CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

The Laughingstock”s front door mocked them, a bolted-up slab of dented metal. Ella yanked on it anyway, just to feel the rattle of futility up her arm and into the sockets of her shoulders. Beside her, Luca scanned the lot, the street, the overflowing dumpster and tagged-up back alley.

‘We sure about this?’ Luca asked. ‘Doyle’s killed all of his victims at the witching hour. It’s not even happy hour yet.’

‘Jumping the gun”s the only way to keep from eating a bullet, Hawkins,’ she said. ‘He knows where onto him. We’ve got his wheelchair and his murder weapon. Even someone as deluded as him knows it’s only a matter of time before we figure him out. He knows it’s nut-cutting time.’

‘So what, he just throws the serial killer rulebook out of the window?’

‘Guys like this go out with a blaze of glory or swinging from a bedsheet in a cell. No in between. If he wants his mic drop moment, he has to do it now. He can’t do it when the club is full.’

Luca jerked his chin at a rusted-out Chrysler squatting in the corner. ‘That’s Vanzetti’s car. I checked his licence plate on the way here.’

‘Looks like someone’s home,’ Ella said as she tugged the door handle again. Then she stepped back and raked the rest of the building for another way in.

And there, running up the side of the building like a jagged metal smile - a fire escape, ladder hanging a few feet off the ground like an engraved invitation. The city”s half-assed attempt at thwarting junkies and frisky teens alike.

‘There,’ she said.

She was moving before the thought had even fully formed, boots pounding against pavement as she closed the distance. A jump, a scramble, and she was hauling herself up the ladder hand over fist. Luca followed close behind, with his coiled grace and coltish limbs. They clattered up the steps, ancient iron shuddering beneath their combined weight. The landing at the top was little more than a rusted grate, a tetanus shot waiting to happen.

Ella tried the fire escape. It rattled, but didn’t open.

She glanced at Luca, jerked her head in a silent command. On three.

He nodded, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides. A heartbeat passed, two, the space between seconds stretching like taffy.

Then they both took a running start and crashed into the door shoulder-first. The shabby red door burst inward, and Ella hit the ground on her knees. Luca, the monkey-like little prince, landed in a graceful crouch. Unbelievable. He made it look like she’d been asleep for the past two years.

Pistols drawn, they moved as one, sweeping doorways and shadowed corners. Ella straightened slow, keeping her piece level and ready. She jerked her chin at the open doorway gaping to their left, the rectangle of deeper darkness that hinted at a hallway beyond.

Luca nodded, fell into step beside her as they moved into the belly of the beast.

The corridor was narrow, walls pressing close on either side. Peeling plaster and nicotine stains, the ghosts of a thousand amateur sets echoing in the silence. They cleared the rooms as they went, quick and quiet as sharks through bloody water.

Empty offices, storage closets packed with moth-eaten velvet and moldering props. A green room that looked more like a holding cell, complete with sagging couch and shattered mirror. Ella tried not to think about how many poor saps had sat there over the years, psyching themselves up for one more night in the spotlight, one more chance to chase that ever-elusive laugh.

Ella shook off the maudlin thoughts, forced herself back to the here and now. They were close, she could feel it in her bones. Close to the central nervous system, the heart of this hive of humiliation and despair.

And then, drifting from somewhere up ahead – a sound. A thump, a muffled curse. The unmistakable music of human misery, of violence in the offing.

Ella froze, head cocked, every sense straining. Beside her, Luca went still as stone, barely breathing.

There. Again, louder this time. A crash, a clatter. The dull thud of flesh meeting flesh, of bone crunching against bone.

She was moving before she knew it, eating up the distance in long, loping strides. Heart hammering, blood singing in her ears like a murderer”s lullaby. Luca hot on her heels. The hallway opened up ahead, spilling out into a cavernous space. Dim shapes loomed out of the shadows - the hulking bulk of an ancient sound system, the tattered drapes of a stage long past its prime.

And there, caught in the watery spill of an emergency exit light, was hell itself.

Two figures grappled in the center of the stage, locked in a brutal pas de deux.

Doyle. It was Doyle, had to be. The madman, the monster, the architect of all this misery.

And his final victim, slack and glassy-eyed in his grip – Freddy Vanzetti. Club owner, creep, cheap profiteer of human suffering.

Ella raised her Glock, the barrel rock-steady even as her blood sang with the sick thrill of it. Beside her, Luca mirrored the motion.

