Deadfall

by Robert Liparulo

  “Laura . . . ?”

  He stepped behind her to put a hand under her arm, but she didn’t need it.The dizziness passed, followed by the cloudy vision. She spun to face him. “Where’s the gun? The one we got from the girl?”

  “I have it, but—”

  “Give it to me!”

  “Laura . . .”

  “Terry, let me have it.”

  He read something in her eyes, and his confusion softened to concern. Resignedly he reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol.

  She glanced at it and repeated, “The one we took from the girl. The one with bullets.”

  Terry shook his head, returning the gun to his waistband and reaching around with the other hand. “I thought that was it. I didn’t realize . . .” He let the thought trail off and handed her the other pistol.

  She opened the breach, dumped the contents into her hand: two unused bullets, four empty shells. She pushed the bullets to her palm with her thumb and turned her hand over; the empty shells fell to the dirt. She put bullets back in the cylinder and shut it, making sure the chamber that would come around when she pulled the trigger contained a bullet.

  To Terry’s slightly amazed expression, she said, “Wife of a cop.” Gripping the revolver in her right hand, she started to run.

  On her heels, between breaths, Terry asked, “Where are we . . . going?”

  “To find out . . . where they’re keeping . . . the spare cars.”

  Dillon had seemed sure of the cabin’s location when he pointed at the map. Based on the topographical references it provided, Hutch had described the terrain in detail. Like an air-traffic radar, his descriptions had panned back and forth over the map until Dillon recognized the landmarks. It had been a slow process, but one that Hutch felt would pay off in fewer false starts as they trekked toward the cabin. After pointing out the location of the cabin, Dillon had, on his own, described nearby hills that the map confirmed.

  He had not seen or heard Declan’s vehicles reapproach the area. He was as certain as he could be that the man had accepted the sacrificial offering of the Hummer as evidence of their deaths. More than likely, the Jeep and the Bronco had continued down the hill, back to town. Still lying on the ground, Hutch folded the map.

  “Good job,” he told Dillon. He pushed up and rolled back onto his butt. He tugged at one of the socks he had stretched over his boots back in the rec center. “We can put our socks on now.”

  Dillon sat, crossed his legs, and corrected his footwear.

  When they had finished, Hutch said, “How ’bout we go find this cabin of yours?”

  “Yeah.” Dillon grinned, pleased to have helped and to be heading toward the place his mother had promised to meet him.

  It started to rain.

  39

  The first drops struck Laura,s forehead and nose as she slowed down, approaching the corner of Shatu’ T’ine Way and Provincial. She stopped and pressed her back against the side wall of the Fiddler Diner. The rain quickly escalated to a torrent.

  Terry stopped beside her, panting hard. “I’ve never felt such cold rain,” he said.

  “That time of year. Their trucks aren’t back yet.”

  The community center was directly across the street. By looking diagonally through the diner’s side window and then through its front window, Laura could see most of the building’s facade.

  “Think we can get in?”Terry asked.

  “One way or another.”

  “What if someone’s there?”

  “There better be. Else who’s going to give us the keys and tell us what we want to know?”

  “They’re just gonna tell us?”

  She held up the pistol. “Yes.”

  She tucked the gun inside her coat, keeping her hand on it. The rain had already drenched her hair and clothes. Only a swath down the center of her back remained dry, thanks to the building she leaned against. Without another word she rounded the corner and headed directly toward the center’s front doors. She lowered her head to let the rain strike her hair and pour off; its iciness and velocity would have stung her eyes and blinded her. She was glad they had reached the town’s one paved street before the rain got heavy. Navigating the muddy side streets on foot was treacherous business. Head down, she kept only the pavement in front of her in view. She trusted that no one would open the center’s doors until she summoned them. Terry’s sloshing gait stayed right behind her.

