Drowning in Amber (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 2) (38 page)

“Oh,” I said and put my shaking hand back on the gear shift. “I was sure you said N.”

I put the vehicle into reverse, but didn’t touch the gas. The Escalade crawled backward at about a single mile an hour and then stopped when it touched the big double doors at the back.

“What now?” I asked, my heart positively pounding itself silly and my mouth as dry as dust.

“Hit the gas!”

“This one?” I touched the brake with my foot, and I thought he was going to lose it right there.

“No one’s that stupid!” he screamed and rammed the gun against my head. I saw stars again and knew I could no longer play the fool. I’d run out of time. I was going to have to make a run for it with a maniac.

“Buckle up,” I muttered and hit the gas. Hard.

THE ESCALADE BURST
out of the small garage into the back alley, into the Tactical van and an absolute crapload of police with guns.

Chunks of plywood garage door flew everywhere when they backed out of the garage. They rammed the police car blocking the other side of the alley, and it took Stewart no time at all to scream, “Fire!”

The Escalade lit up like a Christmas tree as all the bullets hit it, but it was soon apparent, the bullets were not penetrating.

Stewart cursed a blue streak and pointed to one of the black-garbed Tactical team members, who scurried to the van and pulled out the biggest baddest looking gun I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Stop!” James cried. “Marie’s in there!”

The Escalade leapt forward, back into the garage and then through it, blowing boards and window glass all over the unkempt backyard of the drug house. The Tactical Unit ran to intercept as the vehicle fishtailed, spraying grass and dirt on what was left of the garage as it aimed for the fence of the house next to it.

“He’s going around!” Stewart barked. “Take him out!”

The member with the rifle settled himself as the Escalade began to find purchase on what little grass was left and skittered toward the old bowed fence that ran down the property line between the drug house and the one next to it.

“Now! Now!” Stewart screamed. The gunman took aim at the Escalade. The Escalade leaped forward a few more feet, then, over the scream of its motor, we all heard wood cracking.

“Huh,” James said, almost smiling. “Idiot forgot about the tunnel.”

The earth opened up with a small scream and a huge plume of dust as the Escalade’s front end buried itself windshield-deep in the escape tunnel. The engine roared, but did nothing more than push it further into the ground. Then, even that stopped and for a moment, there was no noise from anywhere.

The sharpshooter walked up to the driver’s side door with his weapon trained on whoever had been driving. A small red dot of light reflected off the tinted side window, but no one moved inside the vehicle. Soon a multitude of red dots swarmed over it as the rest of the Tactical unit aimed their weapons at the Escalade.

“Hands out the windows,” the marksman barked. “Now.”

The windows slowly opened and Marie, who’d been driving, obediently did what she was told. “Don’t shoot,” she said. “I’m unarmed.”

“And you!” The marksman pointed his weapon at Ambrose Welch, semi-conscious in the passenger’s seat, and the tiny red dot touched his forehead. “Hands out, now!”

A small runnel of blood ran down from Ambrose’s hairline into one eye. But I could see the other eye, very clearly. That was definitely the eye of a guy who realized his luck had run out.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. But before he could move, Stewart was beside him, pressing a revolver to his head just above his ear.

“You son of a bitch,” Stewart hissed. Ambrose flinched as the muzzle bit into the tender skin of his head. “I finally got you.”

“Just arrest me,” Ambrose said, keeping his hands up and open so everyone there could see he did not have a weapon. “I’m not talking until I see my lawyer.”

“Oh really?” Stewart growled. He pulled the revolver away from his head and pulled the trigger. Both Ambrose and Marie screamed and flailed, and the marksman who had had his weapon trained on Ambrose jumped back, doing some outraged growling of his own. Stewart ignored everything and put the muzzle of his gun back to Ambrose’s head. “You ready to talk now?”

“You son of a bitch!” Ambrose yelled. “I’m not armed!” He looked past Stewart to the police on the other side of the vehicle. “I don’t have a weapon!”

“Stewart!” James yelled. “Stop.”

Stewart ignored him, pressing the gun barrel harder into Ambrose Welch’s head. “Talk. Now. Why did you kidnap that woman and torture her?”

The police standing around the vehicle looked shocked. And no one moved. Stewart ground the muzzle of his gun into the side of Ambrose’s head. “Tell me. Right now.”

“Word was she knew who offed Brown Eddie,” Ambrose finally said. “We wanted to know what she knew—what she’d told you.”

“And why would you care who killed that piece of shit?” Stewart rasped.

All right, I must admit, even though I knew the guy hated me on principle, the “piece of shit” remark stung. But at least he was trying to figure out who’d killed me.

Ambrose Welch, blood streaming down his face, relaxed and smiled. A terrible smile. “You aren’t going to be able to use anything I tell you, you know. I already asked for my lawyer.”

“I don’t care! Tell me everything,” Stewart said, and his eyes went wild. “Everything! Who else have you killed? Who else? Who else?”

“I’m telling you nothing more,” Ambrose said. “I want my frigging lawyer.”

And then he slowly reached for Stewart’s gun.

That’s when Marie started to scream her head off.

I HAD NEVER
been so afraid in my whole life.

“Don’t shoot him!” I yelled. “Please, don’t shoot him!”

Stewart wasn’t listening, and Ambrose Welch was still moving his hands up, toward Stewart’s gun. If I didn’t do something, Stewart would kill him.

And then I’d have to deal with him.

I’d never met anyone so evil before. It came off him in crazy-making waves and I knew that dealing with his spirit would be nothing I could handle. My mom, maybe, but not me. Not me!