‘Freeze, you son of a bitch!’ Ella roared, voice booming over the scuffling, the gagging, the heavy thump of her own pulse. ‘Let him go. Hands where I can see ”em!’

For a split second, the world hung suspended. Doyle, Vanzetti, twin gargoyles grappling in the ghost light. Then Doyle moved, quick as a cobra strike.

He flung Vanzetti to the ground, one hand splayed across his chest to pin him like a collected butterfly. The other dove behind his back, came up with what Ella recognized as a snubnose thirty-eight. Light glinted obscenely off the barrel as he jammed it against Vanzetti”s sweat-slick temple.

‘Nobody move!’ Doyle cried. Ella could see his finger itching on the trigger. A hair’s breadth from oblivion. ‘Either of you move and I kill this man right here.’

Ella felt her lip curl. ‘Put down the piece, Doyle. You”re outgunned and out of time.’

Doyle”s eyes darted between them, beady and black as a shark”s. He dug the pistol into Vanzetti”s skin. ‘I”m the one writing this punchline. I”m the one who decides how it ends.’

‘Sounds to me like you already reached the big finale,’ she said, mouth quirking without humor. ‘Got a little something extra in your act tonight, huh? Why the gun?’

Doyle bared his teeth like a wild dog choking on its own chain. ‘Someone stole my cable.’

‘You didn’t have a spare?’ Ella took a step forward, Glock ready to unload on Doyle’s shoulder.

Doyle”s chuckle was a rusty saw dragging over bone. ‘This guy is too good for shooting. He needs to suffer, but if I have to… he’s paying for what he took from me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Everything.’

Ella edged closer for a better shot. Judging by the Vanzetti’s world-weary daze, she didn’t have much time to make the save. Vanzetti needed medical assistance if he wanted any chance of staying alive longer than a few minutes. Once unconsciousness set in, there was no chance he wasn’t waking up without brain damage – if he woke up at all. Ella subtly glanced back at her partner. Luca was edging in the opposite direction. She trusted him to read the room.

‘What’s everything?’ she asked. Keep him talking until you can get a clean shot.

‘Fame, glory, everything.’ Doyle pushed the gun barrel harder into Vanzetti’s temple. The poor club owner was so out of it his head just lolled. ‘All because this asshole wanted attention for this stupid club.’

‘You want to blame someone for your failure? Look in the goddamn mirror.’

Doyle”s face twisted, ugly and animal. ‘You what?’

‘You pissed your pants onstage and never got over it. Big deal.’

‘I’m going to kill Freddy, you understand?’ Doyle yelled. ‘I don’t care if you kill me. I’ll still be in the papers tomorrow.’

Doyle was too far gone, too deep in his own madness for any kind of negotiation. He was going to burn the house down with everyone in it for one last shot at the big time.

Time for the hard sell.

‘Okay, Seb, you”ve made your point. Got the whole world watching.’ Ella lowered her gun a fraction. ‘Let Vanzetti go. He”s not the one you want, not really. It”s us. It”s always been us.’

Confusion warred with rage on the comic”s wasted face. ‘What?’

Ella took another step towards the stage, arms spread. ‘We”re the final boss. The big bad wolf to your little pig. You want to make this right? You want real closure?’ She thumped her chest with the barrel of her gun. ‘Take your shot. Pull the trigger and watch me bleed. See if that fills up the hole where your soul should be.’

‘Ella, what the hell-’ Luca hissed. But she waved him off, never breaking eye contact with Doyle. The comic was trembling now, sweat running in rivers down his sallow cheeks. Want and hatred, fear and desperate starvation, chasing each other like dogs in his beady eyes.

‘You want me to shoot a cop?’ he rasped. ‘That”s my big break?’

‘No, nimrod. I want you to give up like the bitch you are. But we both know that ain”t happening.’ Ella”s voice dropped to a purr, the kind reserved for death row inmates and rich men”s daughters. ‘So take your free shot. Paint me red for your adoring fans. Then we”ll see who has the stones to keep this comedy of errors rolling.’

She had him. Could see the indecision, the shattered crystal of his psyche fragmenting further with every passing second. The gun wavered against Vanzetti”s head, the club owner himself now on the verge of passing out.

It was almost a relief when Doyle moved. A quick jerk, a spasmodic twitch.

Then Vanzetti was tumbling to the stage like a sack of rotten fruit.

