Deadfall (19 page)

Hutch agreed. “I can't help but feel that smashed car right there and that depression we passed in the road are the tracks of some monster, and it's close.”

Phil leaned past Terry. “More like the bones of an ogre's victims scattered in front of its lair.”

The image hit home.

Terry said, “I don't want to be seen
or
heard. Let's go back and around. There has to be another way to get to the next block.”

“Phil?” Hutch said and gestured for Phil to turn around and lead the way back to the corner. Three steps toward it, Hutch heard the sound of a heavy commercial door opening behind him.

“Go!” he whispered. “Hurry!” Running on tiptoes, they reached the corner and turned one by one. Hutch stopped.

“Right there,” he heard someone say. He felt a hand squeezing his guts. They'd been seen.

The voice continued. “I lost them in the shadows, but they were right there, right there.”

Feet pounded on the pavement, growing louder.

“Wait!” demanded the same voice. “Back off.”

A chime sounded, the faint tinkle of a musical tone.

Then the
whoosh-crack
explosion erupted on the street. The sidewalk under Hutch shook. He heard bricks and wood, stone and glass ripped from the storefronts and hurled in all directions. He ran toward the back of the building around which Terry and Phil had disappeared. On the main street debris rained down, forming a teetering melody.

Hutch swung around the corner and nearly crashed into Terry and Phil.

Phil's eyes were huge. He said, “Holy—”

Another explosion. The building itself vibrated. Something fell off the roof. The destruction of this one blast seemed to extend much longer than the strike itself. Like a scream of agony after a gunshot. All three of them crouched low and covered their heads with their hands. Terry slapped Hutch on the shoulder and said, “That house . . .”

Across a small dirt parking lot and grassless yard was a darkwindowed residence.Terry started for it, but Hutch grabbed his arm.

“Stick to the shadows,” he said in a harsh whisper. He rose to lean over Terry and bat at Phil's head. “Stick to the shadows,” he repeated. “I heard someone say he lost us in the shadows. I don't think they can see us if we stay under the eaves.”

Terry said, “What do you mean, they can't see us? They're blasting at us.”

“A shot in the dark,” Hutch said. “Literally, a shot in the dark. I think they saw us in front of the stores and thought we were still there. Turning around saved our lives.”

Terry shook his head. “Pure luck.What's going to save us next time?”

Phil chimed in. “We can't stay here.What if they blast this whole block?”

Hutch said, “I think they want to see us. They're having fun.”

“Except,” Terry said, “they know we're armed. They know you have a bow, and they think I have a gun.That might make them a little more trigger happy.”

Hutch looked around, thinking. He didn't like staying stationary, either—on the same block, their backs pressed against the same building that the killers were bombarding. But he was convinced they couldn't see them as long as they remained in the shadows. So it was either stay there or run and expose themselves. If the men hunting them truly believed they had their prey pinned down, they would investigate, looking into the stores and eventually circling the building. The only thing slowing them down now was either their intention to continue bombing or, as Terry pointed out, their fear of getting shot.

Hutch slipped past his friends and, waddling in a low crouch, started moving along the length of the building. He let his left knee bump against the brick, assuring that he remained in the shadow of the eaves while his mind explored their options.

“Hey,” Phil whipered, coming after him. “What are you doing?”

Hutch slipped his bow off his back and extracted an arrow. He stopped to nock it. “Bringing the fight to them.”

Blood seeped from Laura,s
fingertips. She pulled on the nut and turned, pulled and turned. Declan had seen her fingers, and it would not take him long to return and find out the cause. At minimum, she would lose her potential weapon. He would either refasten the shelves to the upright, making sure they were impossibly tight, or move them altogether. It was possible, however, that he would also punish her. And what was Declan's idea of punishment? He might try to act on his crude ogling of her body. Or worse, get at her by hurting Dillon.

After his senseless slicing of her son's cheek, that seemed the more likely of Declan's choices. She would not let that happen. He would not hurt her son again. Ever. Her fingers tingled with pain, occasionally feeling like needles were sliding under her nails, but she pulled and turned.The palm of her other hand was also raw and bleeding as she pushed it into the head of the bolt, trying to stop it from turning.

