55
Lucy Dockery went directly from locking the dogs’ door to the gasoline drums lined up against the warehouse wall. She took the pee bucket off her arm and set it down. Taking the nozzle in one hand, she moved the lever up and down to pump gasoline into the bucket. Luckily, the pump mechanism was well greased, so the only sound was the jets of gas shooting into the container. After filling the bucket, she also filled a large-mouth gallon jar almost to the rim with gas. She carried the containers over and set them down beside the porch, where she could get to them after coming out the door with Eli.
A pickax and a pair of shovels leaning against the little porch hadn’t been there earlier or she was sure she would have seen them. Her heart fell when she realized that the twins had probably brought them inside after digging the graves they intended for her and Eli. The pickax sparked an idea that added an additional facet to her plan—one that brought a painful smile to her split lips. This could actually work.
Lucy propped an old wooden ladder against the back wall of the trailer so she could get back into her room through the window. She took off the coat and laid it on the bottom of the window over the track edges of the aluminum frame.
All she had to do was to sneak out of the room and into the kitchen, get one of the cast-iron skillets without Dixie hearing her, then get back in her room and call out so Dixie would come stomping back there to shut her up. When she came in, Lucy would hit her in the head and knock her out cold.
Then she would get some of the matches she’d seen stuffed in a shot glass on the counter near the stove, grab her son, and go out the front door and pour the gasoline all around the outside of the trailer in the dirt and light it to draw the other Smoots from outside the building to fight the fire. When they came into the warehouse, she’d have Eli in the corner, which would be behind the door when it was open, effectively hiding them from view of the in-rushers. She’d take Eli out, close the door, and lock all the kidnappers in. She’d push a matchstick into the lock and break it off to jam it. Maybe Dixie would have a concussion, or maybe she would even die from the blow. That wasn’t Lucy’s concern. All she had to do to escape was to do everything . . . perfectly.
Then she felt the floor vibrate and heard the sound of Dixie’s footsteps coming into the kitchen.
Lucy froze.
56
Sergeant Hank Trammel strode down a desolate stretch of south Texas highway with his olive-drab canvas duffel over his shoulder. He wore a dress uniform. His shoes were polished to a mirror finish, which allowed him to see the green beret perched on his head, the brown mustache and aviator sunglasses.
The cloudless white sky allowed the midday sun to beat down on him mercilessly and he wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He was going to get to the ranch before Millie put little Tommy to sleep.
Since there was no traffic, he had walked the five miles from the bus stop outside the tiny community of Los Terras, Texas, to the Flying T Ranch. Millie didn’t know he was coming in for another week because he wanted to surprise her.
His mind was filled with the idea that little Tommy and Millie would be waiting for him, and how excited his wife would be when she saw him approaching the farmhouse. It wouldn’t be a complete surprise, though: He couldn’t get to the house without his hounds setting up a ruckus.
When the house was no more than a hundred yards away, he realized that the dogs weren’t announcing his approach.
The house looked the same, but it looked different than he remembered it. He could see that the white paint was weathered off, and as he reached the porch he noticed that some of the windows were broken, and that the front door was standing open.
Hank dropped his bag in the dirt and took the steps two at a time. Slowly he entered the foyer, and although nothing had changed about the house’s furnishings, he was struck by how much dust there was covering everything. And not just the dust, but spiderwebs too.
He climbed the stairs, waving the webs aside. As he approached the bedroom he heard a phone ringing, and he opened the door to see a pedestal with a shiny black telephone perched atop it.
Hank opened his eyes and the dream evaporated, leaving him momentarily confused as to where his wife and son were.
He heard Faith Ann pick up the receiver in the kitchen and say, “Hello.”
He remembered that his dear Millie was dead.
His son, Tommy, a child when he went, had been dead over thirty years.
So much pain in his heart.
So fresh were the wounds.
He heard his niece coming and he reached for his glasses on the bedside table before she tapped.
“Uncle Hank, you awake?” she asked softly.
“Of course I am,” he snorted. “How can a man sleep with the phone ringing off the wall?”
The door opened and Faith Ann stuck her head in. “It’s Mr. Massey. I think it’s real important. He sounds sort of winded.”
Hank reached for the telephone and sat up, causing a bolt of pain to shoot from his ankle to the base of his spine. He took a deep breath, then said, “Hi there, Win. What’s the deal?”
He listened to the request, and the brief explanation his dear friend offered.
“You called the right guy,” Hank said. “Consider it done.”
Hank hung up, turned on the lamp, and called out, “Faith Ann!”
She came back to the door.
“I have to go out for a while to help a friend,” he said. “You lock the door and if you need anything, call Sean.”
Despite the urgency of his mission, it took Hank ten minutes to dress, and the pain had him sweating profusely. He slipped on a pair of muck shoes, knowing he couldn’t take the time to pull on his boots.
It had been over a year since he had truly felt needed by anyone for anything important. He knew he was hardly more than a ward of Winter and Sean’s. Officially he was Faith Ann’s guardian, but the truth be told, his niece was more his caregiver than he was hers.
He reached for his crutches and, with tears in his eyes, headed for the door.
