The Watchman (27 page)

Still in stealth mode, I charged across the room and felt for a pulse. A steady thump answered my touch. Fuzzy images wended through the boy's mind, his kidnapping at the ranch, crying, his father yelling. A cup of hot cocoa his dad forced him to drink before they left Hebron. The boy's mind was clearing. He would wake soon.

My attention turned back to Marshall. He stomped down a wide hallway and shouted, “Andy.”

It took only a second before a door opened and someone stepped into the corridor in front of Marshall. A man moved into the light. The thug who busted my shoulder. That explained the lights and heat.

Marshall returned to the living room, Andy in tow. “Everything ready?”

“Yeah. Couldn't get a flight out until tomorrow. Everything's grounded.”

“That will do. I have a few things to finish up here tonight. Go bring in my luggage.”

Andy glowered at him but moved obediently into the foyer. A blast of frigid air filled the room before he could close the door.

Using both hands, Marshall patted his jacket pockets, withdrew a folded piece of paper, and placed it on the lamp table by the sofa. Taking a seat beside Cody, Marshall shook the boy.

Cody's eyes opened and then closed.

Marshall shook him again. “Wake up, kid. We're going to call your mother.”

Cody shook his head, disoriented. “Mom? Can I go home?”

“Yeah kid. You're going home.”

My heart fell to my stomach and lay like a stone wheel. Marshall hadn't brought Cody all this way just to send him back to Rachel. The fact Marshall called Cody “kid” gripped my psyche with icy fingers. The man had disassociated himself from his son.

Steady handed, Marshall reached into a drawer on the end table, withdrew a gun, and settled back against the sofa. He grabbed Cody's arm and pulled him to a sitting position. Marshall lifted the receiver on the cordless phone and punched in a number. The smile on his face sent a tingle of apprehension through me as someone on the other end of the line picked up. “Rachel?”

A pause.

“This is Harry London. I need to speak to my wife.”

Emma must have answered.

He handed the phone to Cody.

“Mom?” Another pause. “I don't know. A cabin somewhere—”

Marshall snatched the phone from Cody. “You know, Rachel, if you'd stayed home where you belonged, none of this would have happened. Just remember you're going to have to live with what you did for the rest of your life.”

Marshall held the phone to his ear and placed the gun to Cody's temple.

Pulse quickening, a flash of insight hit me like a cattle prod against wet skin. Marshall's plan crystallized. I knew why he let Cody call Rachel.

I should have seen this coming.

Marshall had all the characteristics of a sociopath. A pervasive disregard for and violation of the rights of others. A male Medea seeking revenge against Rachel through Cody.

Once only a horror suggested in a Greek tragedy, the Medea Complex played out in nightly newscasts across the nation. A father who set his son on fire to punish his wife, a physician who killed his two daughters while his wife pleaded on the phone.

Cody screamed.

Sickened, raging mad, and visible, I rushed the couch, and slammed my arm against Marshall's gun hand, just as the weapon fired. The bullet splintered into the wooden floor in front of Cody. Hysterical sobs burst through the phone where it lay on the rug.

“What ...?” Marshall jerked to his feet and whirled, looking for who or what had knocked away the revolver.

I stepped in front of him and landed a hard right to his jaw. The burning pain in my hand told me I made solid contact.

Momentum from the blow carried Marshall into the wall, but he bounced off the solid surface, and we both lunged for the gun. Marshall reached it first and swung the gun around. Breathing hard, he placed his hand on his jaw, wiggled it from side to side, and leveled the revolver at my chest. “Welcome to the party, Adams. I didn't dare hope you'd make it. My good fortune knows no bounds. I'm interested to hear how you found me, but you won't live long enough to explain how brilliant you were.”

The outside door swung open. Andy rushed crossed the threshold, gun drawn, and edged in behind Marshall. “Where'd he come from?”

Marshall held the gun steady, his eyes never leaving mine. “I hoped you could tell me.”

The need to buy a little time moved to the top of my list. “I figured this goon belonged to you. You hang with nice people, Marshall.”

His gaze shifted toward the thug. “You mean Andy? Yes, he's mine. I'd forgotten you two met previously. He isn't always as competent as I would like, but he's very loyal.”

