“No. Please don’t cover my mouth.”
He snapped the tape over her face, wrapped it around her jaw until it tangled in her hair, and then added another, shorter strip. The fear grew in her eyes when her mouth was covered, and Frank wondered if she was claustrophobic. They had her stretched out in the small boat they’d taken. AJ kept his gun on Frank while King handled the tape work, and Frank had put up a little bit of an argument, just enough to let them think he opposed this. In reality, it was for the best. He felt bad for Nora, couldn’t meet her eyes because the panic that showed there was tough to take, but he knew it would be easier if he was alone with these two. Nora was a liability, an extra concern anytime he decided to take action. With that eliminated, he was a little freer. Now the only person who would die immediately if he screwed up was himself.
“You’re staying with her,” AJ told King, and that quickly all of Frank’s hope for this situation began to disappear. “Wait till we’re on the shore. The minute we hit that, you start watching the clock, all right?”
No, Frank thought. No clocks, no countdowns, please don’t say that.
“Ten minutes go by, you put a bullet in her head. No hesitation.”
“Won’t be a problem,” King said, and he leaned down close to Nora’s horrified face, stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Won’t be a problem at all, will it, hon?”
The lake and the land surrounding it seemed to tilt and spin around Frank, that time limit—ten minutes, ten minutes, ten minutes—scorching through his brain, every possible scenario filtering through, none of them any good. It was too little time.
“You can’t—” Frank wasn’t even sure what words would have followed, because they never got the chance to develop. AJ hit him backhanded with the gun, caught him flush in the face and knocked him back into the boat, almost over the side and into the water. Blood left his nose, ran down his chin, and onto his shirt.
“Get up,” AJ said.
Frank stayed down, looking at his own blood.
“Get up!” AJ screamed it this time, then almost lost his balance in a wild kick aimed at Frank’s chest that instead hit the seat above him. The boat was rolling in the windblown chop. Frank got to his feet, fat red drops of blood speckling his jeans.
“Start the engine,” AJ said, shoving him into the seat behind the wheel. “And take us back. We’re almost done.”
Frank turned the key over and the motor growled and then they were in motion, pulling away from the aluminum boat where Nora—ten minutes, ten minutes, ten minutes—waited bound and gagged and alone with King.
A sharp ache cut into Frank’s ribs as AJ leaned forward, pressing the gun against him, and shouted, “Faster!” into his ear. Nothing to do from this position that wouldn’t generate a bullet in the lungs, and the only power Frank controlled—the boat—was useless now, too. If he rolled it or wrecked it and somehow pulled off the miracle of escaping unharmed, King would still be back on the boat with Nora, watching and ready to produce the planned result without the ten-minute wait. Whatever happened would have to happen in the woods, and it would have to happen fast. Frank leaned over the wheel, holding his shirt to his bloody nose, and slammed the boat through the lashing water. As the blood began to clot and the wind tore at his eyes, he tried to coax some insight or reassurance or reminder of old lessons from that voice in his head one more time. None came. The old man had said his piece.
“Slow down and land it,” AJ shouted. There was no real beach on this part of the shore, just trees giving way to rocks. The water was high this early in the year, and some of the smaller trees near the shore were almost submerged, only the tops showing. Frank brought the boat in among them, felt the stern shudder as the prop chewed through some branches. The rain was driving into the trees, swept by that strong western wind. It was going to be a wet, slippery climb to the top of the slope.
“Tie it up,” AJ shouted, pointing at the half-submerged tree just off the bow. “Cut the motor and tie it up!”
Frank got the stern line tied to one of the protruding limbs, but the wind had pushed the boat backward so quickly that the bow was now facing away from the island, toward the thin shape that was the boat with Nora and King.
“All right,” AJ said, tearing the key out of the ignition and sliding it into his pocket. “You lead the way, and stay close.”
