When he finished he was tired and thirsty, but his head didn’t hurt so much anymore. He put the tools back in the barn and made sure the gun was still in his jacket pocket and then went out again and walked slowly to the trailer.
Now that it was time, he’d do it quick like he had before. The last thing he wanted was for anybody to suffer.
26
TAMARA
She’d just woken up, flat on her back on the single bed, held there by the weight of exhaustion, when the skirling noise of the power saw cut through the early-morning stillness. Deep into the night she’d worked on that screen, until her arms and body were a mass of hurt and she was too weak to lift and maneuver the frying pan. All but collapsed on the bed and passed out for a while and then alternately jerked awake and fell back into a matrix of crazy, terrifying dreams.
She was so foggy she thought at first she was dreaming the saw noise. Then it was like getting a jolt of something, adrenaline or speed, and all at once she wasn’t foggy or exhausted or lying down half dead. On her feet, the frying pan clutched in stiffened fingers, ripping at the screen and that last clinging screw with all the strength she had left. It was close to coming out, had to be almost free, this kind of hell-with-the-noise effort was all it would take. Had to be!
The shriek of metal slicing through wood stopped and pretty soon the other burring sound started up. That was even better because it stayed loud and steady instead of stop-and-go. She manipulated that pan in a frenzy, prying and twisting. Her fingers were already scratched and bloody; scabbed cuts began to bleed again and she opened another rip in her thumb when the handle slipped and snagged flesh on a sharp edge of the screen. Blowing like a horse, sweat in her eyes, her tongue like a fat lizard in a sand hole. Thinking: Keep it up out there, you son of a bitch, just give me a little more time, a little more time…
Breaking loose?
Yes! Squeal of ripping metal, the pan slipping again as the gap suddenly widened and the screw came flying out.
A kind of wild joy welled up in her. She threw the pan down, stepped back for leverage, slid her fingers through the mesh. Now that the one side was free, she was able to bend the screen away from the window; the other side of the frame dug into the wall, putting enough pressure on those two screws to bend them sideways. The gap widened, kept widening. Another few inches and it’d be wide enough for her to get up to the window The burring sound quit.
Quiet again. Dead quiet.
No, not when she was this close! Come on, come on!
Birds chattering, nothing else.
She let go of the screen, staggered into the kitchen to the window. Her stomach churned. Skin on her neck crawled.
Lemoyne was standing in front of the open barn door. Just standing there, looking at the trailer.
But he hadn’t come outside because he’d heard her. Looking was all he was doing. Ten seconds, fifteen he stood there… and then he turned back into the barn, shut himself inside again.
Back to the bedroom, shaky, wiping her face. There was a folding chair in there; she positioned it under the window, waited a couple of minutes, but Lemoyne didn’t start using the power tools again. Couldn’t afford to wait any longer. She got up on the chair, took hold of the screen.
A couple of pulls, pause to listen, check the gap. Again. Again. Again. Wide enough? She moved the chair and tried to squeeze her body up between the bent screen and the window. Almost, not quite-wedged her shoulders, scraped skin off one arm. Too goddamn fat! Get out of this, she’d lose another twenty pounds if she had to turn anorexic to do it.
Pull, pull, pause.
What was he doing in that barn now?
Pull, pull. The deadness was back in her arms and upper body. Couldn’t keep this up much longer.
Pull, pull, check the gap.
There! Tight fit, but she could make it. Had to make it. Would make it.
In the other bedroom Lauren lay so still under the blanket that Tamara, coming in, was afraid she might’ve slipped into a coma. No, just deeply asleep. Still running a high temp, her breathing labored and wheezy, but her color seemed better than it had yesterday. Or maybe that was just imagination, wishful thinking. She lifted the child, making sure the blanket stayed tucked around her, then shook her gently, talking to her, until she was awake and more or less alert.
“We’re going home now, honey. You understand? Home to your mommy and daddy.”
“… Honest?”
“Honest. But you have to do exactly what I tell you, okay?”
“I promise.”
