Page 48 of Kill For Me Kill For You
‘You hurt my wife,’ said Scott.
The man didn’t respond. His eyes were shut tight, his hands on top of his head.
And then, suddenly, his eyes popped open and his right hand flew upwards and a fist cracked into the side of Scott’s face, sending his head reeling back on his shoulders. His vision swam and another fierce blow landed on his chin, slamming his mouth closed, rattling his jaw like an old windowpane in a tornado.
Another punch. This one caught Scott in the throat. The man beneath him was going wild, kicking and bucking and punching. Scott began to panic. He’d made a mistake. He’d provoked a killer. This man would beat him unconscious and then he’d kill Ruth.
Scott still had hold of the neck of the bottle. He reversed his grip, the mouth of the bottle close to his thumb, the jagged remnants of glass now a dagger.
His vision grew hazier with every punch. Scott raised the bottle, then stabbed down. Into the man’s face.
Still the killer fought back.
Scott raised the bottle, stabbed down again. This time he heard glass cracking.
Up and down again, harder this time. Scott closed his eyes.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Scott gulped fresh air. It felt as thick as soup. He brought his hands to his throat and coughed. The killer’s blow had almost shattered his wind pipe. He rolled off the man onto his back, his chest pumping, and let his lungs fill up.
He lay there for what must have been a few minutes, the man beside him had not moved in all that time.
Scott got to his feet and looked down at him. The neck of the bottle was still covered in gold foil. It was tinged red. His face was cut and bloody, and only one perfect blue eye stared up at the ceiling. The other eye was gone. In its place were four inches of wine bottle that stood upright, like a chimney, from his eye socket.
As Scott stumbled backwards, his calves caught the bed and he flopped down on top of it, in a sitting position. He saw himself then in the mirror. The man’s blood had soaked Scott’s jacket, shirt and the waist of his pants. Blood leaked from that ruptured eye socket and spread across the carpet.
It was on the soles of Scott’s shoes.
Fuck, think.
There had been some noise, but not a huge amount. He listened, couldn’t hear a sound. No pounding footsteps in the hallway, no urgent, panicked voices from the next room on the phone to reception to tell them of a disturbance.
Nothing.
Scott moved to the bathroom, switched on the light. Gazed in horror at his image in the mirror.
He’d been an assistant district attorney for years before he took the litigation job in the city. He’d got to know the NYPD, and how they think. How they catch people. He knew what the police would look for, and so far he’d been stupid.
Time to work smart.
He stripped, put his cell phone and wallet on the floor, and dropped his bloody clothes in the tub. A fast shower. He didn’t use a towel – better to air dry while he looked through the man’s closet.
Two suits, a pair of black jeans, some plain black T-shirts and an overcoat. There were no shoes.
Scott put on the T-shirt, pants. They were too long for him and he turned up the legs with a couple of folds.
He moved quickly to the body. The pool of blood beneath the man’s head had widened, but so far hadn’t reached beyond his shoulders. The man’s shoes were not stained, but they were two sizes too big. Scott took the man’s last three pairs of socks, put them all on then put on the shoes and the overcoat. He put his own wallet and cell in the coat.
One last thing. He glanced around the floor, careful not to step in the blood.
There, beneath the console table.
The man’s key card.
