Redemption Road: A Novel (51 page)

She lost hair and skin, but the tape came off. “Is she alive?” That was her first question, and he blinked once. Channing stripped the last tape from her ankles. “Thank you, thank you so much. Are you okay?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Here, lie down, and try not to move. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She made a pillow of the tarp and got him stretched out on the floor. He felt her hands, but from a distance. “What did you say to him? You waited for him to wake up. I saw it. What did you say?”

“Nothing you’d understand.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He blinked again and kept his eyes on her face. She seemed nice. He wanted to make her happy. “I said, ‘You killed my mother. I hope this hurts.’”

*   *   *

Channing told him again to lie still, then went to Liz, who was alive, but in terrible shape. Her neck was swollen and black, her breath the barest thread. “Liz?” Channing touched her face. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

The eyes were blank, unseeing.

Channing worked at the knots that held Liz down, but her struggles had tightened them, and it took a long time. When she finished, Liz was with her, if only just. Her lips moved.

“What?” Channing leaned closer.

“Tie him.”

Channing didn’t know if the preacher was alive or dead, but it sounded like a good idea. She tied him as tightly as she could.

“What do I do now?” Channing touched Elizabeth’s face. “Liz, please. I don’t know what to do.”

*   *   *

Elizabeth was crushed in the bottom of a deep hole. She thought maybe the hole was a grave. It had hard edges, the right shape, the darkness. The walls were ragged and black, the opening so small above she could barely see it. Her father was somewhere close, but she couldn’t think about hurt that big or betrayal so vast. Shadows and black wind and sharp-edged stone. It was the place she couldn’t go: her father and childhood and his face as he’d tried to kill her. She wanted to collapse the hole, instead, to pull down earth and rock and all the things that made her feel. Maybe she wanted to die. That didn’t feel like her, but what else did? The blood in her vision? The utter despair?

The hole darkened and deepened.

Her father was above it. Beyond him was a question.

Elizabeth drew a breath that burned all the way down. Something troubled her about the question. Not the question. The answer. People called the police when they were in danger. That was the problem. They called the police.

Why was that wrong?

She had the answer, but it slipped away in the dark. She found it again and felt it stick. Channing needed to understand the danger. She wouldn’t see it coming.

“Channing…”

She felt her lips move, but knew the girl hadn’t heard. Her face was in the world above, a slash of color, a kite.

“No police…” It was the smallest sound.

The girl leaned closer. “Did you say no police?”

Elizabeth tried to move her head, but could not. “Beckett…” She was in the grave, and hurting.

“Call Beckett.”

*   *   *

When Elizabeth woke, the light was dim but she sensed Beckett in the church. It was his size, the way he loomed. “Charlie?”

“It’s good to have you back. I was worried.”

“There was a grave.…”

“No. No grave.”

“My father…”

“Shhh. He’s alive. He’s not going anywhere.”

Beckett moved to where she could see him. Same face and suit. Same worried eyes.

“Channing told you?”

“Let’s talk about you, first.” He put hands on her shoulders to keep her down. “Just breathe for a minute. You’re hurting. You’re in shock. I feel your heart running like a train.”

She felt it, too, the thunder and noise. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

“No, I’m not.” Panic was a fist in her chest. “Jesus. God. I’m not.” She felt slippery and cold. Her hands were shaking.

“He can’t hurt you, Liz. He can’t hurt anybody.”

She risked a glance and saw him on the floor. He was tied and handcuffed, still unconscious, still her father. She lost it then, the rush of bile and the hard, hot vomit. She rolled left, and it spilled out of her like belief and warmth and life. She curled into a frozen ball, and Beckett was still touching her: his hands, the press of his cheek. His voice was there, too, but like the sound of surf. She thought of Channing and Gideon; wanted to move, but absolutely could not. The grave was all around her; she was choking.

“Breathe…” Beckett’s voice was an ocean beyond the horizon. “Please, Liz. I need you to breathe.”

But, the pressure in her chest crushed everything. The world built and pushed her down, and when it dragged her back, Beckett was still there.

He lifted her so she could sit. “Liz, look at me.”