Tamara told her. Twice, slowly, to make certain the kid understood. Then she climbed up on the chair again, holding Lauren in the crook of one arm, and slid the window open.
Sounds came to her then, faint, from somewhere over past the barn. Digging? Lord… hurry, now, hurry!
She unwrapped the blanket, slung it over the back of the chair. Thank God Lauren was a featherweight; no problem lifting her up and through the window, hands under her thin arms. Her own shoulders jammed in the opening and she had to wiggle sideways to free them so she could lean out, lower Lauren down the outer wall. Even when she slid first one hand up to grasp the girl’s, then the other, dangling her as far down as she could reach, there was still a drop of a foot or so. Lauren didn’t struggle, just hung there as she’d been told. Ground looked soft enough-grass and pine needles. Tamara said a silent prayer and let go.
The child was weak from the fever; her legs collapsed as soon as she hit the ground. But she wasn’t hurt. Didn’t make any noise, just rolled over and then crawled back to the wall and huddled against it a couple of feet to one side.
Tamara dropped the blanket out to her, watched her wrap herself in it again. Okay, here we go. Couple of deep breaths and she was ready. She leaned up, wiggled her shoulders through the window as she had before, twisted sideways, sucked in her belly, and shoved upward, the chair skidding and toppling over behind her. The thrust got her about half out. She fumbled along the outer wall, hunting a handhold, but there wasn’t anything except the window frame and she couldn’t get enough purchase on that to pull herself through.
Stuck.
No, dammit, she wasn’t stuck, no way was she stuck, she’d haul herself out if she had to scrape her chubby hide raw. She twisted again, leaned forward as far as she could, got her palms flat against the cold metal, and wiggled her body and pushed with her hands. Damn big boobs kept her hung up for a little time, and then when she squeezed them through, it was her fat booty. She kept twisting, pushing, aware of stinging pain in two or three places and ignoring it. Aware, too, that she was making little grunting sounds; she locked her throat to hold them in.
Sweat greased her body, slicked her clothing. Maybe that was what finally did it. For long struggling seconds she stayed lodged there, two-thirds of the way free like a cork that wouldn’t come out of a bottle. And then her hips finally scraped loose and she popped out, headfirst, tumbling down into the grass and pine needles.
She got her head turned and her arms up in time to break the fall, take most of the impact on her forearms. But her left leg got bent somehow and there was a searing burst of pain in the ankle.
She flopped over on one hip, peered at the ankle, felt it with shaky fingers. Breath hissed out of her throat. Not broken. Tender, sore… could she stand on it? Her gaze shifted, past the trunk of the big pine growing there toward the barn. Seemed like she’d made a lot of noise flopping down, but nothing moved over that way. Three or four seconds to catch her breath, then she pushed up one knee and managed to stand with most of her weight on the right foot. Pain erupted again when she shifted weight to the left one. Grimacing, she took a couple of experimental steps. The pain was bad-sprain, maybe a torn tendon-but at least she could hobble without falling down.
Lauren was watching her with huge, frightened eyes. Tamara forced a smile, bent and lifted her and adjusted the blanket to keep her warm.
A jay squawked loudly somewhere close by. It was the only so
und in the morning hush, she realized then.
Lemoyne wasn’t digging anymore.
She’d made noise falling out the window, he might’ve heard Get out of here!
The SUV was so close, the quickest means of escape, but he’d have the keys on him and even if he didn’t, it was sitting right out there in the open. Only thing she could do was get Lauren and herself into the woods, fast. The dark wall of pines rose up fifty yards beyond the trailer; she went hobbling that way on a diagonal line, ignoring the pain in her ankle, using the trailer as a shield between them and the barn. Kept casting backward looks as she passed the playset, but she quit that when she stubbed against something in the tall grass and it nearly tripped her. Couldn’t watch where you were going and your backside at the same time, just get the hell into those trees.
They loomed ahead, so dense daylight didn’t seem to penetrate more than a few yards. She was panting and staggering when she reached them. One more quick glance behind… still no Lemoyne… and then she was into their thick clotted shadow.
