The Widow's Son (18 page)

I cracked open the door a few inches, twisted my head sideways, and peered down an empty hall. Voices could be heard coming from the living room. I started to step out when I heard a toilet flush. I closed the door and waited until the steps retreated. Without bothering to look this time, I entered the hall and glided past two rooms on the right until coming to what looked like a closet.

It was about four feet wide and two feet deep inside. Old cardboard boxes stuffed with cotton dresses and men's work clothes covered half the floor. A rusty double-barreled shotgun leaned in a corner. Good news,
if
it was functional. There was a box of shells sitting next to it. But the shells contained No. 9 birdshot—good for killing birds, but not effective for stopping a determined foe beyond fifteen feet.

I loaded the gun and was about to look for a better vantage point when I noticed the outline of a trapdoor on the ceiling. A frayed rope hung from it.

I set the gun down, shoved the clothes boxes aside to allow more room, and tugged on the cord. The ladder unfolded easily enough, but the steps were treacherously rotted. Keeping my insteps wedged against the sides, however, I made it up to a small attic space. Its sole purpose was to accommodate a huge house fan, circa 1920. Light and sound from the living room below filtered through its thick mesh screen.

After several tense minutes I succeeded in squeezing on my knees to a spot where my head was half a foot from the blades. It was hotter than Hades and it stank of bat droppings and mouse piss, but I couldn't have asked for a better observation post of the living room. After settling on my haunches, I looked down to see and hear Dietz addressing his uncle. There was no sign of Grint.

“You shouldn't have promised to seal the girl to him,” Dietz said.

Lamar Stagg, a long-limbed, broad-shouldered ancient, rose from the table. He was gaunt and wheezy and even from my perch I could hear his dentures clack, but I figured he could be a very tough hombre for the short term. That wild-eyed bearded face showed the feral defiance of a timber wolf that may have been past its prime but was still leader of the pack. He'd die hard.

“For sure we made a mistake,” I heard the old man say. “But Port needs a wife. With that ugly mug and being a little soft in the head he ain't likely to get a prize heifer on his own. Let him keep her under lock and key in Mexico. She won't go tellin' on us.”

I noticed the mechanical hitch in Dietz's gait as he moved to his uncle's side. He said firmly, “It's too risky. I hate it, but we can't let her be a witness.”

The uncle grunted. He walked over to the couch and picked up a stuffed pillow embroidered with the words Courage—Wisdom—Serenity.

“I helped cause the problem,” he said. “Guess it's up to me to put a stop to it. We'll find him somebody else.”

“You're going to suffocate her?”

“Why waste a bullet?”

The codger headed into the hallway. I waited with a mixture of concern and satisfaction for the volcanic eruption sure to follow when he discovered the bird had flown.

I wasn't disappointed.

“She's escaped! Seth! Jacob!”

The two men rushed from elsewhere in the house to join Lamar and Dietz in the main room.

“Find her!” Lamar shouted. “I don't care if you have to shoot the little bitch. Just get her.”

Grint stumbled frantically down the broad staircase. He had a stricken look as he watched the two armed men dash from the house.

“What'd you tell them?” he demanded of his uncle. “Shoot her? That ain't right.”

Dietz stepped between them.

“Is the woman secure?” he asked Grint.

“What?”

“Natalie Phelan, you fool. Still secure?”

“Yeah,” Grint answered distractedly as he headed for the door. “The girl's mine. I'm gonna find her.”

Lamar grabbed him by the shoulders. “You'll stay here.”

“But they'll kill her.”

“Yes, God willing.”

“No, Uncle! You promised her to me. All I've done for you…”

Dietz calmly addressed his distraught cousin. “That girl's the least of our problems. Forget her. Let the boys handle it.”

Grint wasn't listening.

“Get upstairs, boy, and bring the woman down,” Lamar ordered. “There's no time to waste. It's almost midnight and the day of reckoning is at hand.”

“Not until I've found the girl!” Grint screamed.

Pulling from his uncle's grasp, he sprinted for the front door, knocking Dietz to the floor.

Dietz, no longer so composed, struggled to his feet. He joined his uncle on the porch to helplessly watch Grint disappear into the woods.

As prompts to action go, there wasn't going to be a better opportunity for yours truly. With Porter and the two Danite henchmen chasing Claire, the present opposition was an old man dependent on an oxygen tank and a triple amputee. The birdshot should do just fine if I could get close enough.

