“Who the fuck are you?” Donovan said.
The man puffed up at the tone. “I could ask you the same question, asshole.”
“But you won’t, unless you want to be learning how to fire that gun from out your arse. Now answer the question.”
The man looked about to make an issue of it, but the look in Donovan’s eye made him think better of it. “Mr. Monroe called us in. Said he wanted some extra security.”
“Did he now?” Donovan said. “And why is that?” From down the hallway, he could hear a raised voice. It sounded like the old man, cursing. He frowned.
“Ask him yourself,” the rifleman said. “I got outside duty.” He turned and walked away.
The sound of shouting grew louder as Donovan approached the door to the old man’s bedroom. “What the fuck you mean, he walked off with it?!” the old man was screaming as he entered without knocking. Donovan was shocked to see he was actually out of the wheelchair and standing up. He’d braced himself with one hand wrapped claw-like around one corner of a tall armoire, but it was the first time in months that Donovan had seen him fully upright. “Ain’t you got a gun!?” Monroe listened for only a brief second, hardly long enough for a reply, then began yelling again. “Listen here, boy, you better find some way to track down that sumbitch and get me my money back, or I’ll be takin’ it off yore fat ass in strips!” He snapped the phone shut and threw it across the room. It hit the wall, rebounded and landed on the bed. He looked at Donovan. “I’m surrounded by fuckin’ idiots,” he snapped.
“Even me?”
“Especially you, you stupid Mick bastard! That redneck sheriff you missed? The fella whose sister you blew up?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s goin’ from truck stop to truck stop, robbin’ my men. Pullin’ guns on ‘em. Tellin’ ‘em to let me know he’s comin‘ for me.” Patience had been right. The sheer rage that had raised Monroe from his wheelchair like an avenging revenant was startling. But what was even more disturbing was the mad grin plastered across his face that contradicted the anger in the words. Christ, Donovan thought, he really is enjoying himself. Maybe what he really needed was a war to fight.
“Guess he decided not to suffer in silence,” Donovan said.
Monroe squinted at him. “You think this is funny, boy?”
Donovan shook his head. “No. We’ll take care of him.”
“And just how do you figger to do that?”
“He’s coming here,” Donovan said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the FBI gave him your address. They’re letting him do their dirty work. But I say, let him come.”
“And let him rob me ever’where he goes along the way? That’s your damn solution?”
“What are you suggesting? I hit the road looking for him? We don’t know where he’s going to hit next. But we know where he’s going to end up. Right here. And then I’ll handle him.”
“You couldn’t before.”
“He’s off his head,” Donovan said. “He’s not thinking clearly. He’s outnumbered. When he gets here…”
“I want him alive,” Monroe broke in. “I want an example made that people are going to remember. I want his dyin’ to last for days.”
Donovan shook his head. “Bad idea. We just kill him, we can claim we repelled an intruder. He turns up dead somewhere, with signs that he’s been tortured…” he shrugged. “Your call. But the way you want to do it is going to get you arrested.”
Monroe looked like a sulky child. “I want what I want.”
“All right. I’ll do what I can,” Donovan lied. “But I’m not risking my own life, or yours, to try and get him alive.”
Monroe nodded. Then he grinned and began to laugh in a nasty wheezing gurgle. “Once we do,” he said, “We have us some fun.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The house at 601 Grampian looked the same as when Buckthorn had been there with Wolf and Dushane, except there were no motorcycles parked outside. He parked his truck in the driveway, in the space behind the Explorer where they’d been. He sat and watched the house for a moment, then got out. As he walked to the front door, he noticed all of the curtains were still drawn. He knocked. After a minute, the door opened slightly. He could see part of a young girl’s face, one dark eye peering out at him. “Can I help you?” she said.
“Callie?” he said.
The eye narrowed slightly. “Yes?”
“Callie, my name’s Tim Buckthorn. I was one of the people that found you.”
The door closed. She heard the girl shout “MOM!” from behind it, followed by more shouted words he couldn’t make out. He stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to do. He heard the sound of a chain being unfastened, then the door opened. Myra Preston stood there. She didn’t look happy to see him. “Mr. Buckthorn,” she said.
“Hi, Mrs. Preston,” he said. “I was just checking back to see if you folks were all right. How’s Callie?”
She looked around him and over his shoulder, as if checking to see if he was being followed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He tensed. “What’s going on?”
She seemed to make up her mind. “Come in before someone sees you.” She stepped aside and he entered.
The living room was dim, only a small table lamp providing scant illumination. Callie stood beside the couch. She looked nervous. He saw that she still had a gauze bandage on one cheek, but the other cuts and bruises seemed to be fading.
“Hi, Callie,” he said.
“Hello,” she said. After an awkward moment, she said “Thanks for helping get me out. I heard that you found my picture.”
He nodded.
“That’s pretty weird,” she said.
“The lady who found it said it was a sign. She said that God meant for me to find you.”
“Oh.” She didn’t seem to know what else to say.