Chilly, dank, smells of resin and rotting pine needles. Jutting trunks, lots of stuff growing on the ground. Hard to see. She felt an immediate fear of getting lost. She was a city girl, streets and sidewalks were her thing. What did she know about finding her way through thick woods like these?
All right, don’t go in too far. Stay close enough to the clearing to keep herself oriented. She set off through the carpeting of needles, around and through the moss-hung trunks, avoiding bushes and ferns; trying to be as quiet as she could, but she couldn’t help making some scuffing noise because of her bad leg. Once her foot came down on a dead twig; it made a sound like a firecracker and the skin on her back tried to crawl up her neck.
Off on her right she made sure she had glimpses of the clearing, the rutted driveway, the SUV sitting there in the sun. So far so good. Lauren didn’t make any noise, just clung to her with sweaty fingers. Ahead, then, she heard the fast-running gurgle of water. When she got across the creek she could start paralleling the driveway. And once she got to the road, follow that until she found a house or somebody came along. Plan. Good plan, if her leg didn’t give out, if Lemoyne would just stay in that damn barn.
She almost blundered into a half-hidden deadfall, veered away just in time. Then she was at the creek. Not much more than six feet wide, low banks, rushing water maybe a foot deep. She took a two-handed hold on Lauren, eased down to the rocky bed, picked her way across through the icy water, bent low so she could see to avoid the larger rocks. The sudden cold aggravated the pain in her ankle; it throbbed and burned so much when she put weight on it that she had to practically crawl up the far bank on one hand and one knee. She leaned hard against one of the tree trunks to rest and wait for the pain to subside.
All right, that’s long enough-move.
She moved, deeper into the trees, keeping both the creek and the driveway in sight. The pines didn’t grow as close together here, and ahead they thinned even more. Through the gaps between them she could see almost all the clearing-the trailer, the SUV, the barn.
And Lemoyne.
Standing near the trailer, in the shadow of the trailer-standing still the way he had in front of the barn earlier, only this time he was all tensed with his head craned forward. Staring toward where she was in the woods.
She made like one of the tree trunks, a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her heart skipped a beat, stuttered, skipped another.
Lemoyne broke into a run, heading straight at her.
Saw us!
Panic spun her around, sent her plunging away from him, away from the creek and the driveway, deeper into the woods.
27
JAKE RUNYON
Five minutes in Nevada City, and you knew two certainties about the place. The steep streets, narrow lanes, old and false-fronted buildings, and business and street names told you it was an old mining town dating back to the California Gold Rush. And the bookshops, antique stores, boutiques, restaurants, saloons, and bed and breakfasts told you the rich ore being mined there nowadays was the tourist dollar. It was the kind of place Colleen would’ve liked; she’d shared his interest in history, and she’d loved to prowl bookshops and antique stores. He didn’t have an opinion one way or the other. Now that she was gone, it was just a place like all the other places.
They pulled into the center of town a couple of minutes past seven. Two hours to kill, so Runyon found a cafe that was open on a side street off the main drag and they went in there and crawled into a booth. He was tired, gritty-eyed, but not as bad off as Bill. Hollow-cheeked, bags under his eyes, beard stubble stark against a splotchy pallor. They both needed about ten hours’ sleep. Caffeine and something in their stomachs would be enough for now.
“Just coffee,” Bill said when the waitress brought the menus.
Runyon said, “Better eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Just the same. Obvious reason.”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right.”
Runyon ate two bear claws with his tea. Bill broke a doughnut into little pieces and nibbled down about half of it. Neither of them said much; there was nothing left to say until they pinpointed the location of Parcel Number 1899-A6.
Eight o’clock. “Let’s roll,” Bill said. “I can’t sit here anymore.”
They rolled. Mick Savage had provided the location of the Nevada County Administrative Center; it was off Highway 49 on the northern edge of town, easy to find. Big, newish complex-county offices, county jail, main library. The recorder’s office was in the main building, so that was where they parked, as close to the entrance as they could get.