“Hey,” Dillon said, looking up. He was touching the top of his head. He looked at his fingers and smelled them.

“Blood.” She could barely see a trickle of blood coming out of her palm to bead on her wrist. She still needed the pressure of Dillon's body against the crossbeam to prevent it from wiggling: more now than ever, since she was down to the last bolt and it was wiggling freely. She said, “Sorry, honey. Just a little longer.”

He covered his head with his hands, as though expecting a brick to fall next.

Pull and turn.

25

Declan stood in the intersection
of State and Fife watching smoke pour from the destroyed facades of the bookstore and conservation office. Rafters were on fire, and he believed the entire building would be gutted before too long. He thought they had taken refuge in one of the two stores on the north end of the building or one of the two government offices on the south end. The RCMP substation was the southernmost office, closest to him. If so, either they were already dead, would be soon, or were bolting out a back door. He eyed the monitor and saw no movement behind the building. A strip of shadow along the back edge bothered him. He moved the crosshairs to it and debated where along that band of shadow to let loose. If
he
were hiding, he would be in the corner far from the explosions and on the opposite side of the building from the man with guns.

Bad appeared at his side. He pointed the G11 at the ruined storefronts. He was shifting from one foot to another, his head bobbing to music only he could hear. The man was itching to get it on.Waiting like this was worse than the delay of a game console loading the next level of play. “Whatcha think?”

“I'm gonna shake up the back of the building. You and Kyrill might want to get where you can see back there.”

Bad grinned. “You ever see them burn trash at the dump?”

Declan gave him a sideways glance. “No, and neither have you.”

“Well, I . . . I heard about it. As the rats run from the fire, the garbage dudes pick them off with .22s.”

Declan caught his eyes. “Fire in the hole,” he said.

Bad's grin grew impossibly wide, all teeth. He screamed, high pitched and loud, a siren announcing a level of agony he had never known. Declan saw an arrow jutting from the man's right thigh. A circle of blood already the size of a hand fanned out from the point of entry.

Bad, bellowing like an idiot now, dropped to his knees.The machine gun clattered to the ground. Bad fell on his left side. He was holding his leg up and squeezing his thigh, but not right at the wound.

Declan was fascinated to see a small geyser of blood spray up in the ninety-degree angle between arrow and leg.

From the first moment of Bad's scream to that moment, no more than five seconds had passed. In that time, Declan had startled at Bad's sudden misfortune, watched him fall, marveled at the blood flow, and finally realized that he had better take cover. He leaped over Bad on his way to where the Hummer was parked in the street. He depressed the device's button.

Whoosh-crack.

The far back corner of the building exploded.

Laura,s blood-soaked fingers slipped off the nut. She lifted her head, listening.

They were at it again, blowing up things. She hoped those things were not humans. Most likely, they were.

She pressed her palm into the bolt. She gripped the nut, turned it . . . turned it . . . It came off the bolt, slipped from her fingers, then clattered onto the metal shelf. Excited, she pushed on the bolt. Its threads caught the edge of the hole through which it passed. She wiggled it, but it would not budge. She realized that because it was the last bolt holding the brace to the shelves, she didn't have to push it through this way.

“Dillon!” she said excitedly. “I got it, honey. Scoot away.”

When he did, she took a half step back and yanked on the brace. It popped free of the shelves, and the last bolt fell to the floor.

She felt Dillon's hand on her calf. “You did it, Mommy.”

She smiled. “We did it! We really did.”

She hefted the metal, pleased to find it weighed more than she had expected. It was sturdy. As tall as she was, it was the weapon she needed. Her fingers and palms did not ache at all now. Like a goldmedal winner, she found that the thrill of the trophy surpassed the pain endured to get it.

Dillon stood. “Can I hold it?” he asked. She handed it to him. He angled it to inspect it in the dim light coming under the door. He seemed as impressed by it as she was. The light stuttered, dimmed. Someone was at the door.

