Under the Beetle's Cellar (43 page)

Walter gripped the knife and tried to keep his breathing silent.

The light beam wavering above gave enough light for him to see the outline of legs descending.

He tensed, prepared to kill. This time he would not hesitate.

The smell of stale sweat hit his nostrils. The beam flicked down on the figure about to drop. Not Martin. Shorter, thicker. A bald man. The one from yesterday’s phone call.

Walter timed his move. An instant before the man’s feet hit earth, he lunged. He grabbed him from behind, around the chest in a bear hug that kept the man suspended in air with his arms raised. Something thudded to earth. The flashlight. It shot a sickly yellow beam across the pit floor.

Walter brought the knife blade to the man’s throat. He sliced.

The man screamed and gave a mighty twist. He tried to bring his arms down. The knife blade slid out of his flesh. It was like trying to kill someone with a fucking nail file. The man had his feet on the ground now and he was fighting back, bucking and grunting, kicking. Walter held on, his arms locked around the man. He was heavier than Walter and strong. Walter could barely hold on to him.

From above came a whispered “What the hell? James!” A light flashed down on them.

Walter pushed him into the side of the pit and leaned hard against his back to pin him there.

He raised the knife to the man’s throat again and stabbed. The man screamed and wrenched his body. It sent the knife flying and nearly broke Walter’s hold.

“Martin, help.” The man grunted it out. “He’s got—”

Walter struggled to regain his grip. He lowered his left shoulder so the belt slid down his arm. He caught it in his hand. Then he tried to slip the loop over the man’s head. But he was thrashing around, arching his back, struggling to break out of Walter’s hold.

Walter tried again to force the belt loop over his head. This time he managed it, got it around his neck. He grabbed the loose end with both hands and jerked it tight. The man bellowed and squirmed, tried to get his hands under the belt, but it was too late. Walter had it digging into his neck. The man scrabbled at it with his fingers. Walter pulled it even tighter, grunting with the effort. Harder, tighter, more. No mistakes this time.

A light flashed down from above.

Walter gave the belt another jerk. The man was choking, flailing with his arms.

A voice from above barked, “Get out of the way, James. I’m going to shoot.”

Walter pulled back on the belt with every last ounce of strength. He pictured decapitation.

The man gurgled.

Walter gritted his teeth and pulled. To finish it.

From above came the scuffle of someone coming down. Then a thud behind him. Holding tight to the belt, Walter glanced around. In the light from the fallen flashlight, he saw Martin. With a pistol in hand.

The choking man collapsed back and fell to the ground, taking Walter down with him.

Walter felt a stab in his side, like a rib cracking. Good. The pain goaded him on. The man was lying on top of him. Giving him some cover. With both hands he dragged back on the noose. To kill.

The man spasmed and went limp.

A gunshot cracked—a thunderclap and flash of light in the enclosed space.

Kids were wailing from the bus. “Mr. Demming! Mr. Demming!”

Walter was on his back with the dead man lying on top of him. He shoved the corpse off and tackled Martin around the knees.

Martin fired a wild shot as he fell. Walter leapt on him and grabbed his gun hand. He forced Martin’s hand to the ground and brought a knee up hard into his groin. Martin screamed. Walter made a lunge for the gun and ripped it out of his hand.

He put the gun to Martin’s head. Martin was crying, “No. Don’t.”

Walter fired. He put the gun to Martin’s other temple and fired again.

Then he crawled to the dead man and put the gun to his head and fired.

From the top of the hole, someone called, “James! Martin! Talk to me.” Walter aimed up toward the sound and fired.

On his hands and knees, he backed out of the pit. To the safety of the bus door. He was gasping when he got there.

A gunshot kicked up dirt at his feet.

He looked at the flashlight lying against the pit wall, next to the two dead men. He might need it.

He inched back toward the pit, aimed up and fired. Then he darted in, grabbed the light, and darted out. A gunshot followed him.

Several kids screamed from the darkness, “Mr. Demming! Are you all right?”

He called back, “Keep working! I’m fine.”

