Bad blood vf-4

by John Sandford

  They were flashing along the interstate, a long rosary of cars linked by their headlights, then up an exit and down to the right, out on the grid of farm-to-market roads, straight north, straight west, straight north again, another jog to the west, and then Schickel said, "That's it, off to the left."

  He got on the radio, called the other cars. They were coming in from a long way out, and anybody at Einstadt's would see them coming and would know who they were.

  "What do you think?" Schickel asked, when he got off the radio.

  "I don't see much," Virgil said. "There's a light in the bottom floor."

  "Could be full of people."

  "Don't see any trucks."

  But as he said it, taillights flared near the house, and then disappeared-the truck they'd been on had either driven into a barn or behind it. A yard light off to one side showed no more trucks, and Virgil said, "Fuck it," and turned up the drive and stepped on the accelerator. They were bouncing hard enough, in and out of frozen snow ruts, that they'd make a hard target for a sniper, and as they came up the rise to the house, Virgil saw the truck taillights out ahead of them.

  "They're cutting cross-country, whoever it is," Schickel said, and he got on his radio again, sending some of the following cop cars on parallel roads, in an effort to get out in front of the runaway.

  Virgil pulled up into the yard, and then through it, back toward the barn, couldn't pick out any tracks in the snow. A board fence loomed in front of them, and across it, he could see the taillights bouncing away from them. He braked to a stop: "How the hell did he get out there?"

  Schickel said, "Maybe went behind one of the sheds? Or through them? Maybe went through the barn and pulled the door shut? He won't get too far, though, I don't think. He can't outrun the guys on the roads."

  "If he gets down to I-90, he'll fade into the traffic."

  "Well, we're not gonna catch him, Virgil, not us personally. I do think some of the boys will get him."

  Virgil nodded and said, "Shoot. I wanted to put my own hands on him." And, a few seconds later, as the distant taillights suddenly disappeared behind an invisible hill, or into an invisible creek bed, "Let's look at the house." FOUR COP CARS were in the farmyard or in the driveway. Cops were arrayed on the far side of the cars, with rifles pointed at the house. Virgil backed up until he was across from the side door, watching for any movement from what would be the kitchen and living room windows. There was light in the windows, though not much, and Schickel said, "Doesn't look right."

  Virgil put the truck in park, but left the engine running, and slipped out, ready to move fast at the first sign of any movement; but the night was as quiet as a butterfly, and cold.

  Schickel had gotten out of the far side of the truck and was pointing a rifle at the upstairs windows. He asked, "What do you think?"

  "Gonna go knock on the door," Virgil said.

  He walked across the yard, the hair on his neck prickling, got to the door, and banged on it, loud. Nothing. He pulled open the storm door and tried the doorknob on the interior door. It turned, and he pushed it open.

  And smelled the gasoline.

  "We got gasoline," he shouted back at Schickel.

  Another cop yelled at him, "Get out of there, Virgil."

  Virgil sniffed at it: heavy, but not overwhelming. "I'm gonna take a quick peek," he shouted.

  "Careful…"

  He stepped inside, up the short flight of stairs, the gasoline odor heavier now. A light was flickering from where the dining room must be. A door creaked behind him, and he turned and saw Schickel standing there. He turned back to the kitchen, took a long breath, and walked quickly across the linoleum floor and looked into the dining room.

  The dining table had been pushed against the wall, and a dead man lay on an old threadbare Persian carpet. He was faceup, with his hands by his sides; the rug and the room had been soaked in gasoline, a half-dozen votive candles sat around the dead man, on the rug. It looked like the candles had been cut down, for none was more than a half-inch thick.

  "Goddamn," Schickel breathed. "Gotta get out of here, Virgil. It's a time bomb."

  "Do you know that guy?" The gasoline odor was burned into his nose and the back of his throat.

  Schickel said, "It's Junior Einstadt, the old man's son. He must have been down at Rouse's."

  Virgil studied the scene for another few seconds, then said, "No way to move him. If we touch that rug, some of that flame could come down off a candle, it'd blow."

  "Let's get out of here," Schickel said.

  "Walk careful," Virgil said, and the two of them tiptoed away.

