The Empty Chair (43 page)

"I'll get you the best lawyer in the country."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters, Sachs. It matters. We'll get something worked out."

She shook her head. "There's nothing
to
work out, Rhyme. It's felony murder. Open-and-shut case." Then she was looking up, past him. Frowning. She stood. "What's –?"

Suddenly a woman's voice called, "Hold it right there! Amelia, you're under arrest."

Rhyme tried to turn but couldn't rotate his head far enough. He puffed into the controller and backed up in a semicircle. He saw Lucy and two other deputies, crouching as they ran from the woods. Their weapons were in their hands and they kept their eyes on the windows of the cabin. The two men used trees for cover. But Lucy walked boldly toward Rhyme, Thom and Sachs, her pistol leveled at Sachs' chest.

How had the search party found the cabin? Had they heard the van? Had Lucy picked up Garrett's trail again?

Or had Bell reneged on his deal and told them?

Lucy walked right up to Sachs and without a moment's pause hit her hard in the face, her fist connecting with the policewoman's chin. Sachs gave a faint wheeze at the pain and stepped back. She said nothing.

"No!" Rhyme cried. Thom stepped forward but Lucy grabbed Sachs by the arm. "Is Mary Beth in there?"

"Yes." Blood trickled from her chin.

"Is she all right?"

A nod.

Eyes on the cabin window, Lucy asked, "Does he have your weapon?"

"Yes."

"Jesus." Lucy called to the other deputies, "Ned, Trey, he's inside. And he's armed." Then she snapped at Rhyme, "I'd suggest you get under cover." And she pulled Sachs roughly back behind the van on the side opposite the cabin.

Rhyme followed the women, Thom holding the chair for stability as it crossed the uneven ground.

Lucy turned to Sachs, grabbed her by the arms. "He did it, didn't he? Mary Beth told you, right? Garrett killed Billy."

Sachs looked down at the ground. Finally she said, "Yes . . . I'm sorry. I –"

"Sorry doesn't mean a damn thing to me or anybody else. Least of all to Jesse Corn . . . Does Garrett have any other weapons in there?"

"I don't know. I didn't see any."

Lucy turned back to the cabin, shouted, "Garrett, can you hear me? It's Lucy Kerr. I want you to put that gun down and walk outside with your hands on your head. You do that now, okay?"

The only response was the door slamming shut. A faint pounding filled the clearing as Garrett hammered or wedged the door shut. Lucy pulled out her cell phone and started to make a call.

"Hey, Deputy," a man's voice interrupted, "you need some help?"

Lucy turned. "Oh, no," she muttered.

Rhyme too glanced toward the voice. A tall, pony-tailed man, carrying a hunting rifle, was trooping through the grass toward them.

"Culbeau," she snapped, "I got a situation here and I can't deal with you too. Just go on, get out of here." Her eyes noticed something in the field. There was another man walking slowly toward the cabin. He carried a black army rifle and squinted thoughtfully as he surveyed the field and cabin. "Is that Sean?" Lucy asked.

Culbeau said, "Yeah, and Harris Tomel's over there."

Tomel was walking up to the tall African-American deputy. They were chatting casually, as if they knew each other.

Culbeau persisted, "If the boy's in the cabin you might need some help getting him out. What can we do?"

"This is police business, Rich. The three of you, clear on outa here. Now. Trey!" she called to the black deputy. "Get 'em out."

The third deputy, Ned, walked toward Lucy and Culbeau. "Rich," he called, "there's no reward anymore. Forget about it and –"

The shot from Culbeau's powerful rifle poked a hole in the front of Ned's chest and the impact flung him several feet onto his back. Trey stared at Harris Tomel, only ten feet away. Each man looked about as shocked as the other and neither moved for a moment.

Then there was a whoop like a hyena's cry from Sean O'Sarian, who lifted his soldier gun and shot Trey three times in the back. Cackling with laughter, he vanished into the field.

"No!" Lucy screamed and lifted her pistol toward Culbeau, but by the time she fired, the men had gone for cover in the tall grass surrounding the cabin.

37

Rhyme felt the instinctive urge to drop to the ground but, of course, remained upright in the Storm Arrow wheelchair. More bullets slammed into the van where Sachs and Lucy, now facedown on the grass, had been standing a moment before. Thom was on his knees, trying to work the heavy wheelchair out of the depression of soft earth where it was lodged.

