“You like to think of yourself as a poet,” Nick said. “I was inclined to agree after I read your early works. I was impressed by your originality. Back at the start of your career you were brilliant. But obviously your glory days are behind you.”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
Nick sensed the hysteria in the words and aimed for it.
“Maybe you should have gone into psychotherapy instead of taking this last commission,” he said. “Dr. Freud would probably have some interesting theories about your case.”
Another shot cracked in the night.
Two down. Four to go.
“I will admit I’ve got a question for you,” Nick said. “Who’s your client? The one paying you to murder Vivian Brazier.”
“You really think I’m going to tell you?”
“The information would have been helpful but it’s not necessary. You’re a spider who likes to sit at the center of a web. Now that you’re finished it won’t be hard to follow the strands to get all the answers. There are just so many details in those poems.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“Does insanity run in your family?”
“You fucking bastard.”
Another shot cracked in the night. Three down. Three to go.
“I’ve analyzed several of your poems,” Nick continued. “Figured out how you work. You lure your clients with veiled offers to make their problems go away. For a hefty fee, of course. Make it look like an accident or natural causes. The client probably tells himself or herself that is exactly what happened. An accident. Natural causes. Suicide. But one of these days you’ll start blackmailing your clients, won’t you? It’s a clever business model but it’s got one flaw.”
“What are you talking about? There is no flaw.”
“It’s the money,” Nick said. “It always leaves a trail.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m not the one who gets excited about murdering people and then falls into a deep depression after the kill. We both know you belong in an asylum.”
“No.” The Poet’s voice rose to a shrill scream. “That’s a fucking lie. I escaped the curse. I’m in control.”
Fury and panic shivered through each word.
Interesting, Nick thought.
“Your mental state is deteriorating, isn’t it?” he said. “You’re losing your grip on sanity. It’s all there in the poems, you know. The euphoria of the kills used to last you for weeks, months even. But not now. You need to kill more often and you are no longer doing it carefully. It was just a matter of time before you got caught.”
“That’s not true. Not true. I’m in control.”
The low rumble of a powerful engine sounded in the distance.
“Hear that car?” Nick said. “My associates are about to arrive.”
“Now what are you talking about?”
“That car is bringing the people who were waiting for you at the pier, just in case my calculations were wrong. You were right about one thing. I did set up a trap to catch you tonight—two of them. The first one, the trap with the highest probability of working, was this one. I was almost certain you would find a way to stop me before I got to the pier. But if for some reason you didn’t fall into this trap, my friends would have caught you in the second one.”
“You crazy son of a bitch.”
The Poet exploded from behind the shelter of the Packard. He ran for his car, firing again and again in rapid succession.
Nick counted off the shots. Four, five, six.
The Poet yanked open the door of the vehicle. Nick broke from the cover of the rock pile and lunged across the road.
The Poet whirled around and pulled the trigger.
Shit, Nick thought. Miscounted.
The bullet caught him in the upper right shoulder but momentum and grim determination propelled him forward.
He collided with the Poet, slamming him hard against the side of the car.
The Poet grunted, dropped the empty gun, and yanked a long, slender object out from under his jacket. Nick wrapped both hands around the Poet’s arm and twisted sharply.
The Poet screamed. The ice pick fell from his nerveless fingers.
The approaching car braked sharply. The headlights speared Nick and the Poet. Luther emerged from behind the wheel. Another man climbed out of the passenger’s seat. He had a gun in his hand.
“Brandon, Burning Cove Police,” he growled. “Nobody moves.”
Nick stepped back, sucking in air. The Poet slumped against the fender of the car, cradling his wrist and moaning softly.
“Brandon, this is Sundridge, the private investigator who set this up tonight,” Luther said.
Brandon grunted. “Cut this a little close, didn’t you?”
“I could come up with only an estimate on the timing,” Nick said. He realized that his upper shoulder was on fire. The pain grew steadily. “Damn.”
Luther aimed the flashlight at him. “What the hell? You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed,” Nick said.
Brandon pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and moved forward to take charge of the Poet.
“You’re under arrest,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
The Poet screamed, howling his fury and despair into the teeth of the storm. He flung himself forward with such speed and ferocity that Brandon, caught off guard, instinctively stepped out of the way.
As the Poet rushed past him in a mindless effort to escape, Brandon brought up his pistol and took aim.
“No, don’t kill him,” Nick said. “We need him alive.”
“Nick’s right,” Luther said. “Don’t worry, he won’t get far on foot, not in this storm. The roads are blocked in both directions.”
The Poet was silhouetted briefly in the glare of Luther’s headlights. Nick registered the trajectory and broke into a run.
“Stop him,” he shouted.
But it was too late. With a final scream the Poet threw himself off the cliff.
The shriek ended a second later.
Luther and Brandon raced forward and aimed their flashlights down at the thrashing surf. Nick found his own flashlight and joined them.
“I don’t see him,” Luther said.
“Must have been swept out to sea on a wave,” Brandon said. “With luck the body will wash up onshore.”