“Ike, get out there and tell the rest of the boys to comb the entire place for Berringer,” Cavanaugh said. “And tell them to take their time, no stone unturned and all that. I want time to question her without anyone around. Remember, just me, you, and Ernie on this.”
“Right.”
Cavanaugh went to the bed, loomed over the girl. “You gave us some trouble there, didn’t you? Led us on a merry chase.”
She worked her mouth, struggling to make words. “Fuh … fug … you.”
“You’re a real spitfire,” Cavanaugh said. “But I know ways to take the piss out of you real quick. And we can make this an all-day thing if you want. Just try me. I’m a patient man, but you’ve used up just about all of it. Test me and see.”
* * *
Francis ducked inside the barn and made sure the door was completely closed before switching on the light. He remembered what Emma had said about already packing the Pontiac’s trunk and hoped it meant what he thought it meant. He found the keys in the ignition, grabbed them, and circled back to the trunk and opened it.
On one side of the trunk sat a big, olive drab canvas duffel bag with zippers. All the way on the other side was the alligator suitcase. Right in the middle was the footlocker Francis had been hoping to see. He opened it and scanned the assortment of weaponry.
He took a pass on the automatics. He understood you put the bullets in the handle, but after that he wasn’t sure enough of his ability to mess with them. He’d been a pretty crappy marksman with the revolver, but at least he’d loaded it several times while trying it out and felt comfortable with that much. He swung out the cylinder. Loaded. Good. He clicked the cylinder back into place and set it aside for a moment.
Then he dug deeper into the footlocker for the shotgun. He opened a box of shells, tried to load, but his hands shook, palms sweaty. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His heart beat so fast he felt it in his stomach and all over his body. He pulsed with nervous energy. His face felt like it was burning up.
He took one more deep breath, then thumbed in the double-aught shells one by one. He snatched a canvas bandolier out of the footlocker, filled it with more shells, and then slung it over his head and across his shoulder.
The idea of wading back into the fog and pumping buckshot in random directions was a nonstarter. Francis needed a plan. He could—and probably should—save himself.
I could just take off.
He discarded the notion immediately. He was going back for Emma. Case closed.
He cracked the barn door open a half inch and peeked out into the fog. A shape slowly resolved as it came. Another second and details snapped into focus. It was one of Cavanaugh’s flunkies, the bald one. He had a pistol out and walked straight toward Francis.
Francis backed into the barn, shut the light off, positioned himself, and waited.
And waited.
For a second, Francis wondered if the thug had wandered off somewhere else, but a moment later, the barn door creaked open. He eased in, gun up, squinting into the shadows.
Francis leaped forward and slammed the butt of the shotgun against the side of the guy’s head. He grunted and went down but began muttering obscenities immediately. Francis hadn’t put his full strength into the blow, was squeamish about cracking the guy’s head open, but he swung again harder, striking the man at the base of the skull. This time he went down and stayed down.
Francis grabbed the man’s pistol and flung it across the barn. He searched the guy’s pockets in case he had another gun. He didn’t, but Francis did find something he thought might be useful. He put it in his pocket.
He dragged him by the ankles to a spot between the truck and the tractor and tossed the tarp over him that had previously covered the Pontiac.
Francis took stock of the other things in the barn, and slowly a terrible plan came together, but it was the best terrible plan he could think of on short notice.
* * *
“Where is it?” Cavanaugh asked.
The girl lay bound on the bed, stabbing Cavanaugh with eye daggers.
“Once I get it, Middleton wants you gone,” Cavanaugh said. “You know that, right?”
Something in her face shifted. Yeah, she’d known, but it was something else to hear it. Few people can hear we’re going to kill you and not feel it. This was when Cavanaugh needed to drive his point home. You’ve got one chance to save yourself, little girl.
“So this is a foregone conclusion,” Cavanaugh said. “You’re dead. And there’s not one thing you can do about.” A slight shrug. “Unless maybe … there is?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re listening now, huh? You give me what I want, and I let you go. Simple.”