I slid back down the ladder, picked up the gun, and rushed into the room to position myself next to the front door. The two remained outside for a few more minutes while that gotch-eyed, sanctimonious uncle uttered some very unMormon-like curses concerning his uncontrollable nephew.

His curses got even bluer when he and Dietz returned inside to find themselves staring into the double barrels of what my former barista used to call the “boom stick.”

“Gentlemen,” I said, channeling Daniel Craig, “we're going upstairs to get Mrs. Phelan, and then—”

And then my brains became a bucket of butter.

I staggered like a back-alley drunk, the shotgun dangling uselessly at my side. Somehow turning to confront the assailant, I raised a hand in a feeble effort to retaliate, only to catch an iron fist in my solar plexus. I made a faint gurgling sound before collapsing to my knees.

Nauseated and gasping but not entirely out, I gazed up at the broad walnut-colored face just long enough to reflect on yet another of life's not-so-amusing ironies.

Then Stormin' Norman Tate dropkicked me into unconsciousness.

I awoke tied to a spindle-back chair at the end of the table in the living room. My head felt as if the top had been unscrewed and molten lead poured into it. My whole body ached, particularly my chest where Tate's fist landed, but nothing felt broken. The aroma of coffee brewing clashed with the stench of propane gas from a camping stove.

I didn't remember why I was there or why my head hurt. An old man whose skin had a sickly greenish hue and a younger man with an eye patch sat across from me. They spoke quietly to each other until the older one had a coughing fit. There was something strange about the younger man's arm that extended beneath the right sleeve of his polo shirt. A hefty, darker-skinned brute stood behind him.

Through a tall window I saw thick cumulous clouds blanketing the sky. For an instant, however, they cleared, allowing silvery moonlight to infiltrate the dirt-smudged panes. When the clouds regained control, the brief radiance seemed like the last gasp of a cold, solitary object.

My head swiveled back to the table where the
Book of Mormon
lay spread open to the front page. My eyes focused on an inscription below the title. It was signed by someone named Alonzo Stagg.

I glanced up and studied the faces of the men. They'd stopped talking. I saw the strange arm move to pick up the book. It brought everything into focus again. For better or worse, the fog cleared.

Dietz was the first to realize I'd regained my senses.

“You shouldn't have been so keen on finding us,” he told me. “I'm afraid you're about to become CD.”

I think it was his using that abbreviation for collateral damage that replaced my trepidation with white hot anger. CD—sounds like “seedy”—was the euphemism senior officers used in Iraq to describe our deadly mistakes involving noncombatants.

“Like Eulalia Darp?” I said. My voice sounded strange, as if it had emerged from a deep well. “Why did you kill her, Denny? You could have afforded our price.”

“That was his doing,” he said, nodding toward Tate. “The night before I arrived in Lawrence, he saw a chance to make his fortune.” Dietz paused. “Right, Norm?”

“Yeah,” Tate snarled. “The sour old bitch treated me like a Tipi Tom, even worse than those fraternity pricks. I'd been sneakin' things out of the house for years, but she was gettin' wise to it. When I heard she had a buyer coming for that Mormon book I figured it might as well be me making big money.”

“Whose body was by the door?”

“Had to cover my ass,” he said, grinning. It was remarkable how evil Tate looked after seeming so affable when we had first met in Lawrence. “So I killed a drunk Wahoo 'bout my size under the Kaw bridge, where there's plenty of bums to choose from. Drove his body to Darp's house, picked up the Mormon book and a few other things, then lit the match.”

His eyes shone. “Ho-ah! Those oil lamps and all that paper sure made a fine bonfire.”

“Take it easy,” Dietz cautioned the Indian. Turning back to me, he explained, “Tate called me shortly after I arrived at the airport. Didn't say who he was, but made it clear he had what I wanted. I was watching the news report of the fire at the very moment I listened to him on my cell phone. Either I pay him for the book or someone else gets what belonged to us Staggs. It was a no-brainer.”

“Especially since I only asked a hundred grand for it,” Tate said.

“To be paid after our mission is complete,” Dietz reminded him.

”But it ain't all I done. You wouldn't have gotten this far without my muscle.”

“So,” I said to Dietz, “you sent him to kill Emery in the hospital.”

“Of course. Much as I wanted to finish him myself, it wasn't feasible. Norm botched that one, but he managed to grab the Phelans while you and the police were busy watching Porter.”

“Maybe I should get a bonus, huh?” Tate said.

Dietz stood silent for a moment. Dragging metallic fingers slowly across his chest, he said, “You'd have a better case if you hadn't taken the girl, too.”

