The Beginning (32 page)

She looked up at him. She hated him more than she believed it possible for one human being to hate another. She wanted to break him. She wanted him to suffer, to realize he'd lost, to realize that he wasn't as smart as he thought he was. “Scott told the FBI everything you'd done. He's cooperating with them, hoping to save his wretched little hide.”

“Who cares what the little prick does? Shut up now, and let's get you out of here.”

He forced her down the stairs. As if he guessed she would try something, he grabbed her hair and went down behind her.

What to do?

There was a noise at the front door. His hand jerked her hair upward. She didn't even notice. She heard him under his breath. She knew the moment when he drew a gun. “Let's just hope it's one of the old folk.”

But it wasn't. The door slowly opened. If only they'd been upstairs no one would have heard anything. She stared at that opening door, mesmerized.

She saw James's face. She didn't think, just acted. She raised her arms, grabbed his hair, and dropped down. Amory stumbled over her head and rolled over and over down the stairs. He landed on his back, panting hard, but still conscious. Quinlan was on him in an instant, the gun pointed at his temple.

“Who the hell are you?”

“It's Amory St. John,” Sally said. “Dr. Beadermeyer changed his face like he did that other man's.”

Quinlan's SIG pressed harder against St. John's temple. “Sally, are you all right?”

“I'm fine. My aunt's upstairs. He was taking me away, probably to kill me. He told my aunt that he wouldn't, but he's a miserable liar. James, he hit her and she's all ready to forgive him. What's wrong with her?”

“I'll get her,” Thomas said. “Don't worry, Sally. I won't hurt her.”

Sally got to her feet. She was sore, her scalp hurt, and she felt better than she'd ever felt in her life. “James,” she said, “I'm so glad to see you. You, too, Corey. Amabel said the three of you were in that shed behind Doc Spiver's cottage.”

“Yeah,” Quinlan said, “but we're special agents. We got out. Well, actually, it's Corey who's the hero. You know, Sally, I noticed a gray hair. Let Corey untie your hands.”

When she had feeling back in her wrists, she went and stood over the man who'd been her father for so many years, the man she'd hated for so long, the man who hated her. He was on the floor, at her feet.

She got down on her knees. She smiled. “Now it's my chance to tell you what I think of you. You're pathetic. You're nothing. You'll never have a hold over anybody again for as long as you live. I hate you. More than that, I despise you.” She drew back her fist and slammed it into his nose.

“I've wanted to do that for such a long time.” She rubbed her knuckles.

He was quivering with rage. His nose began to bleed. He quieted only when he felt the gun press still harder against his temple.

“You want to know something else? Noelle is ecstatic that you're gone. She hates you as much as I do. She's free of you. I'm free of you. Soon you'll be in a cage where you belong.”

She stared down at him, at the blood seeping out of his nose, at the rage in his eyes. “God-awful bastard.” She rose and kicked him in the ribs, then kicked him two more times.

“You crazy bitch. Hey, you're a cop. Don't let her beat me.”

“I'll let her shoot you in the balls if she wants to,” Quinlan said. “Sally? Would you like to shoot him?”

“No, not now. Well, not this exact minute. You know what, old man? Noelle looks utterly beautiful. I'll bet she'll be going out again very soon. She'll have any man she wants.”

“She won't dare. She knows I'd kill her if she even looked at another man. Yes, I'd kill both of them.”

“You aren't going to kill anybody,” Sally said, eyes mean and bright, joy in her voice. “You're going to jail for the rest of your miserable life.” She patted his face. “You're an old man. Think of how much faster you'll sag and wrinkle in prison.”

“I won't go to prison. I'm going to get you. I played with you for six months. I should have strangled you.”

“Just try it, you old bastard.” She smiled down at him, lifted her foot, and landed it square in his groin.

He screamed, clutching himself.

“Well done, Sally,” Quinlan said. “You sure you don't want to shoot him?”

There was a shot from upstairs.