  She crossed the main portion of the street and entered the dropoff-and-pickup semicircle directly in front of the building. She had rarely used this convenience, since their home was three blocks up Provincial and two down Camsel. But she had stood out here often, either as a parent or a teacher. During community or school events held here, townsfolk enjoyed catching up as they arrived or departed. Of course, none of them ever would have imagined the building as their prison, and she never would have guessed that someday she would cross this area, gun in hand, with every intention of using it.

  She tried not to retain the memory of the thundering explosion or the ripple of smoke on the hillside, but it wouldn’t let her go. Her certainty of their meaning was a knife in her guts—and also the steel in her back. It was this that would drive her to do what must be done. She reached one of the doors and cautiously, quietly tried the latch.

  She moved to the next door: also locked. She signaled for Terry to step near. She put her lips close to his ear so he could hear her above the pounding rain.

  “Knock. Hard. Like you’re one of them. Whoever comes to the door, don’t do anything threatening.Take a step back, put your hands up. If there’s only one person, clear your throat.”

  He blinked at her, water flicking off his eyelids. She wasn’t sure he completely understood, but he nodded once and stepped up to the door. She pressed her back against the wall.

  Using his fist,Terry beat on the door. He didn’t stop but carried on with a continuous pounding, even after a voice from the other side asked who was there. Something rattled inside, and a latch clicked. The door opened partway. Terry took a step back and raised his hands. He cleared his throat.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  A pistol emerged from behind the door, pointed at his face. It moved toward him. Then a hand and arm.

  Laura seized the wrist with her left hand, raising it as she would a branch she was passing under. She stepped forward, between Terry and the gunman. Her own pistol swung around until it touched the nose of the young girl with whom she had fought the night before.

  The girl said, “You.”

  “Drop it,” Laura commanded.

  Terry stepped up behind her and wrenched the pistol from the girl’s hand. “Don’t yell out. Who else is here?”

  The girl’s dark eyes darted back and forth, thinking, conniving. “Everybody.You’ll die if you do this.”

  Terry spoke over Laura’s shoulder. “We saw them leave.”

  “They came back,” she said too quickly. “They parked out back.”

  “You’re lying, Cortland,” Laura said.

  The girl scrunched her brows.

  “I’m a teacher and a mother.You can’t lie to me. Now move.” With the barrel of the gun, she pushed Cortland’s nose flat, forcing her to take a step backward. They walked like that until the door behind them clicked shut. The roar of the rain became a purr.Water poured off Laura and Terry, striking and pooling on the tile floor.

  Terry stepped out from behind Laura. He shook his head and said, “You’re just a kid.”

  “I’m older than I look.”

  “Right,” Laura said. She punctuated her next words with little jabs at the girl’s nose. “We want a vehicle.”

  “Well, I want a mansion in Beverly Hills.” Said with a contemptuousness only a teenage girl could achieve.

  “A car, ATV, motorcycle. I know they have something stashed.”

  Cortland blinked. “If they do, they haven’t told me.”

  “You’re lying again.”

  “Wh
atever.”

  “Cortland, maybe your mother didn’t love you and that’s why you’re here. I don’t care what made you this way. But I love my son, and a car will help me get him the hell away from you people.” She wanted to give this girl as little information as possible. “Now if you don’t want your fellow freaks to come back and find your brains splattered all over the wall, then you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  Genuine fear crept into the girl’s eyes. Her lips moved to say something, then stopped. Finally she said, “If I knew I would tell you, but it doesn’t matter because they would find you anyway.You have no idea what you’re up against.”

  “Then tell me.” Laura jabbed again, harder.

  Cortland flinched and her eyes grew moist. Not from fear or even an insincere attempt at sympathy, Laura knew, but because Laura had shoved the barrel that hard.

  The girl said nothing; she blinked, spilling one tear.

  “Hey!”Terry called. He had wandered to the corridor on the right, the one opposite where Laura and Dillon had been held. “Come here. You’ve gotta see this.”

  Cortland rolled her eyes. Laura kept the barrel pressed to the girl’s nose but bent her elbow in order to grab her by the shirt. She tugged her back toward Terry.