“Why?” she asked.
“So you can live, you dumb shit,” Cavanaugh told her. “Aren’t you listening?”
“I mean, why do you want it?”
“You convinced us it was valuable,” Cavanaugh said. “Valuable enough to take it for ourselves and sell it to the highest bidder and tell Middleton to piss off.”
“I don’t believe you’ll let me go,” she said.
“Believe what you like, but if you don’t help, and we rip this house apart and find it, I’m going to remember you didn’t help. In any case, we’re about to go from the conversation part of this to the coercion part. All roads lead to the same place. How long of a trip is up to you. And maybe after you tell us where it is, you might have some ideas how to sell it. The more useful things you think of to tell us, the longer we keep you around. These are all things to ponder.”
“Loosen this up.” She lifted her hands, indicating the cord around her wrists. “My hands and feet are going numb.”
“Tough shit.”
“I’m serious. They’re going numb.”
“You’re going to wish all of you was numb in a minute.” He took a small pocketknife from his pocket and opened it.
Cavanaugh bent over her, brought the point of the little blade to within an inch of her eye. “I need you to talk. Don’t really need you to see.”
She turned her head away, tried to scoot across the bed, but he grabbed her by the face, brought her back to meet his gaze. He lay the flat of the blade against her cheek, the cold metal making her flinch.
Then he put the tip of the blade through her nose ring, gave it a gentle tug. “Or maybe this needs to come out. What do you think about a little amateur surgery?”
She froze, waited to see what he’d do.
Cavanaugh folded the knife and returned it to his pants pocket. “Maybe we’ll work up to that. Let’s start out the old-fashioned way.”
He cranked his hand back, then brought it down hard, slapped her face with a loud pop of skin on skin. The girl’s eyes filled with tears, but she stuck her chin out, teeth grinding, expression defiant.
“Where is it?”
She said nothing.
Cavanaugh grabbed a fistful of her shirt, pulled her halfway into a sitting position, and slapped her back down again. The left side of her face flared an angry red.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s gone.”
“Wrong answer.”
This time he punched her square in the mouth, just a light pop but enough to bloody a lip.
“You can make it stop,” he reminded her. “Just say the word.”
She spit at him. Blood and saliva ran down the side of his nose.
“Fucking bitch.”
He punched hard this time, getting his shoulder into it, catching her right across the jaw and spinning her head around. She went limp all over as if someone had unplugged her, fell back, arms flopping lifelessly.
* * *
Ernie looked in the mirror above the sink and dabbed at the scratches with cotton balls. They came away pink. He put rubbing alcohol on the next cotton ball and continued to dab. It stung. A lot. He hissed in breath and dabbed until he figured the wounds had been sanitized enough.
&nbs
p; He turned his head side to side, examining the scratches from different angles. They weren’t as deep as he’d thought at first. He hoped they wouldn’t scar.
He unzipped and started pissing. He thought he heard some noises coming from the room down the hall and figured Cavanaugh had started in on the girl. He hoped Cavanaugh knew what he was doing. Middleton paid well, and up until this current job tracking down the girl, it had been easy work. Ernie just wasn’t able to get fully comfortable with this. He liked to keep things simple. Follow orders. Collect a paycheck. Cavanaugh had made a good case, and Ernie had agreed to go along with the plan, but doubts still nagged him.
Ernie shook, zipped up, and flushed.
He opened the bathroom door and—
A guy was standing there. A shotgun rested lazily on one shoulder. For a tenth of a second, Ernie thought it was one of the new guys. It wasn’t. Recognition hit him like a rubber band snapping back.
It was Berringer.
Ernie’s hand flashed into his jacket for his pistol, but he was too slow.
Berringer jabbed something into his chest. There was a buzzing crackle and a blue flash, and in a blinding moment, every part of Ernie’s body was on fire. His teeth vibrated in his head.
