Blind Side
Page 2
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Savich had expected a gun, not a knife. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Two dead high school math teachers, and now this. Not in pattern. What was going on here?
“You ready to die, Jimbo, you little prick?”
“I’m not a prick. What the hell are you doing? Are you insane? Jesus, Philly, it’s been over five years! Put down that knife!”
But Mr. Phelps tossed the knife from one hand to the other with easy movements that bespoke great familiarity.
“Why should I, Jimbo? I think I’m going to cut out your brain. I’ve always hated your brain, do you know that? I’ve always despised you for the way you wanted everyone to see how smart you were, how fast you could jigger out magic solutions, you little bastard—” He was laughing as he slowly raised the knife.
“It’s not dawn yet!”
“Yeah, but I’m old, and who knows? By dawn I might drop dead of a heart attack. I really do want you dead before me, Jimbo.”
Savich had already aimed his SIG Sauer, his mouth open to yell, when Jimbo screamed, kicked out wildly, and flung the chair over backward. Phelps dove forward after him, cursing, stabbing the knife through the air.
Savich fired right at the long silver blade. At nearly the same moment there was another shot—the loud, sharp sound of a rifle, fired from a distance.
The long knife exploded, shattering Phelps’s hand; the next thing to go flying was Phelps’s brains as his head exploded. Savich saw his bloody fingers spiraling upward, spewing blood, and shards of silver raining down, but Phelps wouldn’t miss his hand or his fingers. Savich whipped around, not wanting to believe what had just happened.
The sniper, Kurt Cooper, had fired.
Savich yelled “No!” but of course it was way too late. Savich ran to the front door and slammed through, agents and local cops behind him.
James Marple was lying on his back, white-faced, whimpering. By going over backward he’d saved himself from being splattered by Mr. Phelps’s brains.
Marvin Phelps’s body lay on its side, his head nearly severed from his neck, sharp points of the silver knife blade embedded in his face and chest, his right wrist a bloody stump.
Savich was on his knees, untying Jimbo’s ankles and arms, trying to calm him down. “You’re all right, Mr. Marple. You’re all right, just breathe in and out, that’s good. Stay with me here, you’re all right.”
“Phelps, he was going to kill me, kill me—oh, God.”
“Not any longer. He’s dead. You’re all right.” Savich got him free and helped him to his feet, keeping himself between James Marple and the corpse.
Jimbo looked up, his eyes glassy, spit dribbling from his mouth. “I never liked the cops before, always thought you were a bunch of fascists, but you saved me. You actually saved my life.”
“Yeah, well, we do try to do that occasionally. Now, let’s just get you out of here. Here’s Agent Sherlock and Agent Warnecki. They’re going to take you out to the medics for a once-over. You’re okay, Mr. Marple. Everything is okay.”
Savich stood there a moment, listening to Sherlock talk to James Marple in that wonderful soothing voice of hers, the one she had used at Sean’s first birthday party. One terrified math teacher wouldn’t be a problem compared to a roomful of one-year-olds.
Agent Dane Carver helped support James Marple, until Sherlock stepped forward, and then she and Agent Warnecki escorted Marple to the waiting paramedics.
Savich turned back to the body of Marvin Phelps. Cooper had nearly blown the guy’s head off. A great shot, very precise, no chance of his knifing Marple in a reactive move, no chance for him to even know what was happening before he died.
It wasn’t supposed to have happened that way, but Cooper had standing orders to fire if there was imminent danger.
He saw Police Chief Halloran trotting toward him, followed by a half-dozen excited local cops, all of them hyped, all of them smiling. That would change when they saw Phelps’s body.
At least they’d saved a guy’s life.
But it wasn’t the killer they were after, Savich was sure of that. Theirs had killed two women, both high school math teachers. And in a sense, that maniac was responsible for this mess as well. It was probably why Cooper had jumped the gun and taken Phelps out. He saw himself saving James Marple’s life and taking out the math teacher killer at the same time. In all fairness, Coop was only twenty-four, loaded with testosterone, and still out to save the world. Not good enough. Savich would see to it that he had his butt drop-kicked and then sentenced to scrubbing out the SWAT team’s bathroom, the cruelest penalty anyone could devise.
