“Softer.” Bert smacked his lips. “Richer, too.”
Tom reached for another sandwich, his third. He piled on the condiments.
“Harold, I have to say, this is the tastiest burger I’ve ever had. And I’ve tried them all—turkey, buffalo, lamb, alligator…”
“I tried raising alligators, years ago. It was a big mistake. I was also breeding beagles at the same time. Inquisitive dogs, beagles. Well, hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it?”
Roy pushed away his plate and poured himself another glass of lemonade, emptying the glass pitcher. Several ostriches had gathered around the picnic table, jockeying for scraps. A spectacular New Mexican sunset was dominating the western horizon, and the birds were darkening into silhouettes.
Bert tossed a piece of bun on the ground and the nearest ostrich pecked it up.
“There’s something I still don’t quite get.” He threw more bun, and another bird muscled its way over and snatched it, long neck striking like a snake. “Why clone us at all? It must have cost a fortune. What did Phillip Stang actually get out of this?”
“Could be that Phillip was a bit of a philanthropist. Why did we go to the moon? Did it serve any real purpose? We did it to see if it could be done.”
“Then why not go public with the results?” This had been bugging Tom as well. “Why not reap the fame and rewards of the greatest scientific development since, well, ever?”
“I have no clue. I was just paid to do it. It’s the dream of every scientist; unlimited funds and no boundaries. I made some money, yes, but it isn’t about the money, or the fame. It’s about gaining knowledge, doing something no one else has done.”
“And Stang felt the same way?”
“He never told me. When his son got into politics about a decade ago, Phil retired. You’ll have to ask him yourself, after I set up a meeting.”
The calm night was pierced by a scream—shrill, abrupt.
“Was that an ostrich?”
Two more followed, louder and closer.
“Coyote?” Tom asked.
“The ranch is fenced off. The only time they scream like that is when…”
Tom finished the sentence for him. “…when they see a gun.” He stood up, taking out his Glock. “Let’s get inside. Now.”
They hurried into the house. Harold locked the doors while Tom and Roy killed all the lights. Ostriches were now stampeding in from the pasture, seeking the safety of the stable, climbing over each other to gain entrance. Their yelps had an eerie, surreal quality.
“Bert, Harold, in the kitchen. Call the police, then stay down below window level. Don’t move unless I tell you to. Got the back, Roy?”
“Got my end covered. How are you on ammo?”
“I brought two clips. You?”
“Same.”
Tom opened the porch window and squatted on his haunches. He stared out onto the plains, letting his eyes adjust to the dimming light. The temperature had dropped, and a night breeze wafted in, cooling the sweat on Tom’s forehead. He moved his eyes back and forth over the grounds, watching for light or movement, listening for people-sounds.
“Police will be here in ten minutes.” Harold had crawled over.
“Shh. Go back into the kitchen. Do you own a gun?”
“No. I think guns are just a symbolic substitute for male genitalia, and I’m okay in that respect.”
“Fine. If they get in the house, you can whack them with your genitals. Kitchen, now.”
Harold scampered away. The cries of the ratites increased in volume. Something was spooking them badly. Tom looked hard at the barn, trying to spot anything man-shaped in the darkness.
A gunshot. Roy. Tom spun and ran for the rear entrance, keeping his head down.
“You see something?”
“How much you think these big birds cost?”
“Why?”
“I owe Harold for one.”
“You shot an ostrich?”
“I wasn’t sure what it was. Figured better safe than sorry.”
“And now the bad guys know we’re expecting them.”
“Maybe I scared them off.”
The gunfire seemed to erupt everywhere at once. Windows shattered and splinters flew and a sound like an exploding string of firecrackers echoed through the house. Automatic weapon fire.
Tom and Roy fell to their sides and curled up, protecting their heads. The destruction went on and on, lamps exploding and sparks flying and bullets chipping away at the stone fireplace and the couches hissing at them as the fabric shredded. Tom’s gut was a clenched fist and his ribs screamed at the uncomfortable position but he refused to move.
After a lifetime, the shooting finally stopped. Tom didn’t know if the ringing in his ears was a gun echo or his hammering heart.
“I’m going for the front.” He couldn’t hear his own voice and didn’t think Roy could either. But his partner nodded and stuck his gun out the window, firing in the direction the bullets had come from. Tom sprinted in a crouch to the front door, both hands glued to his pistol, and he braced his back against the wall and peered through the broken glass. He caught sight of someone running behind the barn.
“Fire!”
Bert and Harold rushed out of the kitchen. Tom could see the flickering orange they were fleeing from, with its accompanying smoke.
Roy met them by the sofas. “On my side too. They’re torching the place.”
