Confession

by Carey Baldwin

  As much as he hated to leave her, time was running out. The longer he stayed here arguing, the greater the chance he’d be too late to save the father and son, and the greater the chance Scourge would head upstairs for the women and find Faith instead. She wasn’t going to budge. She was too goddamn stubborn. “One condition—­take the gun and hide. Do not come downstairs. Leave the men to me. Then I’ll come back for you. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.” First her voice floated up, then her arm.

  What the hell was that?

  Pepper spray!

  She was trading him her pink pepper spray for his Glock. He took it, and for a split second, smiled. As he handed the gun off to Faith, the world turned grim again. “Pull the trigger hard. That’s how you disengage the safety.” Then he was on his belly. Combat crawling back to the ladder, forcing his mind to focus only one step ahead.

  Make it to the ladder.

  He reached the bottom rung, stepped nice and easy, nice and quiet onto the ground. He secured the ladder against the side of the house, just in case Faith came to her senses. Meanwhile, the best he could do was get to the men, who, according to the book, would be in the basement. The only way to stop Faith from confronting Scourge would be to get the father and son out before she changed her mind and tried to free them herself.

  Find the son.

  From the roof, he’d had the advantage of distance to distort and cover his noise. But on the ground, he needed to be even more stealthy in his approach. Scourge might be anywhere—­doing God knew what to anyone. His stomach clenched. He wiped his palms on his thighs.

  Find the boy.

  Back pressed against the wall, he sidestepped to the nearest window, closed his eyes, and prayed to whoever was up there for a little help. Please let the book be wrong. Please let the boy be on the first floor and not in the basement. He darted his head in front of the window. The room was lit up inside, and it only took a split second to process what he’d seen—­the boy.

  And the boy had seen him.

  Thanks. I owe you one.

  He stuck his head in front of the window again, this time pausing long enough to search the room for signs of Scourge. The kid shook his head violently. His eyes pleaded for help, and in that moment, Luke understood Faith completely.

  Impossible to leave this family at the mercy of a sadistic maniac.

  The son’s hands and feet were hog-­tied. His body stretched on the couch, head elevated by a pillow.

  Kenyon Clutter’s head had also been elevated by a pillow. The Kansas Bureau of Investigation had speculated Perry Smith had propped the boy’s head to make it an easier target for his shotgun.

  Luke’s whole body tensed. His hands fisted so hard, his knuckles popped. A wave of sheer hatred for the man who’d done this threatened to swamp him. He rolled with that hate one second, then pushed it aside before it could disable him.

  Focus.

  The chances of the window being locked—­he couldn’t guess. Under normal circumstances, ­people keep their downstairs windows secured. But out here in the middle of just-­good-­folks country, families often neglected to lock their homes. He leaned his weight against the bottom ledge of the window and felt it give, heard a creak. Another break. The window was unlocked.

  Opening it fast, like ripping off a Band-­Aid, would make the least noise, or at least make noise for the shortest amount of time. Either way . . . he shoved hard, the window screeched open. In a heartbeat, he was inside the den, sawing at ropes, watching with rising alarm as the boy’s chest heaved in an unnatural rhythm. Luke heard wheezing seep out from under the duct tape that covered the kid’s mouth.

  Fuck.

  The kid had asthma.

  “Don’t scream. I’ve got you,” he whispered in the boy’s ear, still sawing at ropes with one hand as he ripped the gag from the boy’s mouth with the other.

  A gasp, a violent coughing attack, and finally a wheezy cry. “Help!”

  The ropes were almost off.

  “Quiet!” Luke grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him hard. “Your father’s still inside. What’s your name, son?” he asked, keeping his voice as low as possible.

  “Carl.”

  “You’re going to be okay, Carl. But you gotta run, fast as you can, find someplace to hide.”

  “My dad. He can’t—­”

  “Your mom and sister are already out of the house. I won’t leave anyone behind. I promise, Carl. So when I say run, you run and do not look back. My job is to get your dad out. Your job is to run and hide. What’s your job, Carl?”

