Shaw dies on Christmas Eve.
That’s the plan.
I’ve gone over it with Mara a thousand times, but I still hate that I have to involve her. She’s the bait, and the bait is never entirely safe from being swallowed whole.
We’re attending the East Bay Artists’ Christmas party. In the art world, this is the biggest rager of the year—bigger than Halloween or New Year’s. Holding it on Christmas Eve probably means something—that artists lack the traditional family ties that would usually consume this night of the year. That used to be true for me.
Tonight I wish I was home with Mara, far away from anyone else.
At least she looks fucking stunning. I love showing her off. Wish I didn’t have to ruin it all in a few hours’ time.
Mara wears a glittering gown, the halter top cut almost down to the navel, the long skirt hiding the fact that she’s wearing her favorite boots beneath. No high heels tonight—that would be very stupid.
Her makeup is full of sparkles too, her hair tumbling down her back in dark waves, with little diamond stars and moons pinned all over it. She looks like the night sky come to life.
Her arms are bare, the long scars running up both wrists still dark and raised. They’ll probably never fade.
Tonight, they’re meant as an invitation to Shaw: come finish what you started.
I know he’ll be here, though I haven’t seen him yet. He wouldn’t miss the biggest event of the year.
The party is in the Castro Theater on Market Street. The old baroque theater is currently being renovated, so all the seats have been removed, leaving plenty of space for socializing and dancing. The movie screen remains, playing a loop of psychedelic images: time-lapse video of flowers blooming, withering, dying. Raindrops falling upward in reverse. Spiraling mandalas that break apart and reform like beads in a kaleidoscope.
The music pumping from the speakers is dark and insistent, perfect for my current mood.
Right before we left the house, I tucked a knife in the pocket of Mara’s long black evening coat.
“I’m not going to need that,” she said.
“I don’t care,” I snapped. “You’re taking it anyway.”
The knife is freshly sharpened, the blade finer than a razor’s edge. I have its twin in the pocket of my tux.
Shaw won’t use a gun, and neither will I. A knife is far more personal. And far more effective, once we’re in close range of one another.
I’ll keep my promise to Shaw: the next time we’re alone, only one of us will leave alive.
We circulate through the crowd, Mara staying close by my side as we both search for Shaw. It’s easy for me to make conversation with anyone we pass, because I’m used to scheming and chatting at the same time. It’s harder for Mara. Her smile is strained, her eyes darting around the party.
I keep my hand on the small of her back to calm her.
She makes a sharp sound, drawing in a breath.
“Do you see him?” I mutter.
“Not Shaw—Hawks is here.”
Fuck.
I turn to look, spotting him over by the open bar. He’s dressed in a rented tux to try to blend in, but his best disguise is his scruffy face and uncombed hair. That’s what really makes him look like one of us.
Hawks has been demoted again. He was in charge of the investigation of the Beast of the Bay for two short weeks—then Alastor made another kill, and Hawks was booted back down the ladder.
Mara was devastated when she heard the news of another body on the shore. She said we waited too long to attack Shaw.
“The Christmas party is our best chance,” I told her. “If we don’t play this off flawlessly, if we tip him off in any way, it won’t work. He’ll bolt and we’ll be right back where we started.”
In a way, it benefits us. That was the second girl in the cycle. Shaw will be aching to complete the triad.
And Mara is the perfect prize.
If I know anything, I know that Shaw is salivating to take her from me. He wants it more than he wants money or success. Killing Mara would be the ultimate act of domination over me. Shaw ascending to his final form.
Too bad I’m gonna put him in the ground instead.
I want to get this over with. Where the fuck is he?
“We can’t do anything if Hawks is here,” Mara frets.
“Don’t worry about that—he’s not on the guest list, and there’s no way in hell somebody brought him as a date.”
I take a short detour to whisper in Sonia’s ear. Ten minutes later Hawks is hustled out of the party, arguing with security all the way out the door.
Sanity is a fragile thing—a few taps with a hammer and the whole psyche can crack. I think Hawks has had more than a few taps.
As Hawks leaves, Shaw arrives. He’s dressed in a midnight-blue tux, a stunning redhead on his arm. The girl looks suspiciously like Erin Whalstrom. I doubt that’s a coincidence—we knew Shaw would come, and he knew we’d be here, too. He can’t resist turning the knife one last time on Mara.
She watches Shaw twirl the redhead around the dance floor, her shoulders stiff with anger.
“Just a few more hours,” I promise her. “Then he’ll pay.”
“Bleed every fucking drop out of him,” she replies, never taking her eyes off Shaw.
We wait for him to get comfortable. We wait for the night to progress. This is an important part of the hunt: the false sense of security. Let the prey come into the clearing. Let them approach the water. And let them lower their head to drink. Only then does the crocodile lunge up out of the water.
Shaw drinks his champagne. He flirts with the redhead, and with anyone else who passes within his view. Occasionally he throws glances in my direction, or in Mara’s. I ignore him as I have at other events where we’ve been forced to share space. It’s never me who approaches Shaw, always the other way around.
Mara and I dance together.