He turned to Myra. “How are you holding up?” The look on her face troubled him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you. Or any police.”
“Wait,” he said, “the FBI was supposed to be guarding you.”
“They were,” Callie said. “They went away.”
“They weren’t going to stay forever,” Myra said. “Not like…” she stopped.
“Not like the Monroes? Or Donovan?” Buckthorn felt the anger rising in him again. “Have they been back?”
“I don’t know who Donovan is,” she said. “I swear it. But as soon as the FBI stopped watching us, I started getting phone calls. The same voice, every time. Telling us they were just checking. To make sure we weren’t talking to the wrong people.”
“Did the person calling have an accent?” he said. “Irish, maybe?”
She shook her head. “Not that I could tell.”
“Did you call the FBI back? Or the local cops?” He shook his head. “What am I saying?”
“Right,” she said. “I don’t know who to trust.”
“You can trust me,” Buckthorn said.
She laughed bitterly. “You? Are you going to stay here forever? You think you can protect us from them?”
“You’ll go away,” Callie said, “and they’ll come back.” He looked at her, saw the defeat and hopelessness in her face. “They always come back,” she said.
He felt a shock of agony go through his head and realized that he’d clenched his jaw on the broken tooth. The pain was so intense, he groaned involuntarily.
Myra looked alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he rasped.
“You don’t sound like it,” she said.
“Actually, I could use an aspirin.”
She nodded, still looking dubious, and left the room. He turned to Callie. “I am going away,” he said. “And I’m not coming back. But neither are they.”
“How are you going to stop them?”
The pain had settled to a dull throb. His voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. “I’m going to take care of them.”
Myra had returned with a bottle of ibuprofen and a small plastic cup of water. “How do you plan to do that? Arrest them?”
He shook two of the tablets out into his hand and popped them into his mouth. He handed the bottle back to her, took the water and washed them down. “No,” he said. “You’re right. They’d just come back. Or have someone else do it. Arresting them won’t protect you.”
“Wait, aren’t you a cop?” Callie said.
“Not anymore,” he said. He walked to the door. “Thanks for the painkillers.”
“You haven’t told us what you plan to do,” Myra said.
He paused and turned back. “I’m going to end them,” he said simply. He walked out, leaving a stunned silence behind him.
__________
“This isn’t going to end well,” Patience said.
“Not to worry, love,” Donovan answered. “We’ve got it sorted.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, “you really don’t. Oh, I know you think you do. But say you really do get this man. Say you kill him. What then?”
He shrugged. “Bury him, I suppose.”
She rubbed her temples in frustration. “And after? Every cop and FBI agent in the world is going to be all over this place.” She looked up. “We need to get out of here. We need to run.”
“No.”
“Don’t be an idiot. We have…”
The blow came so fast, she never saw it. All she knew was that she was sagging against the wall. It was all that had kept her from falling on her ass. Her cheek hurt so bad, she thought the bone might be broken.
“Listen to me, darlin‘,” he said, biting down hard on the last word. “You don’t talk to me that way. Ever. Ya follow?”
She straightened up, her hand going to her face. “I can’t believe you just…”
She didn’t see him move this time, either. Suddenly she was pinned against the wall with his hand tight around her throat where he had grabbed her and shoved her backwards so fast the back of her head had rebounded off it. He’s so fast, she thought. He began tightening his grip, cutting off her air.
“I said, do ya follow?” His voice was a low, vicious snarl.
She couldn’t answer. He wasn’t letting her breathe. She raised her hands to her throat to dislodge his grip. He pulled a fist back, ready to smash into her face again. “Don’t,” he said. She dropped her hands to her side, hating herself for doing so.
Her vision narrowed, black spots appearing before her eyes. I’m dying, she thought. He’s killing me… “Just nod your head if you understand,” he said. His voice was a deadly purr now. With her last strength, she nodded her head as rapidly as she could. Then she was gasping, taking in huge gulps of sweet, cool air. She sank to her knees and began to cough. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her head up to look at him.
“I think I like you like that,” he said. “I think, when I’m king, you’ll be spending a lot of time on your knees.”
She looked up at him, rubbing her bruised throat, unable to speak. She could see the bulge in the front of his pants. The son of a bitch was getting turned on.
“Things are going to change around here,” he said. He turned and walked off, leaving her there.
“Honey,” she croaked softly, “you have no fucking idea.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Buckthorn cruised slowly by the Monroe house. It was far out in the country, north of the city. Overgrown fields ran for a half mile either side of the house and across the road, testifying to a productivity that had long since gone by the wayside. Where cotton had once grown, the thick black Mississippi soil had nurtured thick, gnarled webs and tangles of kudzu. The plant, native to Japan, had been brought to Mississippi in the 1930’s to curb soil erosion. Freed of its natural competitors, however, the tough, durable weed had overwhelmed all other native vegetation. Even the few trees that had made a try in the neglected fields had lost to the invader and now stood, wrapped in cocoons of green.