  “Run.” Carl wheezed out the word.

  “That’s right.” Luke cut the last bit of rope. The boy had been tied like an animal waiting for the slaughter. Luke climbed out the window, took a fast look around to make sure the area was clear, and helped Carl out behind him. “Now, Carl! Run!”

  Carl took off, coughing and gasping. He made it under fifty yards before tripping and landing flat on his face.

  Get up. Get up.

  Luke had one foot back in the window already. He hesitated.

  Carl bolted to his feet, but he didn’t run. Instead, he looked back at the house, searching the high windows, trying to glimpse his family.

  Boom!

  A gunshot split the air. Carl turned and ran. The shadow of a male figure emerged from behind a tree, short, and stocky, a long gun in his hand.

  Scourge.

  Scourge loped after the boy.

  Goddamnit!

  Luke’s foot caught on the windowsill as he scrambled back out. He yanked it free and took off after Scourge and Carl. Faster and faster his legs pumped, but the boy and Scourge had a head start. He lost sight of them for a few seconds, then rounded a corner and saw a barn door swinging open.

  Boom!

  Luke crashed through the barn door in time to see a dark shadow disappear atop a ladder and into the hayloft.

  Quiet. All was quiet now . . . and dark.

  The scents of hay and manure and sweat mingled with something more disturbing. Luke wouldn’t have believed it if someone else had told him, but evil has a smell—­dank and putrid and saturated with hate. The sickly-­sweet odor in the barn made his eyes water. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. And then a scraping sound made him forget all about the smell.

  He pressed his back against the wall and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Long moments passed. Seconds seemed like hours. Time stretched and strained, helping him milk every nanosecond out of the time he had left on this earth. Like the barn, his brain had quieted, allowing instinct to take over. He was all muscle and nerve now. No emotion. No doubt. Just a crystalline understanding that this was the moment that would determine everything. What he chose, right now, would make him into either the man he wished he could be or the man he feared he might become. His father’s face flashed before his eyes. His chin came up, and he swiped moisture from his cheeks.

  I won’t let you die, Carl. Not by this monster’s hand.

  He edged forward, the ambient light illuminating shapes and forms but not defining them.

  Not tonight, Carl. You’re not going to die tonight.

  Luke’s muscles coiled into tight ropes of energy. His eyes searched the barn.

  There, in the corner, he spotted a long shape with spiked shadows sticking up like a crown.

  Pitchfork.

  Keeping to the walls, he crept to the corner, all the while willing the night to creak its natural sounds alongside his footsteps. Let a coyote howl, a mouse scamper, branches scrape. He was almost there.

  His senses sharpened to the point he could practically feel his pupils widening in the dark, and he focused all his energy on his eyes. It crossed his mind that if he survived, he should try to remember how to do this, how to control his body so completely.

  He blinked. Imagined
himself with night-­vision goggles and damn if he couldn’t see clearly now. The pitchfork. His hand darted out and clamped on. The splintered wooden handle scraped his skin. He gripped his weapon tighter, until it became an extension of his arm.

  More noises from the loft.

  How long had he been in this barn? A minute, an hour? He had no idea. He crept forward, making his way to the bottom of the ladder, not knowing for certain if Carl was in the hayloft, too. The figure he’d seen on the ladder he believed to be Scourge.

  “Come out come out wherever you are, little buddy. Come out with your hands up, or I’ll make Mommy and Daddy pay.”

  And there was his confirmation. Scourge had chased Carl into the barn.

  Don’t do it, kid. Don’t look back.

  “Don’t make me angry, Carl. I’m going back to the house with or without you, and you really don’t want me to be angry when I get back there. Come out now, and I promise not to hurt you or your family.”

  Silence.

  The kid was too smart to be fooled.

  One hand clutching the pitchfork, Luke placed a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. It groaned beneath his weight.

  Boom!

  His body jumped in response to the blast, and the ladder jerked up and back down with a crack. He covered his ears. Hay and bits of wood rained down from above. The barn filled with smell of gunpowder. He swung his body behind the ladder and climbed the rungs, gripping the wood with one hand, the weight of his pitchfork, a comfort in the other.

