The Deepest Wound

by Rick Reed

  The first barrage struck the windows and door, and when he stopped he could hear glass still falling inside the cabin. And that was just a taste. Clint knew Book would deliberately keep the bullets high. He didn’t intend to kill them quickly. He wanted to make a grand entrance and gut-shoot Murphy. And then he would savage the two women before he cut their heads off.

  Clint figured they were out of effective range of any weapons Murphy and the female cop might have. This was their last job. They’d already been paid. He didn’t care if Book had some fun, but Clint didn’t like killing women. He’d made his mind up that this would be the last time he would do one of these jobs.

  In fact, this job had gone so sideways that his instinct was to eliminate any witnesses—women or not—and that included the client. They could make their way to New York. Anything could be had for the right amount of money, and they had plenty of that in offshore accounts. They would buy fake identification and passports and go to Haiti or Nicaragua. They could live like kings on the money they already had. Plus, there was a need for someone of their talent. But no more female targets.

  Book sprayed the front of the cabin again until he was out of ammunition. While he locked another hundred-round drum of ammo in place, Clint opened up with the UMP submachine gun.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Moira rolled off the bed, onto the floor, as all hell broke loose. The air above her head seemed to be alive and buzzing. She didn’t know what she could do to help, but she was through being scared. She crawled toward the living room, where Jack and Brooke were.

  Jack crouched to the left of the door. He and Brooke just had time to pull the sofa against the wall before the cabin was strafed with more machine-gun fire. Pinned down, he was unable to even shoot back. He rose up, leaned over the couch, and used the butt of the shotgun to hammer the shutters open. It wasn’t hard because they were mostly in tatters anyway. Another hail of lead ripped through the open window. Huge chunks out of window frame exploded, driving splinters into his hand and arm.

  Gun in hand, Brooke rolled across the floor to the other window.

  “You with me?” Jack yelled.

  “I’m way ahead of you!” she said. “I’m going to pull the door open so we have a field of fire.”

  Book signaled to Clint that he was moving in. Clint drove another ammo clip home and opened fire while Book rushed forward, his movement covered by the deafening clatter from the UMP as it poured .45 caliber ACP rounds into the door and door frame.

  As in a choreographed dance, Clint slapped another clip into the UMP, and opened fire again on the front window to the west of the door, giving Book an open path to the front door. Book crossed the open ground in large strides, weapon pulled in tight to his body, barrel down.

  Clint stopped shooting, and Book launched his two hundred eighty pounds straight through the weakened door.

  From the bedroom doorway Moira saw Jack and Brooke crouching behind the ripped-up sofa, heads down. The air around them filled with flying bits of wood and glass and shrapnel.

  “Jack!” she screamed, but her voice was barely audible above the gunfire.

  Jack slid the shotgun across the floor to her, and she stared at it until he yelled, “Take it! Get back in the bedroom. On the floor behind the bed!”

  Moira grabbed the shotgun and began to crab-crawl backward, but the front door was shredded right before her eyes. It was a welcome bulwark one moment and then it was gone, and in its place was the biggest man she had ever seen. He came through the door like it was made of paper. He was holding something long with an explosion of flame erupting from its end. Lamps, furniture, walls, floor, disintegrated wherever it pointed.

  Moira screamed and scooted up against the doorway, trying to lift the shotgun, watching helplessly as the figure swiveled toward Brooke.

  She saw blossoms of red flower across Brooke’s body, hip to shoulder, and she knew Brooke was dead. Then the giant swept the flaming barrel toward Jack, but Jack had disappeared. From the corner of her eye, Moira saw an arm rise, and the top of the killer’s head disappeared in a mist of red. The weapon expended itself harmlessly into the floor and then the flame was extinguished.

  Jack instantly followed up by dragging Brooke out of the doorway. In slow motion he turned his head toward her, yelling something, but she could no longer hear.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Jack knew the directed fire at the front door for what it was—an assault—and scrambled to his feet. He put his back against the wall on the other side of the door just as it exploded inward and the gunman burst through, sweeping the room with destruction.

  Brooke reacted well to the intruder and rolled onto her back. She shot the gunman dead center, four, five, six times, but he didn’t seem to react. He continued to sweep the submachine gun across her. Jack stepped close and fired into the man’s head.

  Like a marionette whose strings had been clipped, the man dropped to the floor, and Jack instinctively went to drag Brooke out of the doorway. He knew another man was still firing outside. She could be hit again. But he was too slow. Too late he heard the crunch of boots behind him, and turned to look into the impossibly huge barrel of Clint’s UMP .45.

  The butt of the .12 gauge shotgun rocked backward with the blast and broke two of her ribs, but Moira was unaware of the pain. The man who had stood in the doorway staggered backward when all nine of the double-aught buckshot, each projectile the size of a. 38 caliber bullet, struck him in the solar plexus.

  Then Jack sprang on his feet and raced out the door after him.

  Book kicked the door down and began raining down hell inside the cabin, which had been Clint’s cue to charge. He started for the cabin, but when Book’s weapon went silent, Clint thought that meant all the targets were down. With his UMP .45 at the ready, he rushed into the doorway. Only then did he realize his mistake.

