Acoustic Shadows (16 page)

‘I knowed you’re in here. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. You just need to come with me and answer for some things.’

He slid the gun out of the holster as he checked the kitchen, then began to make his way toward the back of the house.

Erica saw Coody’s shadow coming down the narrow hallway. She moved quickly out of the bedroom and slid into the utility area leading to the back door, where Moral had surprised her earlier. She began to turn the knob, trying not to make noise with the handcuffs dangling from her wrist, but felt some resistance, as if someone on the other side was turning it the opposite way.

On the other side of the door, Eduardo wondered why the doorknob resisted. It had begun to turn, then stopped, as if a ghost had grabbed it. He felt sweat trickle from his scalp and down his neck.

Coody moved down the hall and spied the opening to the utility room. He heard a metallic click. He flattened against the wall and inched toward the sound, edging toward the opening. He gripped the .45 in both hands, extended his arms, and aimed as he held his breath and jumped into the doorway.

Eduardo won the tug of war on the doorknob and pulled it open.

Erica fell through the open door and spilled out into the yard as Coody, surprised by the commotion, fired the first shot into the darkness, momentarily lighting up the claustrophobic utility room. The echo of the blast was deafening in the small space. The bullet missed Eduardo, who quickly drew his own gun and shot into the tiny room, the
thwick
of the silenced gun muzzle lighting up the tiny room a second time, long enough to see the surprised look on Coody’s face.

‘Wha’?’ Coody grunted, feeling a heated pressure in his chest. He fired off another shot as he fell forward, shot through the heart, his forehead banging the side of the washing machine with a
gong
.

Erica removed her hands from her ears and looked up from the dew-dampened grass. She saw a flashy dressed Hispanic man, several gold necklaces glinting from his unbuttoned shirt, his pointy, basket-weave shoes in her face. A silencer on his gun.

The sound of people running through the front yard and crashing into the house sifted back to them. A door was kicked in and glass shattered, shoes scuffled on the terrazzo floor. Eduardo turned his attention to Erica, a grin stretched across his tanned face, a wisp of smoke dripped out the barrel of his gun. ‘The Esperanzas send their love,’ he purred.

Erica couldn’t afford to hesitate. She lunged and jabbed the kitchen knife into Eduardo’s thigh, feeling it hit bone.

He screamed as Erica jumped to her feet, grabbed his arm, and sunk her teeth into his wrist. Unable to maintain his grip, he dropped the gun, then backhanded Erica across the face, knocking her back onto the ground. He instinctively grabbed his stiletto with his other hand and flipped out the long, thin blade. It gleamed like a wolf’s eye in the pale, grey light. Scooping the Sig off the ground, Erica rolled onto her back and pointed the pistol at Eduardo. He stopped as if evaluating the situation. She rose to her feet, careful to keep the shaking barrel pointed at her attacker. Before she could pull the trigger, Coody’s posse arrived and discovered their fearless leader.

‘What the fuck?’ one of them yelled. Then, ‘Hey, there’s a guy out back.’

Someone flicked on the outside floodlight, simultaneously illuminating and blinding Eduardo. Erica was just outside the perimeter of light and took advantage of the distraction. She turned and ran on legs wobbly with fear and weak from feverish wounds. She stumbled forward, pushing her way through Brazilian pepper trees and crepe myrtle bushes that naturally fenced the backyard. Hearing another shot, she turned and peered through the foliage, just in time to see Eduardo fall to the ground. More of Coody’s friends rushed into the backyard. She saw a flash of metal gleam in the yellow light as Eduardo, knowing he was done for, boldly threw his stiletto, striking one of the men in his protruding abdomen. The man looked at the blade as if wondering what it was, then raised his own gun, and shot Eduardo in the face.

Erica was transfixed, her mouth hanging open, gasping for breath. She heard more running, someone coming across the grass through the neighbour’s yard. People began turning on porch lights and she could hear, ‘What’s going on out there?’ and ‘I’m calling the police.’