Faith Ann met him in the kitchen, arms crossed. She had put on a raincoat and her jeans bloused where they were tucked into the tops of her cowboy boots.
“You cold?” he asked her.
“Not yet. But it’s chilly and wet out there.”
“You’re staying here,” he said.
Her concerned frown told him that she didn’t think he could go anywhere on his own, but he knew better. Winter needed him. Just like the old days.
“I mean it, Faith Ann. You lock up and if you need anything, call Sean.”
“Where are you going?”
“On a mission.”
“Important?”
“Life and death.”
Hank leaned over and kissed the girl’s cheek and she returned it.
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Go get it done.”
Hank took the keys to his Jeep and went out the door. He was almost at the driver’s door when his leg went numb and he pitched into the side of the vehicle and tumbled into the ditch, striking his head. As he lay there on his back, cold rain filled his eyes.
It was immediately obvious to him that he wasn’t going to be getting up without help. He heard the back door fly open and Faith Ann’s feet on the gravel as she came at a run.
“Oh, Uncle Hank!” She knelt beside him, a look of horror in her eyes.
“I’m okay, Faith Ann. My stupid leg just went stiff on me. I’ll be able to get up in a minute.”
“I’ll help you.” She grabbed his wrist and began tugging at it. He couldn’t do more than sit up. He wondered if he might have broken his hip.
“Go get Sean,” he told the girl.
Faith Ann wriggled out of her raincoat and put it over Hank’s head to protect him from the rain. Then she turned and ran off toward the big house.
Hank was thankful she hadn’t hung around to see him crying.
57
Sean Massey answer
ed the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Sean, it’s Alexa Keen. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Hello, Alexa. Anything wrong?”
“No, everything’s fine,” Alexa assured her. “I was just wondering if you’d heard from Winter this evening.”
“He called earlier when I was putting Olivia down. Maybe two hours ago. Why?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. What exactly did he say to you?”
“He told me he loved me and asked about Rush, Olivia, and Faith Ann. Said you guys had split up. Said it wasn’t dangerous, which I naturally assumed was a lie designed to make me feel better. That’s about it. Tell me why you’re asking. I can handle anything but not knowing.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. He called me earlier to say he was going to make a couple of stops, then come back here to the Westin. It’s been over an hour, and I can’t get him on the cell phone I gave him. He has extra charged batteries, but the one in it may have run down and he might not know it’s time to replace it. I know he has a second cell phone, his own. I don’t have the number.”
“He forgets things,” Sean said. She gave Alexa Winter’s cell number. “Alexa, tell him to call me as soon as you talk to him?”
“Sean, don’t worry. Winter can take care of himself.”
“I know,” Sean said. “I’ve seen that firsthand.” She said good-bye, hung up, and looked across the room where Hank Trammel sat in an armchair, frowning. A wool blanket was over his shoulders.
“I haven’t seen that sour-ass Trammel look since the day I met you,” she told him. “God, you can be a scary fellow until a body gets to know what a pussycat you are.”
“Polecat, you mean.” Hank smiled. “I remember when I had you handcuffed. You looked like something out of Oliver Twist. Hell, I didn’t know whether to turn you loose or shoot you. What did Miss Alexa Keen say?”
“Alexa says he didn’t show on schedule.”
Hank said, “I have a feeling she’ll see him soon enough. He has a way of turning up when you least expect him to. Reckon I’d best get moving.” He tried to stand.
“Hank,” Sean said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to stay here.”
“Bull,” he said. “Help me make it up. I’ll be fine once I get moving.”
“Let’s cut the crap,” she told him. “I’ll go see Judge Fondren.”
“No way. Winter would have my ass. He entrusted me with this errand.”
“Is it dangerous, knocking on a front door in Myers Park?”
“No, I don’t expect it is.”
“I walk up, ring the bell, deliver the message. Then I’ll get in my car and come back home.”
“I feel so dad-burned worthless.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I can’t call Judge Fondren,” he said. “Winter said the wrong people are tapping phones. He said he couldn’t call anybody who could help because the bad guys could be monitoring anybody he might turn to. I’m the only person he was sure they wouldn’t think he’d turn to.” Saying that hurt.
“No, Hank. The only thing to do is what Winter said to do.”
“It’s not a good idea,” Hank insisted. “He didn’t call you for a reason. Winter’ll freak out if you go into a dangerous situation. I’ll go. I know Fondren.”
“Come on, Hank. We’ve discussed this. You know I can take care of myself.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Faith Ann knows where Olivia’s bottles are. If the baby wakes and won’t go back to sleep, sing to her. She likes ‘Do you believe in life after love,’ that Cher tune.”
“She’ll have to settle for ‘Desperados Waiting for a Train.’ You be real careful. If you see anybody watching the judge’s house, keep going. Call me from a pay phone and I’ll call Shapiro. Agreed?”
Sean stood, slipped on a coat and a baseball cap, then kissed Hank. She knew Shapiro, the director of the U.S. Marshals, and he would do anything to help Hank or Winter.