“Grint told me to not come back without 'em both. Blame him.”

The artificial hand returned to his side.

“Never mind. What's done is done. If you help us finish without further annoyance, I think another five thousand is fair. Don't you, Uncle?”

Lamar cleared a wad of phlegm from the back of his throat and spit it on the floor. The old man shrugged indifferently.

“Damn, that's what I like to hear!” Tate exclaimed. “You want me to look for the kid? I'll finish her right nice.”

Porter Grint, who had returned with the other two after unsuccessfully scouring the woods, was still steaming mad. He rushed up to Tate and growled, “You keep your redskin ass away from her.”

“I don't take shit from
wasichus
”—pejorative for non–Native Americans—“like you,” Tate spit back.

“That's enough,” Dietz barked. “We have plenty of work to do before this night's over. Seth, Jacob, load up the trucks. Take Tate with you. And you, Port, bring Mrs. Phelan downstairs.”

Lamar closed the
Book of Mormon
. “I'll get the garments.”

Grint and the other men left on their assignments while the old man ambled down the hall.

“I don't expect you to understand,” Dietz said when we were alone.

“What you're doing has nothing to do with your religion.”

The blank look in his eye confirmed there was no chance my words would have any effect. Whether due to his uncle's insidious brainwashing, a severe case of PTSD, or a true belief in the righteousness of an abhorrent family legacy, Denny Dietz was as mad as my great-aunt Lucy, the self-proclaimed Roadkill Pie Queen of Alma, Kansas.

Our staring contest ended when Lamar came back with several white robes draped over his arm. The Danite named Seth also returned to report the vehicles were loaded. Suddenly, a ruckus at the top of the stairs got everyone's attention. I twisted my head as far as I could to see Grint struggling to control Natalie.

She was dressed in a full-length white gown. The right sleeve was spotted with dried blood. They had tied up her hair in a chignon that exposed the nape of her neck. Her arms were bound by a thick hemp rope and her mouth was taped shut, but her legs were free. I figured Grint had untied them in the mistaken belief that she would listlessly descend on her own, thereby saving him the trouble of carrying her.

But the lady hadn't lost her spunk. She kneed Grint's groin repeatedly before Seth ran up the stairs to help him. She thrust a bare foot at this guy, too, but he caught it before it did any damage. Finally able to grasp her legs and shoulders, the two men half carried, half dragged her down the steps still kicking.

It wasn't until she saw me tied up in the chair that Natalie stopped struggling. I didn't want her to lose hope, so I did the only thing I could do to buck up her spirits.

“Claire got away!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

It brought the desired gleam back to her eyes, while earning me an ear slap from Uncle Lamar that still makes it hard for me to hear whenever Josie asks me to take out the trash.

While the Stagg relatives went off to don their sacred white robes, Seth and Jacob carried Natalie to the pickup with the Colorado license plates. I watched them toss her into the back, then someone handed Tate a shovel. After dumping it in the trunk of his Chevrolet, he frog-marched me to the car and shoved me in with it. Before the hatch closed I watched Dietz, Porter, and Lamar climb into the SUV with the Arizona plates. Seconds later I heard the engines roar to life and the three vehicles pulled from the driveway onto the dirt road.

A mile or so later it became clear that I wasn't entitled to witness Natalie's sacred atonement for the crime of Governor Ford. I felt Tate steer the car off the road onto what felt like soft turf. He turned off the engine and came back to open the trunk. I sat up and saw that we were on the edge of woods, twenty yards from the road.

There's no use trying to explain the feeling of dread that enveloped me as I watched the red taillights of the other vehicles fade in the distance. I'd realized my life was forfeit ever since regaining consciousness in the farmhouse, but I'd clung to the hope of somehow saving Natalie as I had her daughter. Now, with the Chevrolet stopped in this isolated spot, it became frighteningly clear that both our fates were sealed.

A low fog rose from the fields, thickening the darkness.

“Git out,” Tate ordered, motioning with a .357 Magnum.

I climbed unsteadily from the trunk, the combined effect of apprehension and having likely been concussed. When I was on my feet again, he reached in the trunk to pull out the shovel.

“We're goin' over there,” he said, turning back to me. “Don't make trouble or you'll get it in the knees. I'd hate to have to drag you.”

I stumbled forward, feeling the morose hostility of Tate as he led me to a grim patch of ground covered by greasy clay and scant grass.

