The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [111]
I edged into the crowd. These guys didn’t know me, nor I them.
“Where’s his shotgun?” I asked.
A blond guy chugging a beer nodded toward the grass. “Son-of-a-bitch knocked my wife down as she was getting out of her car with the groceries. I came out, and took his gun away. Then the fun started.”
I watched Vorbe take his punishment. He continued to swirl around the mob, using his one good hand and his feet to fight back. For each blow he delivered, he got three in return. It was suicide.
Then I realized what Vorbe was trying to do. Each time he got near one of the men with a handgun, his hand darted out. He was trying to steal a weapon, and each time he tried, he got a little closer to succeeding.
I couldn’t let him get a gun. Or kill someone.
Or escape.
Everything happened for a reason. Mine was to be here and stop Vorbe.
I aimed my Colt at his legs and fired.
The mob jumped back in unison. Vorbe stopped spinning and stared at the blood gushing out of his right thigh. He screamed and grabbed his leg.
I tackled Vorbe to the pavement and held him down. The wound in his leg was flowing freely. He struggled, making it worse.
“Take it easy,” I told him.
He stopped fighting back. I tore off a piece of my shirt, folded it into a square, and pressed it against the wound. Then I looked into his eyes. I have stared at evil before, and it’s always the same. Cold, hard, unfeeling.
“I want you to talk to me,” I said.
Vorbe was trying to fight back the pain, and didn’t reply.
“I want you to tell me about the women in the album in your living room,” I said.
Still no reply.
“The police will be here soon. I want you to tell me about them.”
He laughed under his breath, taunting me.
I could hear sirens circling the neighborhood. Soon the cruisers were going to find us. I knew what would happen next. The police would arrest Vorbe, and he’d lawyer up, and never say another word to anyone again. It was how evil men tortured those who hunted them. I’d come too far to let that happen.
“Last chance,” I said.
Vorbe stared at me, not understanding.
I lifted the compress from his wound. Blood gushed out like a geyser and flowed freely down the driveway. Fear flowed through his eyes.
“My leg,” Vorbe gasped.
“First tell me about the women in the album,” I said.
I held the bloody compress in front of his face. It was the only thing that was going to stop the bleeding, and keep him alive. I wasn’t going to let him die, just like I hadn’t let Cheeks die, only Vorbe didn’t know that. It was my last card, and I was going to play it.
“Tell me about the women, or I’m walking away,” I said.
“But I’ll die,” he gasped.
“Shit happens.”
Vorbe blinked, and then he blinked again.
I used my cell phone to tape Vorbe’s confession. The phone let me record Vorbe while filming him at the same time. It was hard to believe what Vorbe was saying, and I didn’t think I would have believed it, had I not been inside his house, and seen his garage and photo album with my own eyes.
Burrell pulled up in her Mustang. An ambulance soon followed. I waited until the medics were wheeling Vorbe into the back of the ambulance before I pulled Burrell aside, and played Vorbe’s confession for her. When it was done, she shook her head.
“But this can’t be true,” she said.
“You think he’s lying?” I said.
“He has to be.”
I took Burrell back to Vorbe’s house, and showed her what I’d found.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
I awoke early the next morning, and drove to Starke Prison with a headache that no amount of Advil seemed to shake. I could have stayed home, and let the prison officials do what needed to be done. But my conscience wouldn’t let me, so I made the trip.
At