“You be careful,” Hank called after her. “I’m about as experienced taking care of infants as I intend to be.”
58
The road Winter Massey had crashed his truck on wasn’t heavily traveled. It was Saturday night, and only a few people lived out that way, and it dead-ended into one of the few remaining farms that hadn’t been turned into a shopping center or a subdivision. The first driver down that road would spot his truck—rolled over like it was and lit up like a Christmas tree—and call the cops. Winter only hoped it wasn’t discovered until he was close enough to the Dockerys that it wouldn’t matter.
He was muddy and bruised from the dive he’d taken out of the truck’s cab when it left the road. He didn’t generally jump from moving vehicles, but he’d had little to lose by taking a chance that the ground would be soft enough to keep him from breaking his neck. Based on what the Tahoe’s driver said on his phone to Randall—if the wreck wasn’t found and broadcast over the police channels—Winter might have an hour before the men in black he’d killed didn’t show up wherever Max Randall expected them to meet him. Add maybe another half hour before Max got word to the bunch at the Westin. He might have additional time after that before anybody got word to the Smoots to tell them that Click might have ratted them out.
Clayton Able, who certainly knew Randall’s team was after Winter, would be monitoring local police radio channels for news of any incident. He would learn a wrecked truck had been found near the clinic, know it was Winter’s, and learn pretty quickly there were three bodies. That would set up the first alarm. Winter was counting on it taking some time for the bad guys to discover that none of the dead bodies was his. When they did, Clayton and company would know that Winter was responsible for the dead men, and they’d know it long before the cops put it all together. Police interest would be piqued when they discovered that one of the men in black battle dress uniforms without any insignia was packing an illegal automatic weapon. There would be a lot of explaining to do, and hopefully he could explain it with Fondren’s help and have the truth accepted over whatever cover story the military came up with.
It wouldn’t be the first whirlwind that had Winter Massey at its epicenter. If he had things figured correctly, Judge Fondren might not even be aware of Winter’s involvement. Once Hank Trammel got the message to the judge detailing what was really going down, maybe he could figure out some way to help Winter save his family.
59
Lucy Dockery heard Dixie close the bathroom door and sit heavily on the toilet. Through the uninsulated wall with cheap paneling nailed to both sides, Lucy could hear Dixie mumbling to herself just as clearly as if she were in the bathroom with her. Despite her father’s admonition, the woman sounded intoxicated. Lucy had read that the death camp guards during World War II stayed drunk or doped to the gills to better cope with the unpleasantness of their work.
Lucy went to the kitchen and lifted a ten-inch skillet from beneath the island made of two-by-fours topped with a slab of granite. In the TV’s uncertain light, she could see Elijah sprawled on his back in the playpen, motionless.
She slipped back into the bedroom and picked up the blanket she had vomited the chemical martini into. She lumped it on the bed and put the flashlight under the blanket so that the beam shone out and illuminated the wall. Then she picked up the skillet and moved to put her back against the wall beside the door. The iron utensil felt like the heaviest thing she had ever lifted, and she was sure it would crush Dixie’s skull like a bubble. How hard should she hit her? Too hard and it would kill her, too soft a blow and the musclewoman would take it away and beat her to death with it.
The toilet paper roll spun, the toilet flushed, and Lucy heard Dixie opening the door.
Lucy had never struck any living thing before, except a swipe on Walter’s arm when he beat her at Trivial Pursuit, a playful pat on his naked butt when her husband passed by on his way into the shower.
Raising the skillet over her head as far as the
low ceiling allowed, Lucy moaned loudly and called out, “Come here, bitch!”
Dixie flung open the door. “Jeezuscryast,” she snarled, and stepped into the room, her gaze going from the lumpy blanket to the open window.
Lucy brought the frying pan down on the blond bouffant in an effort to drive the hairdo into Dixie’s neck. The large woman hit the mattress and lay there shivering like she’d chewed through a lamp cord. Then she stopped moving and was still. Lucy knew that she had killed her, but she couldn’t think about that until she was far away from this place.
Lucy ran into the den, grabbed up her unconscious child, clutched him to her to make sure he was breathing, then grabbed the thin blanket he had been lying on and ran. She passed the containers of gasoline as she made her way across the warehouse. Tenderly, she laid Elijah down on the blanket and tucked it around his tiny body. It was a sin to have drugged her baby, but she thanked God he was asleep. That way she could do this without worrying that he would make a racket.
Lucy ran back to the gasoline stash and realized that she had forgotten the matches. She picked up the jar and, holding it in both hands, carried it inside. Since Dixie was dead, she decided that she’d douse the living room. The trailer on fire would be a more effective lure than some flames in the dirt.
Lucy went to the shot glass filled with matches and dropped a dozen or so in the pocket of her T-shirt. She bent and started pouring the golden liquid from the pickle jar onto the floor, being careful not to get it on her bare feet. She sloshed it on the couch, then went into the bunkroom and poured the remainder on the floor there. She saw a camouflage poncho on the top bunk and she grabbed it and put it on, pulling her head up through into the hood. It would protect them outside, and hopefully make seeing her harder for the men coming in to fight the fire.
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