Knorath, Joe - Jack Daniels 03 - Rusty Nail (33 page)

Bud’s gun hand was shaking, from the Parkinson’s. He sat on the other side of Latham, too far away from me to make a grab for it. He held a 9mm, looked like a Glock. The hammer was cocked back. One little muscle twitch and Latham was dead, and Bud was a twitcher.

Lorna came closer. I could see the blood caked under her fingernails.

“Any more lies, pig, and we’ll cut out your lying tongue.”

I snuck a quick glance at Latham. His hand brushed against mine. I wanted to grab on to it, hold it tight. But keeping both hands free was the smarter move.

Poor Latham. If I hadn’t ever called him, he wouldn’t be here facing this.

“Where was I?” Lorna stuck out her tongue and chewed on it, her face scrunched up in thought. “Bud, where was I?”

“We heard about little Caleb on the radio.”

“Right. Poor baby. He loved his mama so much, and you killed him. So I’m driving and thinking how to make you pay. And Bud’s in the kitchen, with the stove.”

“The kitchen?” Latham asked. I gave him a subtle elbow and a look that said,
Don’t antagonize the dumb animals.

“We was driving one of those recreational camper vehicles,” Lorna said. “Got it on the highway.”

Bud added, “That’s where we got the clothes.”

I looked at Bud again. He had on a loose pair of jeans and a bulky red sweater with a big green Christmas tree stitched onto the front. I could guess what happened to the poor owners of the camper.

“So Bud’s doing what he does with the burner, yellin’ and cryin’ and punishing himself to cleanse his sin, and I realized that’s what we’re gonna do to you.”

Bud touched his chest. “Burns hurt. Hurt real bad.”

I pictured Bud’s gnarled flesh under the sweater, and figured he knows of what he speaks.

“So let’s the four of us go on into the kitchen. We got something on the stove we think you’re gonna like, pig.”

That was my cue to get up. I did, followed by Latham and Bud, who kept the shaky gun pressed to Latham’s temple.

What a crummy end to my career. To be killed by the Ma and Pa Kettle of crime.

Our merry troupe walked into the kitchen, and I could smell something cooking. I followed my nose to a pot of vegetable oil, bubbling away on the stove top.

Lorna grinned at me, showing her discolored baby-sized teeth. “Hot oil’s a bad burn, cuz it sticks to you.”

“I done it before.” Bud nodded his head, his chicken neck wiggling. “Bad burn.”

Lorna cackled. “And we gonna pour it on your little piggy head. Make us some bacon.”

Bud also laughed, which quickly became a deep, chesty cough.

I decided that having boiling oil poured on my head wasn’t in my best interest. I’d take a few bullets before I let that happen.

“Fine.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’ll do it myself.”

I limped over to the pot, reaching for the handle, but before I took two steps Lorna got in front of me.

“No need to rush this, pig. You go sit yourself down. Relax a bit.”

I took a step back, kitty litter crunching underfoot. Mr. Friskers had made yet another mess of my kitchen. Where was he, anyway?

I saw the slightest movement, in my peripheral vision. The cat. Perched atop the refrigerator, in pouncing position.

He was eyeing Lorna.

“I’ll be doing the pouring honors.”

Lorna stole a quick glance behind her, looking for the oil. Before she could grab it, ten pounds of screeching, clawing feline leaped from the fridge and launched itself at her face.

I dove to the side, skidding across the kitty-littered linoleum, Lorna screaming, Mr. Friskers screaming, Bud yelling, Lorna dropping the gun and trying to pull the cat off her face, Latham reaching down for me, his hand touching mine.

“Run!” I yelled at him. “Get help!”

Bud turned to us, aimed at Latham.

His shot was high, burying itself into the ceiling.

Latham held my eyes for just a second, a second that told me he’d be right back, promised me he’d be right back, and then he dashed out of the kitchen.

“GET THE CAT! GET IT OFF ME!”

Lorna’s screaming was so shrill, she sounded like a police siren.

I tried to get to my feet, gasping at the pain in my ankle. Bud fired again at Latham, who kept low as he ran out the front door.

Safe. He was safe.

But I wasn’t.

Bud peered down at me and wrapped his fingers in my hair, pressing the gun against my left eye.

“BUD! HELP ME! GET THE CAT!”

Bud looked at Lorna, then at me, then at Lorna, then at me. He eventually removed the gun from my face and aimed at Lorna. His hand jittered and shook, and Lorna spun like a dervish, Mr. Friskers sticking to her face like Velcro.

“HELP ME, BUD!”

Bud fired the gun at Mr. Friskers.

The bullet caught Lorna in the exact center of the
N
in
DUNES
on her stolen T-shirt.

Her wailing stopped mid-yelp, and she pitched forward onto the floor.

Mr. Friskers, the ride over, hopped off her head and trotted out of the kitchen.

Something between a sob and a scream escaped Bud’s mouth. He swung the gun at me, his fist shaking so badly, I was sure it would go off.

“Save her! Save her!”

I crawled to Lorna. The exit wound in her back left an indentation the size of a cereal bowl under her shirt, which quickly filled with blood. Blood also spread out under her in a rapidly widening pool.

I grabbed a towel hanging from the refrigerator handle and pressed it against her wound. With my free hand, I searched the flab of her neck for a pulse.

I found it for three erratic beats, and then it stopped.

“Save her!”

I stared up at Bud.

“She’s dead.”

Bud opened and closed his mouth, like a fish trying to breathe air. The gun remained pointed, more or less, at me.

He whispered, “She’s not dead.”

“You killed her, Bud.”

“No, no, no, no . . .”

“She loved you, and you shot her . . .”

“An accident. I tried to help her.”

I held out my hand.

“Give me the gun, Bud.”