There was a stone wall at least ten feet high encircling the house proper. Access to the driveway was through a huge double sided wrought iron gate. The gate was closed and, he assumed, locked. The entranceway was paved with cobblestones that ended a few feet on the other side of the gate and gave way to a more modern concrete driveway that sloped gently upwards to the house itself. The place was huge, two stories high, with shallow porches above and below supported by pillars that had once been white, but now showed long streaks of gray where the paint had peeled away. Glass windows on both sides flanked the double front door. The heavy curtains behind the windows were closed. As he watched, a man crossed his field of vision, walking with the bored slouch of someone who’d been on guard duty too long. Bored or not, Buckthorn knew the guard could bring the rifle he had slung on his back into play before he could get halfway up that driveway. He was also willing to bet there were other armed men inside. And he had no idea how to even get through the gate. The shotgun he carried behind the seat wouldn’t do much against that massive iron latch. You’d need a battering ram. Or…an idea occurred to him. He looked at the bags of money he’d collected in the floorboard of the truck. His idea would probably take all of it. But, he thought, it’s like they say. You can’t take it with you.
He stepped on the gas and pulled away from the driveway. He didn’t see the rental car pulling in across the road from the house as he left.
__________
“This one’s got some miles on it,” the salesman said, “but you can’t hardly beat the price.”
Buckthorn nodded. He got up on the step next to the driver’s side door and looked into the truck’s cab. The vinyl driver’s seat was cracked and patched with duct tape. More duct tape held a piece of cardboard in place where the right side window used to be. A thin layer of dust covered the dash. Buckthorn stepped down. “Does it even run?” he asked.
The salesman looked indignant. “Course it runs,” he said. His confidence was made somewhat less convincing by the sweat that sheened his forehead beneath the long, sparse strands of his comb-over. “The engine’s been overhauled. The hydraulics all work, I tested ‘em myself. And all the brakes are 50% or better, guaranteed.” He pulled a set of keys out of the pocket of his short-sleeved polyester dress shirt. “Take it for a test drive.” He jingled the keys as if trying to amuse a baby.
Buckthorn ignored them. “How much?”
The salesman looked surprised and dropped his hand to his side. “Thirty-five,” he said.
Buckthorn squinted up at the truck appraisingly. “Shit,” he said.
“It’s a bargain,” the salesman insisted. “The brakes are guaranteed.”
“And if they fail,” Buckthorn said, “you expect me to come back from beyond the grave to collect?” The man started to answer, but Buckthorn cut him off. “I’ll give you twenty-five.”
“Now wait…”
“Cash.”
The man fell silent. His watery blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’d need to see, like a cashier’s or bank check.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I mean actual cash. Greenbacks. Dinero.”
The man rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing. “You got that much cash on you?”
Buckthorn nodded towards his truck parked next to a row of Freightliner tractors. “Right over there.”
“Don’t believe in banks, do ya?”
“Let’s just say I’m a little bit old school. Don’t like to be in anyone’s debt. And I’m not real fond of the tax man, either, If you catch my drift.”
The salesman nodded. “I heard that.”
“So if you want to sort of slow walk the paperwork, it won’t bother me much.”
The salesman began smiling. “I think we might be able to work something out.”
“Good,” Buckthorn said. He looked the big Mack dump truck over again, from the high set cab with its flaking green paint to the 20 foot long, high-sided bed. “And don’t worry about the brakes. I’m only using it for one job.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“The voice mailbox for this user is full. Please try again…”
Dushane killed the message with a savage punch of her finger. She felt like throwing the damn phone out the window of the car. Buckthorn’s mailbox was full, all right, and she was willing to bet most of the messages were from her. Angry, warning, pleading…she’d tried every tone she could think of to get him to respond. He hadn’t. She didn’t know if he wasn’t answering because he’d turned his phone off, because he was just being stubborn, or because he’d pushed his luck and gotten himself killed by Donovan or one of Monroe’s other goons. The uncertainty was doing what uncertainty always did: it was driving her crazy.
“Nothing?” Wolf said from the driver’s seat of the cheap rental they’d gotten at the airport. They were parked on the shoulder, across the country road from the front gate of Lampton Monroe’s estate. There was an overgrown field to their right, with a badly tended dirt access road leading deep into the tangled growth in front of them. They’d considered pulling into the field to set up, but when they’d tried it, they saw that the jungle of vegetation all around obscured their peripheral vision. Besides, Dushane said, if Buckthorn came, they wanted him to know they were there. Maybe that would stop him from his mad quest.
They could see a bit of the front of the house from between the iron posts of the huge swinging gate. It was silent, all shades drawn. From time to time, men would enter or come out of the house. They could see other men walking the grounds. All were armed. If Buckthorn showed up, he was going to be walking into a hornet’s nest.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “The bastard.”
Wolf grunted and looked at his own phone sitting in its hands-free rack on the dash. “Gaby’s not returning calls either.”
“Sorry.”
“Why?” he said. He looked straight ahead. “You never liked her.”
Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield Page 24