Alejandro burst through the bushes just a few feet away from her and, seeing his brother lying on the ground, half his face gone, went into a wild rage. There were a half dozen men standing in the yard when Alejandro opened up with the Drako. The weapon lit the night like a beam from a police chopper. Blood sprayed as his bullets found targets and they began to fall. A few of the wounded managed to get their guns out and began firing wildly at Alejandro.

Erica watched the elevating carnage for another few seconds, then turned to hobble away in the direction the last shooter had come from. She emerged onto the street, looked one way, and saw the balance of the truck posse running into the deadly house with guns drawn, rebel yells echoing into the chaotic night. She looked the other way and saw a car sitting at the corner of the next street, its door hanging open, the inside lights on. No one was sitting inside, and the motor was running. She limped toward it and jumped into the driver’s seat, closing and locking the door behind her. Her wounds throbbed, the stitches pinched as if someone was pulling them tighter. The car’s inside light faded out, and she sat in darkness and began to breathe again, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She looked down and found the Sig in her hand, its barrel still warm. On the passenger seat was another gun, a huge one with a gaping barrel that looked as though she could fit her whole hand in.

Two jackets were strewn across the seat as well. She picked them up and checked the pockets. A fat cowhide wallet fell out with a
plop
in her lap. She opened it and found a Mexican driving licence that belonged to Eduardo Lopez. She squinted at the photo and realized he’d been the man who had pointed the gun at her in the backyard. Inside the billfold was a thick wad of money. She checked the second jacket and found another wallet filled with cash and an ID for Alejandro Lopez.
Killer brothers
, she thought.
How original
. So, now she had their money and their guns. With those, she could get anything else she needed.

A GPS screen was on the monitor on the car’s dash. Erica looked at the screen and could see the route the car had taken. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, the handcuffs still dangling from one wrist.

The places where she was supposed to be safe from harm had all turned into places of danger. The man who was supposed to protect her had sold her out. She listened to the distant gunfire – acoustic shadows – again. The sounds of battle surprisingly much clearer, now, than when she was in the middle of it. Anger filled her, body and soul, as she closed her eyes. The faces of her loved ones floated by like the ghosts they were. She could not think clearly. She could not think at all, in fact, so she let her instincts take over; they told her to follow the route the car had taken. She was tired of running and hiding. Maybe the path would lead her to the men hunting her. If it did, then she could kill them, or die trying. She had nothing to lose. Nothing at all.

Thiery made it to Guava Lane in just over twelve minutes. Headlights charged at him as he bumped over the dirt road, and a green Chrysler 300 sped past, careening close enough to knock his car’s side mirror askew, then fishtailed onto the main road, and was gone. Thiery had caught a glimpse of the driver, a blonde woman, her eyes wide with fear, wrestling the car’s steering wheel as if it were alive.

About a half-dozen men wearing either John Deere caps or straw cowboy hats with the edges turned down, raced between the house and a cluster of parked trucks along the road, guns blazing. Thiery caught one man in the headlights. The man turned and fired off a wild shot. Thiery ducked as he heard the bullet ricochet off the roof of his car. He braked, flung open the door, pulled his own weapon, and yelled, ‘Police Officer! Drop your weapon.’

He was encouraged when, in the brief silence that followed, he heard sirens approaching.
Hopefully more cops with more guns and not the Johnny-on-the-spot county rescue guys who showed up with little more than a box of medical supplies
.

Ahead, the man in the street dropped his weapon to the ground as one of his friends appeared with his own gun. ‘I got yer back, Sonny,’ the newcomer declared, pumping a round into his shotgun, the barrel facing down.

‘You level that weapon at me, friend,’ Thiery addressed him, ‘and I’ll shoot you dead.’

‘It’s a cop, Bubba,’ Sonny cautioned, his hands held high above his head. ‘Best put yer gun down.’