Beyond this was a large, dank bog. Narrow streamlets lined with heather and delicate reeds crisscrossed its algae-covered surface. The stagnant water teemed with hovering mosquitoes and the incessant piping of bullfrogs. For an instant, I thought a blue light danced across it, but the quivering radiance left no reflection in the waters. It was as if all my nightmares had come to roost there.

If you ever wondered how those poor souls captured in the Middle East by a heartless enemy could stoically face their execution, the answer from my experience in that fetid grove is simply this: The specter of Death, voluptuous and multiple-limbed, had already pressed her anesthetizing arms around them before they knelt. The slash of the knife they wouldn't feel or the gunshot they would never hear had become an anticlimactic afterthought.

Comforting image, don't you think?

Well, not for me. I wasn't in the Middle East. And although I hadn't a clue how I was going to resist, I had no intention of going “gentle into that good night.” For one thing, being left to rot in an unmarked hole feasted upon by insects, never to be discovered or properly mourned had little appeal for me. In fact, it
really, really, really
pissed me off; which in my case usually trumps the paralyzing effects of terror if there's an ounce of a chance to escape. For another, Josie Majansik was infinitely sexier than the Dark Angel, its plethora of sybaritic arms and legs notwithstanding. And—as if I needed added incentive—so was Natalie Phelan, who, I reminded myself, was in immediate need of rescuing.

It was Norman Tate's pride that offered me that chance. The proud Native American wasn't about to dig a grave while he had someone else to do it for him.

“For you,” he said, tossing the shovel at my feet. “Hold out your arms.”

Keeping the gun on me with one hand, he used a knife to cut the rope with the other. When he ordered me to pick up the shovel I didn't hesitate, figuring the odds of my survival had just edged up a notch. My arms were free and I had a weapon.

Except Stormin' Norman was no blockhead. He kept a twenty-foot distance between us.

“Dig,” he said. “Three feet by seven. Don't have to be deep.”

“You sure about this, Norm?”

“Dead sure. A hundred thousand dollars sure. Plus that little bonus and a free pass to Honduras.”

“And I'm Michael Jordan.”

“Uh-huh.”

He raised the gun, pulled back the hammer.

“Dig,” he repeated.

I outlined a nice neat rectangle in the clay. “They aren't going to pay you.”

“C'mon, hurry up.”

“You know too much, Norm. I bet Jacob and Seth doubled back and are watching us right now.” I pointed the end of the shovel toward the trees. “They're in that thicket waiting for you to finish me so they can get you next.”

“Dietz wouldn't screw with me.”

“Maybe not. But I think Grint and his uncle sure as hell would.”

Tate's eyes swept the woods. “Ain't nobody in there.”

But something was
.

Just the slightest movement. A deer perhaps. Perhaps not.

High above us dark masses of clouds jostled one another. A humid breeze rose from the swamp, fluttering the leaves and carrying with it the odor of decaying meat. Tate edged a step closer to the forest.

And that much closer to me.

I shoveled the first spade of dirt, then another and another, exaggerating the swing of my arms so that the dirt landed ten feet away. With each motion I glanced at Tate, whose focus stayed trained on the pitch-black spaces between the trees.

There came another movement—the skittering, leaping gray form of some large animal. Tate fired three quick rounds into the darkness. An unearthly shriek resounded throughout the forest, confirming the hit. Bleating half-human cries rent the air for a few seconds, but having leapt into action by then, I hardly noticed them.

Instead of wildly swinging the shovel during the lunge forward, I held it as if it were a lance. That saved a half second, enough to drive the spade under Tate's chin before he could react. While he staggered backward gasping for breath and spurting blood, I smashed his gun hand with my fist. The weapon dropped and he stumbled over a log. I was on top of him like a crab on a snail.

Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat training is something you never forget, but not for the reasons one who has never undergone it would expect. The first thing it emphasizes is that warriorship and sport fighting like boxing and karate are different things. Killing the enemy is the goal of a Marine—and the techniques taught are brutally efficient—but only when it is necessary to preserve one's life or those of innocents. Combat trainers emphasize the Life Value mechanism so you don't lose sight of your moral compass. The rationale behind it is a practical one: It makes it easier to live with yourself later when the Corps may call upon you to do the same thing again.

Knowing this, it took me about half a second to justify what happened next.

I gouged his eyes with the fingers of my left hand, followed by repeated jabs to his throat with those of my right, and finished by striking my flat right palm into his face until the irises disappeared into his skull.

I hadn't the time or inclination to spend one of the few bullets left in the chamber. