Five minutes later he lifted away a piece of two-by-four lumber as tall as he was and stopped dead. It took a few seconds to recognize what he was looking at. Then it hit him—the corner of a door frame. There was something else— a key on a nail hammered into the frame.
It couldn’t be this easy.
He’d found what he knew in his gut all along was there. The realization made his knees weak. He hung onto the piece of two-by four, resting on it like a crutch. He closed his mind down, refused to process the myriad thoughts fighting for his attention.
It was just a door. Most likely an old latrine.
With muscles fuelled by the adrenalin coursing through his veins, he shifted the rest of the lumber—and suddenly it wasn’t so easy after all. He stared at the heavy hasp and the impenetrable padlock on it. He was a fool for thinking it. He dropped heavily onto the second step of the stairs, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his steepled fingers.
For the second time in as many days he was transported back in time. He saw himself staring at a similar door not more than fifty feet away after he’d beaten Carl Hendricks to a pulp. He felt the same trepidation now as he had then, a desperate need to know what lay behind it, an equally strong aversion fighting inside him.
He forced himself up off his butt and lifted the key off the nail, fitted it in the lock and turned. The lock opened like it was used every day. He pushed the door the full extent of the inch the hasp would allow. A damp, fetid smell rose up out of the darkness behind the door, flowed into the basement.
Sure smelled like a latrine.
Except there was something else behind the smell, something rotten, that made his throat seize, made him turn and spit, clear his mouth of the foul taste of his fear.
He walked away from the smell, rested his head against the wall opposite to catch his breath, clear his lungs. Then he ran at the door and drove his foot into it throwing all his weight behind it. The shock reverberated all the way up his leg, numbing it, his momentum throwing him backwards as the solid wood door absorbed his puny attack and spat him back out.
He paced the room, working some life back into his aching leg, pulling things angrily out of the way, opening drawers, becoming more frustrated by the minute. He picked up a length of heavy-duty rope, strangely damp, despite the dry basement atmosphere. He couldn’t think of anything to do with it, tossed it in the corner. Then his heart picked up when he found an angle grinder in a tool cabinet. It didn’t last long—like the fridge in the kitchen it needed power to work.
Then, just as he was about to admit he was beaten, he pulled away a dirty tarp and saw a portable gasoline generator. He rocked it side to side, heard the slosh of gasoline in the tank. Trouble was, the fumes would fill the basement in minutes. He needed an air flow.
He pulled back the dummy shelf unit, wedged open the door to the tunnel that led to the barns. A steady flow of cool air caressed his face. He did the same with the door at the top of the stairs leading up to the hall, wedged a three-foot-long piece of lumber under the handle. It wasn’t much of a through draft, but it was better than nothing, would give him what might be vital seconds.
By the time he’d yanked on the generator’s pull cord a dozen times he was sweating like a pig. Even though the motor was turning over, it wouldn’t catch. He knew gasoline goes stale and won’t ignite. How long did that take? Six months? A year? Should he go back to the car, drive to a gas station for some fresh gas? It was as a bad idea. It would take too long. He’d have to drain the old gas out of the tank somehow.
No, it was all too much trouble.
Of course, the way things turned out he’d have been better off going to the trouble. It would have saved him trouble of a different kind. But he didn’t know that at the time.
He’d give it a few more pulls ...
It caught on the second pull, the motor coughing and spluttering then running smoother as he eased in the choke. The noise was awful, the fumes worse. He hoped to God nobody turned up at the farm now. They’d be able to drive their car into the back door ram-raid style and he’d never notice. He imagined Vasiliev’s Mercedes SUV mounting the steps of the porch, its massive grill making firewood of the back door. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled at the thought.
He plugged in the grinder and flicked the switch. Nothing. He flicked it on and off a couple times. That always works. Still nothing. The damn thing was broken. Already he was choking on the fumes filling the room. The through draft seemed to push all the fumes his way instead of up the stairs.