  “If you try to get away,” Laura said, “I’ll shoot you. And if I don’t, he will.”

  “You bet,”Terry confirmed.

  Laura arrived at the corridor and followed Terry’s gaze down to the end where the undamaged fire door stood closed. Positioned in front of the door, as though in preparation for a quick getaway, was a dirt bike.

  Laura smiled. “Keys?”

  Terry jogged the length of the corridor, leaned over the bike, and called out, “They’re in the ignition! Can we use this in this weather?”

  Laura said, “Terry, I’d find a way to use a skateboard.”

  Terry squeezed past the bike and pushed the bar that opened the door. Rain fell outside. No alarm. He said, “We’re good to go.”

  “Wait a second,” Laura said. “Terry, come here.” She pushed Cortland back into the vestibule, never releasing her grip or changing her aim.When Terry stepped in, she said, “Can you get those open?” She jerked her head toward the chained auditorium doors.

  He walked toward them.“We should see what else we can get from this place.What about the satellite phones?”

  Cortland closed her eyes and kept them shut.

  Terry squatted in front of the padlock. “I can shoot this off.”

  Car engines revved outside. Brakes squealed.

  The girl’s eyes flashed open. “Hah!” she said.

  Terry darted for the front door, stopped. “This won’t work,” he said. “We can’t shoot it out with these guys. Not with that weapon they have.”

  Laura said, “We got Declan’s girlfriend.”

  “I don’t think that matters.”

  “It doesn’t,” Cortland said flatly.

  Laura looked into the girl’s eyes and believed she was telling the truth this time. She pulled her gun away from Cortland’s face and swung it, hard, into the side of her head. The girl collapsed.

  “Let’s go,” she told Terry, who was staring down at the girl, stunned. “Terry!”

  She ran down the corridor toward the bike. Before she was halfway there, she heard Terry fall in behind her.

  40

  Kyrill pulled the Jeep Cherokee into the circular pull-off in front of the community center. Behind it, the headlights of the Bronco cut through the grey haze, ignited the rainwater on the Jeep’s back window into a bright medallion, and winked out.When he reached for the key, Declan stopped him.

  “Keep it running,” Declan said. “I’m going to the B&B for a shower.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Not you. Me.”

  Kyrill frowned, resignedly. He opened the door, gazed into the downpour, then back at Declan. He reached between the seatbacks and pulled his rifle through. He seemed ready to plead his case for a shower, thought better of it, and slipped off the seat. The long barrel clanked against the doorframe, and the door slammed shut.

  Declan lifted his left leg over the center console, followed by his butt, then his right leg. Settled into the driver’s seat, he hitched an arm to get a better look at Julian in the back. He gestured with his head. “You too. Out.”

  “Dec . . .” he started. He stopped when Declan raised his right eyebrow. He climbed out and jogged around the front of the Jeep, the rain and headlamps momentarily turning him spectral and otherworldly.

  Declan pulled away, glad to be separating himself from the others for a while. Their constant neediness was sapping him. An hour alone, he thought. Half of that in a hot shower. Just the thought of it made him feel stronger, ready for more.

  Kyrill splashed up to one of the community center’s heavy wooden doors. He banged his fist against it, waited, then pounded harder.

  “Come on!” he yelled at the door.

  The others moved up behind him, their heads lowered against the downpour.

  Pruitt had it the worst. He had removed his jacket to cover the camera. Even in the gray light of the overcast day, his skin had taken on a bluish hue. His bottom lip, arms, and shoulders quivered, as though he were a bed in a cheap motel and someone had fed him a quarter. “Cortland!” he yelled.

  “Cort! Sometime today!” Kyrill called and continued pounding on the door.

  “Maybe she’s in the bathroom,” Julian offered. He was squeezing his collar tight and raising his shoulders to keep the water from finding his jacket’s neck hole.

  Kyrill squinted at him. “She should hear us even in there.” He looked at the door as though expecting an answer from it.