The room tilted violently, and Ernie realized he was stumbling backward, legs like noodles. His arms flailed, looking for something to grab on to. Gravity beckoned. The back of his legs hit the bathtub, and he tumbled backward, grabbing on to the shower curtain as he went down. There was a pop pop pop pop pop pop as the curtain ripped loose from each of the rings. His tailbone hit the bottom of the tub hard, the curtain falling down on top of him.
He tried to push the curtain off him. His arm felt like lead. He could barely lift it, but with a huge effort, he pushed the shower curtain aside.
Just in in time to see Berringer leaning into the tub. Ernie uselessly tried to turn away, but Berringer jabbed the stun gun into Ernie’s neck. Another crackle and a blue flash.
And then everything went dark.
20
Francis left the one with the shaggy mustache unconscious in the bathtub. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder by the strap before backing out of the bathroom. The shotgun had been a poor choice for inside the house. Even with the stock folded, it was cumbersome in doorways and narrow halls. In any case, he wanted to keep one hand free for the stun gun. He didn’t want to shoot anyone. He wasn’t a killer.
Still, he pulled the revolver before heading down the hall.
He paused at the bedroom door, cocked his head to listen. He definitely heard movement coming from within, then a man’s voice pitched low. Francis twisted the doorknob, not making a sound.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
Francis shoved the door open, rushing into the room in the same motion.
Emma lay on the bed. Cavanaugh leaned over her, shaking her by the shoulders, but his head came up when Francis entered. Cavanaugh’s expression shifted from annoyed to suddenly worried when he saw the revolver in Francis’s fist.
“Take it easy, kid,” Cavanaugh said.
Francis lifted the revolver, pointed it at Cavanaugh’s face. “Get away from her.” He thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. He kept his hand with the stun gun low and behind his leg.
Cavanaugh stood straight and took a step back from the bed. “Take. It. Easy.”
“Go over there.” Francis waved the revolver to a spot across the room. In order to get there, Cavanaugh would have to walk right past him, and then Francis would put him down with the stun gun.
Cavanaugh moved slowly. “You’re in way over your head, kid. If I were you, I’d want to talk this over so everyone can get out of this in one piece. I got a bunch of guys outside. Shoot me in the head, yeah, sucks for me, but it doesn’t help you. They’ll hear the shot and swarm in here, and then you’re done. The girl too.”
“Just keep moving.”
When Cavanaugh passed in front of him, Francis brought the stun gun up fast. Cavanaugh had been ready, grabbed Francis’s wrist. With his other hand, he grabbed the pistol, pushed it away.
Francis tried to pull away, but Cavanaugh stepped in, brought a knee up hard into Francis’s groin. Pain flared in his testicles, and it took every bit of Francis’s willpower to resist the need to drop and curl into the fetal position. His face went hot, nausea rising up.
They bounced around the room, holding on to each other, each trying to get the upper hand. They banged into the desk and the dresser, knocking over baseball trophies. Their legs tangled, and both went down, Cavanaugh ending up on top.
Francis tried to bring the stun gun up, but Cavanaugh had the angle and put all his weight into holding Francis’s arm down. But this meant the hand holding the revolver at bay was in a weaker position. Francis began to twist his hand, and slowly the barrel swung even with Cavanaugh’s left eye.
“Shit!” Cavanaugh let go of Francis’s other arm so he could push the barrel of the revolver away.
Francis jammed the stun gun under Cavanaugh’s chin and thumbed the trigger.
Zap.
Cavanaugh went rigid a split second, then fell limp across Francis’s body. He groaned but didn’t move. Francis pushed him off, then zapped him again.
“Fucker!”
He zapped him a third time. Cavanaugh lay still.
“Sh-shoot … him,” came a weak voice. “Shoot…”
Emma lay still on the bed, one eye open but glassy. “Kill … kill him.”