“Maybe you should get a pit bull, they're prettier.”

Andy roared and lurched at me, but when Marshall held up his hand, Andy halted like a well-trained pet.

The judge bared his teeth in a smile, enjoying the moment. “I'm glad you showed up to keep me company while I take care of a little family business. It seems I also owe the discovery of my identity to you.”

My jaw clenched. “If I have my way, the reunion will be short-lived.”

His lips spread into a slow, sarcastic smile. “Don't be bitter, Adams. You've allowed me to clean up two messes in one night. By this time tomorrow, I'll be in Canada with a new identity and enough money to live comfortably for a very long time.”

My blood boiled, like a savage animal straining for freedom. For the first time in my life, I knew I could kill another human being—commit willful, cold-blooded murder. “I'm warning you, Marshall, if you touch Cody—”

Marshall extended his left hand and gave me a hard shove. “What will you do?”

My fingers clasped his wrist and I pushed him away. Something almost electric passed between us. In that instant every foul crime Ben Marshall ever committed filled my mind. The stench of human depravity flowed over me like sewerage, and the pieces of Abigail Armstrong's disappearance fell into place.

I smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. “I'll tell you what I'll do—make you sorry I ever came into your life.” Brave words from a man who had no idea what his next move would be. I couldn't become invisible for another twenty minutes. Cody and I would both be dead by then.

The cocky curl on Marshall's lips straightened. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He hadn't expected that reply and suddenly realized that somehow power shifted away from him—he surely saw it in my eyes.

The thug reacted like a dog sniffing the wind. His hand jerked up and he stepped forward.

Marshall shouted, “Wait. He's mine.”

Cody screamed. “No. You can't.”

In the tension of the moment, I'd forgotten about Cody. Marshall whirled and raised his hand. Then apparently remembered the scene outside Cody's bedroom and halted.

For a split second, the two men took their gaze off me. I took two steps forward, grabbed a two-handed grip on Andy's arm, and flipped him. He went down, emitting a loud
ahhhh
as he smacked into the hardwood floor.

I rushed him, hoping to wrestle away the gun. He saw me coming and rolled to the right knocking Marshall off his feet, just as he fired. My ankle suddenly felt like I brushed against a lit blowtorch, and wetness flowed into my shoe. No way could I reach Cody before his father regained his footing, but the impact from the collision with Andy sent Marshall's gun sailing into the air. It landed in front of a trophy case on the opposite wall.

Oblivious to the pain, I leaped toward Marshall's waist and missed, grabbing his leg on the way down.

“Run, Cody!” I yelled just as a booted foot sent a vicious kick and smashed into my face.

Blinding pain shot through my body, and blood, wet and salty, spurted from my nostrils and down my throat. Bright flashes of light danced behind my eyes—a kaleidoscope of colors. Instinctively, my hands covered my nose and I lost my grip on Marshall.

When my hold loosened, Marshall rushed to retrieve the weapon.

Cody beat him to it and aimed it at his father. The boy held the gun with both hands, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Marshall froze.

Andy now on his feet, stopped dead still, uncertain, his gun lay on the floor.

I rose to my feet despite unbelievable pain in my ankle. The salty taste of blood flowed from my nose down the back of my throat. “Cody, I'm coming. I want you to give me the gun. You don't really want to kill your father. It's a burden you'd have to live with always.”

Cody's chin trembled. “I do—I have to—if I don't—he'll never leave us alone.” Unexpected wisdom from a child. Cody's finger tightened on the trigger.

With faltering steps, I moved toward him. “I'll put him in jail where he'll never get out. Son, don't do this. It's murder.”

The gun in Cody's hand belched smoke, and the acrid smell of gunpowder spread across the empty space.

 

 

 

 

23

 

Rapid Bend, California

The shot took off the bottom of Marshall's right earlobe. Recoil from the revolver knocked Cody backwards. He steadied himself and raised the gun again.

My gaze locked onto Andy as his arm slowly stooped, reaching for the gun at his feet. I roared like an angry bear and the noise distracted the thug long enough for me to leap forward and smash my forearm into the side of his head. The blow knocked the revolver from his grip, and it slid out of his reach.

