Free Scarla by BC Furtney Page B

drawer. It was antique, looked as though it hadn’t been fired since its inception. His mouth was dry, a sandpaper tongue flicking quivering lips. His eyes darted from screen-to-screen. He held his breath without realizing it, clutching the revolver with both hands, flinching as she appeared in the hallway. She paused at the broken door and peered inside, noting the dead girl’s remains. He watched her move along, listening closely. Their eyes met again on a screen numbered 19
,
and he was so intimidated he spun his chair to face the door. His hands were shaking, palm sweat soaking the gun handle.
    Scarla set the gas can down, slid along the wall to the nearest closed door. She knew she was being watched, but decided the reason she hadn’t yet been stormed by a dozen snarling beasts was because there weren’t any. She hoped. If there
were
, she had three more full clips, but she felt pretty sure the hunt was down to one man.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
She steeled herself, spun and kicked the door open, landing on the other side with gun ready. Silence. She peeked out from behind the jamb, taking quick stock of the empty room—cartoon wallpaper and dozens of children’s toys, a single twin bed with grinning giraffe sheets and a pile of stuffed animals atop its pillow. Most troubling of all—a video camera on a tripod, stationed at the foot of the bed. She grimaced, crossed the hall to the next door, kicked it clean off its hinges. A jacuzzi in the center of the room with lubricants littering its rim, two sex harnesses hung from the ceiling by chains, a massage table in one corner, a gynecological table in the other. She eyed the fourth door.
    Glissberg shielded himself with a blonde in black panties. The RealDoll watched the door with blue-eyed indifference. He held the revolver with a shaky hand, straining to look over his shoulder at the monitor that would show her position, but it was too late. He only caught a glimpse of her foot hitting the door before a hollow-point blew his blonde’s head to bits. He dropped the revolver and screamed. Scarla lowered the .38 and eyed his screens, as he kept shrieking a long fearful wail. She saw the bloody scene in the foyer, the dead girl down the hall, empty stillness everywhere else. She watched Michael Glissberg run out of breath, his face frozen in terror.
Alone, at last.

10
----
    Facil marched through the lobby at headquarters, handcuffed and flanked by Carmichael and DiCenzo. Eyes stared, heads turned, voices hushed. They strode past the front desk to the elevators. DiCenzo pushed the button and they waited. A well-known public defender appeared beside them, casting sidelong glances, hoping to make eye contact. Facil had a spotty history with the guy and ignored him. Carmichael stared him down. A bell sounded and the elevator doors opened. All four men moved forward, but DiCenzo laid a hand on the attorney’s shoulder, shook his head no.
    “What?” the guy remarked.
    “Take the next car,” Carmichael shot back.
    The defender sneered. “Looks like you’ll need my services, LeTour. Told ya this day would come.” He pulled a business card from his breast pocket, flung it into the elevator as the doors closed. “Gimme a call, I’ll see what I can do.”
    * * * *
    The elevator doors opened on the lab. Facil put his phone away and stepped out, uncuffed. Calvin Harris sat at his desk, the female corpse still strung up behind him. He shot to his feet. Facil approached fast, leaving the rookies at the elevator.
    Harris noted them right away. “Why the company?”
    Facil didn’t bother. “My chaperones to booking. Tell me what you know about Ray Smith.”
    Harris held eye contact. “I take it you’ve met.”
    “You could say that. What’s his story?” Then, stepping into Harris’ personal space. “The
real
story.”
    “I only know what he told me, and I don’t believe a word of it.”
    Facil nodded. “Rattan did most of the talking on my end, but I