Stay close so Ezra would have trouble getting a clean shot. Frank stepped out of the boat and sank up to his waist, would have sunk deeper if his feet hadn’t found a stump. AJ splashed over the side behind him, and then they were both stumbling through the water, pushing branches aside. The water was cold, crawled up through Frank’s legs and into his chest even though he was already drenched from the rain. He slogged through the small trees and stumps, slipping and splashing until he was out of the water except for his feet, facing a muddy slope lined with small saplings that seemed to grow horizontally. Then one more step and his foot touched the gravel bank and he felt like it was coming down on a land mine, that clock—ten minutes, ten minutes, ten minutes—starting to tick back on the boat.
“Start climbing,” AJ said, his breath warm on Frank’s neck. He was staying right at Frank’s back, determined not to give Ezra a shot.
He fought his way up the slope, using the saplings for handholds, his feet sinking into the muck, his brain counting seconds and subtracting them from ten minutes. They got to the top of the hill and stood gasping for breath and staring into dark trees that were shaking with wind and rain. No one in sight.
“Ballard!” AJ shoved Frank forward again, toward the trees, and bellowed the name. “Ezra Ballard, if you hear this, you listen sharp. Out on the boat is the girl from the body shop. Nora, I believe is the name. You know Nora, don’t you?”
They were into the woods now, and AJ paused when a prolonged ripple of thunder threatened to drown out his words. The thunder passed, and after one flash of lightning, he began to shout again.
“The minute we landed, you started to run out of time. That girl’s got ten minutes of life left. Those ten run out, and she takes a bullet right in her beautiful face.”
They were fifty yards into the woods now, walking without purpose, and Frank realized AJ was banking completely on the assumption that Ezra was close enough to hear him. What if he wasn’t, though? They were just going to walk around out here, shouting into the wind, until ten minutes were gone and Nora was dead?
“You can stop that,” AJ yelled. “What I want is Vaughn and Renee! You send them out and this is done. Renee, babe, you hear me? Devin is alive. Devin is alive!”
Eight minutes. That’s what Frank expected they had left. Maybe seven? The climb up the slope might have taken longer than he thought. Either way, it was time to act. He’d been waiting on Ezra, praying for Ezra, but the woods around them were silent except for the rain and the echoes of AJ’s shouts.
“Come on! Let me know you hear me!” AJ screamed it, his voice fading on the last word, and then went quiet and they both listened. There was no sound.
33
__________
What Ezra thought, kneeling in the wet earth beside a fallen pine, was of another word with old tacked on the front of it, the sort that had been tormenting him. Old game. Unlike those phrases that had run through his mind earlier, this one wasn’t a negative, had no doubts chasing it. Instead, it was an old of familiarity, as in old friend.
Old game meant Ezra knew the game. Had played it well. Few were better at it, in fact, and this son of a bitch shouting into the trees wasn’t going to be one of them. There were no doubts now, because there were no decisions to make. Only one outcome would work.
“Seven minutes!” Another shout. “That’s how long you’ve got to cooperate!”
To cooperate? No, friend, you do not understand. The seven minutes may be accurate, and important, but the cooperation? Not a part of the game that I play. Those minutes mean something altogether different to me.
How long I have to kill y
our friend on the boat.
The shouting man and Frank were already twenty yards behind Ezra and Vaughn and pushing farther away, walking in a straight line and making so much noise that there was no way they could hear anyone around them. Ezra might have taken a shot if he’d had to, but the one thing this guy did that was smart was stay pressed against Frank, preventing a clean line of fire. That was all right, though. If the time limit was honest, then the guy who mattered most wasn’t in the woods anyhow. He was back in the boat with Nora, well out of handgun range.
A damn good thing, then, that this idiot had just ferried Ezra’s rifle back across the lake and left it behind in the boat.
He let them push on, still shouting, for another fifteen steps, and then turned back to Vaughn, who was stretched out on his face in the wet leaves and dirt. Ezra nudged him with the toe of his boot, and Vaughn lifted a mud-streaked face.
“I’m going to the boat. You’re staying here.”
