Lucy rushed from the room, feeling the cool fuel on the soles of her bare feet. She was at the door when a powerful blow caught her on the side of her head and knocked her reeling out through the door. She landed on her back on the steel porch. The hood partially obscured her vision, but she could see Dixie crawling on all fours toward her, blood covering her face like a wet curtain.
Dixie grabbed Lucy’s ankle and squeezed it so hard Lucy was sure the bone would snap.
“Geahbackinhere!” Dixie was dragging her back inside.
Lucy kicked out, striking Dixie’s collarbone, then the woman’s mouth with her heel. Dixie sat heavily, letting go of Lucy’s ankle and looking at the skinny woman who had tried to kill her with raw rage in her eyes.
“Youdead,” Dixie said. Her jeans were soaked with the gasoline she was sitting in. Lucy scrambled to her feet, her ears ringing from the blow to her head.
“Whereyougoingarunto? Killyouandyourdamkid.” Dixie stood and raised her hand slowly. There was a snap and a thick blade shot out from her hand.
Lucy brought her hand out from under the poncho.
Dixie raised the knife higher and smiled insanely.
Lucy struck the match in her hand on the steel railing and, while the phosphorus blossomed to life, she tossed it on the floor beneath Dixie.
Flames raced along the floor, consuming the fuel.
Lucy leaped over the porch railing, slamming painfully into the dirt.
Dixie stood on the porch beating at her flaming jeans with her hands. “YOULITTLEBITCH!” she roared.
Lucy grabbed the bucket at her feet and hurled its contents at the horrid woman.
When the wave of cool fuel hit Dixie, she froze, probably thinking Lucy was trying to put out the fire on her legs.
There was a fraction of a second before the flame reacted to being fed. Then the air, filled with vapor, went bright white as the liquid caught.
Dixie’s hair vanished. Her false teeth flew out of her flaming mouth, which had been open when the gasoline hit her. And she screamed.
Lucy had never heard such a howl. Lucy turned her back to the horror on the porch, ran to the gasoline drums, lifted the pickax she had placed there. Feeling like Superwoman, Lucy swung the pick like a baseball bat over and over, puncturing the drums. She stopped when she was sure there were enough holes to empty the drums.
Lucy didn’t look at Dixie until streams of gasoline were arcing out of the drums. Aflame, and bellowing, a whirling Dixie fell off the porch, landing on her back. It appeared that she was attempting to roll the flames out.
Lucy ran back to Eli.
Dixie’s screams echoed in Lucy’s ears, the fire a roaring monster trapped for the moment in the trailer. Dixie tried to get up on her hands and knees.
Lucy watched the dark stain growing from the gas drums—flowing toward Dixie.
God, there was so much gasoline.
And it was moving too fast.
60
Peanut Smoot had driven all the way back to Charlotte to get the dope from George the druggist and was a few miles from the turnoff onto gravel road when he saw a wide section of the sky light up orange-red like the sun was rising. Peanut stared openmouthed as a fireball blossomed above the tree line.
He hoped like hell it was the underground gasoline tanks or maybe the big propane tank at the Utzes’ store. But if it wasn’t the store, there wasn’t but one other possible source of an explosion like that one. He set his jaw and stomped the accelerator, shooting fuel to the Hemi. If this was Buck’s doing, his son was a dead man.
He roared past the store, noticing that the old couple who ran it were out in the parking lot under an umbrella staring over at about where his barn was located—a half mile off. He got out at his gate to open it, and looked skyward at the column of thick black smoke boiling into the clouds, illuminated from the ground. He was startled by a series of thunderous explosions that had to be the fifty-pound crates of black powder he had stored up in the trailer, and probably the propane tank for the stove. The whole warehouse was filled with crap that shouldn’t be in there if there was a fire, but that hadn’t ever seemed important before.
As he rounded the first curve in the road to the metal barn, he almost hit the twins. They were standing in the road with their backs turned—shotguns over their shoulders—watching the fire like a couple of cows.