She’s already beginning her part of the charade. She pretends to drink too much champagne, leaning heavily on my arm. And I pretend to become annoyed with her, snapping at her once or twice, before she spills her drink on my trousers and I stalk off, annoyed, abandoning her on the dance floor.
This is phase one.
Mara goes to the ladies’ room to collect herself. She’ll splash water on her face, pretend to attempt to sober up.
Meanwhile, I search for Sonia.
I find her engrossed in conversation with a broker named Allen Wren, pitching him on Mara’s newest series.
“She’s in high demand these days. Every painting sells for more than the last. If you’ve got potential buyers, you’d better put the wheels in motion—even a few weeks could cost them thousands.”
“You’re not going to railroad me, Sonia,” Wren says, wagging his finger in her face. “I’ve been burned on these so-called rising stars before.”
“Not this one,” Sonia promises, sipping her drink. “Have you seen her work in person? Photographs don’t do justice. The paintings glow, Allen. They fucking glow!”
“I’ll come take a look this week,” Wren says, finishing his own drink in one gulp and leaning forward to run his fingertips down the back of Sonia’s arm. “But why don’t you ever come visit my gallery, Sonia? It’s been months since I had you alone in one of my back rooms …”
Sonia arches an eyebrow at him, not shaking off his hand.
“I consider it … I liked what I saw last time …”
They both jolt upright when they see me standing only a few inches away. Sonia blushes and gives an embarrassed laugh, while Wren doesn’t even try to hide what he was up to.
“Your fidus Achates is very persuasive, Cole. I think I’d do anything she asked …”
“Come dance with me,” I say to Sonia, ignoring Wren.
This is such a strange request that Sonia accompanies me without question, following me onto the dance floor and slipping into a formal position better suited to a waltz than the music actually playing.
She looks up at me quizzically. “Where did Mara go?”
“The bathroom.”
This is the part of the plan that neither Mara nor I particularly like. She wanted to explain everything to Sonia, but I told her that would be a mistake. Most people are terrible actors. If Sonia knows she’s playing a part, Alastor will see it. I need her discomfort to sell the story.
Alastor must see everything exactly as I’ve arranged, and exactly as follows:
Mara returns from the bathroom.
Sonia tries to cede her position on the dance floor, but I won’t let her. I’m rude to Mara, deliberately dismissive. Mara answers back sharply, carrying a fresh glass of champagne that sloshes onto the ground as she gestures angrily.
Sonia pulls away from me, trying to apologize to Mara, but we’re already ignoring Sonia, locked in an argument that escalates and escalates because I intend it to. I’m cruel and cutting until real tears sparkle in Mara’s eyes, until she’s red-faced and shouting back at me.
We’re drawing the attention of our fellow party-goers, but I don’t make the mistake of looking to see if Shaw is watching too. I pretend to be entirely engrossed in the argument, trying to quiet Mara, grabbing her by the wrist.
Mara pulls her hand away, and when I won’t let go, she slaps me across the face. The slap is sharp, cutting through the music.
I release her wrist, saying, “Fuck off then, you fucking lush.”
I don’t enjoy saying these things. In fact, I hate it. But it has the desired effect. Mara storms away from me, off toward the coat check to retrieve her purse and coat.
I don’t watch her leave. Instead, I snatch up a glass of champagne off the nearest tray, toss it down, and ask Betsy Voss to dance.
Betsy is glad to take me up on the offer, slipping her hand into mine and saying with ill-concealed curiosity, “Trouble in paradise? Don’t let her get away, Cole—you’re such a gorgeous couple.”
“She’s more trouble than she’s worth,” I mutter.
I haven’t lied in a while. I’m out of practice. The words feel clumsy on my lips.
“You don’t mean that,” Betsy says.
I don’t bother to answer. All that’s required now is for me to keep dancing, looking as miserable as I feel.
This is the trickiest part. Will Shaw take the bait?
He has to slip out of the party without me seeing—or at least, with me pretending not to notice.
He might not leave at all.
The seconds tick past. I can see him in my peripheral, still dancing with the redhead. Twirling her around, laughing loudly, pretending to have the time of his life, his smile as phony as my fight with Mara.
Mara gathers her bag and coat, then storms out of the party.
Even then, Shaw lingers. I begin to believe he’s not going to follow at all.
Then, at the very edges of my hearing, through a break in the song, I catch his booming voice saying, “Let me get you another drink.”
Shaw parts ways from the redhead, first heading toward the bar, but then altering course to slip around the corner of the ornate plaster pillars leading into the theater.
Got you, motherfucker.
The trout is chasing after the bait, mouth wide open. I can’t wait for him to swallow the lure before I slip in the hook.
Shaw follows Mara out the double doors.
I leave the opposite way, heading toward the glowing movie screen, then pushing my way through the emergency exit into the alley behind the theater.
I don’t have to follow Mara because I already know where she’s going.
So intent am I on sprinting ahead of her, that I don’t realize I’m not alone in the alleyway. I hear the click of a safety coming off. Then the voice of Officer Hawks ordering, “Don’t fucking move.”
I turn slowly, already knowing I’ll be staring down the barrel of a gun.