Bubba slowly bent and placed the shotgun gingerly on the ground, his eyes never leaving Thiery’s. As he returned to a standing position, he held his palms flat and facing forward.

‘Your friends on the lawn, too,’ Thiery nodded and gestured with the barrel of the gun. ‘Tell them to drop their weapons.’

The men complied.

‘Now,’ Thiery said, holding his gun pointed at Sonny and Bubba, while continuously sweeping the rest of the crowd with his eyes, ‘someone want to tell me what’s going on here?’

The two men glanced at each other like kids caught writing on bathroom walls. A few of the trucks cranked up suddenly, and attempted to do three-point turns, trying to flee the small, tight road, rooster tails of dirt kicking up behind. One became stuck; another backed into a nearby canal in a scene that might have been comical if it weren’t filled with weapon-wielding drunks.

Sonny spoke up, his breath coming in gasps. ‘We was driving around lookin’ for that gun-totin’ teacher that ran away from the hospital, you know, tryin’ to he’p out, ’cuz the cops and all are lookin’ for her. But, when we got here, Ellis Coody went up to the house and someone … heh, hee.’ He started to cry, much to Thiery’s disbelief. ‘Someone shot ol’ Ellis,’ he managed, before breaking down and sobbing.

‘Coody’s shot?’ said Thiery. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s out back,’ said Bubba. ‘We called 911, but I think it’s too late for him.’ Then, almost like an afterthought, he added, ‘There’s a dead spic back there, too, and another crazy one with a machine gun.’

Just then, the fireworks inside the house erupted again, and Thiery immediately recognized the unmistakable sounds of a semi-automatic. What remained of Coody’s posse abandoned position and, with an extreme lack of grace, dived behind Thiery’s car.

‘You men stay here,’ Thiery ordered. ‘Tell the cops what you told me when they arrive. If fire rescue shows up, tell them to stand back until we’ve secured the scene. Got it?’

The two men nodded, then lowered their heads as if ashamed.

Thiery grabbed a portable radio from a charger in his car and flicked it on. When he raised dispatch, he identified himself and gave them a brief synopsis, adding there were armed men on the scene and at least two men down. Call all nearby units,’ he instructed, ‘and have them respond
yesterday
, understand?’

He checked his gun quickly – a Glock 21, department-issued, .45 calibre, bad guy stopper – and felt for the two extra thirteen-round clips he carried on his belt. That gave him thirty-nine rounds. If he needed more than that, he thought, he really should retire. He ran to the house, hugged the first wall he came to, and cautiously inched around the corner. Bullets smacked the walls and chunks of cinder-block broke off the house like styrofoam chunks. He wished he had taken the time to don his Kevlar, but he was committed, now.

Peeking into the backyard, he saw flames coming from a gun at the perimeter like a tiny dragon spitting fire. A yellow light illuminated bodies lying about, patterns of blood soaking their clothing. Thiery watched for any signs of life, but didn’t see any. That was good to know in case he had to launch a full bore attack; he wouldn’t have to worry about civilians getting hit.

The dragon quit spitting fire. Out of the shadow and into the pale yellow glow of the porch light, a man emerged, carrying an assault rifle at the ready. Hispanic, tall, well dressed, with a loaded shoulder holster. He stepped out confidently, swinging the gun side to side, looking for, but finding no other targets. He nudged a few of the bodies with his elegant leather shoes. He stopped and lingered over the figure that looked like him. His shoulders slumped, a shiny streak visible on his face.

A dollop of sweat slid down Thiery’s nose and dripped off. He could
hear
it hit the ground and hoped the other man could not. He took a slow, quiet breath, locked his arms, and aimed his gun at the man with the assault rifle.

‘Police officer!’ he shouted. ‘Drop the weapon. Now!’

The man sniffed and glanced up casually, letting his eyes focus. He rolled his head around on his neck, like a crazed bobblehead trying to form a thought.