He dropped the grinder on the floor and killed the generator. After all the noise, it was eerily quiet. He cocked his ear to see if he could hear anything coming down the tunnel from outside. There was nothing. He’d only had the generator running a couple of minutes. He’d have to be really unlucky for someone to come along in that exact two-minute window.
Even his luck wasn’t that bad.
There was nothing more he could do now, not without fetching more appropriate tools—or assistance. Behind the smell of gas fumes, he still smelled something rotten rising up from behind the door. He pulled it shut. Maybe it was time to get some help, after all. Nobody would think he was imagining things now. He’d found another hidden door where everybody told him there was nothing. And there was a smell coming from behind it, a smell that shouldn’t be there, getting more pungent by the minute.
He needed to get some fresh air.
The fumes and the exertion had made him lightheaded. He climbed back up the stairs, hanging onto the handrail, feeling the atmosphere clear as he went up, the toxic mix of fetid damp and warm gasoline pooling below him. Showed how much use opening the doors had been. If it had worked, the fumes would’ve been blown up the stairs into the house.
Stepping into the hallway, something was different. And different is rarely good. It was still quiet, almost too quiet. He dismissed the thought, put it down to the strange hollowness in his ears after all the noise. There was a draft, stronger up here.
It was going the wrong way.
Chapter 44
THE DRAFT SHOULD HAVE been at his back, coming up from the basement. But it wasn’t, it was in his face. It was coming from the direction of the kitchen, from the back door.
No way. It couldn’t be.
He’d only run the generator a few minutes. If somebody kicked the door in, he’d have felt it. He tip-toed down the hall, expecting at any second a whistling rush of air as Floyd Gray’s arrow buried itself in the woodwork beside him or a stab of white-hot agony as it sliced through his flesh.
He froze at the door between the hall and the kitchen and stared open-mouthed at the back door. It hung open, swinging gently back and forth in the breeze he’d felt a second ago. A pane of glass in the door was shattered. They hadn’t even needed to kick the door in, just break the glass, reach in and turn the key. From the basement he might not have heard it even without all the noise he was making.
It didn’t make him feel any better.
He held his breath, cocked his head. Nothing. Not a creak of worn floorboards flexing as someone walked carefully over them, not even the restless groans of an old house. From where he was standing he could see out into the yard, saw a familiar dark shape. Last time he’d seen it, he’d stood on its hood and kicked one of Vasiliev’s men full in the face. In a least worse-case way, he was relieved it was them and not Floyd and his dog—until he remembered McIntyre’s left hand, the dressing where his finger should have been.
He smelled stale cigarette smoke before he heard the soft footfall behind him.
You don’t often get a warning like that. He didn’t waste it. He ducked, threw himself to the side, into the wall, as a massive fist whistled past his ear into the door frame. The whole house shook. Rebounding off the wall, he spun around in one movement. He saw a strapped-up nose, bloodshot eyes—the guy Narvaez had head butted. Vasiliev’s man, Anton. His body was twisted away, his side exposed, as he yelped in pain and shook his hand wil
dly in the air.
Evan drilled a vicious right hook into his exposed kidney, felt the bottom rib crack, followed it up with a left before the first grunt was out of his mouth. Anton staggered forwards into the door frame, his knees giving way. Evan grabbed the wrist of his rapidly swelling hand and jammed his fingers into the crack between the door and the frame on the hinge side, slammed the door shut.
Anton screamed and tried to pull his fingers out. Evan hauled on the door handle with all his weight, heard and felt bones cracking, joints popping. If he didn’t hate McIntyre with such a passion he’d have dedicated those fingers to him in memory of his lost pinkie.
Anton was twisted away from him, flailing backwards at him with his left. Evan ducked the flying fist with ease. He had to do something, and do it soon. He couldn’t hold the door on his fingers all day until the other one turned up—wherever he might be. Through the gasps of pain as Evan crushed his fingers to a pulp, the guy yelled a name—Mikhail—then shouted it again, louder.