“We have to get out of here!” Bert had his luggage in his hands and was heading for the front door. Tom grabbed his wrist.
“They want us to run outside so they can pick us off.”
“So we’re supposed to stay in here and roast?”
“Does this place have a basement? A cellar?”
Harold shook his head .”No.”
“Okay, they’re probably waiting for us on this side. So we have to go out the back way, through the fire.”
Tom led them back into the kitchen, amazed at how quickly it had gotten unbearable. The rear entrance was a growing wall of flame, licking its way across the ceiling. Black smoke hovered at eye level, slowly inching its way to the floor. It had to be a hundred and thirty in there. Tom tried to make out the knob through the fire, but couldn’t even see the door. He got to within three feet and the heat became so intense it was impossible to get any closer. The only window in the kitchen was the small one over the sink, and it too was surrounded by flames.
Tom went to the dining room, but that was a scene from hell, every single bit of furniture was a large, crackling bonfire.
“I think I’d rather get shot.” Roy yelled into his ear. As the fire grew it became louder, a roar that was drowning out Tom’s thoughts.
They went back into the kitchen, Bert and Harold hunched down under the falling veil of smoke. Tom looked around the room, hoping to see a magic escape route. His eyes rested on the refrigerator. It was a compact model, older, about five feet tall. He grabbed the sides and tried pulling it back. It was on rollers.
“Roy! Come on!”
They pulled the fridge out of its nook and yanked the power cord. The floor was tile and it moved easily. Tom positioned it ten feet in front of the burning back door.
“Ready?”
Roy nodded. They got behind the refrigerator and pushed it, gaining speed and momentum, hitting the back door at a full sprint.
Their aim was true. The appliance burst through the blazing entrance, flipping onto its side in the doorway. The flames rushed out of the kitchen in a big whoosh, starving for the new oxygen. They now had an opening.
Roy took out his gun and climbed over the fridge. Tom went back for Bert and the doctor. He was helping them through the door when the gunfire began.
Roy yanked Bert off the refrigerator and to the ground outside, the suitcases flying. Harold fell backward onto Tom, pinning him to the floor of the burning kitchen. Tom struggled out from under the doctor. Harold’s plaid shirt was soaked in blood. His breath was faint.
“
We can get you out of here. Try to hold onto my neck.”
Harold shook his head. “You go.”
Tom put his arm around the man’s shoulders and began to lift him up. The doctor coughed violently, blood bubbling from his lips.
“Live…”
“Hold on, Doc. Just hold on.”
Harold looked up at him, eyes dreamy and far away. A pleasant smile crossed his lips.
“Live… up to… expectations…”
His body went slack in Tom’s arms. Flame began to close off the hole they’d made. Struggling with his balance, Tom gripped Harold tight and stepped up to the doorway.
The machine gun thundered again, and Tom leapt off the refrigerator. He landed hard, the ground erupting in little dust pockets as slugs ripped into the dirt around him. He got to his knees and continued to drag Harold away from the house.
Shots to his left. Roy, returning fire. He and Bert were on their bellies, behind Bert’s suitcases. Tom took out his Glock and lay next to Roy.
“Where?”
“On the ridge, three o’clock, about a hundred yards.”
“How many?”
“I spot one.”
“I saw a guy in front earlier. So there’s at least two.”
Running in a crouch, Tom began a wide arc through the plains. The burning house was throwing off a lot of flickering light and shadows, but that worked to his advantage; a moving target would be hard to pinpoint.
More gunshots. Roy, firing far off to his right. Tom hunkered down and waited for the return barrage, trying to spot the enemy’s position. When the machine gun let loose, it caught Tom by surprise. He was less than thirty feet away. The muzzle flash illuminated a short man with a crew cut, holding an Army issue M-16. Arthur Kilpatrick. Or Attila, as Tom had begun to think of him.
Tom’s response was automatic—he dropped to one knee, aimed for the head, and fired as fast as his finger could pull the trigger.
Attila pitched forward, rolling down the mound of raised dirt he’d been perched on. He didn’t let go of the rifle.
Tom ran forward, firing wildly. If Attila got that M-16 around…
Movement on the ground, the rifle barrel raising. Tom jumped off the mound and belly flopped onto the smaller man, pinning the machine gun to his chest. He brought his Glock up to Attila’s head and jammed it under his jaw. Anger and fear had released a potent adrenaline cocktail in his body, and Tom fought to keep his hands from shaking. Attila’s body went completely limp.
“I’m not resisting arrest.”
Tom’s finger tightened on the trigger. He had one bad moment when he didn’t think he could stop himself, but common sense prevailed. With his free hand he found the rifle and tossed it to the side.
“Roll onto your stomach, hands behind your head.”