Alejandro remembered a time when he and Eduardo had attended a birthday fiesta. They were ten and twelve. It was Eduardo’s turn to put on the blindfold and strike at the piñata, a colourful
toro
so full of treats it had taken two men to hoist it on the rope that held it aloft.

Eduardo swung and missed. Twice. But on the third try, he connected, and the paper bull’s stomach exploded open. Candy and treats rained down, reflecting the orange light of the late afternoon so they looked like sweet comets flying everywhere. Eduardo struggled to remove his blindfold. When he finally did, he had to scramble for what little candy was left. As he grabbed for the few remaining pieces, another boy pushed him out of the way and took the treats from him. Having witnessed the incident, Alejandro strode into the mix and punched the young thief in the face, spraying blood onto the other kids and the empty husk of the piñata. Then he handed the thief’s candy to his little brother.

‘Put down your weapon!’ Thiery repeated.

Alejandro gripped his weapon, his finger tight on the trigger.

Thiery saw the man’s arm begin to tense and knew he wasn’t going to give it up. He did not hesitate. He was already locked in on his target: committed. His breathing stopped, held, and he applied the pressure on his own trigger. The round sparked off Alejandro’s weapon as he raised it, then buried itself in his chest with a meaty
slap
. Thiery fired twice more, putting together a small triangular pattern in the man’s chest. A bullet riddled genuflection:
Father, Son, Holy Ghost
.

Alejandro went limp and crumpled on top of his brother.

Thiery kept his gun ahead of him, ready to fire. He glanced around the yard as he approached the now dead Lopez brothers. He admired the Sig Sauer still in Alejandro’s shoulder holster, the silencer sticking out the bottom. He checked the pockets for identification. None. This man wasn’t part of some redneck posse coming to fetch Erica Weisz. Neither was the man with the uncanny family resemblance beneath him. These were professionals. The realization brought Thiery back to his original idea: the school shooting was more than it seemed.

There was no movement, save the tops of the crepe myrtles bending in the night’s soft breeze. Thiery could smell sulphur and blood and spilled stomach contents. Over the ringing in his ears he could hear the last of the pickup trucks vacating the scene even as the wail of sirens grew closer. Apparently, Sonny and Bubba, and the rest of the posse hadn’t wanted to stick around. He checked the pulses on each of the six bodies he found, including the one in the utility room: Coody Sr. They were as still as mannequins. He was sure he would not find Erica Weisz alive.

Thiery moved cautiously through the rest of the tiny house, though his gut told him he was alone, or at least, the only one living. He found the bedroom where Erica had been held captive. He saw the broken, scuffed rail on the headboard and wondered if someone had been tied or handcuffed to it. He checked the closet and found clothes and bloody running shoes.
She always wore running shoes.
Wasn’t that what Sally Ravich had scrawled in her note? And the bartender had said the same thing.

In the bathroom, he found bloody dressings in the wastebasket, along with an empty IV bag, and Amoxicillin vial, syringes, and an empty bottle of Miss Clairol #98 Natural Extra Light Neutral Blonde. A thought flashed into his head. The woman he saw flying past in the Chrysler 300. He closed his eyes and tried to freeze-frame her face. The eyes had been wild with fear, the hair blonde, not black like her employee picture. But the shape of the face, the urgency in which she was fleeing the scene …
Who else could it have been
? He cursed himself for not getting a tag number. He concentrated.
Was that a barcode in the rear window of that car?
That would indicate it might be a rental. If so, it could be traced back to one of the rental agencies. Even without the coded number, he could check for who rented a bottle-green 300 Chrysler. It would be time-consuming, but it might pay off with a name.

He was sure Erica Weisz had been there. He was also sure she was in bad shape and had to get out of there fast, because she’d left without clothes and medical supplies.

Then, he found her purse. Inside was a Florida driving licence with Erica’s picture, next to the name Christine Angel.
Chris Angel. Another magician.
Thiery was now convinced his hunch was right.
Why and how would she obtain another identity so quickly if she wasn’t in the witness protection programme?

