.
The knife eased back his shirts, exposing his left side. I stared at his bare shoulder in fascination. The goose pimples that rippled across his flesh in the cold. The way his nipple formed a round bud right over his heart.
“You shot my husband here,” I murmured, and I used the blade to mark the spot. Blood welled up, forming a perfect red X against Purcell’s skin. The razor-sharp blade made for a nice, clean cut. Shane had always taken his equipment seriously.
“Next shot was right here.” I moved the blade again. Maybe I cut deeper this time, because Purcell hissed low, quivering beneath me.
“Third shot, right here.” This time, I definitely went deep. When I raised the KA-BAR knife, the blood welled at the edge of the blade and dripped down onto Purcell’s stomach.
Blood in the clean white snow.
Brian dying in the clean bright kitchen.
The mobster was shaking now. I gazed into his face. I let him see the death in my eyes. I let him see the killer he helped make.
“Here’s the deal,” I informed him. “Tell me where my daughter is, and in return, I’ll remove your restraints. I’m not giving you a knife or anything that crazy, but you can take a shot at me. Maybe you can overpower me, in which case, my bad. Maybe you can’t. In which case, at least you go down swinging instead of dying trussed up like a pig in your own front yard. You have until the count of five to decide. One.”
“I don’t snitch,” Purcell snarled.
I shrugged, reached up, and mostly because I felt like it, lopped off a giant piece of his thick brown hair. “Two.”
He flinched, didn’t back down. “Gonna fucking kill me anyway.”
Another section of hair, maybe even a bit of ear. “Three.”
“Fucking cunt.”
“Stick and stones may break my bones …” I wadded up a big fistful of dark hair at the top of his forehead. Getting into the spirit of things now, I pulled up hard, so I could see his scalp lift. “Four.”
“I don’t have your daughter!” Purcell exploded. “Don’t do kids. Told them in the beginning, don’t do kids.”
“Then where is she?”
“You’re the fucking cop. Don’t you think you should know?”
I whacked with the blade. I got a lot of hair and definitely some scalp. Blood bubbled up red. Dripped onto the icy ground, turned pink against the snow.
I wondered if I would ever make it through another winter, where fresh snowfall wouldn’t make me want to vomit.
Purcell howled, shuddering against his restraints. “You trusted all the wrong people. Now you hurt me? I did you a favor! Your husband was no good. Your police officer friend even worse. How’d I even get into your house, you stupid cunt? Think your old man would just let me in?”
I stopped. I stared at him. And I realized, in that instant, the one piece of the puzzle I’d been missing. I’d been so overwhelmed by the trauma of Saturday morning, I’d never contemplated the logistics. I’d never analyzed the scene as a cop.
For example, Brian already knew he was in trouble. His weight lifting, the recent purchase of the Glock .40. His own jumpy mood and short temper. He knew he’d waded in too deep. And yeah, he’d never open the door to a man like John Stephen Purcell, especially with Sophie in the house.
Except Sophie hadn