Peanut hit his brights and smacked the horn. Burt and Curt bolted off into the weeds about a second before he would have run them both over. If he hadn’t figured he would need them, he wouldn’t have honked or braked.
“What happened?” he hollered out his window as it went down.
“Looks like it’s a fire at the barn,” Burt said.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Peanut hollered.
“You said to stay here,” Curt answered.
“Get in the truck!” Peanut snarled.
The twins scrambled into the bed and squatted, one on either side of the cab. As Peanut roared off, they put their faces out in the slipstream like dogs enjoying the wind.
Peanut roared along, braking to avoid hitting a group of deer. When he made it around the final bend, he involuntarily sucked in a deep bracing breath. The place looked like one of those fireworks plants on the news that ran plumb out of luck in the unfortunate-spark department. Twisted corrugated metal was scattered everywhere. Blackened sheets of the steel had curled away from the barn’s I-beam superstructure like the petals of an orchid. The steel skeleton—beams and ceiling struts—had come from a Winn-Dixie that had been damaged by Hurricane Hugo, which Peanut had bought from the insurance company for a song.
Peanut hoped the damned volunteer fire department didn’t show up and come on his land, but with the explosion visible for God knew how far off, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if all sorts of authorities came sniffing about, even knowing as most did that he didn’t allow anybody on the place he hadn’t invited. If the Dockerys’ bodies were in this mess, he sure as hell didn’t need anybody snooping around. Buck’s or Dixie’s corpse he could explain, but not the Dockerys’. He had to make some calls and head that off or get the hell out of there.
The shed was on fire. Inside, what had been the tractor, the four-wheelers, Buck’s 1500, the twins’ Blazer, and Dixie’s 1970 GTO were all part of the burning whatnot. Peanut wondered about how much insurance he could collect on all of it. Enough to rebuild. The agent would give him whatever he could think of that was or wasn’t actually in there.
“Buck! Dixie! Buck! Dixie!” the twins hollered out in a steady stream.
“Stop yelling,” Peanut told them.
“You think they’re dead?” Curt asked.
“Maybe Buck went off to do something like he does,” Burt said.
“Don’t know,” Peanut said. He didn’t either. Who knew what the hell Buck was liable to do when he got something in his head?
By the looks of things, Peanut figured there wouldn’t be much left of anybody that had been in the structures. Buck might have caused the fire and run off, knowing he’d catch almighty hell for it. Might have done it because he was pissed off. Peanut regretted he hadn’t let Buck have his fun with the Dockery woman, because at least this wouldn’t have happened.
He decided it would be best not to tell anybody about Dixie and Buck being here right off. Except for the insurance policies he had on them, he couldn’t see why anybody needed to know anything right off. He’d discuss how to get the policies claimed with Mr. Laughlin before he decided. Nobody he could think of would miss Buck enough to ask after him. The people from Dixie’s church would wonder about her, but he could say she moved to California or some happy crap. Wasn’t one in the whole congregation could out-think a rock.
Peanut saw the steel door frame was still in place, though the metal skin had been blown off. The padlock was still there. When his heel sank into something, he looked down and realized it was a blackened hand and forearm.
Peanut squatted down and lifted it u
p by the thumb to get a better look. Buck’s Jolly Roger tattoo that he’d gotten put on his forearm before going into the Marine Corps was easy to make out. Born 2 Kill, read the words in the banner under it. On Buck’s other arm he’d had a funny cartoon of a bulldog dry-humping a skull that read, Devil Dog Sex.
Peanut held the limb up to let the twins get a good look at it.
“Holy crap!” Burt said.
“Daw-gone,” Curt muttered.
“Boys. It’d be best if you didn’t mention this to your mother. No point upsetting her.”
In the same manner a man would throw a piece of wood, Peanut slung the last of Buck off into the hottest part of the fire. For a few seconds he watched the fire and contemplated his two dead children. More than most, his kids knew how dangerous life was. It was a shame to die violent deaths, but he reckoned that it was all spoiled milk under a bridge. And the Dockerys were supposed to be killed anyhow, and it didn’t pay to worry about things that didn’t matter.