Neither of the men was listening to me. Stewart had taken a step back as he belatedly realized what Ambrose Welch was attempting, but it looked like he wasn’t going to be quick enough. Welch was going to touch that gun and then—then everybody with a weapon was going to use every bit of force at their disposal to stop him.

Suicide by cop.

So I reached over and rammed my thumb in his eye. Hard. Yelling, “Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him!” over and over as I felt his eyeball compress and then give. And then he screamed, high and tight, and forgot all about Stewart’s gun. Forgot about everything but his eye and my thumb.

Finally, Stewart did the right thing and backed away. The rest of the cops swarmed the vehicle, pulling Ambrose Welch from it and throwing him to the ground as he screamed and clawed at his wrecked eye.

They pulled me out and tossed me on the ground, too. I pressed my face into the torn-up grass and let them do whatever they wanted to me. I didn’t care at that moment. I’d stopped Ambrose from killing himself. Thank God.

I MUST HAVE
blacked out, because the next thing I heard was Stewart saying, “Take them away, boys.”

Seriously. “Take them away, boys.” Who did he think he was, John frigging Wayne?

I rolled onto my back and groaned. I hurt absolutely everywhere. “Don’t move,” someone said. I opened my eyes, and there was James, looking worried.

Not angry or suspicious. Just worried.

“Did we get them?” I asked.

“Yep.” He almost smiled. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.” I tried moving my arms. Had some luck, so tried my legs. More luck, so I slowly sat up, and then, with James’s help, I stood. Shaky, like a newborn foal, but I did stand.

I heard a spatter of applause from somewhere behind the mostly destroyed garage. “What’s that?” I asked.

“I think it’s the book club ladies,” James said. “Showing their appreciation.”

“Huh.” I grabbed his arm and hobbled a few steps, then stopped and really looked around. Ambrose Welch was gone. So was Stewart.

“Where are they? The bad guys?”

“Stewart took them to the cop shop. For a little more interrogation.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think he’s going to get any more out of that guy.”

James shrugged. “I don’t care, to be honest. Welch as much as confessed to killing Brown Eddie, and that gets Honoria off the hook.”

“Honoria,” I gasped. For a brief moment my head spun, and James grabbed my arm, helping me stay upright. “Where is she?”

“On her way to the hospital.”

“Is she—is she going to be all right?”

James’s face froze. “She took a lot.”

“Jesus, James. They tortured her.” I couldn’t believe that anyone could do that to another human being.

“I know.” James put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick, hard hug. “I think the book club ladies want to talk to you.”

“Right.” I sighed. “None of them actually got hurt, did they? Queen Bea will never forgive me.”

“Queen Bea,” James half-smiled. “That’s funny. No. Nobody hurt. I’d appreciate it if you handle them, though. I really don’t know what they expect of me.”

“I think they expect a job,” I muttered, looking around. “Where are they?”

“Over there.” He pointed somewhere past the wrecked garage. “Want me to help you?”

“No,” I said. “I think I can do it under my own power.”

I hobbled away from James’s protective arms and past the cops milling around the crime scene, stretching out the oh-so-familiar yellow and black tape that would soon keep everyone from muddling the scene further.

I got to the tape and attempted to bend over, to scoot under it, and stumbled. A police officer ran up and pulled the tape high enough for me to walk more or less upright.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Good job with the driving,” he said and pointed at the Escalade, still buried nose-deep in Ambrose Welch’s escape tunnel.

Oh yeah, like I meant to do that. “Thank you.”

“And taking Welch out. That was really something to see.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe we can go out for a drink or something, and you can tell me all about it.”

Good grief.

I smiled at him, said something terrifically noncommittal, and hobbled away before he could press the offer of a drink.

I managed to get past the garage and saw a police car blocking the alley. Behind it, I could see Bea and the rest of the women on the grass of someone’s backyard. Bea put a china cup to her lips and sipped.

Trust Bea to be able to find tea in the middle of a crime scene.

“How are you?”

“Fine,” she said and took another sip from the china cup.

“Where did you get that?”

“From her.” She pointed over to an ancient woman who was hobbling among the book club women with a huge teapot. “She lives in that house.” Bea pointed at the house on the corner. “And she was good enough to give us a cuppa something.”

“Nice.”

“Yes,” she said. “Some people know how to treat us.”

I chuckled. Looked like the moment of appreciation was over. “Hey, we got you out of there,” I said. “Wasn’t that good enough?”

“We will discuss this at another time,” she said imperiously and turned her back on me.

“Oh come on, Bea,” I started, but she held up a hand, palm out, without turning around.

“At another time.”

Hey, I tried.

I caught a glimpse of Eddie’s mother, and my heart jumped. I hadn’t seen Eddie since we escaped the tunnel. Had he moved on in the middle of that bedlam? I hoped not. He’d been so close to going to his version of hell. I was afraid if he’d slipped over, he’d still let himself go there. He didn’t deserve that.

She was sipping tea over by a weeping birch tree, and she looked up and smiled at me faintly as I walked over to her. Then I saw Eddie, standing in amongst the branches of the tree, watching her.

“Hi,” I said, to both of them.

“Hi,” Eddie said, and a second later his mother said hello.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie’s mother said. Eddie didn’t answer, so I glanced in his direction. He was crying.

“I hurt her so bad,” he whispered. “How can I ever make up for that?”

“I’ll be back in a second,” I said, and without looking at his mother again, walked over to Eddie. “You can’t, Eddie,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”