A Field of Red (33 page)

Frank struck the wounded boy in the stomach and caught the shotgun as the young man dropped it. The boy crumpled to the floor, obviously in pain.

Go after the girls or check on Peters?

His instinct told him the girl would not harm the girls—but he could be wrong. Frank stepped over to Peters. He had been hit in the vest and shoulder. Blood was seeping from the shoulder wound. Lucky, but out cold.

Frank rolled him onto his back and grabbed a kitchen towel from the island, stuffing it into the shoulder wound and tucking it under the edge of the vest. It would at least slow the bleeding.

The rest of his mind was trained on the upstairs, straining to hear gunshots or the sounds of a struggle. In their desperation, kidnappers were sometimes known to execute their hostages just moments before capture. Frank tried not to think about it. He watched the stairs for the young woman and held the kitchen towel against Peters’ shoulder.

Every fiber in his body told him to go upstairs, to find the girls and stop the young woman from doing something horrible. But King was coming, and Graves, and the ghost of Ben Stone kept reminding him to wait for backup. Ben’s gun had still been in his holster. A fat lot of good his range rating had done him.

In the distance, Frank heard a siren.

Charlie heard a lot more shouting.

They had been fighting nonstop for the last few hours. Even when the man had brought Charlie her dinner, the woman had kept yelling at him from the bottom of the stairs. Yelling at him, calling him names that Charlie was not allowed to use. Bad names, mean names.

The man hadn’t said anything, but Charlie could tell the mean names hurt him. He had tried to ignore the woman by telling Charlie another story, this one about a place called Griffith Park, a big observatory and museum that sat up on a hill above some place called Los Angeles. The story kept getting interrupted, but the man had kept with it until Charlie was done eating and he had left.

The woman kept yelling while the man fed Maya—Charlie didn’t know if he told her stories as well, but Maya’s English was pretty good.

After dinner, Charlie had waited a little while, just listening to the fighting. The woman wanted to leave, but the man didn’t want to leave Charlie and Maya. The woman didn’t care—she seemed to think that someone was coming to hurt her or hurt them, and she kept threatening to leave.

Charlie slipped out of the zip tie and tiptoed across the floor to the door, trying the lock. As always, it was bolted shut.

She was walking to the bathroom when she heard the first gunshot. It was so loud, it rattled the glass in the windows. Another gunshot rang out, and another—they sounded like wood cracking, like when she’d been on the construction site with her dad, and the men would be building walls or cutting two-by-fours. They would have those saws with the spinning blades that cut right through the wood like butter, but sometimes the wood would snap off loudly instead of cutting cleanly.

If people were shooting downstairs, maybe the police had come.

Her father was on the City Council, and the police worked for him. He’d said once that the police were a little sore at him for taking away some of their money. Did that mean they didn’t have enough money for bullets or guns? As the days had dragged on, Charlie had wondered if her father taking away the policemen’s money meant that they weren’t looking for her.

But her father also knew the Mayor and a bunch of other important people in town. He had even introduced Charlie to the Mayor once, a nice old gentleman that made models of buildings out of tiny wooden sticks. The Mayor had seemed nice, loud but nice. And he had clearly liked her father, with all the smiling and hand shaking. So there were people that liked her father and their family. She just hoped that the cops downstairs were ones that liked her father.

Charlie went to the window. She saw a police car coming up the driveway. So who was shooting, if the cops were just getting here? Maybe the young man and woman were fighting.

Charlie heard feet coming up the stairs.

She had only a moment to decide—get back into bed and pretend she couldn’t get away? Or run?

The police were here. That meant she was going to be rescued. And staying inside the house seemed like a bad idea, especially if she knew she could get away.

Charlie ran to the bathroom and closed the door, then went to the window and slid it open. She stood up on the edge of the bathtub and climbed out. Charlie had thought about all the different things she could do, and she’d decided that the smartest thing to do was for her to escape and go get help, instead of trying to free Maya herself.

She pulled her way up onto the roof, walking the roofline. Her father always told her she would make a good gymnast. It must’ve been all those afternoons killing time around her father’s construction sites, walking on planks of wood and two-by-fours and negotiating the tops of cinder blocks and basement walls.

