Applaud the Hollow Ghost (32 page)

I leaned toward Gus and spoke softly. “Whatever you decide, don't believe him.”

Gus just waved me off. “She is my little sister. Give it to him, Raymond,” he said. “Just do it.”

Raymond stood motionless for a few seconds, then leaned and tossed his gun gently forward onto the floor. It slid along the polished wood, and stopped only a few feet short of where Steve stood in the open doorway.

“Good,” Steve said. He crouched to the floor, pulling Rosa clumsily down with him. Then he withdrew the barrel of the Beretta from Rosa's neck, angled it upward, and shot Raymond—dead center, just below the throat.

Raymond stared at Steve. “Goddamn you,” he said, his voice hardly more than a harsh whisper, “you fucking mick.” He took one short, hopeless step forward. Still in a crouch, Steve was ready to fire a second time, but he didn't have to. Raymond opened his mouth. Maybe just an unconscious reflex, or maybe to curse Steve again. Either way, no words came out. There was nothing but a terrible gurgling sound, and then Raymond crumpled to the floor.

At the same time, Rosa let out a loud moan of a sigh, and passed out. The dead weight of her body sagged against Steve. For just an instant he struggled to keep his balance. Then he shoved her away from him, grabbed Raymond's gun with his left hand, and stood up.

It was only when I heard Lammy's frightened gasping beside me that I suddenly felt him clinging to my arm. I shook myself free. Steve was facing us, a pistol in each hand and a grin on his face that showed he'd left sanity far behind. My Beretta was still in his right hand—the barrel aimed directly into my face. “You should have stayed outta this,” he said. “But maybe you'd rather watch your fat friend die first.” As he spoke, he slowly swung the gun and, when it was aimed straight at Lammy's chest, he squeezed the trigger.

The snap of the hammer, as it fell on an empty chamber, came as a surprise to Steve. But not to me, or to Gus. We'd both counted the first six shots from the Beretta. Then the old man conned him with the suggestion that he had two shots left, not even knowing what the trick might be worth. And Steve—the gun freak—bought it because he wasn't thinking.

While Steve recovered, tossing aside my gun and switching Raymond's to his right hand, I threw myself hard into Lammy's side. He crashed into Gus and the two of them went sprawling to the floor. Steve fired twice, and the crash of breaking windows came simultaneously with the second blast. Meanwhile, the phone began to ring. And somewhere amid the roaring barks of the semiautomatic pistol and the shattering glass and the phone ringing—and all of that nearly drowned out by Gus's screams of pain—I shot Steve.

The little chrome-plated revolver I'd picked up near Dominic's body was a .22 and it didn't pack much stopping power. But still, Steve dropped down onto one knee. Raymond's gun was on the floor beside him, dropped and forgotten for the moment, as Steve clawed at the buttons on his shirt. I grabbed Lammy and pulled him with me toward the door, scooping up the empty Beretta on the way.

Rosa was gone. In the confusion, she'd moved quickly out of the room. Her brother, though, was going nowhere. Gus was lying on his face, and he wasn't moving at all.

CHAPTER
42

T
HE PHONE WAS STILL
ringing as Lammy and I raced down the hall toward the kitchen. When we got there, Rosa was standing in the open door to the housekeeper's room. Trish and Karen peered out from behind her.

“He'll be coming in a minute,” I said. “You still have the key, Rosa?”

“Yes.”

“That phone must mean the police are coming. Lock yourselves in till they get here,” I said. “But don't tell them I was here. If they find out, I'll go to jail.” When none of them answered, I said, “Okay?”

Rosa may have nodded. Or maybe I imagined that … or hoped it.

“I think Steve will come after Lammy and me.” I paused. “But in case he doesn't, and if he has a key … take this.” Rosa cringed as I reached past her and handed the little revolver to Karen. “It won't be long. Don't worry. You'll be all right.”

Rosa stepped back and pushed the door closed, crossing herself as she did. Maybe she didn't believe my assurances, and figured they needed more powerful help.

