Poison Town (30 page)

“No cell phones. No calls. No texting!”

The unshaven man pointed his gun at the checkout boy, who looked amazingly calm. “All the money in a bag—quick, quick.”

Pamela dropped the phone in her purse without ending the call, thinking that might help, somehow.

Margaret fought and squirmed like a cat.

The man laughed nervously and locked her tighter in the crease of his elbow.

Along with everyone else, Granger had dropped to the floor, but he still towered over the bodies around him. He gave a solemn nod to Pamela. Did he recognize Margaret as her mother? He’d seen her in the courtroom during his trial.

Still seemingly unruffled, the checkout boy dumped the contents of his drawer into a large Farley’s bag as if he was emptying cat litter.

Pamela held the girls tight. She could hear Jack yelling into the phone and prayed that the sporadic moans and frantic outcries of the other patrons would drown out his tinny voice.

“Next one, next one!” The gunman pivoted with Margaret, dragging her several steps, pointing the gun at the register in the next line—Granger’s line!

“Empty it, hurry, hurry, hurry.”

The boy scurried like a lanky, kicked dog, dodging several people to get to the register next to Granger.

“Let go of me,” Margaret yelled. “Let go!”

The gunman wrenched her neck. “Don’t give me a hard time, lady, or I’ll blow your head off.”

A man in sweats on the floor twenty feet away had his phone out. He was trying to call—

Bang.

Blood spurted from his calf. His phone cracked to the floor, and he cried out, clutching his leg.

The girls screamed and locked tighter to Pamela, whose heart was in her throat.

God, please, let him leave, let him leave …

“I said no phones!” The gunman scanned the store with his smoking weapon. “Next one dies.”

Granger scowled and dropped his head.

Had anyone been able to sound a silent alarm? Pamela didn’t think so.

With a sober stare, the checkout boy handed the bag to the gunman, but the man didn’t take it. Instead, he choked Margaret tighter, making her squeal, then he scanned the room, the exit, as if deciding what to do next.

He snatched the bag with his gun hand and jammed the weapon to the checkout boy’s throat. “You need to get that bad-boy look off your face.”

Margaret threw a backward elbow toward the gunman’s stomach, letting out a groan as she did. But he only grunted, then cackled.

“All right, old girl.” He shoved Margaret along with the strength of his legs. “You want to have some fun? You can come with me.”

At the split second that the gunman’s head turned to the exit, Granger sprang heavy onto his back, taking all three of them down. Margaret screamed and hit the floor hard. Realizing she was free, she slithered away fast on all fours.

“Mom!” Pamela screamed with outstretched arms, not wanting to take the girls a step in that direction. “Mom, come here!”

People scattered in all directions.

Margaret got to her feet and ran to Pamela and the girls.

The armed man still squeezed the gun, but Granger was squarely on top of him, bashing his wrist against the floor. Three other men dived into the mix, helping Granger, locking the gunman down.

The gun clattered away. The checkout boy dashed for it, grabbed it, and locked it in front of him, pointing right at the man’s head.

In the distance Pamela heard sirens.

She and Margaret hugged. They drew Rebecca and Faye in with them. Together, the four of them stood breathless in a circle, arms tight around one another—crying, laughing, thanking God.

* * *

The Randalls had the old house locked up tight, and Bo had just lit a fire in the cast iron stove in the TV room. Travis and LJ were sprawled out on the floor, loading the shotguns and pistols. The mouthwatering smell of breakfast filled the room. Daddy looked on from his recliner with sunken eyes and a tired face full of gray beard stubble.

“Can I help?” Bo said.

LJ coughed. “There’s a tad bit of smoke in here, son. You got the flue open?”

“Yessir.”

“Sit on down here, then. Grab you some bullets,” LJ said.

Travis felt sick. He and Claire had just had themselves a jim-dandy of an argument. When she heard Spivey had been found dead, she’d about had a conniption fit. She could not for the life of her understand how Travis and the boys could stay in that house one more night—especially after Jack had warned them Demler-Vargus was on the warpath.

She’d pleaded with them to go to her house. They would be safe there, until the cops wrangled up Bendickson and his cronies. Even Galen had seemed agreeable; Spivey’s death seemed to have truly rattled the old codger.

LJ, however, was up in arms about staying home. The last thing that boy was going to do was give in to the enemy and go hide out somewhere.

Claire had stormed to the kitchen and was hustling around with the phone at her ear, trying to reach Spivey’s daughters while scrounging up breakfast for supper.

Being at odds with her was giving Travis a headache to beat the band.

“I gotta get me some Goody’s,” he said.

“Bo, be a scout and get your Uncle Travis one of them headache powders from the medicine cabinet, would you?” LJ said.

“Sure.” Bo scampered off.

“You nervous?” LJ said.

“No, I ain’t nervous, but I don’t feel like I should put Claire in danger, having her stay here.”

“I didn’t know she planned on stayin’ here,” LJ said.

“Well, we kind of wanted to stay close till this thing blows over, ya know.”

“You two is gettin’ close mighty fast, ain’t ya.”

Travis gave him the old stare-down. “I like her. Anything wrong with that?”

“Not a thing. I like her too.”

“Well, good, ’cause she’s the best thing to happen around here since Momma passed.”

“I ain’t sayin’ she ain’t—”

“Would you two quit bickering?” Daddy said. “Are them guns even clean? They ain’t been shot in a coon’s age.”

“We cleaned ’em back in November for the turkey shoot,” LJ said. “I just dare them buggers to set a toenail on our property.”