Charlie scampered along the roofline and found the tree. Steadying herself, she ran and jumped. The half-second in the air was terrifying, but she caught the tree around the trunk, grabbing on tightly. She sighed and let out a quiet laugh, then began climbing down to the ground.

“Peters? Harper?”

Frank had heard the police car come to a stop and cops approaching the front of the house. It sounded like Sergeant Graves. Frank wasn’t sure why he’d used the siren, but Frank was glad he was there all the same.

Frank still had a hand on Peters, who hadn’t moved.

“Back here!” Frank yelled from the kitchen. “One suspect, upstairs.” The front door still stood open, and Frank could see the police lights out front. “There are two shooters—one female armed upstairs, and one male down, in the hallway. Circle around and come in through the kitchen!”

Frank heard someone walk in through the front door and down the wooden floor of the hallway. Sergeant Graves appeared from around the corner, wearing a bullet-proof vest.

“You okay?” he asked, looking at Frank, then down at Peters.

 “I’m good,” Frank nodded. “Peters took two from a shotgun,” Frank said, nodding at the man’s shotgun on the floor next to Peters. “One in the vest, but the other in the shoulder. It’s a good thing we were both wearing—”

“The other one is upstairs?” Graves asked, cutting him off. He was looking around the kitchen.

Frank nodded.

“I’m assuming she’s up there with the girls, if they’re still alive.”

“Good,” Graves said. “Good you cornered her, so at least she can’t get away. Backup and EMTs are on the way.” Graves stood, picking up the young man’s shotgun, checking the chamber. “Come help me take out the woman,” he said.

“What about Peters?” Frank asked, his hand still on Peters’ shoulder.

Sergeant Graves shook his head. “He’ll be okay for a minute. Looks like you stopped the bleeding. We need to end this before something happens to those little girls.”

Frank nodded and stood, grabbing his shotgun.

“Okay, let’s go,” Graves said, a shotgun in each hand.

They walked down the hallway to where the young man lay on the wood floor, still out cold. Frank checked his neck for a pulse, finding one, and then stood, starting up the hallway toward the foot of the stairs.

“The young woman went upstairs,” Frank said, gripping his shotgun. “She’s also armed with a—”

The shotgun blast caught him squarely in the back.

The power of the shotgun at such a close range hurled him nearly ten feet down the hallway. His back bloomed with burning pain that spread to every nerve in his body. He landed with a thud, hitting his face against the wooden floor, knocking the wind out of him. Frank slid nearly to the open front door.

The house went quiet. After a second, Frank heard someone yelling.

“You can come down now,” he heard Graves call.

Every single part of Frank’s body was screaming in pain. He tried to not move, tried to stay still. He concentrated on the voices, and looking out the open front door at the police car and the Corolla with the busted mirror and the trees beyond, splashed regularly with red and blue light.

He felt blood oozing from his mouth.

“Is it safe?” Frank heard the young woman ask from upstairs.

“Yup,” Graves said quietly. He could hear him reloading the shotgun, sliding more cartridges into the bore. “There are more cops coming, so we gotta hurry. George is hurt—you better check on him.”

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

“You get the other one?” It was a young woman’s voice, the young woman Frank had seen. She sounded frightened.

“Yup, he’s dead,” Frank heard Graves say. “But more cops are on their way. I was already on my way, or they would’ve gotten here first.”

Frank heard the young woman’s feet on the wooden floor—she stepped down from the stairs, walked past Frank, and let out a little sound. She must have seen the young man. Frank heard her hurry down the hallway to check on the young man—

The next shot was much louder, filling up the entire world with sound. Frank heard the sound of a person crumpling to the ground.

“Stupid bitch.”

Frank’s mind was racing.

Graves was the leak, the cop, the kidnapper, in charge of the kidnappers, who made sure they got away. He had the duty roster, helped set the roadblocks, heard the call in to dispatch. He didn’t need to call King to get the address. Maybe he did anyway, just to explain how he knew where to go. But Graves had the zip ties and knew about the second ransom. He was probably the one who jumped Frank, hit him over the head, and took the files and the money.

And carried him into the field to die.

Sergeant Graves also had been the last one in the room with Lassiter.

