Double Cross (30 page)
I lunged for the gun on the floor. When I got my hands on it, I didn’t even bother aiming at him. He was thrashing on the floor, shrieking and rolling from side to side, still trying to claw the trap from his face.
I knelt behind the table and raised the pistol toward the door that led to the front of the house. Then I waited.
Within seconds the giant bounded through the door, his gun hand bobbing with each frantic stride. With all that movement he couldn’t have hit me if I were an elephant. An amateur, in too big a rush to find out what had happened. And he was an instant from paying dearly for it.
When he saw me, his eyes widened. His feet skidded on the tile as he tried to stop. He fired two wild shots while I sighted down the barrel. This shot had a purpose, and I was shooting left-handed so I took my time.
When I squeezed the trigger, he spun sideways, his gun hand flailing. His pistol hit the floor and slid across the room to the base of the refrigerator. He grabbed his shoulder and yelled. Within seconds a dark circle soaked the arm of his denim shirt.
“Where’s my mother?” I leveled the gun at his chest.
He scowled.
I counted, “One, two . . .”
He cocked his head, like a pet trying to understand a command.
“Three.” I aimed the gun at his thigh and squeezed the trigger. This time, without the crunching glass and clattering chair, the gun sounded like a cannon going off in the kitchen.
He dropped to the floor and howled.
I wagged my head. “Now, you understand, right? When I count, that’s a very bad thing for you. I’m going to ask you again. Where’s my mother?”
He stopped writhing long enough to point to the door that led to the front of the house. “Out there!”
I walked to the refrigerator and picked his pistol up off the floor. With each step I left a smear of blood on the tile from the scattershot of broken glass imbedded in my feet. I was in for some serious pain later, but for now my body was pumping so much adrenaline I could have walked on hot coals. I lifted each foot and brushed away the blood and the larger pieces of glass.
I looked down at my ragged dress. No pockets, no purse. There was nothing else to do with the gun. I hiked my dress above my waist. The heels from my shoes were still in the waistband of my panties. I pulled them out, tossed them on the floor, and replaced them with his semiautomatic. As I tugged my hemline down, I noticed the sink next to the refrigerator. My throat felt like a sandal that had been left out in the sun for a week. I hit the tap and slurped from the faucet, keeping one eye on the doorway into the kitchen.
When I’d drunk enough to hold me, I wiped my mouth with the back of my arm and turned toward the giant. He was staring up at me from the floor as if I were some sort of demon woman. I was okay with that.
It occurred to me what a horrifying sight I must be to this poor schmuck. I looked at my reflection in the backdoor glass. My feet were bare and blotched with blood-streaked mud; my hair stuck straight out on one side; my filthy dress was torn in at least ten places and bulged with the outline of the pistol I had secured. Diagonal streaks of black mud smeared my face and neck, giving me a Bengal tiger look. I smiled.
By that time Skinny Man had passed out, lying on his side with his legs tucked up to his waist. Blood oozed from his face onto the tile. The giant’s pant leg had a dark, growing stain the size of a softball. He held his leg in his hands and moaned.
I bent over Skinny Man and patted him down for additional weapons. I was hoping he had a cell phone, but he had nothing. I wasn’t about to get as close to the giant. I pointed my pistol at him and told him to pat himself down, nice and slow. I made him roll from side to side, so I could get a good look at his pockets and pant legs. He pulled a cell phone out of his jeans pocket. The slide top was dangling, busted when he fell. I motioned for him to push it across the floor to me. I picked it up and pushed the buttons. It was dead. I straightened my back. “Where are the phones?”
“What phones?”
“The phones in this cabin. They must have phones, don’t they?”
“There aren’t any. This place is for hunters. They bring their cell phones.”
I tossed his phone to the floor. “You keep an eye on your buddy until I get back. Have you got any other friends in the house?”
He shook his head.
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? Because if you’re lying to me, when I come back you’re going to regret it.”
“I’m telling you the truth, lady. We’re the only ones here.” He glanced at the back door.
“Yeah, you’d like to get out the back, wouldn’t you? But on that leg, you wouldn’t get very far before I caught you. And I’m not a cop, so I don’t have to worry about a bunch of rules. You’ve got one good leg and one good arm left. If you want to keep them attached to your body, you stay where you are. Got it?”
He curled into a ball and nodded.
I walked to the door that led from the kitchen down the hallway. I cupped my hand around my mouth. “Mom!”
“I’m in here! I’m tied up!”
I turned and watched the giant’s face. “Is anyone in there with you, Mom?” His expression didn’t change, and I knew he had been telling me the truth.
She didn’t hesitate. “It’s just me. There wasn’t anybody else but those two.”
As I walked down the hall to get Mom, for the first time I thought of Stanley. I wondered where the Boss had taken him, and whether he was already dead. Fortunately I knew just the person who could tell me. He was sitting on the floor in the kitchen with bullets in his arm and leg.
I was confident he would talk. I had plenty of ammo left, and I was in no mood to be patient.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
WHEN I TURNED THE corner into the living area in the front of the house, Mom was sitting on the floor in the corner with her back to a heavy oak trophy cabinet. Her arms were tied behind her, and a yellow nylon rope stretched up and threaded through a hole near the top of the cabinet. If she moved more than a couple of feet she would pull the cabinet down on top of her.
“You came back,” she said.
“I told you I wouldn’t leave you.” I set Skinny Man’s 9mm on the floor, bent over, and worked at the knot. It was challenging with a splinted hand.
She looked me over. “You look like Rambo.”
“It’s been a tough night.” I tugged at the rope.
“Did you kill them?”