  Boom! Hard to localize the gunshot in the dark. Scourge could be shooting at Carl, or at him. Either way, it didn’t change the plan. He kept climbing the backside of the ladder until he felt the floor of the loft bump the top of his head. In a nonstop series of movements, he pushed his body to the front of the ladder and leapt into the hayloft, pitchfork sweeping out in front of him. “Stay down, Carl!”

  Boom!

  He heard mostly ringing now. But the flash of light had come from behind him.

  He whirled, and there, standing a yard in front of him was the devil himself. Shotgun in hand, aimed just to the side of him. He jumped the opposite direction just as the shotgun swung and fired. Heat from the blast singed the air. Rage rose inside him fueling his muscles, overriding his fear.

  He charged.

  Straight for the shotgun, straight for the devil himself. Pitchfork to the leg, and the devil howled, yet with nearly superhuman strength, wrenched it from his leg and tossed it aside.

  It was like fighting a machine. This devil was made of steel and hate. Luke kicked him in shin and grabbed for the long barrel of his gun. The gun pulled back, blasted into the air, and hay and bits of barn battered his body.

  Whoosh.

  The gun fell from the loft and landed on the floor below with a thud.

  Luke grabbed Scourge by the throat, and a fist slammed into his face. His nose cracked. Pain shot all the way to his eye sockets. Scourge slipped from his grip, and Luke’s hand brushed against his side, closed around a cool canister.

  Pepper spray.

  Scourge leapt on him, and as they rolled through the damp hay, Scourge yanked the canister from Luke’s hand. Then a strobe flashed, blinding him. An alarm rang out, and he covered his burning eyes. For a split second, Luke’s lungs seized, and he couldn’t move, only watch as Scourge raced down the ladder.

  Recovering his breath, he bolted to his feet, but the devil just laughed and tossed the ladder across the barn like a toy. Now Luke had no way down from the loft. Through blurry eyes, Luke saw Scourge hobble across the barn, dragging one leg behind him. Luke had gotten him good with the pitchfork.

  Without looking behind him, Scourge found his gun and limped outside. The door to the barn slammed shut, then Luke heard the screech of metal against metal as the latch engaged. Scourge had locked them inside.

  Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of coughing and gasping. “Help me. Please help me.”

  “It’s okay, Carl. He’s gone.”

  “I-­I can’t breathe.”

  Fuck.

  The fallout from the pepper spray had triggered Carl’s asthma again. The boy rose out of the hay, then fell back flat.

  Luke raced to Carl and lifted him in his arms.

  “Can’t.” He wheezed and wheezed. “Breathe.”

  And then the wheezing stopped altogether. The kid was barely moving air. Luke dropped to his knees and ripped open Carl’s shirt. His chest heaved and retracted, the outline of his ribs exaggerating with every shallow breath. Luke cleared the hay from the boy’s mouth and nose and felt for a pulse.

  Strong.

  Carl’s chest stopped moving. He was no longer struggling to breathe—­he wasn’t breathing at all. Pinching Carl’s nose, Luke blew air into his lungs and watched for the rise and fall of the chest. He gave another breath, then another.

  Carl’s head jerked, and he coughed, spewing warm liquid down his shirt . . . and the wheezing started again.

  Good!

  At least he was breathing. Luke lifted Carl in his arms and looked for a way out of the loft. He couldn’t risk jumping with the boy in this condition. There, to the left, he saw a way—­crates stacked clear to the loft. “Stay with me, kid. I need you to put your arms around my waist. Can you hold on?”

  Carl couldn’t speak, but he nodded.

  Luke’s vision was starting to clear after the pepper spray. His skin stung, and his lungs ached, but that was of little interest to him at the moment. He had to get Carl out of this barn.

  With the boy clinging to him, he hopped onto the highest crate. It wobbled slightly beneath his feet, but luck was with him. Whatever was in that crate must’ve been heavy, because it held the weight of both men. The crates were staggered just enough to allow Luke to find purchase with his feet and use them like a staircase.