Lammy and I had been wearing our coats the whole time. My body had adjusted to the indoor heat, so when we stepped outside, the twenty-degree air hit like a shotgun blast. Lammy was searching frantically through his coat pockets. “Here,” I said, and gave him my gloves.

The security lights showed that a sidewalk leading to a door in a large, barnlike garage behind the house had been shoveled, but everywhere else the snow was over a foot deep. We ran down the walk as far as the garage. The door was locked, though, so we turned left and into the snow. It was frozen solid on top, but broke through when we put our weight onto it, so the going was slow. If we could just get around to the rear of the garage, at least we'd be outside the circle of floodlights.

We'd gotten as far as the corner of the building when the back door of the house banged open. I glanced back and saw Steve in the doorway, his arm extended. I pushed Lammy around the corner and dove after him. Chunks of wood flew away from the corner of the building even before I heard the shots. I scrambled to my feet and chased Lammy toward the rear of the garage and into the darkness.

Steve wasn't far behind. We could hear him crashing through the snow.

Once around the corner to the back of the garage, we broke away from the building, toward the dark woods maybe ten yards away. There was no moon and the security lighting didn't reach this far. Still, our tracks in the snow would be easy to follow, even in the dark. If we made the trees; though, we might lose him.

We were into the underbrush and trees by the time he came around the corner to the back of the garage. He sent two shots into the area where our tracks led in, but we'd taken a right-angle turn as soon as we entered and were out of his line of fire. The frozen snow wasn't as deep under the trees, but with each step the crunching sound announced our position. I grabbed Lammy's arm. We stood perfectly still. I couldn't hear Steve moving, either. Finally, leaning to my right and peering among the tree trunks, I saw him. He was out in the open, silhouetted against the snow and the white garage, his gun hand raised. He was standing still, too, obviously trying to get a fix on just where we were, waiting for our next steps to give us away.

For a long moment I stayed focused on the hunter—motionless in the clearing, listening for his prey. He could have gathered up every gun in the library, and there was no telling how many rounds he had. We all waited. There seemed to be no sound at all, beyond the quiet breathing of Lammy and me. Gradually, though, I became aware of other sounds. Faint shouts, coming from far beyond the other side of Gus's house. Plus the distant roar of an engine—alternately revving up, then dying down—and intermittent metallic crashes. They were breaking open Gus's gate.

I watched Steve turn his head a little and knew he was listening to the same sounds. He took one step along our path toward the woods, then stopped again. “Foley!” he called, loud and clear. “I'm whacking you, asshole. Both of you. I don't give a fuck if I go down myself, but I'm taking you cocksuckers with me.”

With my hand still holding Lammy's arm, I felt him tighten up even through his puffy ski jacket, and I suddenly remembered how angry I'd been when he insisted I take that coat back to the store. He was terrified now, and ready to bolt. I squeezed his arm more tightly.

“Don't move,” I whispered. “Not yet.”

Steve stood silently, hoping for some response to his threat. He took one more step, then waited again. He was out of my view now, but I could hear he wasn't moving.

“Lammy,” I said, still whispering. “We have to split up. When I start running, you
walk,
as quietly as possible … that way.” I pointed deeper into the woods, in the opposite direction from the garage. “Keep on till you come to the wall that runs around the property, then follow it to your left, all the way to the gate. You'll be safe. The police are there.”

“Yes, but … are you—”

“I'll try to join up with you.” That wasn't true. “But if I don't, remember, I'll be in big trouble if the police find out I was here.” I wondered if Lammy saw the inconsistency in what I'd said. If Steve didn't bring me down—about a fifty-fifty proposition, at best—I wasn't going toward the cops if I could help it. Anders would blame me for the collapse of his scheme. “I run
this
way,” I whispered. “And, no matter what I yell, you walk
that
way. Got it?”

“I … I guess so.”

“Now Lammy!” I shouted. “Follow me!” I took off, running, stumbling, crashing through the frozen snow, taking as many crunching steps as possible, making as much noise as I could, as fast as I could. I glanced back once and saw Lammy headed in the other direction.

I knew eventually I'd come up against Gus's wall, too. And I knew his entrance road crossed a bridge over a stream that ran through his property. The stream had to get under the wall somehow, or through it. My plan was to follow the wall to the spot where the stream went out … and see if I could join the stream.