‘Luca, the vic!’ Ella roared even as Doyle brought his piece to bear. The rookie didn”t hesitate, just broke for Vanzetti in a flying tackle that sent them both skidding into the orchestra pit.

Ella gave them a half-second glance, just long enough to see Luca”s fingers seeking a pulse in Vanzetti”s fleshy throat.

Then she was moving as Doyle raced for the wings. Ella plunged into the gloom of the backstage area, into the twisting guts of the Laughingstock itself.

A maze, a labyrinth. A dank, dismal warren of narrow halls and blind corners, of shadow and stale air and the stink of grease paint and despair. Ella navigated it at a dead run, gun up and ready, senses straining for any hint of Doyle in the dark.

Crap. She”d lost him. Let him slip through her fingers like smoke, like a greased fucking pig on roller skates. Some hotshot detective she was, couldn”t even keep tabs on one sad-sack psycho in a building the size of a postage stamp.

She slowed, forced herself to breathe. To think, to focus, past the red haze of anger and adrenaline clouding her vision. Doyle was here, somewhere. Lurking in the shadows, biding his time. Waiting for his moment to strike, to make his final move in this sicko chess game he”d been playing with all their lives.

Ella just had to be ready. Had to anticipate, had to outthink the bastard. Get inside his head, suss out his next steps before he even took them.

C”mon, Dark. Think like a psycho, move like a madman. You”ve been doing it long enough, should be second nature by now.

She crept forward, one foot in front of the other. Picking her way through the gloom, gun up and ready, every sense straining. Ella swung around a corner, quick and quiet as a ghost. Another empty hallway stretched before her, pocked with doorways and choked with shadow. She moved down it slowly, methodically, clearing each room as she went. Closets, cupboards, a janitor”s sink packed with moldering mops and the sour reek of ancient pine-sol.

But no Doyle. No trace, no trail. Nothing but dust and cobwebs and the faint, forlorn honk of Vanzetti”s wheezing breaths echoing from the stage.

Ella swore under her breath. She was running out of time, out of options. Out of patience for this twisted game of hide-and-go-screw-yourself.

Where are you, you maniac?

As if in answer, a noise shattered the sepulchral silence. A clatter, a crash, the unmistakable sound of something heavy toppling to the floor.

Ella whirled, gun snapping up. It had come from behind her, from one of the rooms she”d already cleared. A closet, a storage space, some black hole of junk and detritus she”d written off in her haste to find Doyle. He was close, so close she could practically smell the flop sweat and desperation leaking from his pores.

Ella turned on her heel, stalked back the way she”d come. Past doors hanging drunkenly from rusted hinges, past piles of moldering props and moth-eaten costumes. Back to the closet she”d dismissed, the junk room she”d written off as just another dead end.

A breath. Two. The space between heartbeats stretching like a noose, like a garrote about to snap taut.

Then, in one fluid motion, she kicked the door wide and charged through, leading with her gun and a wordless battle cry ripping from her lungs.

The closet was a pit, a black hole of junk and jumble. Broken chairs, shattered spotlights, an avalanche of musty fabric that might”ve once been curtains or backdrops.

And there, lurking in the darkest corner like a spider in its web – a figure.

Doyle.

Ella”s vision tunneled, world narrowing to the man in front of her. She brought her gun to bear, finger tightening on the trigger, a hair”s breadth from squeezing off a shot that would splatter his diseased brains across the cracked plaster.

But before she could end it, before she could paint the walls with the bastard”s gray matter and call it a day – Doyle moved.

Quick as a snake, fast as a fever dream, he lashed out. One long arm whipping around, something glinting in his grip. A metal pipe, a crowbar, Ella couldn”t tell. All she knew was that it was arcing towards her face, whistling through the air like a baseball bat hungry for a hit.

She threw herself back, spine screaming as she contorted to avoid the blow. But she was a fraction too slow, a microsecond too late. The pipe clipped her wrist, sent her gun flying from her numb fingers. It clattered away into the shadows, swallowed by the gloom as Ella stumbled backward.

And that”s when it hit her, a realization as stark and brutal as a slug to the gut. Doyle wasn”t reaching for his gun. I wasn”t even trying to bring it to bear. He wanted this up close and personal, wanted to feel the life drain out of her with his own two hands. Or maybe the piece was just for show. A prop, a bit of misdirection to add to the drama of his final act. Empty as his soul, as bereft of ammo as he was of humanity.

