Biker (31 page)

“Thank God,” Munz whispered while Pratt went to the window and pulled aside the curtains. The deck outside looked down on an empty patio. Pratt checked the locks. Munz had inserted a pipe to prevent the sliding door from being opened. Pratt let the drapery fall back into place.

I fucking knew it
, he thought. He tapped Munz on the shoulder. “Flashlights,” he whispered.

Munz nodded. “Office,” he whispered.

“I'll be right back,” Pratt said.

Pratt turned and ran down the corridor, down the stairs three at a time, through the door to the basement, across the rec room into the guest bedroom where Cass lay where he'd left her softly snoring. Wake her and drag her upstairs? Pratt checked the sliding door. The brace was in place. He let the heavy curtains fall back, plunging the room into darkness. His night vision was excellent. He preferred it to the goggles.

He checked the rec room, looked behind the bar, in the closet and the utility room. Satisfying himself that the house had not been breached, he ran back up the stairs, around to the front stairs, up those two at a time back to Munz' office.

Munz produced two black plastic C cell flashlights, long and heavy clubs.

“Let's keep these off until we really need them,” Pratt said. “We've got to check all the closets on this floor. And look under the bed.”

Munz goggled. “Really?”

“Really. And if you see the son of a bitch shoot him.”

“How will I know if it's him?”

“Who else is going to be hiding under the bed? We'll stick together, do a systematic search of the house.”

Munz led the way back to the master suite. Pistol extended, he lay on the floor five feet from the bed and pressed the flashlight button. The beam illuminated dust bunnies and a shoe box.

They checked the bathroom, the shower stall, the two walk-in closets. They moved to the office. The closet, the half bath, beneath the desk. They moved to the guest bedroom and checked under the bed, the closet and the bath. There was no moisture on the hardwood floors other than their own. Pratt stared up at the access panel to the attic.

“There's no outside access,” Munz said.

They quietly descended the stairs and searched the first floor, Pratt guarding Munz' back. Outside the storm raged. The living room, the dining room, the breezeway, the den, the kitchen and numerous closets, all cleared.

In the kitchen Munz opened the door into the cavernous garage. Pratt followed, shutting the door behind him. A pair of windows in the far wall admitted just enough light to illuminate the outline of vehicles. Munz switched on his flashlight and kept it low to the ground. Pratt did likewise.

They searched between the vehicles and in the half bath off the garage. They got down on the ground and searched beneath the vehicles. They checked the floor for footprints. Pratt shined his light up and searched among the girders and ducts, thinking now would be a perfect time for Moon to move around the house.

They went to the basement, Pratt leading with his pistol clutched in both hands. Lightning strobed around the edges of the blinds. Pratt cut across the rec room to the guest suite and stepped inside. Cass lay where he had left her, one arm flung across the sheets. He stood over her for a minute watching the telltale pulse in her neck.

Pratt got down on his knees and checked under the bed. As a child it had been a nightly ritual until Duane caught him at it and the ridicule began.

“You know that goddamn boogie man is real, boy, and one of these days he's gonna grab you by the hair and drag you straight to hell.”

Moon was not under the bed. Pratt checked the closet and the bathroom. He went to the door. Munz came out of the utility room.

“All clear,” he said.

They met in the center of the room between the bar and the patio. “What else is there?” he said.

Munz pointed to a door behind the bar. “Just that closet.”

Pratt braced his elbows against the bar and pointed at the closet as Munz reached for the knob and swiftly yanked it open, stepping out of the way. Darkness. Munz held his flashlight around the edge and shined it in. The closet contained only stacks of boxes.

“I think,” Pratt said, “We should all get in your car and get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay. Wake Cass and bring her. Let's all stick together from now on.”

Pratt nodded and headed for the guest bedroom.

Three flat smacks interrupted the rain's white noise. Munz and Pratt looked at the patio door from where it had issued. Lightning flashed. Through the slits in the blinds the outline of a man.

Three more raps as he slapped his open palm against the glass.

Pratt went into a shooter's stance. Munz moved to the wall next to the sliding glass door. Quickly he reeled in the blinds.