  Bad pushed him. “Go around,” he said. “Check the back door.”

  “Why me?” Kyrill complained.

  “Just do it. And keep the barrel down so water doesn’t get in.”

  Kyrill lowered his head and adjusted his weapon. He jumped off the concrete landing onto the grass. A few fast steps revealed how slippery the ground had become. He slowed to a walk and cursed Cortland all the way to the corner.

  As soon as the Kawasaki 250’s rear tire cleared the back door, Terry climbed on.

  “Wait! Wait!” Laura called to him. She pushed the door tight, leaning close to hear the click of the latch. She moved to Terry’s side. “Don’t start it yet. Let’s get it over to a side street and up a ways first.”

  “But I thought . . . With those guys showing up . . .”

  “That’s why I cracked the girl on the head.To give us time. If you start it now, they’ll be on our tail in thirty seconds.”

  Terry climbed off the bike. He leaned over it so Laura could hear through the rain. “If they’re locked out, they’ll come around to these doors.” He pushed the bike through the muddy parking lot. She tried to help him, but her pushing and tugging made moving the bike more awkward. She let go and concentrated on watching for Declan’s gang.

  They were still approaching the first house behind the parking lot when someone came around the front of the community center. She could not tell who it was through the rain, but the rifle in his hands was unmistakable.

  Neither of them moved. As the figure approached the back of the building, she recognized the teen boy, Kyrill. He held the rifle diagonally across his torso. His head was lowered against the downpour.He had not seen them yet. He rounded the corner and walked carefully to the first rear door, from which she and Terry had exited with the bike. He tried the handle, started banging on the steel door.

  Terry back-stepped toward the corner of the house, pulling the motorbike with him. Laura followed.When it appeared that Kyrill was about to look their way, they stopped. He was once again nothing more than a misty silhouette in the rain. Had she not known of his presence, he would be all but invisible. She reasoned that he would have as hard a time spotting them.

  He was darting for the damaged second rear door when they wheeled the bike past the corne
r of the house, and the community center disappeared.

  Getting from one place to another had never been so difficult, so exhausting.

  Hutch was convinced the clouds above were as impenetrable as trees to Declan’s eye in the sky, so he and Dillon beelined it for the cabin, straight through the wide-open span of fields and meadows. The drencher hammered mercilessly on their heads and shoulders and backs. The ground became slick with mud and grasses; even the slightest inclination sent his and Dillon’s feet out from under them. No matter which part of their bodies hit the ground first, they would wind up twisting and turning and rolling in the slop before regaining their feet.

  The terrain had become nearly impassible faster than Hutch would have thought possible. It was as though the entire countryside was made out of soap. Something about the soil, the foliaged groundcover, maybe the cold, cold temperature of the water, combined to knock bipeds low. He knew caribou possessed uniquely scooped and sharp-edged hooves that allowed them to maneuver on steep and icy slopes; he now realized it was also for this type of terrain in this type of weather.

  He slipped again, and Dillon smacked down beside him. They rolled on their sides, facing each other. Dillon’s hair was plastered against his skull. Mud painted one side of his face. It washed away in quick, heavy rivulets as the rain continued to hammer, hammer. Somewhere in the struggle with the weather and the impossibly slick terrain, the wound on his face had opened up. Blood oozed out and was instantly washed away. It was difficult for Hutch to gauge the amount of blood or the severity of the laceration. Since it had been scabbed over when he had met the boy, he believed that it wasn’t as bad as it appeared. He touched Dillon’s face and said, “Does it hurt?”

  Dillon looked puzzled.

  “The cut,” he explained.

  Dillon’s eyes opened wide, remembering. He shook his head.

  Hutch surveyed the sky. Gray clouds formed a low ceiling from horizon to horizon.

  “We need to get out of this,” he said, shouting over the water’s incessant pounding against the earth. “As soon as we get back into the trees, I’ll make a lean-to out of cut branches. It won’t be perfect, but it will be better than this.”