Blue and red lights flashed through the bedroom windows, and Thiery heard the squawk of radios. He walked through the house and out the front door, gun holstered, hands in the air displaying his FDLE badge. Several sheriff officers shouted for him to keep his hands where they could see them.

‘I’m FDLE,’ he announced. ‘There are at least six men dead in the backyard. I think two of them were pros, here to kill the teacher involved in the school shooting yesterday.’

‘Yeah?’ came a familiar voice from outside the ring of light surrounding the cars and cops. ‘Sure it wasn’t a drug deal gone bad?’ Sheriff Conroy stepped into the light as his men fanned out into the house and beyond. He was wearing a broad brim hat, his chest bowed out. He hooked his thumbs into his gun belt as he approached. In the man’s body language, Thiery saw the insolence and confidence of a man who felt that, now that he was in charge, these kinds of shenanigans would cease.

‘You can paint it anyway you like, Sheriff,’ said Thiery, adding wryly, ‘but the hitmen in the backyard weren’t part of your approved vigilante posse.’

Conroy’s radio crackled with the voice of one of his deputies giving the all-clear. He looked at the paramedics standing by and gave them a nod to go back. Then he turned his attention back to Thiery. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Thiery. I didn’t approve any posse.’

‘You didn’t stop it either,’ he accused, ‘and now a few of your friends, including Ellis Coody, are dead, and Erica Weisz is still missing. I’m glad you’re taking over the lead on this investigation. I wouldn’t want this egg on my face.’

‘So, you’ve heard, huh?’

‘Good news travels fast. Look, I’m fine with that. I didn’t want to come here and step on toes in the first place. But, there’s something more going on here than just the school shootings, and getting the community all riled up isn’t going to help.’

‘Well, I guess I know my
community
better than you do.’

‘I know I would’ve had a fully armed SWAT in that school in less than ten minutes if my main station was located three blocks away. I can’t imagine what would take sixteen minutes, Sheriff.’

Conroy scowled at him. Through clenched teeth, he said, ‘Dispatchers don’t always get the time exact. Sometimes there is a delay when they get too busy, like when a buncha calls come in at once. We’re short-handed. Anybody can see that. You can audit the dispatch records if you’re that anal about it. Isn’t gonna change anything, now.’

‘Oh, I’m that anal I already requested the audit.’

Conroy stared at Thiery as if he were considering drawing his weapon on him. He bent slightly forward and spit tobacco juice on the ground. ‘So what’s this you were saying about hitmen?’

‘Take a look for yourself, Sheriff. There are two dead men in the backyard that don’t look like they’re from around here. They’ve got weapons that pros use. One gun has a silencer. I don’t know many people who use muzzle suppression devices that aren’t hitmen, do you?’

Sheriff Conroy scratched a stubble of black whiskers on his chin. Thiery could hear it like someone rubbing heavy grit sandpaper. ‘Can’t say I do. Did you take any of them down?’

Thiery knew where he was going with the question. ‘Your friends and one of the hitmen were already down when I got here,’ he told the new man in charge. ‘I shot the guy with the foreign-made assault rifle. I’ll notify my boss and put myself on administrative leave, pending the internal investigation. So, it seems like I would’ve been stepping aside, anyway. It’s all yours, Sheriff,’ said Thiery, offering a mock salute before walking toward his car. ‘Enjoy!’

‘Gonna need a few more details about what happened here tonight,’ said Conroy.

‘I’ve got your card,’ Thiery replied without looking back. ‘I’ll have my report completed and faxed to you before I go beddy-bye. See you on the news tomorrow. You might want to do something like put out an APB for a blonde driving a new Chrysler 300. Green. And it might be a rental. Oh, and thanks for that tip on the saloon. I confirmed Weisz had been there. Got to meet a couple of your friends, too. They were sweet.’ He could feel Conroy glaring at his back.