She blinked, and the rough edges filled in. She saw his face, his hands.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Can you stand?”

“Give me a minute.”

Elizabeth touched her throat, felt swollen flesh and ridges from her father’s fingers. She squinted around the church, saw the kids and her father and no one else. “Where is everybody?” She meant cops, paramedics. “There should be people here.”

“You’re still wanted on charges. Did you forget that?”

She nodded, but everything was fuzzy. She was dressed again, which must have been Channing’s doing, or Charlie’s. “Give me some space. Okay?”

“You sure?”

She raised a hand, and he backed off. Whatever happened next, she needed to do it on her own, to know she could. She swung her legs over the edge, coughing hard enough to choke all over again.

“Liz!”

Elizabeth pushed out with the same hand, keeping him back. She touched her chest and focused on taking careful, shallow breaths. He moved closer. “Don’t. Just … don’t touch me.”

She slipped off the altar, stumbled, but stayed on her feet. Her father was on the floor. She hugged her ribs.

“Channing told me everything. I’m sorry, Liz. I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t either.”

“You’ll deal with it. Time, maybe. Maybe therapy.”

“My father tried to kill me, Charlie. How could I possibly deal with it?”

He had no response. How could he?

“Channing? Are you okay?”

“I’m all right.”

“And Gideon?”

“He’s bleeding. I don’t know. Your friend won’t let me call an ambulance.”

Elizabeth moved to the bottom step. Gideon lay on the floor by Channing. He opened his eyes, but looked bled out and rough. Elizabeth glanced the length of the church and understood, at last, that something was very wrong. It was too quiet after so much time. Channing was wide-eyed and frightened and shaking her head in a small way. Elizabeth knew the look; she felt it. “Where are the people, Charlie?”

He turned his palms. “I told you.…”

“You told me why there are no cops. Where are the paramedics? The boy is hurt. Channing is hurt. There should be paramedics. You could have made that happen, kept it quiet.”

She moved toward the kids, but Beckett stepped between them. He was still palms up and smiling, but the lie was in his eyes. “We need to talk, first.” She stopped after the bottom step. “Come on, Liz. Don’t look at me like that.” He forced a smile that failed. Elizabeth had never been good at hiding the way she felt, and it was all in her face now, the distrust and doubt and anger. “Goddamn, Liz. I’m here to help you. The girl called and I came. Who else would do that? No questions. No doubt.”

“What’s going on, Charlie?”

“This whole week, who has been by your side, your friend? I’ve been that friend. Just me. Now, I need you to be mine.”

She gauged the way he stood. Chin down, feet spread. His hands were out as if he’d grab her if she ran. Whatever was happening, he was serious about it. “Are you really standing between me and those children?”

“We just need to talk. Two minutes. We’ll talk and call the ambulance, and this will all be over.”

Her eyes fell to the gun in his belt. He was good with it. Plus he weighed 250. Whatever this was, she couldn’t take him.

“Why don’t you sit down.”

She stepped sideways. Her father groaned.

“Please, Liz. Sit.”

Elizabeth kept moving. She had no intention of sitting, and Beckett saw it. He nodded and sighed, and something artificial fell away. “Do you know where Adrian is?”

It was the last thing she expected.

“Adrian Wall. I need a location.”

“What does Adrian have to do with any of this?”

“It’s for everyone’s good. You. The kids. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Not without an explanation.”

“Just tell me.”

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Liz! Just tell me where he is!”

“Yes, please tell him.”

The voice came from the back of the church, loud and familiar. Elizabeth registered the sudden desperation on Beckett’s face, then saw the warden with Olivet and Jacks and Woods. They stood in the open door, four in a line and the sky behind them burning.

“Gideon. Channing.”

She called the children to her, and they obeyed, Channing on her feet, the boy stumbling. They moved past Beckett, but he didn’t try to stop them. His head was down. His shoulders slumped. Elizabeth got the children behind her as the world slowed, and everything came into sharp focus: the scrape of air in her throat, Beckett’s sweat and fear and sudden despair. “You should have told me,” he said, and though she heard the words, she wasn’t listening. The warden led his men down the aisle, and Liz paid attention to the things that mattered. Two autoloaders. Two revolvers. Olivet looked scared.