Quinlan struck Amory St. John hard on his jaw.

One down, he thought, as St. John's head lolled to the side. They had only one weapon—Quinlan' s gun, taken off old Purn Davies, the one that Quinlan had pressed to Amory St. John's temple.

When Thomas had gone upstairs unarmed, Sally hadn't thought, hadn't imagined that her aunt could shoot someone.

Suddenly Corey moved like lightning, throwing herself into the shadowed recess to the side at the base of the stairs.

They watched in silence as Thomas, his arm bleeding rivulets through his fingers, came down the stairs, Amabel behind him with a pistol to the back of his head.

“Throw that gun toward the living room, Mr. Quinlan.”

Instead, Quinlan slid it across the highly polished oak floor toward the spot where Corey was crouched.

“You don't have such a good aim, do you? No matter. Now, move away from him. That's right. Go stand by Sally.

“You, sir, keep moving or I'll shoot you in the back of your neck. You wouldn't like that, would you?”

“No,” Thomas said, sounding dazed, “I wouldn't like that at all.”

“You're bleeding all over my floor. Well, who cares? I doubt we'll ever come back here anyway. Now, Mr. Quinlan, you and Sally take two more steps back. Good. Don't try anything. You're always bragging about FBI agents, but this one's just like you, Mr. Quinlan, he's just a man. Look at all that blood—and it's only a little wound in his arm. He's not whining, I'll say that for him. Now don't move.” She looked down. “Amory, you can get up now.”

There wasn't a sound from Amory.

“Amory!”

She waved the gun and screamed at Quinlan, “What did you do to him, you bastard?”

“I coldcocked him, Amabel. Real hard. I don't think he'll be coming around anytime soon.”

“I should shoot you right now. You've been a pain ever since you set foot in this town, ever since you first saw Sally. No, Sally, keep your mouth shut. My future is with him, and I intend to have it. I know the town will fall, but I won't. No one will catch us, not even your precious FBI.”

She shoved Thomas to the bottom step. She must have sensed something because she quickly moved back up two steps. “You try to turn on me, boy, and I'll blow your head off.”

“No, ma'am,” Thomas said. “I won't do anything. Can I go on down and let Quinlan wrap a handkerchief around my arm? I don't want to bleed to death. I don't want to ruin your pretty floor and carpets.”

“Go on, but try anything and you're dead.”

Thomas was pale, his mouth drawn thin with pain. He was holding his arm tightly. Blood still dripped slowly between his fingers.

“Come here, Thomas,” Quinlan said, motioning him forward with his hand. “You got a handkerchief?”

“Yeah, in my right coat pocket.”

Quinlan pulled out a spiffy blue handkerchief with the initials TS in the corner and tied up his arm. “That should do it. Too bad you guys killed Doc Spiver, Amabel. Thomas could use his services right about now.”

She had to come down those three remaining steps. She had to. Just three steps. Come on, Amabel, come on.

Sally said suddenly, her voice loud with shock, “There's blood coming from his mouth.” She was pointing wildly at Amory St. John. “And something white, oh, my God, I think it's foam. He's foaming!”

“What?” Amabel came down the last three stairs, slowly, trying to keep her attention on the two agents and Sally and see what was wrong with Amory. “All of you, bunch together, there. Sit on the floor. Now.”

They all sat.

Come a bit farther, Quinlan said to her silently. Just a bit farther. He saw Corey poised in the shadows, his SIG at the ready.

Amory St. John groaned. He jerked up, then fell back. He groaned again, opened his eyes.

Sally shrieked, “There's blood in his eyes. James, you hit him that hard?”

In those precious seconds when all of Amabel's attention was focused on Amory, Corey leaped from her left side, a lovely training move taught at Quantico, her right fist going right into Amabel's side, her left fist straight into her neck.

Amabel turned, but not in time. The gun went spinning out of her hand.