Bill couldn’t sit still there, either. He wanted to be out and moving, so they prowled the landscaped grounds-circling each of the buildings three times. On one circuit of the jail, a county sheriff’s cruiser passed by and the officer inside gave them a long curious look, but he didn’t stop. Just as well. As amped up as Bill was, any sort of conversation might have made the deputy suspicious and then they’d have had to waste time smoothing it over.
At a quarter of nine they waited around in front of the main entrance. “They better open on time,” Bill said once. Talking mostly for his own ears. Runyon still had his engines on idle, but still he could feel the thin blade of tension himself. Getting close to it, now. No guarantees that Lemoyne had taken Tamara and the child up here, but you developed a kind of precognitive instinct when you’d been in police work a long time; he had it now and he sensed that Bill did, too. Parcel 1899-A6 in Rough and Ready was where they were, where some if not all of this business was going to finish.
A woman came into the lobby and opened the doors at nine straight up. Runyon asked her directions to the recorder’s office; two minutes later they were in there and Bill was giving the clerk Mia Canfield’s name and the parcel number and asking for maps to pinpoint the exact location. It took the clerk a few minutes to look it up, bring out a big book of area maps, find the one that showed 1899-A6.
Bill studied the map with Runyon looking over his shoulder. The parcel was a couple of miles outside Rough and Ready, on Old Stovepipe Road. Looked easy enough to find: follow the Rough and Ready Highway through the village, left turn on Bugeye Mine Road, left turn on Old Stovepipe and a quarter of a mile down. The parcel itself was rectangular, half again as deep as it was wide, with a creek running through it lengthwise along the south borderline; the creek and the mileage ought to be all the landmarks they’d need.
Five minutes and they were back in the car, another ten and they were taking the Highway 20 exit off 49. They still weren’t talking, but only because words were unnecessary. They were a single-purpose unit, had been all along. Bill was the emotional type until push came to shove; then he was like a rock. Plenty of proof of that last Christmas, if any was needed. He sensed that you couldn’t ask for a better man to partner with in a tight situation.
As they shot downhill toward the Rough and Ready turnoff, Runy
on glanced over and saw that Bill had his piece out-a. 38 Colt Bodyguard-and was checking the loads. In his cop days, when Colleen was still alive, he might’ve told him to put the gun away, it wasn’t safe riding with a loaded revolver in your lap. But he wasn’t a cop anymore, and Colleen was gone, and Bill knew what he was doing; he didn’t say anything. If their positions had been reversed, he’d probably have been doing the same thing.
28
ROBERT LEMOYNE
When he first saw something moving in the woods, he thought it was a deer. Lots of deer up here, roaming alone or in little herds, eating up all the ground cover and crapping everywhere so you were always stepping on their turds. Rats with hooves. But then, in the next second, there was a splash of color… two legs, not four… and that brought him up short. Somebody trespassing on his property? He squinted hard, shading his eyes. And then the figure hobbled onto a patch of open ground where sunlight slanted down among the trees, and there was a ripping sensation behind his eyes that brought fragments of confusion, disbelief.
Dark Chocolate.
Couldn’t be, she couldn’t have gotten out of the trailer. But it was. How? Carrying something wrapped in a blanket… Angie? Not Angie, the stranger who wasn’t Angie. Both of them trying to get away.
She wasn’t moving anymore. Poised like a deer trying to blend into the background. She’d seen him, too. Deer and hunter, only he was too far away for a clear shot and he wasn’t any good with a handgun anyway. All he could do was take off running. And as soon as he did, she did the same thing-wounded deer, dark chocolate deer, limping deeper into the woods.
He raced across the yard, unzipping his jacket pocket, fumbling the gun out. Another blip of sunlit color, then he couldn’t see her anymore in the tree shadow. But he could hear her, even at a distance, blundering around in there. He reached the creek, trampled some ferns getting down the bank, splashed across, and then he was in the woods with her.
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