“You ready to die, Jimbo, you little prick?”
“I’m not a prick. What the hell are you doing? Are you insane? Jesus, Philly, it’s been over five years! Put down that knife!”
But Mr. Phelps tossed the knife from one hand to the other with easy movements that bespoke great familiarity.
“Why should I, Jimbo? I think I’m going to cut out your brain. I’ve always hated your brain, do you know that? I’ve always despised you for the way you wanted everyone to see how smart you were, how fast you could jigger out magic solutions, you little bastard—” He was laughing as he slowly raised the knife.
“It’s not dawn yet!”
“Yeah, but I’m old, and who knows? By dawn I might drop dead of a heart attack. I really do want you dead before me, Jimbo.”
Savich had already aimed his SIG Sauer, his mouth open to yell, when Jimbo screamed, kicked out wildly, and flung the chair over backward. Phelps dove forward after him, cursing, stabbing the knife through the air.
Savich fired right at the long silver blade. At nearly the same moment there was another shot—the loud, sharp sound of a rifle, fired from a distance.
The long knife exploded, shattering Phelps’s hand; the next thing to go flying was Phelps’s brains as his head exploded. Savich saw his bloody fingers spiraling upward, spewing blood, and shards of silver raining down, but Phelps wouldn’t miss his hand or his fingers. Savich whipped around, not wanting to believe what had just happened.
The sniper, Kurt Cooper, had fired.
Savich yelled “No!” but of course it was way too late. Savich ran to the front door and slammed through, agents and local cops behind him.
James Marple was lying on his back, white-faced, whimpering. By going over backward he’d saved himself from being splattered by Mr. Phelps’s brains.
Marvin Phelps’s body lay on its side, his head nearly severed from his neck, sharp points of the silver knife blade embedded in his face and chest, his right wrist a bloody stump.
Savich was on his knees, untying Jimbo’s ankles and arms, trying to calm him down. “You’re all right, Mr. Marple. You’re all right, just breathe in and out, that’s good. Stay with me here, you’re all right.”
“Phelps, he was going to kill me, kill me—oh, God.”
“Not any longer. He’s dead. You’re all right.” Savich got him free and helped him to his feet, keeping himself between James Marple and the corpse.
Jimbo looked up, his eyes glassy, spit dribbling from his mouth. “I never liked the cops before, always thought you were a bunch of fascists, but you saved me. You actually saved my life.”
“Yeah, well, we do try to do that occasionally. Now, let’s just get you out of here. Here’s Agent Sherlock and Agent Warnecki. They’re going to take you out to the medics for a once-over. You’re okay, Mr. Marple. Everything is okay.”
Savich stood there a moment, listening to Sherlock talk to James Marple in that wonderful soothing voice of hers, the one she had used at Sean’s first birthday party. One terrified math teacher wouldn’t be a problem compared to a roomful of one-year-olds.
Agent Dane Carver helped support James Marple, until Sherlock stepped forward, and then she and Agent Warnecki escorted Marple to the waiting paramedics.
Savich turned back to the body of Marvin Phelps. Cooper had nearly blown the guy’s head off. A great shot, very precise, no chance of his knifing Marple in a reactive move, no chance for him to even know what was happening before he died.
It wasn’t supposed to have happened that way, but Cooper had standing orders to fire if there was imminent danger.
He saw Police Chief Halloran trotting toward him, followed by a half-dozen excited local cops, all of them hyped, all of them smiling. That would change when they saw Phelps’s body.
At least they’d saved a guy’s life.
But it wasn’t the killer they were after, Savich was sure of that. Theirs had killed two women, both high school math teachers. And in a sense, that maniac was responsible for this mess as well. It was probably why Cooper had jumped the gun and taken Phelps out. He saw himself saving James Marple’s life and taking out the math teacher killer at the same time. In all fairness, Coop was only twenty-four, loaded with testosterone, and still out to save the world. Not good enough. Savich would see to it that he had his butt drop-kicked and then sentenced to scrubbing out the SWAT team’s bathroom, the cruelest penalty anyone could devise.