  Outside again, Schickel called for a fire truck, and Virgil got the other cars backed away from the house. Then they sat and watched, one minute, three minutes, and Virgil said, "Maybe we could have gotten him out."

  Schickel was on the radio and he said, "They can see the truck but he's half a mile ahead of them and he's down at 90. He's gonna make it to the highway."

  "Not much traffic this time of the night. Morning. Whatever it is," Virgil said.

  "But what there is, is mostly farmers in pickup trucks," Schickel said. "But where're they going to run to? We'll get him, it's just a matter of time."

  And the house blew. First there was a brighter light, then immediately a whoosh, when the gas went all at once; they watched the fire climb through the house, and Virgil said, "One more place tonight, Gene. Let's see what's happening at the Floods'." JENKINS HAD RIDDEN along in the caravan with another cop, and Virgil got him and the other cop to follow as they went down the road to the Flood place.

  As with the Einstadt house, there were lights: they drove up the driveway and found a pickup sitting next to the side door. They stopped, and Virgil said, "Run it," and Jenkins got out of his truck and pointed his M16 at the house.

  Schickel was talking to the comm center about the truck's tags, and the name came back thirty seconds later.

  "It's Emmett Einstadt's truck," Schickel said. "You lucked out. You got the old man after all."

  Jenkins shouted, "We got movement."

  The side door was opening, and a few seconds later, a young girl called, "Don't shoot me."

  Virgil called, "Take it easy, everybody." And, "Is that you, Edna?"

  "Is that you, Virgil Flowers?"

  Virgil called back, "Yes. It's me. Are you okay?"

  "I'm okay. My mom wants you to come in. Only you. If anybody else comes in… she's got a gun."

  "What about your grandpa?" Virgil called.

  "He's here, sitting in his chair. Rooney's here, too."

  Virgil looked at Schickel, and shrugged. "Give me the radio," he said.

  "You're really going in?"

  "Yeah." He called back to Edna, "I'll be there in just a minute. I've got to get my men spaced around. I'll be right there."

  He climbed back in the truck, with Schickel's radio, got a roll of duct tape out of his console, and taped the broadcast button down. "I'll leave the radio on, much as I can. You guys listen close; I don't know how much you hear. If you hear a shot, come in and get me."

  He stepped away from his truck and Jenkins called, "You got your gun?"

  That made him smile, and he called back, "Yeah, this time."

  And he called to Edna, "I'm coming in, honey."

  23

  Virgil didn't know what to expect when he went in, but he went in behind the muzzle of his pistol. At the top of the entry stairs, he saw Edna looking at him from the doorway to the living room. She was dressed from head to foot in a dress that was either dark blue or dark gray, and fell in one line from her neck. She said, "There's nobody to shoot."

  Virgil said, "Why don't you come around behind me?"

  She shook her head and said, "No, we're all in here," and she stepped away into the living room. Virgil expected something weird, in keeping with the rest of the night. Instead of following, he edged backward across the kitchen to the mudroom, made sure there was nobody there, who'd be behind him
.

  Edna came to the doorway again and watched him as he crossed the kitchen-somebody had been frying chicken, but a while ago, without cleaning up, and he could smell the cold grease. He paused at the dining room door, then stepped through: it was empty, but another arch at the end of the dining room led into the living room. With a last glance at the girl in the doorway, he stepped into the dining room, and she said, to somebody he couldn't see, "He's coming. He's checking the dining room."

  A woman's voice-Alma Flood's, Virgil thought-said, "Pull that other chair around for him." He moved forward slowly, got to the arch, did a quick peek into the living room, then moved into it, still behind the muzzle of his gun.

  The room was lit by two lamps and a television that had been muted; it had been tuned to either a religious channel or a history channel, because the show involved a tour of Jerusalem.

  Virgil was somewhat behind Alma Flood, who was sitting in her platform rocker, facing Wally Rooney and Emmett Einstadt, who sat in two recliners, which had been dragged around to face her. Both men were leaning back with their feet up. The two girls, Edna and Helen, sat to one side, on dining room chairs. And an empty chair sat next to them.