My attention riveted on Andy.

I didn't see Marshall until he snatched up the cordless phone and hurled it at Cody just as the boy fired again. The shot soared past Marshall and thudded into the wall. The phone smashed into Cody's chest and sent him sprawling against the rough log interior, gasping for air.

Marshall snatched the gun from Cody's limp fingers. He turned the weapon toward me. No way to reach him before he fired. My mind numbed. What would happen to Cody if I went down?

“Get up, Cody. Run.”

But Cody was too dazed to move. He slumped back against the rough logs, helpless.

Marshall looked down at the gun in his hand, and then up at me. Blood from his ear trickled down his neck, and he wiped at it, smearing the red stain onto his collar. His eyes seethed with rage as he pulled back on the trigger.

A whispered prayer slipped from my lips. “Lord, please protect Cody.”

I wavered upright on one foot, waiting for death. My only regret, I had failed to protect Cody, leaving him at the mercy of his deranged father.

Noise from the front door distracted Marshall and gave me the split second I needed to dive for the thug's revolver. Two shots banged against my eardrums, but only one from the gun in my hand. I felt no pain. In fact, I felt no new ache at all.

Marshall never got off a shot. His eyes lost their focus as two dark circles spread over his shirt pocket. One from the gun in my hand, one from the entryway.

Like a disjointed scene from a morph-commercial, I turned to the entrance.

Inside the foyer stood George and a uniformed policeman, his gun pointed at Marshall's now lifeless form. Absorbed in my struggle to survive, the troops' arrival hadn't registered until they'd distracted Marshall.

George glanced over at Andy. “This the guy who killed Tooie?”

My hand over my bleeding nose, I nodded.

Before anyone could stop him, George rushed forward, grabbed Andy, and sent a left jab to his stomach that lifted him off the floor. George clutched the thug's collar, raised him up and sent another blow to his chin like the Golden Gloves champion George had once been. The thug groaned and gasped for breath. George muttered through gritted teeth, “This one's for Tooie, you low-life scum.” The blow knocked Andy across the room. He slid down the wall and bounced to a sitting position. Before George could inflict further damaged on Andy's unconscious form, a deputy rushed forward. Pushing George back, the officer handcuffed Andy.

I dropped the gun and hobbled to Cody's side. He lay where he'd fallen after the phone's impact, his face pale, his body trembling. I jerked a wool throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it tightly around the boy. On unsteady feet, I lifted him onto my arms and felt him quiver. I whispered, “It's over, Cody. It's over.”

Another deputy rushed forward to take Cody from me. I shook my head, and the officer backed away. With one hand, I signaled George to give me the phone that lay on the floor, the line still open. Rachel's voice sobbed Cody's name over and over.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Rachel, its Noah. Cody's all right. He's fine. I'll bring him home to you as soon as we finish up here.”

Bill's anxious voice came on the extension. “Is it true? Cody's OK?”

“He'll be fine. He took a blow to the chest, but he seems OK. He's suffering from shock. I'll have him checked out before we fly home. Probably sometime tomorrow.”

“How are you?” Bill asked. “Your voice sounds strange.”

I took a gulp of air through my mouth. “I'm fine. Just having a little nose trouble at the moment. Marshall's dead. I'll tell you all about it when we get home. Right now, Cody needs my attention.”

EMT's arrived. They checked Cody for broken ribs before loading him onto the stretcher. The female emergency tech covered the boy in warm blankets. Another of the medics took charge of me and stopped the bleeding from my injuries. He determined the nose was broken, but the bullet passed through my foot, apparently missing the ankle bone.

A deputy held an umbrella over Cody's face to keep away the snow as they loaded him into the ambulance. The EMT asked me to wait until the next emergency unit arrived.

I shook my head. “I'm going with the boy.”

One of the EMT held up his hand. “I'm sorry. You can't ride in the back. You can sit up front with the driver if you like.”

I stared into his eyes. “This boy was almost killed by his own father. His mother is in Wyoming. I
will
ride with him. Right now he needs someone he knows close by.”