"Lincoln!" Sachs cried.

"I'm okay. Move! Get to the other side of the van. Under cover."

Lucy said, "But Garrett can target us from there."

Sachs snapped back, "But he's not the one who's goddamn shooting!"

Another shotgun blast missed them by a foot and the pellets rattled along the porch. Thom put the wheelchair in neutral and muscled it toward the cabin side of the van. "Stay low," Rhyme said to the aide, who ignored a shot that zipped past them and shattered a side window of the vehicle.

Lucy and Sachs followed the two men to the shadowy area between the cabin and the van.

"Why the hell're they doing this?" Lucy cried. She fired several shots, sending O'Sarian and Tomel scrabbling for cover. Rhyme couldn't see Culbeau but knew that the big man was directly in front of them somewhere. The rifle that he'd been carrying was high-powered and fitted with a large telescopic sight.

"Take the cuffs off and give me the gun," Sachs shouted.

"Give it to her," Rhyme said. "She's a better shot than you."

"No goddamn way!" The deputy shook her head, her expression one of astonishment at this suggestion. More bullets slapped the metal of the van, dug out chunks of wood from the porch.

"They've got fucking rifles!" Sachs raged. "You're no match for them. Give me the gun!"

Lucy rested her head against the side of the van and stared in shock at the slain deputies lying in the grass. "What's going on?" she muttered, crying. "What's happening?"

Their cover – the van – wasn't going to last much longer. It protected them from Culbeau and his rifle but the other two were flanking them. In a few minutes they'd set up a crossfire.

Lucy fired twice more – into the grass where a shotgun blast had erupted a moment before.

"Don't waste your ammunition," Sachs ordered. "Wait till you have a clear shot. Otherwise – "

"Shut the hell up," Lucy raged. She patted her pockets. "Lost the goddamn phone."

"Lincoln," Thom said, "I'm taking you out of the chair. You're too much of a target."

Rhyme nodded. The aide undid the harness, got his arms around Rhyme's chest and pulled him out, laid him on the ground. Rhyme tried to lift his head to see what was going on but a contracture – a merciless cramp – gripped his neck muscles and he had to lower his head to the grass until the pain passed. He'd never felt as stabbed by his helplessness as at this moment.

More shots. Closer. And more insane laughter from O'Sarian. "Hey, knife lady, where are you?"

Lucy muttered, "They're almost in position."

"Ammo?" Sachs asked.

"I've got three left in the chamber, one Speedloader."

"Loaded six?"

"Yeah."

A shot slammed into the back of the Storm Arrow and knocked it on its side. A cloud of dust rose up around it.

Lucy fired at O'Sarian but his giggling and the staccato response from the Colt told them that she'd missed.

The rifle fire also told them that in only a minute or two they'd be completely flanked.

They'd die here, shot to death, trapped in this dim valley between the shattered van and the cabin. Rhyme wondered what he would feel when the bullets tore into his body. No pain, of course, not even any pressure in his numb flesh. He glanced at Sachs, who was looking at him with a hopeless expression on her face.

You and me, Sachs . . .

Then he glanced at the front of the cabin.

"Look," he called.

Lucy and Sachs followed his eyes.

Garrett had opened the front door.

Sachs said, "Let's get inside."

"Are you crazy?" Lucy called. "Garrett's
with
them. They're all together."

"No," Rhyme said. "He's had a chance to shoot from the window. He didn't."

Two more shots, very close. The bushes rustled nearby. Lucy lifted the pistol.

"Don't waste it!" Sachs called. But Lucy rose and fired two fast shots at the sound. The rock one of the men had thrown to shake the bushes and trick her into presenting a target rolled into view. Lucy jumped aside just as Tomel's shotgun blast, meant for her back, streaked past, puncturing the side of the van.

"Shit," the deputy cried. Ejecting the empty cartridges and reloading with the Speedloader.

"Inside," Rhyme said. "Now."

Lucy nodded. "Okay."

Rhyme said, "Fireman's carry." This was a bad position to carry a quad in – it put stress on parts of the body that weren't used to stress, but it was faster and would expose Thom to the gunshots for the least amount of time. Rhyme was also thinking that his own body would protect Thom's.

"No," Thom said.

"Do it, Thom. No argument."

Lucy said, "I'll cover you. The three of you go together. Ready?"