Maybe I'd fooled Steve into thinking Lammy was with me, and maybe he'd just decided he wanted me more. Whichever, he was coming after me. At first he ran parallel to me, staying in the cleared area. But as I angled away, he had to come into the woods, too. I heard him crashing through the brush. A gunshot exploded. I thought I heard the bullet whistling past me. And if I didn't hear it going past, at least I didn't feel it coming in.

He was armed and I wasn't. But he had a bullet lodged inside him somewhere and I didn't—not yet. I didn't know just where the .22 slug had entered his torso, but I was amazed at his stamina. Psychotic rage may have had something to do with it.

It was very dark, nearly impossible to see. I kept plunging forward, not worrying now about making noise enough for two. My legs were turning to lead and it would have been a struggle just running in the snow, even without the undergrowth grabbing at my knees and a thousand low-hanging branches slashing my face. You'd have thought a smart guy like Gus would clear away the trees and brush on his property to give his people a better view—and a clearer shot—at intruders. But maybe that wasn't so important, what with the dogs and …

Jesus! The dogs.

I heard them, then. Barking, yelping. In the distance, but drawing nearer, it seemed. I wanted to stop and listen, to determine whether they were actually coming our way. But I had to keep chugging ahead. Steve was maybe twenty yards behind, I thought. Too tired to zig and zag. I had to hope the trees and the darkness, and his need to keep running to stay close to me, would keep him from firing more shots.

My breath came in great sucking gulps now, bitterly cold breaths that seared my lungs. I could hear Steve, gasping and grunting and muttering as he plowed after me. I thought I was in great shape, but somehow this wounded drunk of a man was keeping up with me.

And now there was no question about it. The dogs were on their way. Not from behind us, but from somewhere off to the left.

Suddenly I broke out of the woods. I was face to face with the high, stuccoed wall, about fifteen yards away. The woods had been cleared, leaving a strip of open land running all along the wall. I turned right and ran parallel to the wall, but staying just within the trees. The baying of the dogs grew louder. I veered to my left, to the edge of the clearing, and slowed a little to look back. They were coming. Two that I could see. Long-legged, dark shapes, visible against the snow in the cleared space between the woods and the wall. They had their own problems, sometimes breaking through the frozen crust and floundering, sometimes skidding along across the top.

I accelerated again and, just as I did, a sharp, howling wail rose up from behind me, a shrill cry of pain—from Steve—and I heard him crash to the ground. “… fucking ankle!” he was screaming. “I broke my fucking ankle. You gotta help me!”

I kept going, though, running clumsily along the edge of the woods, driven now by a new fear—the dogs—and fighting the impulse to climb up a tree to escape them. Finally, up ahead and across the cleared space, I saw what I was looking for. A dark opening in the white wall, a half-circle cut out close to the ground, where the stream went through. From that distance, it was impossible to judge how large the opening was, and too dark to see what sort of fence or screen covered it. I turned that way, plowing into the deeper snow outside the woods.

Steve kept screaming behind me, and there was no question that his cries were genuine. He was hurt and he was down. The dogs must have sensed that, too. Their baying had gone up in pitch, turning more furious—and perhaps more gleeful at the same time.

I forced myself to keep going. My lungs were on fire. My one chance to escape the dogs was that they'd get first to Steve, and be too busy to bother with me. Finally, though, I had to stop to get my breath, and found myself shivering uncontrollably, even though my clothes were soaked with sweat. I could still hear the dogs, but couldn't see them. They were in the woods. And what I heard wasn't baying or barking anymore, but snarling, growling.

“The fucking dogs, Foley,” Steve cried. “You gotta help me. They'll tear me apart.”

He was a stone-cold killer, with no more concern for my life than the dogs had. His desperate demands for help infuriated me. I wanted to hate him. I
did
hate him, goddamn it. He deserved whatever he got.

But Jesus, those dogs …

CHAPTER
43

I
TURNED AROUND AND
stumbled back toward Steve, along the path I'd broken in the snow.