The tall figure of Rob Stuart, barely visible as a black outline, watch cap pulled low over his ears, cupped his hands against the glass. “Let me in,” he mouthed.

CHAPTER 62

Stuart dripped water on the parquet floor. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, black holster, black trousers tucked into black boots, all of it soaking wet. He moved quickly to shut the blinds and draw the others away from the door. He appeared agitated.

“Did you find Bonner?” Pratt said.

Stuart nodded his head grimly.

“What about Foucalt?”

Stuart shook his head. “Can't find him. He's not where he's supposed to be.”

“Fucking great,” Munz said, going behind the bar and picking up a bottle of Famous Grouse. He poured several ounces into a tumbler and drank it neat. He gestured with the bottle toward Pratt. Pratt shook his head.

“I'll have some of that,” Stuart said, taking the bottle and chugging.

Creases radiated from the bridge of the Flintstone op's nose. He put the bottle down on the bar and shook himself like a dog, spraying water everywhere

“Let's get both women down here if you don't mind.”

Munz headed for the stair, gun in hand.

Pratt gestured toward the bedroom. “Cass is in there.”

Cass appeared in the bedroom doorway wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. “What's going on?” She walked toward Pratt.

Stuart ushered them back. “Let's all back away from the window.”

They gathered at one side of the great room by the brick fireplace. A stuffed muskie hung above the mantel. Stuart appeared excited, totally alive. He thrummed with nervous energy. “Okay. There's no reason to panic. He's out there but we have him outnumbered and outgunned. Both you gentlemen are trained shooters. Are there any neighbors around who might respond to the sound of gunshots?”

“Nearest neighbor's a quarter mile,” Munz said. “Doubt if he'd hear anything in this storm.”

“In that case we can assume that anyone found lurking around whom you can't immediately identify is our quarry.”

Cute word, Pratt thought, turning Moon from nightmare to prey.

“War Bonnets hit the deputy at the end of the drive,” Pratt said. “He's dead, so was one Bonnet. I killed another one on the way back to the house.”

“I heard the gunfire,” Stuart said. “I thought Moon didn't use guns.”

“He doesn't. But his boys do,” Pratt said.

“What's going on?” Cass said. “What happened?”

Pratt put an arm around her shoulder. “Bonner is dead. Foucalt is probably dead too.”

She shivered uncontrollably. “Moon is here?” she whispered.

“So it would seem,” Stuart declared. “Is there any exit directly from the basement to the outside, other than the patio?”

“There's an entrance off the spare bedroom,” Pratt said. “He'd have to break the glass.”

Stuart looked around. Munz had gone upstairs to get Ginger. Stuart headed for the stairs.

“Stay away from the windows,” he said. “We'll be right back.”

Cass went limp with fear. “He's going to kill us,” she moaned.

Pratt gripped her firmly by the shoulders. He had to physically hold her up. “Bullshit! He tried to kill me and it didn't take. This time it's his ass on the line.”

Bravado was better than meth. Strength surged through his legs. He gathered himself for a fight.

Bring it on, motherfucker
.

If Moon were to pop through the door, Cass would be in the line of fire. The basement bedroom had that sliding door open to the patio. But the utility room's only door opened into the rec room. Pratt steered Cass back to the utility room. A large, unfinished room, it contained a washer, dryer, freezer, and a spare sofa. A window high up on the wall opened into a window well on the side of the house. You could get out of the house through the window in an emergency, just put a chair under it. Pratt put Cass on the sofa. She moved like a zombie. Pratt took an old wool blanket folded over the back and laid it across Cass, who curled up in a near-fetal position.

Pratt took the Ruger from the fanny pack, its weight like the Old Testament in his hand. He released the magazine and filled it with bullets from his pocket.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he whispered to himself away from Cass, “I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” He stepped into the rec room and shut the door behind him.

Pratt leaned on the bar facing the patio, projecting his radar through the blinds and the glass and the rain. No go. He wasn't Superman. Footsteps. Munz came first, leading Ginger, who hung on his arm and the banister. He held her up as she tentatively crossed the room, face creased with pain.