“No, but at least one of them may wish I had.”
She glanced at the door that led to the back of the house. “I heard a crash before the gunshots.”
“I took a shortcut into the kitchen.”
After I slipped her hands out of the rope, she sat on the floor rubbing her wrists.
I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe for her to throw her arms around me and thank me. After all, hadn’t everything changed in the moment when she left her jacket for me out on the road? I stood above her and waited.
She looked up at me. Her eyes softened, and she opened her mouth to speak. I felt myself leaning toward her.
Then she closed her mouth again. She sat for a second, looking straight ahead. “I suppose you’re mad at me for staying in the trunk.” She pushed her hair back off her shoulders and reached a hand up toward me.
I clasped her arm and helped her to her feet. “You were afraid. Who wouldn’t be?”
She brushed at the mud that I left on her arm. “It wasn’t fear, just common sense. You’re twenty-six years old. Your body can do things mine can’t.”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
“Of course.”
“You left your jacket for me. It helped. Thank you.”
“It was cold.” She brushed her arm again. “I don’t want you to think I was afraid. Bouncing along that road would have killed me.”
“They were going to kill us anyway.”
“Maybe they were just going to hold us for a while.”
Surely this wasn’t going to be it—business as usual—a discussion about whether jumping out of the trunk and coming back to save her life was even necessary.
Something clattered in the kitchen.
I turned my head toward the door. “I’ve got to check on them.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Maybe that was her way of saying she wouldn’t leave me, either—or maybe she was just afraid to be alone. Let’s face it, who could possibly tell what she was thinking? “Okay, but stay behind me.”
I moved across the room and down the hall. When I got to the kitchen door, I held my hand out behind me. Mom stopped. In front of me the giant was sitting on the floor where I had left him. He looked up at me. The empty animal trap was next to him. Skinny Man was nowhere in sight.
I figured he must have crawled out the broken window. He wasn’t likely to hang around here when I had all of the guns. I didn’t really care. The way his nose and jaw looked, he wouldn’t stay free for long without being identified.
Something about the look on the giant’s face, though, made me pause. I stayed in the hallway and raised my gun in both hands. The giant had taken off his shirt and made a makeshift tourniquet for his leg. That was fine. It saved me the trouble. I didn’t want him to die, I had some questions for him. With my finger on the trigger, I studied his face. He kept his eyes fixed on me, and barely even blinked. That’s when I knew Skinny Man had not gone out the window.
I looked the giant in the eye. “Where is he?”
The giant blinked several times but didn’t say anything. Still, he kept his eyes on me.
I lowered the pistol and aimed at his good leg. “One, two—”
He shifted his eyes rapidly to a point just inside the doorway to my right. If his eyes were telling the truth, Skinny Man was not more than four feet from me, just around the corner. I wanted to shoot through the wall, but it was made of heavy logs. A bullet wouldn’t go through, at least not straight. Shooting with my left hand was about to come in handy.
He would be expecting me to come through the door at eye level. I dropped to one knee, shoved my hand low across the threshold, and squeezed off a blind shot, aiming up and to the right. I yanked my hand back.
From around the corner came a low grunt. A six-inch butcher knife clattered to the floor just out of my reach. Behind me, Mom gasped. Next to the door there was a thud as something larger hit the floor.
I looked back at Mom and mouthed, “Stay here.”
I moved back a few feet and took a deep breath. With two quick steps I dove low and on my side through the doorway. As I slid into the room, I aimed back at the spot next to the door. Skinny Man was on one knee, his hand stretching toward the butcher knife. I squeezed off two shots as I skidded to a stop against the leg of the kitchen table. One hit him in the leg, the other opened a hole in the side of his chest. He crumpled face-first to the tile.
My back was to the giant, and he was close enough to grab me. I rolled away and popped up on a knee, the gun pointed at his face. He curled into a ball again and covered his head with his hands.
I let out a breath and stood up.
Mom leaned against the door frame and gaped, but she was not in a position to see Skinny Man, who was just around the corner to her right.
“Don’t come in, Mom. This isn’t pretty.” I walked over to Skinny Man and kicked him in the side. He didn’t move. I bent over him, grabbed his hair, and turned his face up. It was bloody and gashed from the animal trap. His eyes were fixed. The second bullet must have gotten his heart. Beneath his arm, blood pooled on the tile.
“Why didn’t you just stay where you were?” I said. I let his face drop back to the floor. He was a man who deserved killing; there was no doubt of that. But why did I have to be the one? I’d already dealt with years of nightmares. This would be the same. He had no right to put that on me.
I straightened up and looked at the giant. He had moved back into a sitting position. His head drooped to the side, and I could tell that he was watching my feet from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t even bring himself to lift his eyes to look at me. He was beaten.
I moved over and stood a few feet away from him, just far enough that he couldn’t reach me, but close enough that I towered over him. My anger at Skinny Man’s stupidity spilled over. I pointed the gun at the giant’s head.
“When were you going to tell me about your friend and the butcher knife?”
I jabbed the barrel of the gun toward him. He covered his head and closed his eyes.
“I asked you a question!”
“Please . . .” His shoulders shook.
This wasn’t the first time a man had begged me for his life. The last time was at the campsite with Dad when I was only seventeen. I made the wrong choice then, and I’d paid the price ever since. Killing Skinny Man was bad enough, but it wasn’t murder. I was not a murderer.
I let the gun drop to my side. I walked over to the table, and slumped into a chair. When I finally spoke, my voice was so soft that it surprised me. “I’ve got some questions for you. I don’t want to hurt you any more. Do you understand that? I don’t want to shoot you again—but I will if I have to.”
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