  A glance told Clint that Book was dead. All that was left of the big man’s head was part of the jaw, a piece of skull, and one eye staring into space. The sight of his dead partner made him hesitate, but he quickly recovered. He began to pivot toward Murphy and then a giant fist smashed him in the chest. When he came to his senses, he was on his back, thrown outside, unable to draw air into his bruised lungs. Murphy was straddling him, knees pinning Clint’s arms, and holding a hand cannon against his forehead. Murphy was saying something, but the words all ran together, and in that instant Clint knew he was going to die.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  An attractive older woman answered the door. Although it was well after midnight and she was in her robe and housecoat, her makeup was perfect, and not one gray hair was out of place.

  “Are you here to see my husband... Detective Murphy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled and stood back. “Please come in.”

  Jack entered a foyer the size of his cabin. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its light reflecting on white marble tile and colorful stained-glass windows that made up the east wall.

  “You may wait in his den. Do you know where it is?”

  “No, Mrs. Wethington. I’ve never been here before,” Jack said as they entered the front room of the three-story mansion. He heard that Trent had bought it when he decided to run for governor.

  Jack followed the lady of the house down a hallway, past a sweeping staircase, and to the back, where she showed him into a room with a massive cherry desk and chair. It was accompanied by two long benches and two heavy chairs made of the same cherrywood. Cherrywood shelves filled mostly with leather-bound volumes covered every inch of wall space. This room was worth more than Jack brought home in a year. The house must have cost more than he would make in his lifetime.

  Mrs. Wethington turned on a desk lamp and indicated that Jack take a seat. He remained standing.

  “Would you believe this was a guest bedroom?” she said, as if it were nonsense to ever think it so. “My husband had it built to be fit for a governor. What do you thin
k, Detective Murphy?”

  “Cherry,” Jack said appreciatively.

  Mrs. Wethington smiled. “If you have the opportunity to come back during the daytime, Detective, I’ll give you the grand tour. Would you care for anything? Perhaps some coffee?”

  Jack declined the offer, and she excused herself with a promise her husband would be in shortly.

  Jack looked down at the bloodstains from Moira and Brooke on his shirt and pants. Mrs. Wethington hadn’t remarked on it. Maybe she didn’t see it. Maybe she didn’t see a lot of things.

  The door opened and Trent entered the study. Jack half expected him to come in wearing his work finery, but instead he was wearing his sleep finery: pinstripe silk pajamas, matching striped silk robe with the belt hanging around his trim waist. Jack thought all that was missing was a fez, a calabash pipe, and a howler monkey perched atop his shoulder.

  Trent took a seat behind the desk without a word or acknowledgment of Jack’s presence, or bloody attire. His posture and carriage demonstrated his position in this meeting. The man was the poster child for a governor—or a sociopath.

  Without expression, Trent asked, “What can I do for you, Detective Murphy?”

  “I’m here about Brooke.”

  Trent’s composure remained unchanged, but he leaned back in his chair, and said, “If you’re here to have her taken off the case, I can’t help you.”

  Jack remained standing in front of the desk. “The case is closed.”

  Trent’s complexion turned pale. He leaned forward, hands folded on top of the desk. He took a deep breath in through his nose and slowly let it out

  “I thought you would be overjoyed, but you don’t seem happy,” Jack said. “And you haven’t asked why I’m here about Brooke.”

  Trent locked eyes with Jack. “Of course, of course. That’s fantastic news. Congratulations, Jack.” He added hesitantly, “How is she? Are you here to give me bad news?”

  Jack didn’t answer him at first. Instead he asked, “Do you still think you’ll win?”

  Trent paused, then said, “Do you know who I am? Don’t you play games with me, Detective. Is my niece alive?”

  “Shut up,” Jack said. He leaned over the desk and got in Trent’s space. “I do know who you are. And I know what you are. You’re the piece of shit I’ve asked the FBI to give me five minutes alone with.”

  Instead of being insulted, Trent’s eyes cut to the door as if he were expecting someone.

  “Oh, they’re out there, all right,” Jack assured him. “The FBI, Sheriff’s deputies, state police. It’s just too bad Liddell couldn’t be here.”

  “What is this?”

  “I arrested your boy, Clint Hallard, for murder and attempted murder. You remember him, don’t you? You were the only one who knew where we were tonight. Brooke called you from her cabin. You sent those bastards to kill us—to kill your own niece.”

  Trent deflated like a balloon, his lungs expelling the breath he’d been holding. His elbows leaned heavily on top of the desk; his face was a frozen mask of defeat.

  Jack walked to the study door and said, “But don’t worry. I blew the other guy’s brains all over Brooke’s cabin. And in case you give a rat’s ass, Brooke is shot up pretty bad. She’s in the hospital, but she’s alive and holding her own. Spending the rest of your life in prison is too good for you, and you know something? I’m sure she would agree with me.”

  Trent’s complexion turned ashen. “I would never hurt Brooke. I never wanted this—”

  “Yeah, right,” Jack said. “You would never hurt her unless you yourself might get hurt.”