  At the bottom, Luke propped Carl against the barn wall. “Keep breathing, Carl. I’m going to get us out of here.”

  Behind the crates, he found a sledgehammer and used it to bust up the door’s planks. Then he dragged Carl out into the fresh night air. “Stay quiet.” He almost laughed, then. There was no need to tell Carl not to talk. He couldn’t cry out if he wanted to. Not to mention they’d sledgehammered the barn door. “You did your job, Carl. You ran. Now you’ve got a new job, and that’s to keep breathing. Let me worry about everything else.”

  Carl’s hand reached up, and Luke squeezed it. Then Carl’s arm went limp.

  Don’t you dare die, Carl. Don’t you dare die.

  And then Luke was carrying the boy again. By now, his right shoulder had gone completely numb, and about a hundred yards from the barn, his left arm started to cramp, but he had to get Carl out of sight. At last, he found a good hiding place, a metal toolshed.

  He kicked open the door and choked back a grateful cry.

  Inside the shed, on her knees, with her hands clasped in prayer, was Mrs. Donovan. Wordlessly, Luke lay Carl on the ground and checked his pulse—­still strong. The boy’s chest heaved, but no breath came out. He looked to Carl’s mother. “Asthma?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she fished something shiny out of her pocket and stuck it in Carl’s mouth. Two soft whooshes sounded.

  Nothing.

  She squeezed the inhaler again and waited. A loud cough followed a wheeze, and Carl’s chest started to lift higher. He was breathing—­not exactly with ease, but nice and steady. It seemed Mrs. Donovan had been thinking of her children throughout her ordeal. And despite the risk, she’d managed to find Carl’s inhaler and stuff it into her pocket sometime between the moment Scourge entered her home and the time Luke and Faith had dragged her out of that window.

  Luke let out a soft, admiring whistle.

  Mothers.

  TWENTY-­NINE

  Thursday, August 15, 11:00 P.M.

  Faith op
ened the final closet door in the last upstairs bedroom in the Donovan home, and a pungent, chemical odor hit her in the face. Other than a conglomeration of old coats and worn boots and a spilled container of mothballs, the closet was empty. If either Mr. Donovan or his son was upstairs, they were well hidden. Well hidden was exactly what she planned to be when the police and Luke arrived. She’d given Luke her word she’d wouldn’t go downstairs, and she didn’t plan to break her promise—­not unless she had to.

  Boom!

  She’d given Luke her word—­he’d given her his gun. That wasn’t Luke firing off shots. She rushed to a window and ducked below the sill.

  Boom!

  The second shot sounded faint, farther away than the first. Edging her face above the windowsill, she peered into the night and spotted a stocky figure darting across the yard. She heard a softer boom and saw a flash of light. Another figure darted after the first.

  Her breath released all at once. Luke was alive. But then her heart skipped and stuttered—­Luke was alive, and he was chasing Scourge, armed only with her pepper spray. The weight of Luke’s Glock felt heavy and cold in her hand. She turned it over in her palm, wondering if she’d find the inner strength to pull the trigger if it came down to it. All she’d ever wanted was to help others live their best lives. She’d never envisioned taking one of those lives. She shook her shoulders out.

  Don’t second-­guess yourself.

  Don’t second-­guess Luke.

  Scourge was running away from the house. How or why didn’t matter. What mattered was this was a chance, and it might be the only one she had to get downstairs and free whoever remained alive.

  If anyone remained alive.

  A sour thought fermented in her belly like a cake of yeast. Had Scourge done his worst to the men while she and Luke worked to free the women?

  She flew to the staircase. With Scourge out of the house, there was no need for quiet. She raced down the stairs and, taking them too fast, tumbled. Her back cracked against the wooden steps, and the gun fell from her hands. She wrapped her arms around herself and craned her neck to protect her head as best she could, but she didn’t try to stop the fall. Every sharp blow to her arms and legs and torso brought her one second closer to the bottom. Once the fall happened, she welcomed it.