Aboveground the unmistakable sounds of automatic gunfire and grenades continued. They had finally come. And he had a gun and a flashlight. He looked down at the pistol—an automatic that probably had ten
more shots in it, if Martin started with a full clip. All he needed to do was hold on, keep the Jezreelites from coming down.

Another shot boomed down into the hole. And another, kicking up dirt.

He turned and flashed the light back into the bus. Now the problem was to help lift the seats and still keep them Jezreelites at bay.

He called back, “Sue Ellen, Conrad, is it unbolted?”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming.”

He focused the flashlight on the first seat. Sue Ellen and Conrad had already tipped it on its back.

He turned the flashlight back into the pit to check. No one coming. But the light drew two shots.

He flashed the light into the back of the bus. Chaos. One of the seats hadn’t been unbolted yet. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have time anyway to go back there and help them lift. The plan had changed.

He called out, “Listen. Kids in the back. Stop working. Leave the seats alone. Hector, Brandon, and Kim, come to the front. New assignment.” He lighted the way for them. “The rest of you, stay back there.”

Then he flashed the light back into the pit. No one coming. He stuck the pistol in his waistband.

“Change of plans,” he said. “I’ve got this gun now. I can hold them off from the pit. But I need to be outside. I’ll get the seat in the doorway, but I won’t be able to wedge it with number two. The five of you can do that without me.”

Kim looked at him in horror. “But, Mr. Demming, you—”

“Don’t argue,” he said. “This is an order. Let’s go.”

He ran to the door to flash the light around the pit. He fired up once to hold them for a while. Then he ran back onto the bus. He handed the flashlight to Kim. “Hold this.” With Sue Ellen and Conrad, he dragged the seat to the door. “Okay, I’m going to get outside and pull. You guys push from in here.”

He helped them get the clumsy barricade on end, then stepped to the other side and pulled it with him as he backed out the door. Before they closed off the doorway, he said, “Give me the light back, Kim. I’ll need it.”

She handed it to him with a look of despair. He set it down in the pit. They wrestled the heavy seat into place in the doorway.

A volley of shots rained down into the pit. He pressed up against the seat.

“Okay, you five, drag number two and wedge it in really good. Then get everyone into position in the back. I’m right here.”

He turned and looked up at the hole. An occasional light beam flittered by, but nothing else. The stuttering of automatic gunfire continued from above. Behind him the kids were dragging the seat into place, grunting and whimpering with the effort, but he heard it moving. They were doing it.

It was the first moment of stillness for him and he realized he was soaking wet and shivering.

The lightbulb overhead flickered suddenly and came back on. Walter switched the flashlight off. Conserve batteries. In the back of the bus the kids cheered the return of the light. Behind him, he heard the clanking and scraping of the seat as they wedged it into place.

“Mr. Demming, it’s done,” Hector called. “And it’s real secure.”

“You did good. We’re in business. Get everyone into position now,” he said. “On the double.”

From up above a voice called, “Bus Driver, come out now. Or we’re coming down.” In answer, Walter fired up at the sound.

Walter’s shivering was out of control now and he felt so wet.

He looked down and saw that he was covered with blood. His shirt and his jeans were soaked through. His arms were smeared and his hands were slimy with it. Who would have thought James and Martin had so much blood in them?

At the square of light overhead a face suddenly appeared and a gun fired. He shot back. There was a scream and the face disappeared.

Then he felt it. The drained weakening, the light-headedness. And in his right side, a stab of pain so deep it shook him like a rag doll. He lowered himself to the ground shaking. He leaned back against the barricade they had made.

He didn’t pull up his shirt to look. Whatever was there would wait.

He looked at the two corpses bleeding into the earth. The shooting above was dying down, he thought. That battle could go only one way. They just needed to hold on. He tried to keep the gun aimed up, at where he’d heard the scream, but it was so heavy. He let it rest in his lap for a minute.

He heard the kids rustling and talking, bickering in the back. Finally he heard Sandra’s voice, faint but clear and sweet. “Okay, y’all. We’re singing. Here we go.” Her sweet soprano voice trembled. “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.”

