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Then she was moving as Doyle raced for thewings. Ella plunged into the gloom of the backstage area, into the twistingguts of the Laughingstock itself.
A maze, a labyrinth. A dank, dismal warrenof narrow halls and blind corners, of shadow and stale air and the stink ofgrease 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 slipthrough 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 psychoin a building the size of a postage stamp.
She slowed, forced herself to breathe. Tothink, to focus, past the red haze of anger and adrenaline cloudingher 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 chessgame he'd been playing with all their lives.
Ella just had to be ready. Had toanticipate, had to outthink the bastard. Get inside his head, suss outhis next steps before he even took them.
C'mon, Dark. Think like a psycho, movelike a madman. You've been doing it long enough, should be second nature bynow.
She crept forward, one foot in front ofthe other. Picking her way through the gloom, gun up and ready, every sensestraining. Ella swung around a corner, quick and quiet as a ghost. Anotherempty hallway stretched before her, pocked with doorways and choked withshadow. She moved down it slowly, methodically, clearing each room as she went.Closets, cupboards, a janitor's sink packed with moldering mops and the sourreek of ancient pine-sol.
But no Doyle. No trace, no trail. Nothingbut dust and cobwebs and the faint, forlorn honk of Vanzetti's wheezing breathsechoing from the stage.
Ella swore under her breath. She wasrunning out of time, out of options. Out of patience for this twisted game ofhide-and-go-screw-yourself.
Where are you, you maniac?
As if in answer, a noise shattered thesepulchral silence. A clatter, a crash, the unmistakable sound of somethingheavy toppling to the floor.
Ella whirled, gun snapping up. It had comefrom behind her, from one of the rooms she'd already cleared. A closet, astorage space, some black hole of junk and detritus she'd written off in herhaste to find Doyle. He was close, so close she could practically smell theflop sweat and desperation leaking from his pores.
Ella turned on her heel, stalked back theway she'd come. Past doors hanging drunkenly from rusted hinges, past piles ofmoldering 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 betweenheartbeats stretching like a noose, like a garrote about to snap taut.
Then, in one fluid motion, she kicked thedoor wide and charged through, leading with her gun and a wordless battle cryripping from her lungs.
The closet was a pit, a black hole of junkand jumble. Broken chairs, shattered spotlights, an avalanche of musty fabricthat might've once been curtains or backdrops.
And there, lurking in the darkest cornerlike a spider in its web – a figure.
Doyle.
Ella's vision tunneled, world narrowing tothe man in front of her. She brought her gun to bear, finger tightening on thetrigger, a hair's breadth from squeezing off a shot that would splatter hisdiseased brains across the cracked plaster.
But before she could end it, before shecould paint the walls with the bastard's gray matter and call it a day – Doylemoved.
Quick as a snake, fast as a fever dream,he lashed out. One long arm whipping around, something glinting in his grip. Ametal pipe, a crowbar, Ella couldn't tell. All she knew was that it was arcingtowards her face, whistling through the air like a baseball bat hungry for ahit.
She threw herself back, spine screaming asshe contorted to avoid the blow. But she was a fraction too slow, a microsecondtoo late. The pipe clipped her wrist, sent her gun flying from her numbfingers. It clattered away into the shadows, swallowed by the gloom as Ellastumbled backward.
And that's when it hit her, a realizationas stark and brutal as a slug to the gut. Doyle wasn't reaching for his gun. Iwasn'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 thepiece was just for show. A prop, a bit of misdirection to add to the drama ofhis final act. Empty as his soul, as bereft of ammo as he was of humanity.
And then Doyle was on her in a fit offlailing limbs and animal fury. He crashed into her like a speeding train andsent them both tumbling to the cluttered floor in a tangle of thrashing bodies.
They rolled, grappled, a grotesque parodyof lovers caught in the throes of passion. Ella raked her nails down Doyle'sface, 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 explodingbehind her eyes. But she clung on, wrapped herself around the bastard like apython hell-bent on crushing its prey. They slammed into a broken couch, sentsprings and stuffing flying like the aftermath of a teddy bear massacre.
She dug her knee into his groin, grinnedviciously as he shrieked and convulsed. Doyle channeled all of his wirystrength and surged against her, caught her in the temple with an elbow, alucky shot that sent starbursts cascading through her vision.
Ella reeled, grip slackening for afraction of a second. But it was enough. Enough for Doyle to buck her off, tosend her tumbling ass over teakettle into a drift of moldy curtains.
By the time she righted herself, spittingdust and worse from her mouth, he had already scrambled to his feet. Waslurching towards the door, a deranged glint in his bloodshot eyes.
Ella launched herself at his retreatingback, caught him around the knees in a diving tackle that would've done her oldhigh school football coach proud. They hit the ground hard, Doyle's chincracking against the scarred floor with a sound like a gunshot. But still hestruggled, still he fought, clawing and squirming beneath her like a worm on ahook.
Doyle bucked, jack-knifed, caught her inthe breadbasket with a lucky heel. Ella doubled over, gagging, and in thatmoment of weakness he slithered from her grasp, uncoiling like a snake fromunder a rock.