The answers flashed through Frank’s mind. There were all the answers, all in one place, falling into place like dominoes. And now Sergeant Graves was cleaning everything up. He’d known about the money, had the zip ties, been the first on the scene after the kidnapping. Graves had found the water bottle or planted it. King had given him the lead on looking into who might be dirty.

Frank heard Graves start up the stairs.

The girls.

If they were alive, they wouldn’t be for much longer.

He tried to move. At this point, playing dead just wasn’t going to cut it.

Out the open front door, he saw the Corolla and the dark trees beyond. The broken side mirror hung crazily, the glass shattered.

He saw movement.

A little girl appeared near the car and glanced up at the house. She saw him on the ground, in the doorway.

Charlie Martin.

Frank lifted his head and looked at her. It took him a second to get enough breath in his lungs to speak.

“Run,” he whispered as loud as he could. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

Her eyes went wide. She turned and disappeared from sight.

“Son of a BITCH!” Frank heard from upstairs.

He could hear Graves stomp around loudly, pissed off. Frank heard something, glass breaking. A loud thump, followed by more breaking glass—the man was turning over furniture. A shotgun blast went off, the sound muffled by the wooden floors. Surrounded by wood.

 “WHERE ARE YOU??!” Sergeant Graves was screaming.

Frank lifted his head and turned, looking to the stairs and the hallway.

George was sitting up now, eyes wide, holding his ear and looking at Frank. Their eyes met for a second, then George stood slowly and went over to Chastity, patting her gently on the back of the head. George’s eyes were shiny as he pried the shotgun from her dead hands. He stood and started slowly up the hallway toward Frank.

Frank knew it was over.

At least he’d gotten to make up with Laura and meet Jackson and spend some time with them. He’d wanted more time with them, time to take Jackson to a baseball game or visit Laura at her new job or see her happy. Frank wanted more time with them, more time to make up for the lost time he’d pissed away.

George stopped next to Frank. Frank got ready for it, wondering if Ben Stone had felt like this, looking up at this attacker.

George looked down at him, then slowly nodded and turned, starting wearily up the stairs. Walking away from Frank. The man’s legs continued slowly up the stairs, finally disappearing out of view.

Frank felt a second wind rush through him, a temporary reprieve from the alarms of pain going off all over his back. Frank slid his arm down, trying to get to his belt holster.

Another shot rang out upstairs, and a second, then three more in quick succession. Two different weapons firing, back and forth. Frank could hear people walking around as well, stuttering movements and running, followed by another shot. He had no idea what was happening, but he managed to free the handgun and got his other arm under his chest, propping himself up.

Frank waited, watching the stairs.

He heard someone running on the second floor, the old hardwoods squeaking. Feet appeared on the stairs—it was Sergeant Graves, racing to get away. By the time he got halfway down the staircase, Frank could see he’d escaped any injury.

Frank shot him.

Graves screamed and fell backward, the shotgun clattering to the floor. Frank fired again. A red hole appeared in the man’s neck. For a moment, he looked at Frank, Graves’ hands going to his neck. Blood bubbled from between his fingers, and Frank thought of that cauldron of fake blood. Then the man slumped backward against the stairs.

He heard other people walking around upstairs. Frank smiled through the blood.

After a moment, the young man and Maya came down the stairs—she had been fighting him, slapping at him but then stopped when she saw the bleeding man on the stairs.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” George was telling Maya.

They walked gingerly around Graves. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the young man pointed to Frank, who had managed to work his way up into a sitting position and was leaning against the door frame.

“You stay with him,” the young man said. “He’s a policeman. Help is on the way—Charlie already got out. You just stay here, okay?”

Maya nodded.

Frank watched, as the young man walked back over to the woman and patted her on the back one more time, touching her head gently. It seemed like a very long moment, but it couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. Then the young man stood, crying, and picked up two of the shotguns, hoisting them over his shoulders. His ear was bleeding.

He looked at Frank for a moment, then stepped right over him and walked out the door.

Frank turned to see the young man put both shotguns into the Corolla, then walk over to Graves’ police car and open the doors. He searched the car and trunk until he found a green duffel bag, pulling it open and smiling at the contents. Frank couldn’t see what was inside, but he could guess: the second ransom.

The young man climbed into the white Corolla with the busted side mirror. With a nod to Frank, he drove away.