“Where's Cass?” she whispered.

“In the utility room. I figure it's the safest place.”

Munz nodded and led Ginger into the utility room.

Stuart silently appeared.

“I say we put a man on the first floor and two down here. Anybody sees him, we start shooting.”

The storm tossed a load of gravel against the patio window. Through a crack in the blinds Pratt saw white pellets. The house rang like Billy Cobham's snare drum.

“Hail,” he said.

Munz came out of the utility room. “Fuck. Hail means tornadoes. Well this is the safest place in the house.”

The three men huddled at the bar, Pratt and Munz in back, Stuart in front. Stuart told them his plan.

“What good does that do?” Munz said. “Wouldn't it make more sense for all of us to pile into the Infiniti and make a run for it?”

Stuart gripped Munz' shoulder. “We don't know what's out there. He may have more War Bonnets and I don't think we should be in a car in this weather. I say we put an end to this motherfucker once and for all.” Stuart's eyes glowed. He was happy as a pig in shit.

Munz looked like he'd eaten a bad shrimp. “You're the expert.”

Lightning flickered through the vinyl blinds, which chattered in the wind that forced its way in through the porous door.

Stuart stepped away from the bar and faced his audience. “I just go by what …”

An electric crack insinuated itself into the mix. Stuart looked mildly surprised. He looked down. A black point emerged from his chest just below the diaphragm.

Stuart collapsed, an arrow jutting from his back.

CHAPTER 63

Munz and Pratt ducked behind the bar. It was made of wood with a bamboo façade, unlikely to stop either an arrow or a bullet, but three stainless steel dish pans rested on a sub-shelf. They might. Munz was sick with fear, his eyes yellow.

“How can he see?” Munz said with a hitch in his voice.

“Maybe infra-red—it can pick up heat signatures through glass.”

But Moon supposedly eschewed technology. How had he done it?

“He's picking us off one by one!”

“He's still outside,” Pratt said, mind careening wildly over strategy and tactics. The window in the utility room. If he could get outside, he could circle the house and maybe find Moon. The arrow had come from up in the trees off the deck.

It would be like a blind man searching for a mouse in a cave. Better to wait for Moon to enter the house. While Munz and Pratt hunkered behind the bar, Moon was undoubtedly moving.

Pratt realized that if he were Moon he would now run around to the front of the house to gain entry. “He's coming around the front,” Pratt hissed. “You stay with the women.”

Pratt sprinted for the stair. He hated to leave the women without his protection—he had doubts about Munz. Up the stairs three at a time, into the entry hall pointing the Ruger's muzzle at the big front door. Again Pratt projected his “radar,” his every sense seeking anomalies that would signal an intruder. The storm increased its fury, lashing the roof and windows with wave after wave of gravel-sized pellets. The air seemed to carry a charge.

The wind built toward a crescendo. Pratt hoped it was a tornado—pick Moon up and dump him in Kansas. The sound grew in intensity until it was like standing inside the cockpit of a hurtling locomotive. There was a resounding crash from the second floor as a tree smashed through a window.

Pratt jumped, swiveling like a turret toward the second-floor balcony. His con sense said it was a diversion, intended or not. For an instant Pratt was torn. He headed back toward the basement stairs, stopping at the top to listen. He thought he heard a muffled grunt.

Pratt inched down the hardwood stairs, pistol at his side. He stopped at the bottom, hidden from the rec room by the wall. The sky turned white with multiple lightning flashes. Pratt waited for the roll of thunder.

He stepped into the rec room with pistol raised, gripping with both hands.

A figure straightened up behind the bar. Lightning flickered.

Moon smiled, his bald head eerily skull-like, heavy black Fu Manchu framing his rictus grin.

Pratt pulled the trigger, three quick shots where Moon had stood. They struck the door to the utility room and the back wall. Pratt lowered his sights and perforated the bamboo bar, right to left, a foot between shots. Each shot produced a metallic clang. That was seven. He had eight left. Pratt had deafened himself. His ears rang with tinnitus.