by Jeff Buick
“You missed last time,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I won’t this time.” Darvin raised the gun.
Leona yanked her hand free from the ropes and staggered to her feet. Darvin’s head twisted, looking her way. She had one option. Only one. She dived at the lightbulb and hit it with her outstretched fingers. The room was immediately plunged into total darkness. Panic gripped her, tearing at her core, constricting her lungs, cutting off her air supply. She forced air down her throat, gulping it like a thirsty person drinks water. She rolled on her side until she hit the wall. A gunshot crashed through the room, a split second of light blasting out of the pistol barrel. The scene registered in her memory in that collection of milliseconds.
“Bitch,” Darvin screamed. His face was a mask of unadulterated rage and hate. “Where the fuck are you?”
Leona lay against the wall, replaying the scene in her mind. Darvin, standing with the gun at forty-five degrees, aiming at where he thought she should be. Mike Anderson, severely injured and struggling to get up. Tools, benches, boxes piled against the far wall—and a gun. She saw it clearly. It was on the floor about ten feet to her right. Mike’s gun, laying where it had come to rest after skittering across the floor. She needed to get her hands on the gun.
A second later, there was the dull thud of something hard hitting flesh. Darvin’s voice cut through the darkness. He was yelling at Mike Anderson as he pistol-whipped him. Mike was too badly injured. This was up to her now. She felt the panic subside as she focused on the image of the gun. All she saw was the weapon on the cement. Nothing else mattered. Her claustrophobia was in her mind, nothing more. The darkness was her ally—it shielded her from him.
She crawled toward the gun, hearing the horrible sounds of Darvin beating Mike to death. Her hands patted the ground, searching for the weapon. Her hands touched something and she wrapped her hands about the gun’s wood handle. She curled her finger around the trigger and pointed it toward the thuds. Then she closed her eyes, degrading every sense in her body except her hearing.
“Shithead.” Her voice was level and calculated.
The sounds stopped. Total silence settled on the room. Leona kept her breathing even and low, no sound for him to zero in on. He would eventually say something. She knew it. And when he did, she was ready.
“You’re going to die in this room,” he said, his voice a whisper.
She adjusted her aim a bit to the left and angled the gun up ever so slightly. “I don’t think so,” she said, opening her eyes and pulling the trigger.
The muzzle flash was intense. What she saw in that speck of time was terrifying. He was moving toward her, covered with blood, the gun stretched out in front of him. The frame of light only gave her that one moment, no more. She heard the bullet’s impact and knew from the elevation of the gun that she had hit him in the thigh. A guttural scream shot through the blackness and she heard him hit the ground. Leona adjusted the gun to the sound of the thud and pulled the trigger again. Then again. The gun kicked back and the acrid odor of gunpowder filled her nostrils. She stopped firing and listened. A wheezing sound penetrated the dark, like air escaping from a punctured air mattress. She had hit him in the chest and collapsed his lung. She sat motionless, listening to the primal sounds of a dying animal.
Leona had no idea how long it took before the labored breathing stopped. He was dead. The monster was tamed the only way it could be. She stood on shaky legs and felt her way along the wall to where Mike Anderson lay. When she reached him, she knelt and felt his chest. His heart was beating. She moved her hands up toward his face.
“That hurts,” he said quietly.
“You’re alive.”
“Alive, but very sore.”
“I heard him hitting you with the gun. I thought he’d caved in your skull.”
“I got my arms up over my head. He never got a good shot at my noggin. But both my arms are broken, Leona. I’m a mess.”
She felt the tears in her eyes, and knew they were falling freely even though she couldn’t see them. “He’s dead.”
“I heard. Thought it was best to stay quiet, though. Just in case.”
“You saved my life, Mike,” she said.
“And you saved mine. Looks like we’re even.”
“Sure. Even is good.”
“Didn’t know you could fire a gun that well.”
“I’m more than just a pretty face,” she said, then added, “Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to call for help.”
“I’ll hang out down here with the dead guy.”
“You do that.”
Leona worked her way through the basement until she could see the tiny sliver of light under the kitchen door at the top of the stairs. She gripped the handrail and pulled herself up step by step. She was weak from blood loss and coming down off the adrenaline rush. She had next to nothing left. Sunlight flooded over her as she opened the door, but it felt no different. The darkness no longer had a grip over her. A fear she had lived with her entire life was now in the past. She walked across the kitchen to the telephone and dialed George Harvey’s cell phone number. He answered almost immediately.
“It’s Leona,” she said.
“Where are you?” Panic commingled with relief in his voice.
She looked out the kitchen window, across the gravel to the old decrepit barn. “I don’t know. A farm of some sort.”
“Okay, I know where you are. We’re almost there. Five minutes. Are you okay?”
“I think we’re going to need an ambulance for Mike Anderson.”
“Are his injuries life threatening?” Harvey asked.
“He’s still talking, but he’s really beat up. And shot. He might be in worse condition than he thinks. An ambulance is probably a good idea.”
“What about Darvin?”
“Dead,” she said without emotion. There was no victory in having killed him.
“Okay, Leona, we’re turning onto Oak Shade Road right now. I’m going to hang up and call for an ambulance.”
“Sure.”
She set the phone back in its cradle and returned to the basement. She sat in the darkness, cradling Mike’s head in her lap and talking softly to him. He was conscious, but barely. Shards of light flashed about as the police made their way down the staircase with their flashlights. She found the bright beams intrusive. This was her moment with a man who had always been there for her. In Africa or here in America, she had absolute trust in him. That felt good. But there was one more man who had always been there as well. She had never seen it before. It was time to right that.