Speaking of Coon, Ralston Coon had been livid when Travis told him the Randalls were not going though with the meeting at Demler-Vargus the next afternoon. He insisted on coming over to try to “talk some sense” into them. Even LJ was hot about it, hating to see 2.5 million slip through his greasy fingers.

“Okay.” Claire came into the TV room, wiping her hands on a towel. “Biscuits, sausage, and gravy are ready. You can help yourselves whenever you want. They should stay warm for Mr. Coon. And there’s fresh coffee.”

Bo took off for the kitchen.

If that were Travis’s son, he would teach the boy some manners; let the elders go first. But not LJ; he sat there, holding up his Winchester, squinting through the sites with his one eye, sweeping it across the room.

“Well, I do declare. Thank you, young lady. I believe you’ve found the way to my heart with this meal,” Daddy said.

“Well, don’t thank me yet; you haven’t tasted it,” Claire said. “After your day at the hospital, I’m sure you must be famished.”

“How are Spivey’s girls holding up?” Travis said.

“They didn’t answer. I see lights on over there. I think I’ll run over,” Claire said.

“You want me to come with you?” Travis said.

“Nope.” She tossed the towel over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

“You bundle up now, you hear?” Daddy said. “It’s colder than a banker’s heart out there.” He laughed at his own joke.

Bo left the kitchen, licking his fingers, carrying a plate piled ridiculously high. Again, lack of parental training.

Travis helped Claire get her coat on and saw her to the door. He looked out the back window and flipped on the floodlights. There was snow on the ground, and, just beyond a patch of trees, he could see the lights on at Spivey’s house.

What was he thinking, letting her go out there alone?

“You know what? I’m coming with you.”

Claire’s smile told him she’d been waiting for that. They chuckled as he threw on his parka and she pulled on her hat.

Travis gave a yell to the boys. “We’re going to see Spivey’s girls. Be right back.”

They headed into the night.

Chapter 34

Only a few days ago Derrick had thought Jack was nuts for carrying a gun. Now, as he and Amy rode the quiet elevator up to her eighth-floor condo, he would have given anything to be packing—even though he’d never fired a gun in his life.

He just kept telling himself he would be home soon.

“I’ll pack a bag and go back to Trenton City, but I’m taking my own car,” Amy said.

“Fine. I’ll follow you. I’ll talk to Jack on the way and find out what the plan is,” said Derrick.

“I have notes, Demler-Vargus stuff, hidden up at my place; I’ll bring it.”

“Good.”

“I’ve also got a gun.” She stared at him coldly.

“Why is it everyone around here has a gun except me?”

She didn’t see the humor.

The elevator dinged and came to a stop on eight. Amy led the way down the sleek, low-lit hallway. Walking several feet behind her, Derrick took in an enormous breath, arched his shoulders, and exhaled through an almost closed mouth.

Relax.

“I’ll need to get gas.” Amy glanced back at him.

“That’s cool.”

She kept walking, looking into her purse, and got her keys out. Derrick couldn’t believe how thin she’d gotten.

Suddenly she stopped. The upper half of her body bent over. She was examining the door to her condo.

Her head snapped back to Derrick.

The door was open several inches. It had been splintered.

They reached for each other, holding each other’s wrists.

Their wild eyes met.

“I was just up here,” Derrick whispered. “It wasn’t like this. They must be in there. Come on!”

They were unarmed, that’s all he could think. Sitting ducks. He yanked her by the arm. “Let’s go!”

Her hands went up, palms facing her, all ten fingers extended. “What about my stuff?”

There was a sound from inside the condo.

Derrick threw his head toward the elevator. “Forget it. Come on!”

Amy flew toward him, and he grabbed her hand and ran.

As they sprinted for the elevator, he was sure he was going to hear gunshots and die right there in the hallway with a bullet in his spine.

He spotted the door for the stairway and burst through with Amy right behind.

“You ride with me.” Derrick flew down the steps. “Forget your car.”

“Okay.” Her voice quavered. “Where’re you parked?”

“Ground level.”

“Me too. I’ve got another gun in my car. If we have time …”

Derrick’s feet barely touched each step as he flew down, down, down—listening above for any sign of followers.

“Almost there.” He worked the car keys out of his pocket as he ran.

He heard nothing above them.

He busted through the door and into the dimly lit parking garage.

“Hurry!” He headed in the direction of his car.

Amy headed in the opposite direction, down the ramp. “My car’s down here … right over here.”

“Forget it! Come
on!”

“It’ll just take a sec. We need a gun.”

Derrick fumed as he hit his remote. The lights on his SUV blinked thirty feet from him. He would start the car, pull up, and be ready to go when she got there.

It was eerily quiet. No movement, except Amy. “Hurry up!”

Just then he heard something.

Static?

A quick burst of it, like someone pressing the button on a walkie-talkie, and releasing …

It wasn’t right.

“Amy, stop!”

She turned around. “It’s just over here.”

“No! Come back.” Alarm gripped him. “Now!”

If she went for her car, he was leaving.

Her shoulders slouched, as if she was fed up with him, but she turned around and started back toward him.

“Hurry!” he yelled, and trotted for his car.

Like a trick, the pavement beneath his feet disappeared.

The bomb was deafening.

He slammed to the pavement, unable to break his fall.

The building teetered.

The pain in his left shoulder and side of his head was immediate and excruciating.

His ears rang. Debris hit all around him.

Amy …

A fender flew past, smashing two cars.