  Flood was looking at Einstadt and Rooney, but when she heard Virgil's boots on the floor, she glanced at him and said, "Put the gun down, Virgil. Take a seat."

  "I really don't have a lot of time for conversation-" Virgil began.

  Einstadt snapped, "Sit down, goddamnit, she's got a shotgun pointed at me."

  Alma was left-handed, Virgil noted, which explained why he hadn't seen the long gun. She had the butt braced against the back of the chair, under her arm, with her trigger hand by her side, her other hand on the forestock. Not a pump; the gun was a Remington semiauto twelve-gauge. The muzzle was about six feet from Einstadt's belly. That also explained why the men were sitting the way they were. With their feet up, higher than their hips, they couldn't move quickly. If Alma really wanted to shoot them, she could.

  Virgil asked, "What's going on?"

  "Sit down," Alma Flood said.

  "I don't want to shoot you, Ms. Flood," Virgil said. "There's been enough shooting tonight."

  "Maybe and maybe not," she said. "But I've got this trigger about half pulled, and if you move that gun toward me, I'll pull it the rest of the way. You'll be killing two Einstadts with one shot."

  "Sit down, please, sit down," Rooney whined. Rooney was sweating hard, though the room was cool.

  Virgil sat. He kept the gun in his hand, resting on his right leg, and put the radio down between his legs, with the microphone up, and hoped that Schickel and Jenkins and the others could hear it. "What happened here?" he asked.

  "From what I hear, you know most of it," Alma said. "We're talking about that."

  "We're having a trial," Helen said. "Because of Rooney, mostly, but then maybe for Grandfather, too."

  "What'd Rooney do?"

  The shotgun barrel swung to Rooney, the muzzle moving a short four or five inches, not nearly enough time for Virgil to do anything even if he'd been prepared. Alma said, "In the World of Spirit, nothing too serious. He took his women, just like the rules say he can. That being me, and then the girls. But as I understand it, under most laws, and maybe even normal Bible laws, we were raped."

  "If you didn't consent, then it's rape. If he had sexual relations with the girls, it's rape whether or not they consented, because they're too young to give consent," Virgil said.

  "I was taught it was the right thing, from the time I was a boy," Rooney said, a pleading note in his voice.

  Edna said, "We were begging you not to."

  "We was always taught girls need to be broke in," Rooney said. "It's not my fault we was always taught that."

  Virgil said to Alma, "Let the law take care of this. If you shoot him, you're going to go to prison. After what you've been through, that hardly seems right."

  "What do you think I've been in, for forty-three years?" Alma asked.

  Helen said to Virgil, "He took me upstairs and he was so ready, he was like a bull; he pulled all my clothes off and he ripped my blouse, not on the seam, but right across the fabric so I can't fix it, and it'll always have a rip in it."

  She was fingering her dress; Virgil said, "That's not such a big deal anymore, even if it was-"

  "We're only allowed two dresses," Edna said. "More than that would be vanity."

  Alma said, "What'd he do after he pushed you on the bed?"

  "He made me suck on him and then he serviced me, and then he made Edna suck on him and he serviced her, and then he made both of us suck on him, and then he went into me the dirty way."

  Alma asked, "Tell Mr. Flowers how often he did that."

  "Almost every day. He'd hit me, slap me, really hard…" The girl's voice was rising, as though she were reliving it.

  Virgil jumped in and said, "Miz Flood, maybe you shouldn't be putting the girls through this. They need treatment."

  "I think they do, and I'm sure they'll get it, that you'll see to it if I can't," Alma said. "But that's not the question here. The question is Rooney. Now, I'm an old crow, and these men don't like me as much as they used to, and I won't tell you what Rooney did to me, but I'll tell you that he had to work harder to get himself excited than he did with the fresh ones. Didn't you, Wally?"

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry if you didn't like it. I thought you liked it," Rooney said.

  Alma got angry. "Don't you go saying that. Don't you go saying that I liked it. I told you I didn't like it, I screamed at you that I didn't like it, and the last time, there was blood, and how in the hell can somebody be bleeding like that, how can you think they're having a good time?"