“Here, here,” she whispered, taking the upright from Dillon. She tugged at him as she backed to the wall beside the door. She pushed him toward the corner and raised the upright like a bat.

The lock rattled and clicked. The door swung open. Light flooded in, blinding her—she had not thought of that! She blinked and squinted, catching movement at the door. She swung, aiming high for the head. Two-thirds around she realized that the head coming through the door was lower than she had expected. She adjusted in midswing. The upright made contact with a forehead and continued striking the doorjamb.The vibrating energy that shot up the metal to Laura's hands shocked them, and she released her grip. As the upright came down, so did a tray with plastic cups and paper plates of food. They landed on the midsection of the body that had collapsed in the doorway. Brown liquid from the cups jumped out, spraying the wall, pooling on the floor, spotting the blue jeans of the downed person like blood.

Something flesh-colored plopped onto the floor.A severed hand or piece of head, Laura thought with a suddenly lurching stomach.Then she recognized the thing as a burrito. Another one hit the person's leg and rolled off. Laura scooped up the upright and pulled back to swing at the next person, but no one came. No one shouted. She waited a few moments. The sounds of the blow, dropping body, and spilled dinner had seemed as loud as a gong to her. When no one else appeared, she stepped away from the wall and looked at her victim.

It was the young boy. Julian. Despite herself, she felt a pang of sorrow. The boy had been nice to them. He had smiled and talked for a few minutes to Dillon. She listened for approaching footsteps or voices, then bent to one knee beside the boy. A welt the size and shape of her thumb had already blossomed on his forehead. It was turning blue, and at its crest was a laceration. Blood poured over one temple. She pushed her fingers to his neck and felt a strong pulse in his carotid artery. She leaned closer to examine the wound, and he moaned.

She looked up at Dillon, standing at the boy's feet. “He'll be okay,” she said.

She scanned the office and faced the open doorway to the rest of the building. She realized her posture and thought there was something Amazonian about it: on one knee, shoulders square, brace/spear held vertically in one fist.That seemed right. Strong. Fierce. Ready for battle. She took a deep breath, came off her knee, and strode to the door.

Dillon appeared to have noticed something different about her as well. He gazed at her, lips slightly parted, eyes big and amazed. He smiled.

“Ready?” she said.

He nodded, walked carefully past the boy, and joined his mother.

“Stay with me,” she said. “But if anything happens, I'll meet you at the cabin.”

They moved into the corridor and then through an archway into the building's vestibule. Double doors that opened into the gymnasium where the townsfolk were imprisoned were chained and padlocked. Several loops of chain wound from the push bar of one door through the push bar of the adjoining one. A heavy padlock connected the ends of the chain. She moved quickly to the doors. She slipped the steel beam between the loops of chain and levered it sideways, twisting the chain tightly against the handles. When the beam was nearly horizontal, it stopped. She thought that putting her weight on one end to force the farther rotation of the chain would either break the chain or pry the push bars loose.

“Mom!” Dillon screamed, just as the thunderous roar of a firearm echoed in the vestibule. A fist-sized hole appeared in the wall above the doors. She spun to see the girl in the archway on the other side of the vestibule. A big pistol in her hand.

“Now wait—” Laura started.

The girl squeezed her eyes shut and fired again. The bullet ripped into the linoleum tile ten feet in front of Laura.

“Wait!” Laura screamed.

Opening her eyes to assess the damage she'd caused, the girl appeared surprised that Laura was still standing. She adjusted her aim and squeezed her eyes closed again.

Laura grabbed Dillon's hand and returned to the corridor that led back to Buck's office, the storage room/prison cell, and the unconscious boy. Past a break room, the corridor terminated at a steel fire door.Visitors to the building often left this way to reach the rear parking lot, despite a warning on the door that opening it would set off an alarm. It never did. And even if it did this time, Laura could not care less. Half an ear listened for the squeaking footfalls of the girl's sneakers behind them. Somehow she was certain the long shooting rangelike corridor would make a sharpshooter out of the girl. If she got off a shot, they would die, plain and simple.