Corey said, “I'm sorry, Sally,” and hit Amabel square in the jaw. She crumpled to the floor.

Amory St. John groaned again.

“Corey,” Thomas said, “please say you'll marry me. Like a reformed smoker, I'm now a reformed sexist. I'll become a feminist.”

Sally laughed from sheer relief. Quinlan told Thomas to stay where he was on the floor. He rose and shook hands with Corey and hugged Sally to his side. “Now we'll wait for the cavalry to arrive.”

“I smell smoke,” Thomas said, stiffening as he sniffed the air. “Quinlan, there's smoke coming from under that door.”

“It's the kitchen,” Sally said, dashing to it.

“No, Sally, don't open it. It'll just suck the flames in here.”

Amory St. John moaned again and lurched to his side.

“More flames,” Corey said. “Someone's set us on fire. The old folks have set the place on fire!”

“I'll carry St. John. Corey, you get Amabel. Sally, can you help Thomas? Let's get out of here.”

“Whoever set the fire will be waiting for us,” Sally said. “You know it, James.”

“I'd rather risk being shot than burn to death,” he said. “Everyone agree? There's no other way out except through the kitchen, and the door's already burning. It's got to be the front door.”

“Let's go,” Corey said, as she shoved the SIG in her belt. She heaved Amabel over her shoulder.

Quinlan, with St. John over his shoulder in a fireman's carry like Corey's, kicked the cottage door open. The sun was rising, the dawn sky streaked with pink. The air was crisp and clean, the sound of the ocean soft and rhythmic. It was a beautiful morning.

There were at least thirty people standing in front of the cottage, all of them armed.

Reverend Hal Vorhees shouted, “Throw down your gun, Mr. Quinlan, or we'll shoot the women.”

At least the old folk hadn't automatically shot them down when they'd come out of Amabel's cottage. All the bravado about preferring a gunshot to a fire—was bullshit. Nobody wanted to die. Now they had some time—at least Quinlan prayed they did.

He nodded to Corey. She threw his SIG right at Reverend Hal Vorhees. It landed close to his feet.

“Good, now lay that madman down, Amabel next to him. We don't care what happens to him. He's evil and a blight. He's nothing more than a filthy traitor. He made Amabel turn on us. Come on now, the four of you come with us.”

“We're going to a church service, Reverend?”

“Shut up, Mr. Quinlan,” Hunker Dawson said.

“A helicopter will be arriving in about five minutes, Hal,” Quinlan said after he'd dropped St. John to the ground, landing him in the middle of Amabel's daffodils.

“We called the FBI office in Portland from Doc Spiver's cottage. Sheriff David Mountebank's deputies will be here soon as well.”

Actually the deputies should have been here long ago. Where the devil were they?

“No, we took care of the deputies,” Gus Eisner said. “Come now. We don't want to waste any more time. You're lying about that helicopter. Besides, it don't make no difference. You'll be gone by the time the feds arrive.”

“You'll never get away with this,” Sally said. “Never. Don't you have any idea at all what you're dealing with?”

“Look at us, Sally,” Sherry Vorhees said. “Look at all these nice old people. We wouldn't even kill mosquitoes, now would we? Who would deal with us? Why, there's nothing to deal with. I'd invite them all in for some of the World's Greatest Ice Cream.”

“It's gone far beyond that now,” Sally said, stepping forward.

Reverend Hal Vorhees immediately raised his gun higher. “Listen to me,” Sally went on. “Everyone knows that James and the other agents are here. They'll mow you down. Another thing, they'll dig up every grave in the cemetery and they'll find out those are all the missing people reported over the past three years. It's all over. Please, be reasonable about this. Give it up.”

“Shut up, Sally,” said Hunker Dawson. “All of you, enough of this. Let's go.”

“Yes, sure thing, Hunker,” Quinlan said. They had more time. How much more, he had no idea. But even one more minute meant hope.

They walked like condemned prisoners in front of the mob. He was aware of the unreality of the whole situation even as he felt fear seeping deep into him.

