The Wages of Desire (42 page)

“All right,” Lilly said. “But please be careful.”

“I will,” Vera promised. Her heart had begun to pound.

Carrying the gun across her chest, like a soldier on the march, Vera moved through the verge to a spot by the tire swing. The gun was heavy. She thought of Rivers and the rest of them and hoped they were near and organizing a plan of rescue. And indeed at that moment Superintendent Harding was arriving at the incident room in the village with an additional six men and Cyril Larkin.

Twenty meters to Vera's left, dim light leaked from the window of the parlor blocked partially by the dark figure of her father with his hands up. She couldn't wait—mustn't. She moved into the rear yard and along the porch, keeping parallel to it, toward the other side of the house, where Lilly had said the coal chute was.

Rivers and Cashen, who were huddled behind what remained of a long-dead pear tree about twenty meters from the rear door, saw Vera's dark figure move by the porch. They did not recognize her in the darkness.

“What in hell?” Cashen whispered hoarsely. “Who is that?”

Rivers stared intently into the gloom. “I don't know,” he said, believing that the mysterious figure threatened to ruin the plan. He considered calling out to the figure to stop but knew that this would only alert Tigue. And so he watched and readied himself to move if necessary.

Vera reached the end of the house, just to the right of the back door, and there turned toward the opening in the wall that once had contained the coal chute. She crouched by the opening for a couple of seconds to catch her breath, clutching the cumbersome shotgun and trying her best to ward off a rising sense of fear. Her heart thumped so heavily and loudly that she worried that Tigue might hear it.

The opening was just at the level of Vera's chest and perhaps eighteen inches square. She reckoned that she could just squeeze through it, though she would have to ease the shotgun in separately. She slid the gun into the opening barrels first, playing its length through her hands until she felt the tips of the barrels touch the floor. She moved the gun as far to the right of the opening as she could and managed to lean it, stock up, against the interior wall.

To compress her body as much as possible, Vera exhaled and held her breath. Going into the opening would be like diving underwater, she thought, with the main difference being that once she reached bottom she could open her lungs again. She moved the upper half of her body into the opening, plunging herself into a darkness that was more dense than the one she had been maneuvering through. The smell of rot filled her nostrils. She moved into the opening up to her hips with relative ease, the sides of the opening scraping only a bit against the outside of her shoulders. She found the floor and placed her hands against it; the floor was so dirty that she felt as if she was placing her hands in a kind of loam. She began to move the rest of her body through the opening, inching forward across the floor with her hands. Her rump became stuck in the tight space, though it took her only a couple of seconds and a bit of extra effort to free it, after which she carefully eased the rest of her body through the hole.

A sense of relief swept over Vera once she was in the house—and yet, too, she felt exhausted. She turned herself to sit on the floor for a second and regain her bearings. She reached for the place on the wall where she had leaned the gun. She stood, picked up the gun, and turned toward the door of what had once been the kitchen, which gave onto the short, narrow, junk-strewn hall. Just across that hall was the room in which Lawrence Tigue was holding David, Miss Wheatley, and her father. She still did not know, exactly, what she intended to do and decided that the only thing for it was to do as the good guys invariably did to the bad in the movies. She would jump into the room and surprise Tigue—demand as loudly as she could for him to drop his gun and put up his hands. She was not sure what she would do, though, if Tigue refused that order—was not certain if she could bring herself to fire a gun at a living soul.

She took a step toward the door, forgetting to flick the safety lever to “off.” As she did so, she heard Lawrence Tigue say, “I've finished talking.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

I'VE FINISHED TALKING …

The words chilled Lamb. He prepared to strike at Tigue—desperately, blindly, if necessary. He glanced at Wallace, whose eyes were fixed on Tigue's dark figure. If the pair of them could strike together they might have an even chance of overpowering Tigue, though one of them might have to take a bullet in the effort.

“I know you didn't kill Maureen,” Lamb said to Tigue, hoping to forestall Tigue into bringing down the curtain on the story of his victory over Algernon. “Taney did.” Lamb was flailing; he did not know who killed Maureen Tigue. “You can help me bring Taney down. He and Maureen used you. I can protect you from the Irish. They'll be after you, given what you know.”

“I no longer care about any of that,” Tigue said. He looked at Lamb. He raised the pistol and pointed it toward Miss Wheatley. “You've just wasted a minute of your half-hour, Chief Inspector.”

Lamb was readying himself to leap at Tigue, come what may, when Vera appeared in the door holding the shotgun.

“Stop!” she yelled. Her appearance startled Tigue, who stood and pointed the pistol at Vera. In that instant Wallace threw himself with his full power and bulk at Tigue, propelling Tigue against the wall in the corner.

Tigue's pistol fired; Wallace yelled and recoiled. The pistol clattered to the floor and Tigue slumped to the ground, delirious from Wallace having smashed his head against the wall. Wallace tumbled backward and struck the kerosene lamp by Miss Wheatley's feet as he fell to the floor. The lamp broke and the floor surrounding it burst into flame as the burning wick dropped into a puddle of spilled kerosene.