  Trent pleaded with Jack, “I’m not the only one you want.”

  Jack leaned against the door, and said, “I know. But I didn’t think you would tell me.”

  That’s when Trent started talking. He told Jack some of what he already knew or guessed, but the breadth of the conspiracy surprised him. Ten minutes later, Jack walked onto the front porch, where several federal agents and a posse of others waited. Some were on foot and several more were in cars with the engines running. One of the Feds approached Jack. “We’ve got our warrant, but we’ll need Hallard to identify him.”

  Jack said, “Thanks for giving me a few minutes. He’s all yours. We need another warrant, though. I don’t think Hallard will be able to identify Trent. There’s someone else.”

  The agent nodded. “We’ll have the federal prosecutor get another warrant if you give them the information. I take it you need one ASAP?”

  “Sooner would be good,” Jack said, and started off the porch.

  The FBI agent had started to round up his search team when a loud report came from inside.

  “Oh, shit!” the agent said, and a group of men—uniformed and suits alike—rushed inside.

  Jack hung his head, and taking a deep breath, walked around the corner of the house to the car where two heavily armed officers were guarding Clint Hallard. One of the officers opened the back door, and Jack slid in beside the killer.

  “I heard a gunshot,” Hallard said. “Did you kill him?”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s your business, not mine.”

  Waiting for the Feds to get their amended warrant was excruciating, but the wait was worth it when two special agents of the FBI led county attorney Bob Rothschild out of his home in handcuffs. They brought a marked county police unit to the edge of the porch, and the car window rolled down.

  Clint Hallard looked at the man in handcuffs and nodded at Jack. “That’s him. I saw him on TV at that news conference. That’s the guy we found at the house. He kept saying we had to help him, and he was crying.” Clint shook his head in disgust. “What a pussy.”

  “He’s all yours,” Jack said to the FBI special agent in charge. He swiveled slightly to address the county attorney. “Hey, Bob. I’m a better detective than you thought, huh?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Jack was surprised to find Brooke sitting up in the hospital bed watching the Today show. It was eight in the morning, and Matt Lauer was just going live to Channel Six television in Evansville with breaking news. Claudine Setera reported:

  Thank you, Matt. A shootout at a fishing cabin in northern Vanderburgh County early this morning has left one suspect dead and another in custody. In a surprising twist, Evansville Police revealed that a team of killers, hired by Vanderburgh County Attorney Bob Rothschild, are responsible for the recent killings of a man and woman in Illinois and three women in Evansville that had previously been thought the work of a serial killer dubbed The Cannibal.

  As the reporter’s smiling face chattered on, Brooke pushed her head against her pillows and closed her eyes. A thick bandage covered her left shoulder. Her mouth was set a tight line and Jack could see she was in pain.

  “Do you need the nurse?”

  She cracked one eye and rolled a finger in the air. “Just turn that crap off.”

  Jack picked her remote off the bed stand, cut the gorgeous reporter off in mid-sentence, and hit the call button to bring a nurse. He was concerned about how she was taking Trent’s suicide. He felt a measure of guilt for not seeing it coming, or more truthfully, not caring if he caused it. He had Trent to thank for nearly getting killed—Brooke and Moira, too—and if he had been in the room with Trent, he could have easily helped him put the gun in his mouth.

  The nurse came in, checked Brooke’s IV, added pain medication, and said, “You should be feeling better in a few minutes. Do you need anything else?”

  “I need a Scotch,” Jack said.

  The nurse turned to him and smiled. “I get off at three, Jack,” and left the room with Jack pleasantly surprised.

  “Did you see that?” he asked, grinning at Brooke.

  “Yeah, you’re such a stud muffin. It’s a good thing I’m resistant to your charms. I mean, what with being in a weakened condition and all,” she said, and laughed.

  “Hey, I saved your life.”

  She gingerly touched her stomach. “Yeah,
boy! But you took your sweet time doing it.”

  “I had to think about it,” he said, and they smiled at each other.

  Her smile faded. “Was my uncle really behind all of this?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I called him when I went for the first aid kit in the trunk of the car. I thought you were being paranoid about Eric, and I couldn’t believe Trent would . . . you know? So I told him what had happened, that we were safe.” She paused, then said, “He was the only one who knew where we were. I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  “He was your uncle. How could you know? And he wasn’t the only one who knew. You see, I had a chance to talk to Hallard after Moira shot him, and I called the FBI in on this because of what he told me. He and Book worked for a murder-for-hire outfit. He didn’t know exactly where they were located, but he had enough information that I thought the FBI would be interested.” And it would keep me from having to arrest your uncle Trent, Jack thought.

  “When I confronted Trent, he told me about Bob Rothschild and the organization on the East Coast. They were funding Trent’s run for governor. There was a fortune at stake for both Trent and the organization. This was all about money.” Jack stopped, feeling a familiar bitter taste in his mouth. Most murders were about money, jealousy, or hate. “The FBI told me they were already investigating a gambling organization in Atlantic City. They suspected that the organization wanted Trent to swing things their way on the gambling in Indiana, and if he was governor, they could have it all.”