“Boys, y’all can remember that your brother and sister did their duty to the family. Want y’all to go on back up to the gate and tell anybody that thinks about coming in, that this is private property. Any those volunteer fire idiots show up, tell them our trailer and barn burned up and there ain’t crap to do about it but let the fire finish up. The woods are too wet to burn, and we Smoots handle our own troubles out here. Tell ’em if they try and come in, you’ll blow their damned heads off. Tell ’em if they don’t like it, to go screw a mule.”
“Walk all the way back there?” Burt said.
“You could have just left us there,” Curt added.
Peanut just glared.
As the twins turned away to go back to the gate, Peanut opened his cell phone and made a call to Max Randall. Max would want to know about this development. He’d wait until later to tell Mr. Laughlin, because the lawyer had taken his firm’s jet to Miami and wouldn’t get back until just before court on Monday.
“It’s a damn shame about the dogs,” Curt said as he took his shotgun out of the bed of the Dodge.
61
Clayton Able had his phone to his ear. Major Antonia Keen was pacing the floor in her suite, a phone to her ear as well.
“Yeah?” Clayton said. “You’re sure? Hold on.” He snapped his fingers. Holding the phone away from his mouth so he could read the screen, he saw who was trying to break in and said, “Keep me posted.” He brought the other caller up.
“Okay, shoot,” he said.
Antonia said, “I’ll get back to you when I know. You just be ready to scramble at a moment’s notice to where I need your team.” She closed her phone and turned to face Clayton.
Clayton listened to the second caller without interrupting. “Damn it,” he said. “Damnity, damn, damn it. Anything else Massey-related pops up on the radar, call me.”
“The team’s on standby,” Antonia told Clayton when he shut the cell phone. “What’s the deal on Massey?”
“A couple of things. His truck, with about a hundred bullet holes in it, has been found wrecked in a field about a half a mile from the building where he picked Click up. Cops reported an unidentified male belted inside his truck wearing a bathrobe. We can safely assume that was Mr. Ferny Ernest Smoot.”
“And Massey, too, right?”
“There were two additional unidentified corpses dressed in BDUs found just off the road, both head shots. There was no second vehicle.”
“Where’s Massey?”
“I presume he’s driving around somewhere in a Tahoe with a frightening amount of ordnance inside it.”
Antonia sat heavily on the bed and put her face in her open hands.
“I don’t have to tell you that Massey was your sister’s bright idea.”
“He nailed two of Randall’s team,” Antonia answered. “And stole their vehicle.”
“Three, if you count the one he ran over. He’s done this exact same thing before. Taken out professionals.”
“I thought his rep was exaggerated, he was overrated. . . . Maybe he’ll call Alexa.”
“I think we can safely assume Massey has three very good reasons not to contact your sister. Like maybe he’s suspicious because every time he starts off in a direction that looks promising, when he tells Alexa what he’s going to do, people try to kill him.”
Antonia nodded. “Been badly played.”
“I don’t think he fell asleep in the truck,” Clayton continued. “I expect he went to Laughlin’s, spotted the trap, and aborted. He told your sister he was coming back here after going by to check on Click, because he figured there was probably a bug in his truck and we’d know if he went somewhere other than where he told Alexa he was going.”
“Maybe he thinks somebody else bugged him and he’s not telling Alexa because he thinks their conversations are being picked up. He might come here,” Antonia Keen said, hopefully.
“That’s a long shot, but offers us a decent defense if he does show up with friends from high places. The more important question is, did Click tell him where the Dockerys are?”
Antonia shook her head. “Click didn’t know, remember? Randall said the only people in the Smoot crew who knew the location were on-site except for him and Peanut. Maybe Massey suspects Laughlin knows—we need to keep someone there in case Massey goes back. It’s the only avenue left to him and he doesn’t know Laughlin is out of town.”