Hawks is still dressed in his rented tux, though he’s lost the bow-tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons. His glasses are slightly askew, the eyes behind them bloodshot with lack of sleep and at least one or two glasses of EBA champagne.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I say, trying for boredom in my tone. Unable to hide the edge of tension running underneath. I don’t have time for this—I don’t have time for any delay at all.
Hawks doesn’t give a fuck about my plans.
He’s here to ruin them.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” he barks. “I’m arresting you,”
Fuck fuck FUCK!
“You can’t arrest me,” I sneer. “You have no warrant and no probable cause.”
“Turn around,” Hawks hisses through his teeth, “Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
FUCK!
I turn slowly, trying to buy time as my mind races.
My options are few.
“Mara just left the party,” I tell him. “Shaw is following her. He’s going to kill her.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hawks barks, coming up behind me. I hear the clink of metal as he pulls out his cuffs.
The urge to yank my hands away, to fight him, is overwhelming. But he’s closing the manacle around my wrist one-handed while he keeps his gun shoved against my side.
He frisks me roughly, finding the knife in my pocket.
“What’s this?” he crows. “Looks like probable cause to me. Can’t wait to run that through analysis.”
I want to slam the crown of my head against the bridge of his nose. I’m dying to do it.
Does he really think I’m stupid enough to carry a murder weapon around in my pocket?
I mean … one I’ve already used.
“We have to get to Mara!” I snap. “I can show you where they’re going.”
“Shut UP,” Hawks hisses, jamming the barrel between my ribs. “I want to shoot you. I’m fucking itching to do it. Just give me a reason.”
I keep my mouth shut as he hustles me to the end of the alleyway, to the cruiser parked a block down the street.
God DAMN it! I was hoping he brought his own car.
He shoves me in the back, where the doors have no interior handles and I’m trapped behind the thick metal mesh separating the driver from the back seat.
Hawks drops my knife into an evidence bag and stows it in the trunk, before climbing into the front.
“This is pointless,” I tell him. “I’ll have a team of lawyers down at the station in an hour. I’ll run this all the way up the chain—you’ll be writing parking tickets in Excelsior by the time I’m finished with you.”
“Yeah?” Hawks scoffs. “Well at least I get to ruin your night first.”
He’s right about that. With the speed the SFPD moves, I won’t even get my phone call within an hour. By then, Mara will be long gone.
Hawks turns right on 18th Street, driving away from Corona Heights Park.
In the moment that his head is turned watching for cross traffic, I slip my bound wrists under my legs, bringing them around in front of me. Hawks glances at the rear-view mirror. I sit still, pretending that I haven’t moved at all.
I wait, the seconds whipping past, the car traveling several agonizing blocks in the wrong direction.
Then Hawks turns onto Sanchez and speeds up. He’s distracted, changing lanes to merge into traffic.
Leaning back against the seat, I lift my feet and drive both heels into the metal mesh as hard as I can. I kick it once, twice, as Hawks shouts and swerves the wheel, scrabbling for his gun. My heels breaking through on the third kick, knocking Hawks in the jaw and shoulder, sending the car careening the opposite direction.
Hawks pulls his gun free, but now there’s no mesh between us. I drop my wrists over his head and pull the chain back against his throat, yanking it so tight that he has to let go of the wheel entirely, and the gun too, both hands grabbing for the chain as he strangles.
The cruiser barrels into the cars lined up along the street, hitting the bed of a Tacoma and flipping over. Hawks and I are both unbuckled. We’re flung up out of our seats, still grappling and twisting in the air, landing in a crumpled heap on the inside roof of the car.
I keep throttling him with all my strength as he claws and punches backward. He hits me in the eye and the ear, but I hang on doggedly, choking him until I feel him losing strength. His blows weaken. Finally he slumps forward, both of us covered in broken glass, bleeding from a dozen cuts.
I ease the pressure off his throat.
There’s no covering this up—I just assaulted a police officer. I’m in deep shit. I don’t need Hawks dead on top of everything else. I steal the keys off his belt, unlock the cuffs, then leave him there with a livid chain mark across his throat and his pulse still beating.
I crawl out the shattered windshield of the cruiser.
A half dozen people have already gathered around, pulling out their phones, calling the police and an ambulance.
They stare at me as I slither out of the cop car, cut to ribbons by the glass, blood pattering down on the cement from the side of my face, my knees, and my hands.
“Are you okay?” a girl asks me.
A bald man in glasses takes a step back, understanding what it means that I was in the back of the cop car when it crashed.
“You better wait here for the ambulance …” he says, hesitantly.
I’m not waiting for shit.
Ignoring the bystanders, I turn and start running back in the direction of the park.
I’m not returning exactly the way we came—I’m cutting through cross-streets, sprinting down sidewalks and through alleyways, taking the most direct route to Mara.
I’m running faster and harder than I’ve ever run in my life. My shoes pound the pavement, my chest flames like a furnace stuffed full of coal. My head throbs where it slammed against the car door as the cruiser flipped over. I can’t pay attention to any of that—all I can do is sprint and sprint until I taste blood in my throat.
I’ve been delayed too long.
Mara might already be dead.