Quinlan said over his shoulder, “What will you preach on this Sunday, Hal? The rewards of evil? The spiritual high of mass murder? No, I've got it. It'll be the wages of trying to bring justice to people who were brutally murdered for the amount of cash they carried.”

Quinlan staggered from the blow on his shoulder.

“That's enough,” Gus Eisner said. “Shut up. You're upsetting the ladies.”

“I'm not upset,” Corey said. “I'd like to pull out all your teeth and listen to you scream.”

“I don't have any teeth,” Hunker said. “That ain't a good punishment for this group.”

What to say to that? Quinlan thought and winked at Corey. She looked furious. Thomas was walking on his own, but Corey was helping him. His arm wasn't bleeding so much now, but the blood loss was taking its toll, that and shock.

Sally was trudging along beside him, looking pale and very thoughtful. He said out of the side of his mouth, real low, so maybe all those old people wouldn't hear him, “Hold up, Sally. We'll figure out something. Hey, I can take at least a dozen of the old guys, no problem. Could you pound the old ladies?”

That made her smile. “Yeah, I could pound them into the dust. But I want to go back and get Amory St. John. They left him and Amabel there, James, both of them. They'll get away. My aunt, well, I don't know, but she's not quite the aunt I'd hoped she was.”

An understatement, Quinlan thought. Another blow for her, another person she'd believed she could trust had betrayed her. Thank God her mother had come through for her. He thought he just might come to like Noelle St. John a lot in the future. If he had a future.

Quinlan said, “Maybe the calvary will arrive before St. John and your aunt get their wits back together and can get away. But even if they do escape, we'll get them sooner or later.”

To Quinlan's surprise, they were herded up the wide, beautifully painted white steps and into Thelma's Bed and Breakfast. He had thought they'd be taken to the Vorhees house.

“Would you look at that,” Quinlan said as he got a poke with a rifle, shoving him into the large drawing room. There was Thelma Nettro, sitting on that chair of hers that looked for all the world like a throne. She was smiling at them. She was wearing a full mouth of false teeth and her pumpkin peach lipstick.

She said, “I wanted to join in the fun, but I don't get around as well as I used to.”

There was Purn Davies sitting on one of the sofas, looking white and shriveled. Good, Corey had whacked him hard.

“Why are we here?” Quinlan asked, turning to Reverend Hal Vorhees.

“You're here because I wanted you here. Because I ordered my people to bring you to me. Because, Mr. Quinlan, I'm going to tell you all what we're going to do with you.”

They all stared at Martha as she moved from behind Thelma Nettro's chair. There was nothing soft and bosomy about her now. There were no pearls around her neck. Her voice was loud and clear, a commander's voice, not her gentle cook's voice announcing an incredible meal. What was going on here?

“Martha?” Sally said, bewildered. “Oh, no, not you too, Martha?”

“Don't look so surprised.”

“I don't understand,” Sally said. “You're a wonderful cook, Martha. You go out with poor Ed. You take grief from Thelma. You're nice, damn you. What's going on?”

Quinlan said slowly, “I knew there had to be a ringleader, one person with a vision, one person who could get all the others to fall in line. Aren't I right, Martha?”

“Exactly right, Mr. Quinlan.”

“Why didn't you let them elect you mayor?” Sally said. “Why murder innocent people?”

“I'll let that go, Sally,” Martha said. “Oh, poor Mr. Shredder. You, Corey, set him down in that chair. Too bad Doc Spiver fell sick of cowardice and remorse. He drew the straw and had to kill that woman who'd overheard a meeting we were having. We caught her on the phone, dialing nine-one-one. Poor bitch. She was different. We didn't know what to do with her. She wasn't like those tourists who came into town for the World's Greatest Ice Cream. No, we wouldn't ever have picked her. She was too young; she had children. But then, we didn't know what to do with her either. We couldn't very well let her go.