Vaughn had a wild, unfocused look, the one he’d been wearing ever since Ezra had told him that he would not kill Devin, that he would not preserve these lies for Renee.
“Stay here,” Ezra repeated. “If he comes back, shoot him.”
“No, don’t—” But Ezra was already moving, taking advantage of another roll of thunder that offered some additional sound cover. He moved on his belly, using his knees and forearms, a quiet and fast crawl that had saved his life more than once. Saved his old life, saved old Ezra.
They walked deep into the woods with AJ shouting out a constant stream of threats and explanations, intimidation and coercion. None of it got a response. The rain was falling harder than ever, slapping through the trees beneath steady rolls of thunder. When the lake was out of sight, AJ grabbed a fistful of Frank’s shirt and shoved, pointing him so they were now walking north, parallel to the shore.
“You start talking now,” AJ said. “Make that old bastard hear you. Only a couple minutes left.”
AJ was right; there couldn’t be much time left at all—three minutes, maybe—and still Frank hadn’t made a move, just walked along and waited as if some great opportunity were going to present itself. That wasn’t going to happen.
“I said talk,” AJ hissed.
“Ezra!” Frank called, and his voice sounded wooden and too soft. He shouted louder. “Ezra, if you can hear us, answer, or people are going to die. Nora’s back there on that boat. Answer us!”
The answer Frank wanted Ezra to provide was a bullet right between AJ’s eyes, but neither it nor a verbal response was offered.
“Old man is going to let her die,” AJ said. “You believe that shit?”
Frank started to yell again, then stopped, his eyes going toward a spot fifty feet ahead. The ground seemed to give way there, dipped down a short, steep hill and then rose again on the other side, a sort of sinkhole. It was the best spot he’d have, and he shifted slightly to the left, walking toward it, AJ so distracted by searching the trees that he didn’t notice or, if he did, didn’t react. The hole would give Frank a chance. Make a move on AJ right now and his first instinct would be to fire. With the gun pressed against his spine, that wasn’t an instinct Frank wanted to encourage. Make a move that started a fall, though, and do it fast enough, and the shooting response might not be AJ’s first instinct. Catching himself, stopping the fall, would come first. Right?
Better be right. If it wasn’t, then Frank was dead.
“Keep talking,” AJ said. His voice was tense and he jerked his head around constantly, peering into every shadow, shaking rain out of his eyes, his confidence slipping. These dark woods were not home to him. His sort of killing was done in different places, under streetlights and in alleys and at construction sites. He didn’t like it out here, didn’t trust himself the same way in this environment. Good.
“Ezra, damn it, answer us!” Frank shouted, completely unaware of the words leaving his mouth, focused instead on a quick mental rehearsal, choreographing the move he was going to need to make.
AJ was behind him, holding the gun against Frank’s back. That was okay, though. He’d done it this way before, down in that basement in Chicago, his father coaching him through the steps. This was the normal position, the way you held a gun on somebody when you were sure he couldn’t take it away from you. Stand behind him and jam the gun into his back and you had the illusion of total power and control. No way the guy in front could move fast enough to take the gun from you, right? No way.
It could be done, though, had been done before.
Take the gun away from me, Frank. Come on, kid, too slow. You don’t have a chance. You know how many times you’d have died already, trying this? So slow, so slow. Come on, try again. Oh, shit, almost had it that time.
They’d practiced it over and over until Frank could pull it off every time, one of his father’s favorite routines because it showcased Frank’s speed, and Frank Temple II had loved his son’s speed. Today the circumstances were right, too. AJ was standing against Frank’s back, thinking that this was the proper approach because he was using Frank for protection, for a shield. It was also keeping him close, though, and close was where Frank needed him to be.
They were closing in on that dip in the earth, a simple, unimpressive slope that held Nora’s best chance at life. The drop-off was in full view now, and Frank saw it was maybe ten feet from top to bottom. It would be a simple step sideways and a sweep of his right arm and leg, have to do it damn fast, but if he pulled it off he could send AJ down the slope.