Mikhail’s answering shout came from the other side of the door. He’d been outside. Now he was in the kitchen. The door handle turned in Evan’s grip as it was grabbed from the other side. Mikhail was strong and he was fresh. The door pulled open a fraction. Evan couldn’t hold it much longer. On the other side Mikhail had both hands on the handle, his feet dug in, leaning backwards. Any second now Anton’s trapped fingers would burst free. The hand wouldn’t be a lot of good. Still, they’d have three good hands between the two of them. He’d be caught between them, nowhere to run.
He let go of the door handle.
On the other side, Mikhail flew backwards across the kitchen with a surprised yelp as the pressure he was pulling against disappeared. He hit the kitchen table and tumbled over it, arms windmilling as he tried to stay upright. His feet skidded and went out from under him. The back of his head slammed into the hard, sharp edge of the kitchen cabinet with a bone-jarring thump. The piled-up pots and pans and dishes on the counter tumbled down onto his head, dirty water and leftover food spilling into his hair and eyes.
In the hall, Anton staggered the other way as his fingers popped free, stumbling towards the open door to the basement. Evan lunged at him, got both hands on his chest and shoved him through the opening. Anton slipped backwards, threw out his good hand and caught the handrail, his body twisting as he tried to pull himself upright. Evan grabbed the piece of lumber wedged under the door handle. He hefted it and jabbed it straight in Anton’s face, smack bang on the nose Narvaez had broken.
Anton howled as his nose flattened and spread further across his face, his hand coming off the rail to protect himself. Evan jabbed him again, hard in the chest and drove him down the stairs, threw the lumber at his head. He slammed the door and locked it.
In the kitchen Mikhail was still on the floor. He was moving now, throwing pots and pans off him, the bang on the back of his head already forgotten. He looked up at Evan, his eyes still not in focus and pushed himself onto all fours. Evan kicked him in the face, snapping his head to the side, and leapt past him towards the door.
Behind him, the door to the basement bulged outwards, the wood splitting like someone hit it with an axe as Anton rammed it with his massive shoulder, over and over. How was it possible a guy he’d pushed down the stairs was back already? Anton leaned backwards, hanging onto the handrail, drove his heel into the door. With a sound like a rotten tree snapping in a storm the lock ripped out the frame, the door flying open.
Outside, the wind gusted, caught the back door. It slammed shut in Evan’s face, costing him a split second. That was all Mikhail needed. He dived at Evan’s legs, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and anger flying across the room. It was like a freight train hit him, scooped his feet up off the ground as the pair of them crashed into the door, a tangle of legs and arms, Evan on top.
Anton was in the kitchen now, the length of lumber Evan hit him with in his left hand, his right a swollen, misshapen mess hanging at his side. He swung the lumber at Evan’s head. Left hand or not, he was still a big, powerful guy. Evan got his arm up to protect himself and took the first blow just above the elbow, the flat side smacking into his flesh with a solid thwack.
He swallowed the pain, ducked to the side as Anton swung his makeshift club again at the tangled bodies in front of him. The lumber whistled past Evan’s ear and caught Mikhail on the side of the head, sounding like two trees collided.
Mikhail cried out, a mixture of pain and anger, let loose a stream of Eastern European abuse. Automatically he raised his arm to protect his head from further attack, letting go of Evan. Anton stared stupidly, not sure who he’d hit, his vision blurred by the jab in the face Evan gave him, blood pouring from a gash above his eye.
A primeval scream, straight from the gut, erupted from Evan’s mouth, filling the room. He kicked wildly, feet and knees trying to connect with anything or anyone in reach. He rolled away, pushed himself onto his knees, not realizing his mistake—he just made it easier for Anton. Blood in his eyes, vision blurring or not, Evan was now a distinct target, no longer part of one writhing mass of bodies on the floor.
Anton swung again as Evan knelt before him like a penitent on the steps of Heaven awaiting the Lord’s judgement. It caught him a glancing blow on the back of his head and everything went as black as if the good Lord himself had kicked him off the steps into the abyss.