The phone rang and Clayton pressed a button and put it to his ear. “Talk to me.”
Clayton listened and sat down on the bed, putting his other hand on his cheek and shaking his head. “Keep me posted.” He clicked the phone shut. “That was Randall. Peanut called him. Seems a few minutes ago the structure out in the country where the Dockerys were being held went up in flames.”
“A fire?”
“Peanut described it as an explosion that could be seen for miles. Seems the fire is still burning.”
“Massey,” Antonio murmured. “That goddamn Massey.”
“Major, Massey hasn’t had time to get there. The Smoot place is out in the middle of nowhere seventy miles into South Carolina.” He pointed to a box he’d drawn on a map and, after looking for a few seconds, marked the place where Winter had killed the team members.
“What about the Dockerys?”
“They were inside the structure, along with two of the Smoots.”
“He’s sure?”
“Smoot said a padlock was in place when the explosion happened. He’s sure nobody got out.”
“What exploded?”
“The place was also used to store combustibles,” Clayton said, lifting his pipe and sucking on it.
“Combustibles?”
“Gasoline. Blasting powder.”
“Call Randall,” Antonia said sharply. “Tell him to get out there now. We have to make sure Massey doesn’t get access to the place, or if he does, that he stays there permanently. I’ll get my team on the perimeter and we’ll shut down the area. National security alert or something intimidating. Nothing goes in or comes out. We sanitize everything to keep Fondren from getting wind of anything.”
“The county officials are bought and paid for by Peanut. The locals are handled. Just watch out for Feds.”
“We are the Feds. We need to know if Massey’s called anybody.”
“He hasn’t used our cell. Signal says it’s in the truck.”
“Check his cell phone.”
“I don’t have the number.”
Antonia picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Alexa. Massey’s in the wind. Took out three of Randall’s team and he has a loaded Tahoe. . . . I’ll go over it in a minute. Do you have Massey’s cell phone number?” She scribbled the number on a pad. “Get ready, Alexa, we’re taking a trip to clean things up.”
Antonia tossed the pad to Clayton. “She got it from his wife.”
Clayton typed the number into his computer.
“We’re going out to the location,” the Major told him. “You hold down the fort an
d keep me posted on anything and everything.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“But I do worry, Clayton,” she said. “I worry because my skinny black soon-to-be-wearing-a-general’s-star ass is on the line. And therefore so is your fat wants-to-retire-rich-but-might-spend-eternity-in-Leavenworth ass.”
62
Sean Massey used the GPS in her Lexus to find Judge Fondren’s house. Most of the downstairs windows were lit up, the porch light on. Sean didn’t see any cars on the street with people inside them. She had promised Hank she would make sure nobody was watching the judge’s house.
Sean parked in the driveway, strolled up to the porch, and rang the doorbell.
A thin, distinguished man with white hair and reading glasses perched on his nose opened the door and looked down at her.
“Judge Fondren?”
The man nodded reluctantly. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m Sean Massey. Hank Trammel told me to use his name.”
“Hank Trammel?”
“U.S. marshal. Ran the office here.”
“Of course. Trammel. Do I know you?”
“No. My husband is Winter Massey. He was a U.S. deputy marshal.”
“Hell-comes-to-breakfast Massey?” The judge cracked a knowing smile.
“Is that his nickname?” she asked.
“Among others. I know your husband by reputation. What’s he up to these days?”
“At the present he’s been working with Special FBI Agent Alexa Keen to find your daughter and grandson.”
The smile vanished and Fondren’s pale blue eyes scanned the street. He stepped back and opened the door wide. “You’d better come inside, Mrs. Massey.”
He closed the door behind her.
“You didn’t know, did you?” Sean asked. “Alexa didn’t tell you about my husband?”
“Perhaps with his reputation, Agent Keen may have thought it best not to mention your husband was involved. She probably thought I’d think the chance of my family being caught in a cross-fire would cause me needless worry.”
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