  "Jake used to do it; I seen him," Rooney said.

  "That's all you got to say? Jake used to do it? I'll tell you, Wally, if Jake was here, he'd be sitting right next to you, all three of you like birds on a wire."

  "Don't shoot me, Alma. Please don't shoot me. I never meant you any harm," Rooney said.

  The muzzle of the gun never moved, but Alma said to her father, "What do you have to say for him?"

  Emmett Einstadt said, "Women are supposed to serve men. That's why God put them on earth. Rooney might not be the best we got, but he tries hard enough. You'da got used to him if you'd gave him some time."

  She shook her head and said, "I don't believe I would have. I started out liking Jake, and ended up hating him; I started out hating Rooney. How you could ever give us to him, I'll never understand. How many times did we say no?"

  "I didn't even know that you said no," Rooney said. "I'm sorry for what you think I've done, I didn't mean any harm by it. But that's just nature taking its way."

  Virgil said, "Miz Flood, from what they've said, we can take both of them in, and I think I can promise you that they'll be sent to the state prison forever. When word of this gets out, when a judge and jury hears about this, I mean, they'll be out of your life. Just as clean as if you killed them; but at least you won't have to pay for killing them."

  "I'm not exactly getting an eye for an eye, though, am I?" she asked.

  Virgil's cell phone rang. They all jumped, and a smile might have flickered over Alma Flood's face. She said, "Well, answer it. Or the ringing will drive us crazy."

  Virgil fished the cell phone out of his pocket with his free hand, and said, "Yeah?"

  "This is Gene. We can hear you. Jenkins is in that tree in the front yard, looking through the front window. He says he's got a shot at her, but there's two panes of glass between them and he can't guarantee that nobody else would get hurt. He said you and the two girls are in his background. He thinks he can probably miss them, but maybe not. He wants you to say yes or no."

  Virgil said, "No, not yet. Definitely no. I really don't think that would be appropriate at all. I could probably get that done myself; but, I'm really busy here, so I'll talk to you later. Okay? Yeah, she's fine, they're all fine. Listen, I gotta go. I'll call you later."

  He clicked off and
put the phone back in his pocket.

  "That was ridiculous," Alma Flood said.

  "Yes, it was," Virgil said. "Miz Flood, I'll tell you what…"

  She shook her head and said, "Let me finish something here. Girls. What do you think about Wally? Guilty, or not guilty?"

  "Don't do that to the girls," Virgil said.

  Alma asked, "You know what they say about girls out here, Mr. Flowers? They say, 'Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher.' And that's what they do." She turned to her older daughter and said, "Edna, what do you say?"

  "Guilty," the girl said.

  Helen nodded, her face solemn, and she said, "Me, too. Guilty."

  "Alma…" Rooney said.

  Alma said, "I vote guilty as charged," and she pulled the trigger. THE BLAST in the small living room was deafening, and Virgil rocked back away from the flash, almost tipped off his chair, and by the time he recovered, the shotgun was pointing at Einstadt and Alma shouted at Virgil, "Don't. Don't move that gun."

  Rooney had been knocked back when the blast hit him in the upper chest, throat, and face, but the recliner chair was tipped back so far that he didn't slump forward; instead, he sat in the chair and bubbled to death, the last breath squeezed out of his lungs as a bloody foam.

  Virgil's phone rang again and he opened it and said, "I'm okay. Miz Flood just shot and killed Wally Rooney. Everybody sit tight, we're talking."

  Helen said from her chair, about Rooney, "He looks awful."

  "That's because your mother just shot him in the face," Einstadt said. "Look at that. That's what she's threatening to do to your grandpa. Shoot him just like a sick horse."

  Edna said, "I like him better this way."

  "He was sick. He was sick in the head," Alma said. "He needed to be put down, just like you'd do with a sick dog. A dog that's got rabies."

  "You've got rabies," Einstadt said. "Killing an old friend."

  "It's time to talk about you, Father," Alma said. She looked over at Virgil. "I want to be fair, and since you're the law around here, and you want to do everything proper, I appoint you the defense attorney. You can say what you want in his defense, and I will listen to every word. How's that for fair?"