Chapter 45
FLOYD SAW THE CAR backed into the dirt road and smiled to himself, his grip tightening on his bow.
Buckley.
He’d been expecting him, just not so soon.
At his side, Marlene sensed his excitement. Together, they followed the exact same route Evan had taken and stopped in the same stand of trees a hundred yards out. Then Floyd saw something he wasn’t expecting that changed everything—a black SUV parked in the yard behind the house. He wasn’t sure—there are a lot of black SUVs around and he didn’t have much interest in cars anyway—but he bet it was the same one he saw two thugs jump out of and kidnap the guy who was following Buckley—McIntyre they’d called him.
The SUV was facing away from him. If there was anyone still in it, they’d have to look in the mirror to see him creeping up. Floyd had a lot of experience creeping up on people, people who’d have killed him on the spot if they saw him. That tends to concentrate the mind and hone the skills. Keeping low, in his hunting camo jacket with the stand of trees as a backdrop, he was almost invisible.
Thirty yards out and everything changed again. And not in his favor.
The back door was yanked open from inside. He was right. The same two big guys he’d seen abducting McIntyre came out dragging a comatose body after them. The head was hanging down limply as they pulled him along, a hand under each armpit. But Floyd knew who it was. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
Buckley.
Damn.
They’d beaten him to it. He couldn’t let them haul him away, ruin all his hard work and preparation. They weren’t the kind of people who let you go after they’d got what they wanted from you. They were like himself—no loose ends sort of people. And since they were unlikely to hand over their prize to Floyd, however nicely he asked, what they were now was collateral damage. Sometimes life just deals you a bum hand.
He dropped to one knee and fitted an arrow to his bow. It was fitted with a fixed three-blade broadhead, the same setup he used to kill the deer a few days before. He’d spent the previous evening sharpening the blades to a razor edge. He wanted maximum penetration—to reach vital organs and arteries in his prey, however large.
He touched Marlene on the shoulder, feeling the anticipation in her, the strength in her solid body. How he loved this dog. He rested his forehead on the back of her neck, then put his lips to her ear.
Go.
She covered the distance in a matter of seconds, her muscles rippling under the sleek coat, teeth bared, flashing like knives, a low growl in her throat as she sped towards her prey—real prey
, the sort she was bred for.
If a dog has an imagination, she was already sinking her teeth into the soft, exposed flesh of a man’s throat, ripping it open.
Behind her, Floyd admired her beauty and grace for the last time.
One of the men had seen her.
He leapt to his feet and stared in horror. It was as if time slowed for him, watching helplessly as she raced to her death.
He raised his bow, already drawing back the string. It was as if he was pulling it through molasses. As his arm drew back agonizingly slowly he saw one of the men drop Buckley, put his hand under his jacket and pull out a gun.
Floyd watched his gun arm rise and come around until it was pointing directly at Marlene as she covered the last few yards that separated them. He let out a silent scream as she leaped.
No.
The guy fired once, the sound like a slap in the face to Floyd. The bullet slammed into Marlene’s body as her front legs left the ground, throwing her backwards across the yard, cartwheeling through the air. She landed with a thump Floyd felt in his gut, an untidy, bloody heap by the rear wheel of the SUV. She lay there whimpering, trying gamely to get up as the blood pumped out of her body.
The guy’s gun arm tracked her as he readied for a second shot. Floyd saw the smirk of satisfaction on his face, felt his blood boil.
Then time resumed its normal pace.
Floyd was calm. For now. He had to be. All hell would break loose later.
Ignoring the pitiful sight of Marlene as she twitched on the ground, closing his ears and his mind, he concentrated on the man with the gun, aiming by instinct, opening his fingers to let the arrow fly.
The guy jerked backwards as the razor blades of Floyd’s broadhead arrow buried themselves deep in his stomach. His gun slipped from his hand, the second shot never taken. He screamed and stared uncomprehendingly at the arrow shaft sticking out of his body.
Sins Of The Father Page 27