He yelled, “All of you, sing!”

More voices joined, faint and shaky, at first, but they were singing. “The wheels on the bus go round and round.”

“Louder!” Walter called. “Louder.”

The voices intensified. “Round and round, round and round.”

“Good,” he said, his voice weaker. “You all did so good.” He tried to raise his voice so they could hear him over the singing. “I’m proud of you all.” But his words were slurred and soft. And it took so much energy.

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, all over town,” the children boomed out.

Walter was feeling so sleepy. He needed to stay awake, to keep watch, but his eyes were too heavy. He tried to fight it off, but it curled around him and smothered him with dark, wet, heavy blankets. He sank down and rested his cheek against the cool earth. Sleep claimed him.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

“These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

R
EVELATION
7:14

Molly Cates kept her eyes fixed on the open double doors of the white barn. A cluster of ambulances were parked in front with their back doors open and a crowd of EMTs standing ready.

Bryan Holihan took her by the elbow. “Come on,” he said for the third time. “They want you back at the post. Traynor has some news for you.”

She shook his hand off her arm. “Go on, Bryan. I told you. I’m staying until they come out.”

“You can watch it on TV back at the command post,” he said.

She glanced over at him. For the first time since she’d met him he wasn’t wearing a suit jacket; that was because she was wearing it. When she had emerged from the compound, she couldn’t stop shivering, and he had put it over her shoulders. “I wouldn’t leave here now,” she said, “if you had a subpoena for me. I want to see them walk out. In person, not on TV. It can’t be much longer.” She looked at her watch. Twelve-twenty-six—just an hour since she and Rain Conroy had walked through the door.

One of the fire trucks revved its engine and headed straight toward where they were standing at the gaping hole in the chain-link fence. The tanks had mowed down whole sections of the fence when they stormed the compound. Molly and Bryan stepped aside to let the truck pass. Three more fire trucks and a pumper remained, keeping an eye on the smoldering first floor, where a fire had erupted in the kitchen.

No one was saying how the fire had started, but it had been very convenient for the entry team; it had helped end the confrontation quickly. When it came right down to it, the Hearth Jezreelites did not want to burn to death. And since their leader, the Prophet Mordecai, was dead, there was no one to stop them from surrendering when the flames got serious. Those who had not been killed or wounded had come running out of the burning building with their hands raised. It saved both sides from taking more casualties.

Molly looked at Bryan Holihan, who had his radio pressed to his ear. “Bryan, tell me something. Was that fire set deliberately?”

He looked down at her for a few seconds without taking the radio from his ear. He shrugged. “Stun grenades and ammunition are highly flammable. Fire is always a possibility in these dynamic entries.”

“Oh, Bryan” she said, “stop being such a prick. Was it deliberate or not?”

His smile did not reach his eyes. “You can ask Lattimore, but he won’t know either.”

Molly glanced over to the gate where Patrick Lattimore stood talking with one of the entry-team commanders. “I
will
ask him.” She headed toward the gate, stepping over a section of crushed chain link. Now, in the aftermath of the carnage, the compound looked like a carnival. In addition to the fire trucks and ambulances, there were still two tanks and two personnel carriers parked close to the building. Scores of Austin police cars and transport vans and DPS units with lights whirling surrounded the compound.

FBI agents in black, with rifles ready, were still patrolling the compound looking for stragglers—cultists who might be hiding in the outbuildings or on the grounds.

The press was being kept back behind the outer perimeter, but cameras were whirring everywhere, and reporters were running around accosting anyone going in or out of the compound.

It was a spectacle. In all her years of reporting, Molly Cates had never seen anything to equal it.

But the main event, center ring, the focus of all attention, was the white barn. Everyone was watching, waiting, praying.

For the past eighteen minutes Holihan and Lattimore had been getting radio updates from the team inside the barn. The children were still underground, barricaded inside the bus, and the agents couldn’t budge the seat they had wedged in the door.