For the briefest instant I thought he would, but then his eyebrows creased in anger.

“NO! You’re a harlot! A liar! A devil! You controlled that cat, made her attack my Lorna!”

“Did I make you pull the trigger, Bud? You’re the one that pulled the trigger.” I stared at him, hard. “You’ve sinned, Bud.”

Bud’s face lost color, and though he was looking at me, his eyes seemed to be focused on something else, something beyond me.

“I’ve . . . sinned.”

“You’re a sinner, Bud. And you must atone for your sins. Give me the gun.”

“I . . . need punishment.”

“Yes you do, Bud. I’m a police officer. I can punish you.”

“Punish me?”

“Thou shalt not kill, Bud. You’ve committed a terrible sin. But we can make it right. Let me have the gun.”

“I can make it right.”

Bud turned, facing the stove. I glanced around for Lorna’s gun, but couldn’t find where it had skidded off to.

“O my God,” Bud began his contrition. “I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins . . .”

“Bud, don’t—”

I crawled backward like a crab, inching my way out of the kitchen, not wanting to watch but unable to turn away as Bud Kork plunged his hand into a boiling pot of hot oil.

His scream was inhuman.

I flipped onto my front and was using the doorway to get to my feet, just in time to see Latham walk through my front door, Holly at his side.

CHAPTER 47

A
LL THINGS CONSIDERED,
I was getting real sick of the Kork family.

Holly pressed her gun, the Wolverine, tight under Latham’s jaw, hard enough to force his chin up. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and heavy construction boots—the same boots she’d worn while shooting at me in Diane Kork’s burning house.

“Hello, Jack.” Her smile was dazzling, without a hint of the sickness that it hid. “Look who I found running down the hallway, pounding on people’s doors. He even asked me for help. Isn’t that ironic?”

Holly closed the front door using her foot. Behind me, Bud whimpered like a kicked dog.

“This is Latham, right? You described him to me in the car. You were right. He’s adorable.”

Latham’s eyes, so full of hope and promise a minute ago, had gone back to being blank and dead.

“Handcuffs,” Holly said.

“In the bedroom.”

“Let’s go get them.”

Holly kept her free hand on Latham’s arm, and the three of us walked into the kitchen.

When Holly saw the mess, she began to laugh.

“Looks like I missed the party.”

She gave Lorna a contemptuous kick, then turned her attention to Bud, who was curled up on the floor in a fetal position, shivering and cradling his burned hand. It was lobster red, pocked with blisters, puffed out to about twice the normal size.

“Hello, Father.”

“Alex . . . my baby . . .”

Again I scanned the floor. Both Bud’s gun and Lorna’s gun were around here someplace.

I spotted his Glock, on the floor next to the stove. Holly spotted it too. She pulled Latham over, moved the Wolverine from his chin to his belly, and did a quick bunny-dip, scooping up Bud’s gun with her free hand. She pointed that gun at me.

“Want to see how good I am left-handed?”

“Not really.”

“Then head for the bedroom.”

My handcuffs were on the nightstand, next to the bed. Holly spent a moment standing in the doorway, taking everything in.

“That’s the closet my brother hid in?”

“Yeah.”

She stared at it, almost reverentially, then ordered me to cuff Latham’s hands behind his back and step away.

“I’m sorry,” I told him.

His lips were a tight, thin line. “I’m getting used to it.”

“That’s right.” Holly nudged Latham. “You were alone with my brother for a while.”

Latham raised an eyebrow. “Your brother?”

“This is the Gingerbread Man’s sister,” I said. “The guy in the kitchen is her father.”

Latham stared at Holly. “You folks are in some serious need of family counseling.”

Holly’s lips formed a pout.

“Are you saying you didn’t like my brother?”

“He kept drooling on himself and trying to grab my ass.”

Holly apparently didn’t think that was funny, and cracked Latham on the back of the head with the butt of her Wolverine. He fell to his knees.

I sprung forward to help him, and got the Glock shoved in my face.

“Stay cool, Jack. We’re just getting started.”

Though I put on a brave front, staring down the barrel of a gun scared the crap out of me. It hadn’t happened that many times in my career, but each time it did, the feeling was the same.

I felt a hot spot, like a laser beam, where the gun was aimed. I knew what guns could do. The damage they caused. The death they brought. Staring at something so deadly made my heart race and my throat constrict and my palms sweat and my knees turn to mush.

All she needed to do was exert a few pounds of pressure on that trigger, and I no longer existed.

It was kind of like the feeling you get after narrowly avoiding a car accident. That sick, hollow feeling of dread, knowing what might have happened.

Except with a gun, what might have happened might still happen.

“Where’s Harry and Phin?” I managed to say.

“Funny you should ask. That’s where we’re going. I have a whole week of festivities planned.”

“They’re still alive?”

Holly smiled her seductive smile.

“Jack, look how cute you are, all full of hope. Yes, they’re still alive. I plan on keeping all of you alive for as long as possible. As you can imagine, I put a lot of work into this whole production. I want to enjoy the fruits of my labors.”

I eyed the Jewel bag, containing the Kork videotapes and files, sitting next to my TV.

It also contained Kork’s hunting knife, which I’d checked out of evidence.

Holly caught my furtive glance.

“Something interesting in the bag, Jack? Let’s see.”

She turned both guns on me and walked over to the bag.

“Videos. Are these the ones Charles and I made?”

I nodded.

“Did you watch them?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they make you hot?”

“They made me sick.”

“That’s because you’re limited, Jack. You don’t allow yourself to see the big picture. Power is a turn-on. Having control over someone’s suffering, over someone’s life and death, is like the best gift in the world. After making one of these videos, Charles and I would have the most mind-blowing sex.”