“And now you,” snarled Leopold.
“Why the gaps, Belinda? Why come after me twenty years later? Was it him? Was it this guy? ‘Justice Denied’? Is that why all that time went by before you started killing? From the moment I said it twenty years ago I know you remembered that I wanted to be a cop. I recalled the stun
ned look on your face, the hurt you were feeling. But you did nothing with it. Not all that time. Until you ran into this guy. And you told him. And you told him about your parents’ blackmail money. And he saw his chance. And in your mind he twisted what I said and made it into your absolute obsession, your total and complete vendetta. The one thing that you could do to make it all right. The only thing in life you cared about because otherwise you would have no life.”
“Why would I do that?” said Leopold. “This was her revenge, not mine. She had to make it right. She came to me!”
“So it was her idea to make herself look like a big man with guns blazing, mowing down defenseless kids.” He looked at Wyatt. “Are you telling me that’s what you wanted, Belinda? Seducing a vulnerable young woman like Debbie Watson and then blowing her head off? You came up with that? She was almost your age when you were raped. She was just a scared kid with a screwed-up home life. Like you had! She wanted to have a better life. And you seduced her. Made her fall in love with you to such an extent that she called you Jesus, her savior. And then you just killed her? Like she was nothing? Like she didn’t matter? Like you didn’t matter? Like when people who you thought would protect you did just the opposite? Is that your idea of revenge, Belinda? Because I’m not buying it. That’s not you. I don’t care how much you changed. You haven’t changed that much!”
Wyatt said nothing. But Decker took it as a positive sign that Wyatt was not looking at him. She was staring at Leopold.
She rose from the crate. “Did you take my parents’ money?”
“Why would I? Do you see me rolling in cash?”
Decker was not going to lose control of the situation. He barked out, “He does it for kicks, Belinda. He likes to manipulate. He must have loved what you did at the school. It was choreographed, like a play. And maybe he has the money socked away in a bank somewhere. But he killed his family, so why would he have founded ‘Justice Denied’? The only justice denied with Leopold was his getting away with murdering his family.”
Wyatt said, “Is this true?”
Decker expected more denials. He did not get them.
“Yes,” said Leopold emphatically. “Do you feel better?”
He swiveled the gun away from Decker’s head. At the same moment Decker launched himself sideways, pushing off mostly with his good leg and taking the chair with him.
The gun fired.
Chapter
64
DECKER CATAPULTED HEADLONG into Leopold, finally delivering the hit on the field during the kickoff denied to him for two decades. It felt good.
Leopold fell sideways with the brutal impact. Decker was sure the man had never been hit that hard in his life. Those who only watched pro football from the safety of their stadium seats or big-screen TVs could never imagine the devastating power of enormous men running at speed into other enormous men. It was like being in a car accident over and over. It didn’t merely hurt; it stunned. It shocked the body in so many different ways that one could never be the same afterward. It pushed bone, muscle, ligaments, and brains to places they were never intended to go. It was no wonder that so many men who had played the game were now suffering the long-term debilitating effects of entertaining millions and making large sums of money for doing so.
Decker landed directly on top of Leopold, his full weight coming to rest on the much smaller man who was half his weight. A few seconds later Decker smelled the stench. He had hit Leopold so hard that the man’s bowels had involuntarily released.
Leopold kicked at him. Then he tried to raise the gun to fire at him, but Decker, just as he had with Bogart, brought his weight down on top of the man and felt all the air leave him. His wide, heavy shoulder jammed down on Leopold’s right arm, forcing it to remain straight out.
Leopold was trying with all his might to turn the gun back toward Decker so that he could fire, but the angle was impossible. With the barrel pointed that way, his finger couldn’t reach the trigger. The weapon was useless. Which meant that it was man versus man here. And with the difference in size, there would only be one possible outcome.
Leopold seemed to understand this, because he smashed his knee against Decker’s wound. Decker screamed in agony. But he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and, little by little, managed to straighten his legs out from the sitting position he had been forced into by the chair and duct tape. He felt the tape lengthening, though it did not break. But inch-by-inch Decker pushed and stretched and pushed some more until he was finally flattened out and his three-hundred-and-fifty-plus pounds were lying directly on the much smaller man.
Leopold’s breathing was ragged now. His body lurched up, trying to throw Decker off. But it was like an elephant on his chest.
And then Decker started to do something he never would have with Bogart, because he had never intended to end the life of the FBI agent. He very much intended to end the life of this man. Without the duct tape holding him back, he would already have killed Leopold. But he still would, he just needed to be patient.
So he began to inch his right shoulder in a new direction, a small measure at a time, while his other shoulder and upper arm remained jammed down on the limb holding the gun, keeping his opponent, in effect, weaponless.
The Smith and Wesson was not going to kill again.
Leopold kept kicking and pushing and bucking but the space for him to operate was now severely limited and growing ever smaller. Decker kept his eyes closed but the tears were running down his face with the pain. The bile rose to his throat and he threw up on Leopold.
The smaller man gagged and spit and cursed and heaved. He knew time was running out, and he was not going to go quietly.
Decker was in terrible pain; the wound was bleeding freely again. He felt his strength start to be sapped by the blood loss. But he didn’t really need strength. He just needed his bulk concentrated on one spot in particular. So he kept working at it and his shoulder finally fell into the crevice that he had been striving so mightily for.
Under Leopold’s chin and directly against the man’s throat.
And then Decker let his weight bear down directly on this spot. His bare feet touched the concrete, gaining traction and leverage, and he thrust his pelvis forward and with it his huge shoulder, ramming it against the man’s windpipe and compressing Leopold’s chest so his lungs could not inflate. His big belly was sucking in and out through the opening of the jumpsuit with the effort of it all. Sweat dripped off him though the room was cold. He was not going to stop until this was done. His heart was hammering out of control. He felt dizzy and sick. His head felt ready to burst. But he didn’t think about any of that. His one focused thought was to kill this man.
Decker let his bulk collapse, making himself as much dead weight as possible. He wished he weighed a ton. He kept driving and driving like he was slamming into a blocking sled over and over. He never had the talent of others on the gridiron, but his motor had never stopped. And no one, from the superstars down to the journeymen, ever worked harder than he did.
So this was his moment. This was his one play to end all plays.
He heard gasping, which wasn’t enough.
He kept compressing. He was a gunner’s knot. He was the constrictor. He was never going to stop until this was over. Never.
He heard gurgling, which still wasn’t enough.
He pushed down harder. He was a whale on a minnow. It had never felt so damn good to be obese. He wanted to swallow this piece of shit whole. He wanted to make him disappear from the earth.
He heard a long, low exhalation, which would never be enough.
He rammed his body down with all his strength. In his mind his DVR whirled. Every victim, every face raced through his mind while he was slowly killing their killer.
Then his DVR slowed and two faces held steady. Cassie and Molly. That was all he could see in that enormous cavern his mind had become. It was the whole damn universe in there; it could hold so much and was ever-expanding. Yet still, rig
ht now, it held only their two faces. That was all. And it seemed more than fitting. More than right.
He smashed down one more time as he mumbled, “I love you, Cassie. I love you, Molly. I love you both so much.”
Then he heard nothing. Nothing at all.
The lungs had not inflated because they no longer could.
And Leopold’s body finally went limp and the gun fell to the concrete.
That was enough.
He lifted his head and stared down at the man.
There were few things in life that were certain.
There were many things in death that were.
He was staring at three of them.
Eyes wide open.
Pupils fixed.
Mouth involuntarily sagging.
Dead.
In Decker’s mind the images of his wife and daughter slowly faded, like a movie ending.