Vera dropped the shotgun. “David!” she yelled.

“Rivers! Move!” Lamb yelled.

He turned toward Tigue, who lay crumpled and unconscious in the corner. Vera was kneeling by Wallace, cradling his head. Lamb went to them.

Wallace was conscious and his eyes were open, though filled with pain.

“Where are you hit?” Lamb asked.

“Left thigh.” Wallace winced.

The fire from the broken lamp was burning the dry, rotted floor and spreading quickly; it licked close to Wallace's left leg and was moving toward Miss Wheatley. Lamb grabbed Vera's shoulder. “Drag him out of here as best you can,” he said. “Get your hands into his armpits and pull him. He's going to cry out but you must keep going, despite that.”

“All right,” Vera said.

Lamb helped Wallace into a sitting position. Wallace winced again and emitted a yip of pain—“Ah! Bloody Christ!” Vera got her hands under his arms and, with some difficulty, began to drag him toward the door. Wallace squeezed his eyes closed against the pain and did not cry out.

Then Lamb heard Rivers's voice above him. “Lamb!” He looked up to see Rivers and Cashen crowding through the door. “Get her out of here and help Vera with Wallace,” Lamb said, gesturing toward Miss Wheatley. He felt the heat of the fire growing just behind him, and the room was filling with smoke that stung his eyes.

Rivers dragged the bound Miss Wheatley toward the door, while Cashen helped Vera with Wallace.

Lamb turned back to Tigue. Through the thickening smoke, he saw that Tigue, though unsteady, was attempting to stand. He'd retrieved the fallen pistol and was moving its barrel toward his mouth.

Lamb leapt through the flames and caught Tigue's arm with his left hand, yanking the gun away. The pistol fired and, for a terrifying instant, Lamb expected to feel a sharp pain. But the bullet had missed him. An instant later Tigue pushed him away. Nearly losing his balance, Lamb grabbed for the wall and caught himself.

Vera and Cashen dragged Wallace into the rear yard. Wallace yelped again as they eased him onto the ground. Harding was there now, with the other constables and Larkin, who immediately went to Wallace to give him what medical attention he could. The others leapt onto the creaking back porch to help Rivers with Miss Wheatley.

All of this occurred in what to Vera seemed like a single enflamed, kaleidoscopic instant. She smelled the smoke coming from the window of the twins' room and realized that her father had yet to emerge from the fire.

She yelled, “Dad!” and plunged through the back door into the narrow, dark, smoke-filled hall. As she stepped into the room, she saw her father struggling with Tigue in the corner. The fire was beginning to lick up the rear wall. She heard the shot from Tigue's pistol and saw that her father continued to stand. As she began to move toward her father, her right foot struck something heavy that nearly tripped her.

Miss Wheatley's shotgun.

She picked it up and leveled it at Tigue. “Stop!” she yelled, but Tigue ignored her. She saw Tigue push her father away and point the pistol toward him. She had not been certain that she could use the gun if the moment required it. She had hoped only to frighten Tigue with the gun. But as she saw Tigue point the black pistol at her father, she forgot all of that and yanked on the double triggers.

But the triggers failed to give; the gun failed to fire.

The safety!
She had forgotten to turn it. But there was no time to fumble with it. With all of the strength she could muster, she flung the shotgun at Tigue, as if throwing a spear. The gun struck Tigue in the left shoulder and staggered him. For a third time, Tigue's pistol discharged.

Lamb heard the bullet embed itself harmlessly into the floor. In the next breath he tackled Tigue, and the two of them went to the floor. Lamb felt the heat of the flame against the side of his face. Then Rivers suddenly was there. He brought his right boot down squarely onto Tigue's already damaged face, shattering Tigue's nose. Tigue screamed in pain. Rivers roughly yanked Tigue to his feet and locked his arm around Tigue's neck.

“Get the bloody hell out of here!” Rivers yelled to Lamb and Vera.

Lamb found the wall with his left hand and pulled himself to his feet. His head was spinning and he worried that the smoke was about to envelop him. He felt himself slipping. He turned toward the door and saw Vera making her way across the burning room toward him.

THIRTY-NINE

LAMB AND VERA STUMBLED FROM THE HOUSE INTO THE REAR
yard, their arms about each other. Lilly ran toward them.

“Miss Lamb!”

“I'm all right, Lilly,” Vera said.

Harding ran to Lamb and helped Vera to hold him up. He ordered one of the constables to bring Lamb and Vera water, which they both drank greedily. Harding immediately began to try to convince Lamb to allow one of the men to drive him and Vera to the hospital, but Lamb waved the super off. “I'll be all right,” he said. “It's Miss Wheatley and Wallace who need tending.” Lamb looked at Vera and said, “Take her, too.” But Vera stood her ground. “I'm all right,” she said. Lamb hadn't the heart, or the energy, to argue the point.