And then Doyle was on her in a fit of flailing limbs and animal fury. He crashed into her like a speeding train and sent them both tumbling to the cluttered floor in a tangle of thrashing bodies.

They rolled, grappled, a grotesque parody of lovers caught in the throes of passion. Ella raked her nails down Doyle”s face, felt skin tear and blood well beneath her clawing fingers. Doyle howled, drove a fist into her ribs. Ella”s breath left her in a whoosh, stars exploding behind her eyes. But she clung on, wrapped herself around the bastard like a python hell-bent on crushing its prey. They slammed into a broken couch, sent springs and stuffing flying like the aftermath of a teddy bear massacre.

She dug her knee into his groin, grinned viciously as he shrieked and convulsed. Doyle channeled all of his wiry strength and surged against her, caught her in the temple with an elbow, a lucky shot that sent starbursts cascading through her vision.

Ella reeled, grip slackening for a fraction of a second. But it was enough. Enough for Doyle to buck her off, to send her tumbling ass over teakettle into a drift of moldy curtains.

By the time she righted herself, spitting dust and worse from her mouth, he had already scrambled to his feet. Was lurching towards the door, a deranged glint in his bloodshot eyes.

Ella launched herself at his retreating back, caught him around the knees in a diving tackle that would”ve done her old high school football coach proud. They hit the ground hard, Doyle”s chin cracking against the scarred floor with a sound like a gunshot. But still he struggled, still he fought, clawing and squirming beneath her like a worm on a hook.

Doyle bucked, jack-knifed, caught her in the breadbasket with a lucky heel. Ella doubled over, gagging, and in that moment of weakness he slithered from her grasp, uncoiling like a snake from under a rock.

Then he was up, stumbling, staggering for the door. Out of the closet and into the hallway, the flickering fluorescents painting his hollow face in ghoulish shades and shadows.

Ella heaved herself to her feet, blood dripping into her eyes from a gash on her brow. The world swam, tilted, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through, giving chase with single-minded determination. Ella”s lungs burned, her whole body one giant bruise. But she couldn”t stop, wouldn”t stop. Not until she had Doyle either in chains or on a slab.

They spilled onto the stage, grappling and heaving. Ella caught a glimpse of Luca hunched over Vanzetti”s limp form, blood on his hands and a desperate, animal light in those eyes. Then Doyle”s fist caught her in the mouth and the world tunneled down to blood and rage and the driving need to end this goddamn sideshow once and for all.

She slammed her forehead into his nose, felt cartilage crunch and splinter like dry kindling. Doyle howled like a branded calf, staggered back with blood pouring down his chin.

Ella pressed her advantage, dove low and caught him around the waist. Heaved with all her strength, every ounce of her not-inconsiderable fury.

Doyle”s feet left the ground, eyes going wide as dinner plates. For a single, crystalline moment he hung suspended in a slo-mo snapshot of surprise and dawning dread.

Then he crashed down, the back of his head cracking against the mic stand in a burst of feedback and sparks. Hit the stage like a sack of wet cement.

Ella breathed a sigh of relief.

She knew a total knockout when she saw one.

Ella stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from her ravaged knuckles. Stared down at his slack, stupid face, the confusion and fear swimming in his pain-glazed eyes.

‘Wha...’ Doyle slurred, tongue thick and clumsy behind shattered teeth.

‘Justice.’ Ella spat a glob of blood-tinged saliva. ‘That’s all folks.’

‘I wouldna...’ Doyle heaved himself up onto his elbows, coughing wetly. ‘I still got... still got one more gag in me, one more bit...’

Then Luca materialized out of the gloom, pistol trained dead center on Doyle”s forehead.

‘Sebastian Doyle. Don’t move an inch,’ he commanded.

Ella collapsed against Luca, steadied herself on his shoulder. Then she dropped to one knee beside Doyle’s crumpled form, shook out her cuffs and slapped them on his wrists.

Luca’s aim remained steady. Ella looked over to the other side of the stage and saw Freddy Vanzetti sitting upright, clutching his stomach, breathing like a wounded animal.

Alive.

That was enough.

Ella found her cell, signaled their location to the chief. Two minutes and this place would be swarming with cops, medics and forensics.

Luca adjusted his aim and said, ‘If you move, you die on this stage.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ Ella laughed.

Game over.

Punchline delivered.