Attila complied, and Tom pressed his knee into the back of the man’s neck.
“Aren’t you gonna read me my rights, Tommy?”
“Who else is out there?”
“I’m all alone.”
Tom put more pressure on his knee, pushing the smaller man’s face into the dirt.
“You broke your neck in the fall. I don’t think society will shed any tears.”
Attila’s voice was strained. “Jack’s here too.”
Tom fished out some disposable handcuffs—an unbreakable plastic line that tightened around a suspect’s wrists and could only be taken off with tin snips. He looped one around Attila’s hands and snugged it tight.
“How’d you find us?”
“GPS and a laptop. We put a tracker in Albert’s luggage. We can trace it on the Internet.”
Tom uncoiled another length of plastic line and wrapped it around Attila’s ankles.
“How are you in touch with Jack?”
“Cell phone.”
“Call him.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Don’t be stupid, Attila.”
“So, you finally found out who I am.” He rolled onto his side, facing Tom. “You think you know it all now? You don’t know the half of it. I’ll get another shot at you, soon enough. There isn’t a place on earth you can hide from us.”
Tom considered standing on his neck again, or giving him a swift kick to the stab wound, but decided against it. The police would be here any minute, and when they showed up Jack would run. They would have to get him another day. Tom took out his phone and dialed Roy.
“Got Attila. Jack’s still out there. Stay alert.”
“I called an ambulance. Won’t help, though.”
“Harold?”
“Took at least three hits. Long gone.”
Tom hit the END button. He shoved Attila with his foot.
“So who’s behind this? Stang?”
“I want my lawyer.”
“Harold’s dead. We got you for murder, clean and tight. And we’ll hang Jessup’s murder on you too. I don’t know about New Mexico, but Illinois has the death penalty. Talk to me.”
Attila grinned at him, his gold tooth sparkling in the glare of the burning house.
“How’s your ribs?”
“How’s your leg? I want my knife back, by the way.”
“You have no idea how big this is. How deep it goes. You’re in way over your head, Jefferson.”
Tom didn’t like being called Jefferson. And he really didn’t like Attila’s conceit. They had this guy, dead to rights, and he was acting like it was a parking ticket.
“You know what I don’t get? You’ve got the same genes as the greatest warrior of all time. A guy who conquered the world. And you’re just a petty thug who burned down his mommy’s house.”
Attila lost his smile.
“I’ll be coming for you, soon. You and the rest of our siblings. The last cop that messed with us took sixteen hours to die. With you, it’ll be twice as long.”
Attila began to rant on about all of the horrible things he was going to do, but Tom tuned him out. He sat on the mound of dirt, exhausted, and waited quietly for the police to arrive.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Tom was gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles had lost their color.
“It’s over my head, Mankowski. This is from the Police Superintendent herself. As of now, you and Lewis are on a mandatory leave of absence.”
“I don’t believe this, Lieutenant. Why would we get suspended—”
“It isn’t a suspension. You’re keeping your pay. But this goes high up, Tom. I don’t have a say in it. Until this matter is all sorted out, consider yourself on vacation. One more thing—you have to turn in your guns and badges to the Albuquerque PD.”
Tom was grinding his jaw so hard he could crush marbles.
“Lieutenant Daniels—”
“Just do it and get your asses back to Chicago. I’ll do everything I can to find out what the hell is going on. You guys must have pissed off someone pretty important. The Super wanted your jobs. Put Lewis on.”
He handed the phone to Roy and took a deep breath. Gerry Watterson, the Albuquerque Chief of Police, gave Tom a sympathetic frown from behind his office desk. The Chief was heavyset, tan, balding. A few hours ago he was their good buddy, organizing the fruitless search for Jack and extending over-the-top professional courtesy. Several phone calls later, the man put on his Pontius Pilate face.
“I’m sorry, Detective Mankowski. It looks like a clean bust to me. But my boss told me the same thing. I’ll need to take your shield and weapon.”
“What?” Roy yelled into the phone. “We catch the bad guy and you suspend us? Oh—paid vacation my ass!”
Tom put his hands on the desk, looking hard at Watterson. The Chief seemed like a good enough person, but then Lieutenant Daniels was a good person too. How could it have gone this way?
“Chief, you’re making a big mistake.”
“I don’t have a choice in the matter. My hands are tied.”
“My gun and badge?” Roy was screaming now. “You got to have a thousand mile dick, be fu
cking me all the way from Illinois!” Roy slammed down the phone and stared at Tom. “I cannot believe this. Can you believe this?”
“At least let us question the suspect.” Tom tried to push his anger aside and appear rational. “The lives of several people are at stake here.”
The List - A Thriller Page 11