Your gun is on his back. Tucked in his belt on his back, and if you make a perfect grab, you might get it. Don’t even worry about the gun in his hand. Just get him in front of you and headed down the hill and then go for the gun in his belt.
The drop-off was just in front of them, almost there, but AJ was pulling him away from it now. Shit, he couldn’t let that happen, needed the hill. Frank stopped, bringing AJ up with him, and pointed into the trees.
“What?” AJ said.
“Somebody moving, I think. I don’t know . . .” Frank started walking again, toward the imaginary source of noise, and AJ followed. They were walking alongside the drop-off, and Frank’s pulse was drilling away but his breathing seemed frozen. Four more steps, now two, now one . . .
In the end, he didn’t go with the move he’d rehearsed in his mind, that sidestep and sweep. It had sounded good, sounded like the only thing to try, but in the second that he moved, instinct took over and some subconscious part of his brain told him it wasn’t going to work. Instead of sidestepping he simply spun, a full, fast pivot that took his back away from the gun as he lifted his left arm and held it out straight and kept on turning, caught AJ across the shoulder and drove him forward.
It turned out he’d been wrong; AJ’s first instinct still was to fire. The gun went off a half second after Frank had spun away from it, tore through the air inches from his flesh. Then his arm hit and knocked AJ toward the drop-off. They were a step too far away, and AJ might have been able to recover if Frank hadn’t gotten a foot against the back of his knee as well, ruining any chance of balance he’d had left. AJ stumbled and fell and there was the gun in his belt, right there, all Frank had to do was reach out and . . .
He got it. His fingers closed on the stock and then AJ was gone and tumbling through the wet leaves and broken branches to the bottom and the Smith & Wesson was out of Frank’s left hand and into his right and lifted and aimed.
For one fleeting second, he waited. Just long enough for AJ to land at the bottom of the drop-off and turn back to Frank and start to lift his own weapon. Frank let all of that happen, let him get that close, and then he squeezed the trigger once and killed him with a single round below his right eye socket.
34
__________
They’d been alone on the boat for maybe five minutes before King began to talk to Nora.
“Uh-oh,” he said, turning back to her with a slight smile. He’d been standing, or trying to stand, in the pitching
boat and watching AJ and Frank head off.
“Know where they are now, baby? On the shore. And you know what that means.” He tilted his wrist, looked at it, and then frowned. “Damn. Look who forgot his watch. That’s no good. How am I going to know when ten minutes go by?”
He leaned close to her, and she tried to slide away but found it impossible with both hands and feet bound. His face, long and angular and covered with rough stubble, was against hers, his breath on her cheek.
“I’ll have to guess,” he said. “You know, estimate? I was always bad at that, though. Thought five minutes felt like ten.”
The wind rose again in a hard gust, and the boat rolled. He put out his hand to catch himself, falling almost on top of her, his legs heavy against hers. Somewhere in her stomach liquid churned, threatening to rise. No, no, no, she couldn’t be sick, not with that tape over her mouth. Get sick and she’d choke on it, die, make this even easier on him.
“Look at that,” King said, pushing her sideways, running his fingertips along her forearm, over the bruises he’d left two days earlier. “Little love marks. They from me? I bet they are.”
She was stretched out on the seat, and he was on his knees now in the bottom of the boat, not even looking at the island, just staring into her face as the wind pulled his shirt tight across his chest and the rain dripped down his face and onto hers. He reached out and took her hair in his hand, squeezed hard enough to make her eyes sting.
“It was dumb-shit luck that kid showed up when he did. Too bad, because we were going to have some fun, you and I. Might still have some.” He rocked his hand left to right, jerking her head sideways. “I take that tape off your mouth, we could have some serious fun. But you might be a biter. Yeah, I could see that. You’re the type, aren’t you? Angry little bitch. So maybe that tape stays.”
Envy the Night Page 28