“Please give him what he wants.”

“Shut up, Charlie.”

“Please, Liz. You don’t know this man.”

“Actually, I do.”

The warden was close, now, fifteen feet, then ten. Elizabeth spoke when he reached the final pew. “I guess you two know each other better than I thought.”

“Of course,” the warden said. “Detective Beckett and I go back many years. How many is it, Charlie? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Don’t pretend we’re friends.”

Beckett spat the words, and the warden tilted the pistol in his hand. “Friends. Acquaintances.”

The arrogance was more obvious, now, the smile lazier and slow. It made Elizabeth’s stomach turn. The warden wore a summer suit. His men, behind him, were in plainclothes. She kept her eyes on the warden. “Does he know what you did to Adrian?” She pitched her voice to carry. “The torture and abuse? Does he know your men tried to kill him?” She backed closer to the altar, and the children moved with her, up two steps, then three.

The warden and his men moved forward, too. “I like Vegas,” the warden said. “It’s the motto, I think.” He waved a circle with the gun; held up both hands as if framing a marquee. “‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ My prison is like that.”

His prison.

He could call it that, and who would contradict him? Guards? Prisoners? Not if he was hard enough, malicious enough.

“Did you know?” she asked Beckett. “Did you know they tortured Adrian? That they killed his cellmate?”

“It doesn’t matter what I know.”

“How can you say that?”

“Desperate men,” the warden interrupted. “I thank God for them every day.”

“There is no money,” she told the warden. “No pot at the end of your sad, little rainbow.”

“I’ve explained once that we’re beyond that. This is about William Preston, who was dear to me. It’s about payback and endings and the natural order of things. Prisoners don’t touch my guards. Inside the walls, beyond them. It doesn’t happen.” The barrel of his gun came up. “Detective Beckett, would you step away from them, please.”

“You were supposed to wait outside.” Beckett stood sideways to the warden, his chin down. “You wait outside. I come in. That was the deal.”

“I’m an impatient man. It’s a weakness.”

“I gave you my word.”

“Yet I have no reason to trust you.”

“You have every reason! You know you do!” Beckett was begging. Elizabeth had never seen him beg. “I can get what you want. Please. Just leave them alone. Give me two minutes. I’ll find out where he is. No one has to get hurt. No one has to die.”

“You think I would kill someone?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. Please…”

“Is that man alive?”

The warden pointed his gun at Reverend Black, bound on the floor. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the warden shot her father in the heart. The bullet went in small and came out big. The body barely moved.

“That was to get your attention.”

Elizabeth stared at her father.

Channing threw up.

“I want Adrian Wall.” The gun was a .45, cocked. He pointed it at Gideon. “He seems like a nice boy.”

“No!”

Elizabeth leapt in front of the gun, her fingers spread. She was bent at the waist, desperate and small, and begging, too.

“Goddamn it!” Beckett yelled. “This was not our fucking deal!”

“Our deal’s off.” The warden shot Beckett in the gut. For a second the big man stood, then crumpled.

“Charlie!” Elizabeth dropped beside him. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Charlie.”

She put a hand on the bullet wound in his stomach, then felt the exit wound in his back. It was large and ragged, and beneath it was a pistol. Pain swam in Beckett’s eyes, but he mouthed a single word.

Don’t …

She looked at the warden and his men. Guns were up and level. “You bastard.”

“Stomach wounds are extremely painful,” he said. “Yet, people recover.”

“Why…?”

“The violence? This?” He waved an arm across the dead and dying. “So, you would take me seriously, and give me what I want.”

“Charlie. Oh, God…”

His blood pooled against her knees. His fingers twined into hers. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” She felt him fading. “Liz, I’m sorry.…”

She touched his throat when his eyes closed. He was in a bad way, but breathing. “What do you have on him?” Her voice cut, and she rose, fearless. “He wouldn’t have done this without a reason.”

“Brought me here? No. But I was with him when the little girl called.” The warden made another circle with the barrel of his gun. “He was trying to protect you. He told me he could get what I want. Obviously, he could not. Now, here we are.”