One of the flashlights illuminated Darvin’s corpse, but she refused to look. Her life was not about misery and suffering and negative thoughts or images. It was about the positive things that surrounded her. It was about goodness and caring. It was about living.
68
Leona closed the door behind her and looked up and down the hospital hallway. The hour was late and a solitary nurse, making her rounds, was the only person in sight. She walked to the elevator, clutching the novel she’d just finished reading. Music drifted down the hall, barely audible, but she recognized the tune. U2, Bono and the boys—“I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” She felt a warm glow creep through her bones. Her theme song for so many years. Now it was just great music.
Mike Anderson was finally ready to be released from the hospital. Twenty days since George Harvey and his men had carried him from the house and the paramedics had rushed him to the nearest emergency room. The doctor on call had told them another fifteen minutes, half an hour tops, and Mike would not have made it. The bullet had carved a path of destruction through his lower intestine, but it was massive blood loss that almost killed him. He was on the mend, and that was what counted. She’d known he was going to make it the moment he started objecting to her ripping the wood paneling out of his house. He’d finally given in when she described his décor as early-rumpus-room.
She took the elev
ator to the main floor and stood outside the main doors, a warm August breeze on her face. Her hand held the business section of the daily newspaper and she glanced at the headlines. Anthony Halladay had been charged with insider trading. The Securities and Exchange Commission had determined he was the conduit to Derek Swanson. Leona shook her head at the irony. She had gone to his house, to warn him of the leak. Not the smartest decision she’d ever made.
Leona slipped her free hand in her purse and touched the cell phone. It was time to make the call. She dialed the number and leaned against one of the concrete planters as it rang. A man’s voice answered.
“Hi, Dad,” she said.
“Leona. How are you? I haven’t talked to you for a while.”
“I’m fine. Couldn’t be better actually.”
“That’s great to hear. How are things at the bank?”
“Better than you could imagine.” Great because she had quit. She’d deliver that news later, face-to-face.
“What ever happened with the insurance on the restaurant?” he asked.
“They agreed to pay. Tyler and I are working with a guy who has some new ideas on redesigning the interior.” With the bank out of her life, she was totally focused on building the restaurant into a very successful venture.
“Good news.”
“I have something on my mind. Something I want to tell you.”
“What’s that.”
“I love you, Dad.”
There was a no hesitation. “I love you too, sweetie. Nice to hear you say it.”
“Feels good to say it.” She tilted her head back and stared at the stars. “I don’t think we say how we feel often enough.”
“No kidding.”
“Listen, Dad, I was thinking . . .”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go fishing sometime?”
There was a definite pause. “You want to go fishing?”
“I do. But only with you.”
“Sure, that would be fun. When?”
“Give me a couple of weeks. I need a bit of time to myself right now.”
“I know a lodge in Northern Ontario, and September is the time to go. The walleye and pike will be big and hungry.”
“I’m in. Remember, give me at least two weeks.”
“Okay, honey.”
“I do love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too.”
She hung up, a hint of a smile on her lips. It had always been there, she had just never seen it. Her father loved her unconditionally. It was her perspective that had clouded the emotions he kept locked in his heart. She had tried to fit her father’s affection inside the box that defined her emotions, but that wasn’t how it worked. If she wanted to see the forest, she had to get out of the trees. Pretty simple, really.
She loved her dad and he loved her. Mike Anderson was going to live, all appendages intact. Everything as it should be. Her well-ordered life had teetered on the brink of chaos, then pulled back from the chasm. But while she was on the edge, she had looked down and seen inside her own heart, her soul. Life was for the living and she was back. With a vengeance. Maybe that’s what it took—a little chaos to realize what was really important in her world. Like the moment when she had knocked over the glass of wine in the restaurant. Broken glass—spilled wine. A small disaster, easily cleaned up. Not a lot of chaos. Just a little.
A delicate chaos, of sorts.
HIGH PRAISE FOR JEFF BUICK!
SHELL GAME
“Talk about your Byzantine storylines! This mind-boggling novel will keep you breathless and guessing until the last page. …Without a doubt, this is one of the best thrillers of the year!”
—RT BOOKreviews
“Fascinating and shocking, Shell Game will tax your brain and quite possibly your heart. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, there are twists and coils and bends that leave you stunned. The attraction of a complex con game with the thrill of revenge—a winner!”
—Fresh Fiction
AFRICAN ICE
“From one breathtaking, life-threatening scene to the next, you’ll feel like you’re watching an adventure movie with a less than sure outcome…What a terrific read!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Wall-to-wall action and intrigue, with just enough tech-speak to keep it fascinating…Buick is a tremendous find.”
—RT BOOKreviews (Top Pick!)
LETHAL DOSE
“Full of action and danger…The author keeps the reader turning the pages long into the night.”
—Detective Mystery Stories
“Lethal Dose is a fast-paced, energetic, and relevant read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“…a thought-provoking, suspense-filled novel.”
—Midwest Book Review
BLOODLINE
“Buick has created an intense, gut-twisting thriller with his brilliant debut. With characters modeled from real-life headlines, he gives the book depth and a life of its own.”
—The Best Reviews
Other Leisure books by Jeff Buick:
SHELL GAME
AFRICAN ICE
LETHAL DOSE
BLOODLINE
Copyright
A LEISURE BOOK®
February 2008
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co. , Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2008 by Jeff Buick
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E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0201-7
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