Francis ignored her and lurched to his feet. The ache in his balls was going to slow him down, but it was already beginning to ebb.
He unbuckled the belt around Emma’s ankles, then untied the cord around her wrists. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”
She muttered something unintelligible.
The urge to simply wait and rest nearly seduced him. He hurt, and Emma was obviously in no shape to go anywhere. Maybe he could just lie down next to her, just for a few seconds.
But there were still men out there with guns, and soon they’d lose the fog.
“Emma, please. Come on.”
He put one of her arms around his neck, lifted her off the bed. Part of her must have been listening, because she tried to stand for him but nearly collapsed when her feet hit the floor. She groaned and flopped back on the bed.
“Can’t … can’t feel my feet.”
She fought hard to stay conscious, eyes trying to focus on him.
Francis retrieved the shotgun, slung it over his shoulder, stuck the stun gun into his back pocket. “Easy, Emma. I’ve got you.”
He bent and gathered her up, shifted her weight, then heaved her onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Thank God she’s thin. I need to start working out.
He wrapped one arm around her bare legs to hold her steady, revolver up in the other hand, and headed down the hall. By the time he made it to the kitchen, his legs already felt weak, partially because of the knee to the balls, partially because of Emma’s weight.
If I put her down, I’ll never get her up again.
He opened the kitchen door and stuck his head out. The fog was still thick. The others were out there somewhere, looking for him. They would search the barn as a matter of course, but that’s just where Francis had to go. Luck. He just needed a little luck.
He nudged the door open the rest of the way and headed out through the fog, ears straining to hear a voice or a footfall or any warning at all the thugs were nearby. He circled the barn to the smaller side door, paused to listen.
A sharp pain spread from his shoulder blades, and he shifted Emma’s weight slightly. He’d need to set her down soon, but he forced himself to move slowly. He opened the door a couple of inches, stopped again to listen, then eased the door open the rest of the way and entered, pulling it closed softly behind him.
The lights were on, and he froze. He tried to remember if he’d shut them off or not. He had. He started backing toward the door but stopped himself. No, the ligh
ts being on was a good thing. It meant they’d been here and searched and left.
His eyes darted around the interior of the barn. He hoped they’d left.
Francis took the narrow path between the GTO and the tractor, circling around to the other side of the Pontiac. He opened the door. He bent, grunting, and gently lay Emma in the back seat. It was a relief to put her down. He rubbed his shoulder and neck.
Emma muttered something. She tried to lift her head, fighting to stay conscious, eyes blinking and trying to focus.
“It’s okay now,” Francis whispered. “We’ll be out of here soon. Just sleep.”
Wait, what did they say to do if somebody had a concussion? Maybe he was supposed to keep her awake. How did one even diagnose a concussion anyway? Something with eye dilating, Francis thought. He couldn’t quite remember.
Because he was fucking useless.
Stop panicking, Francis told himself. And keep moving.
He reached in and buckled the seat belts around her as best he could. There wouldn’t be time to do it later.
He circled back to the other side of the car and turned his attention to the tractor. Yet another thing he didn’t know a thing about—starting a tractor. He hoped it wasn’t complicated. He’d mowed his grandmother’s lawn with a riding mower when he was in high school. It couldn’t be more difficult than that, could it?
While he pondered the tractor, something else nagged at him. Something was … missing?
He looked down at the floor. The tarp was there. The bald thug wasn’t.
Francis turned quickly to run back to—
The fist hit him square between the eyes. His vision filled with stars exploding like fireworks. He staggered back into the tractor, bruising his back on some jutting piece of machinery, then rolled away, trying to blink his vision clear.
He sensed the bald thug coming forward. Francis reached into his back pocket and came out with the stun gun. He waved it wildly in front of him, thumbing the trigger, the blue light spitting and popping. His ears rang. He blinked and cleared his vision just in time to see the bald one rushing him.
No Good Deed Page 14