Sachs nodded. Thom lifted Rhyme, cradling him like a child in his strong arms.

"Thom –" Rhyme protested.

"Quiet, Lincoln," the aide snapped. "We're doing this my way."

"Go," Lucy called.

Rhyme's hearing was stunned by several loud gunshots. Everything blurred as they ran up the few stairs into the cabin.

Another several bullets cracked into the wood of the cabin as they pushed inside. A moment later Lucy rolled into the room after them and slammed the door shut. Thom set Rhyme gently on a couch.

Rhyme had a glimpse of a terrified young woman sitting in a chair, staring at him. Mary Beth McConnell.

Garrett Hanlon, with his red, blotched face, eyes wide with fear, sat manically clicking the fingernails of one hand and holding a pistol awkwardly in the other, as Lucy aimed the gun right in his face.

"Give me the weapon!" she cried. "Now, now!"

He blinked and immediately handed the gun to her. She put it in her belt and called out something. Rhyme didn't hear what; he was staring at the boy's bewildered and frightened eyes, a child's eyes. And he thought:
I understand why you had to do it, Sachs. Why you believed him. Why you had to save him.

I understand . . .

He said, "Everybody okay?"

"Fine," Sachs said.

Lucy nodded.

"Actually," Thom said, almost apologetically. "Not really."

He lifted his hand away from his trim belly, revealing the bloody exit wound. Then the aide went down on his knees, hard, ripping the slacks that he'd ironed with such care just that morning.

38

Search the wound for severe hemorrhage, stop the bleeding. If possible, check the patient for shock.

Amelia Sachs, trained in the basic NYPD first-aid course for patrol officers, bent over Thom, examining the wound.

The aide lay on his back, conscious but pale, sweating fiercely. She clamped one hand over the wound.

"Get these cuffs off me!" she cried. "I can't take care of him this way."

"No," Lucy said.

"Jesus," Sachs muttered and examined Thom's stomach as best she could with the restraints on.

"How are you, Thom?" Rhyme blurted. "Talk to us."

"It feels numb . . . It's feeling . . . It's funny . . ." His eyes rolled back under the lids and he passed out.

A crash above their heads. A bullet tore through the wall. Followed by a thud of a shotgun blast hitting the door. Garrett handed Sachs a wad of napkins. She pressed them against the rip in Thom's belly. She slapped him gently on the face. He gave no response.

"Is he alive?" Rhyme asked hopelessly.

"He's breathing. Shallow. But he's breathing. Exit wound isn't too bad but I don't know what kind of damage there is inside."

Lucy looked out the window fast, ducked. "Why're they doing this?"

Rhyme said, "Jim said they were into moonshine. Maybe they had their eye on this place and didn't want it found. Or maybe there's a drug lab nearby."

"There were two men earlier – they tried to break in," Mary Beth told them. "They said they were killing marijuana fields but I guess they were
growing
it. They might all be working together."

"Where's Bell?" Lucy asked. "And Mason?"

"He'll be here in a half hour," Rhyme said.

Lucy shook her head in dismay at this information. Then looked again out the window. She stiffened as, it seemed, she sighted a target. She lifted the pistol, aimed quickly.

Too quickly.

"No, let me!" Sachs cried.

But Lucy fired twice. Her grimace told them she had missed. She squinted. "Sean's just found a can. A red can. What is that, Garrett? Gas?" The boy huddled on the floor, frozen in panic. "Garrett! Talk to me!"

He turned toward her.

"The red can? What's in it?"

"It's, like, kerosene. For the boat."

Lucy muttered, "Hell, they're going to burn us out."

"Shit," Garrett cried. He rolled to his knees, staring at Lucy, eyes frantic.

Sachs, alone among them, it seemed, knew what was coming. "No, Garrett, don't –"

The boy ignored her and flung the door open and, half running, half crawling, skittered along the porch. Bullets cracked into the wood, following him. Sachs had no idea if he'd been hit.

Then there was silence. The men moved closer to the cabin with the kerosene.

Sachs looked around the room, filled with dust from the impact of the bullets. She saw Mary Beth, hugging herself, crying.

Lucy, her eyes filled with the devil's own hatred, checking her pistol.

Thom, slowly bleeding to death.

Lincoln Rhyme, on his back, breathing hard.

You and me . . .

In a steady voice Sachs said to Lucy, "We've got to go out there. We've got to stop them. The two of us."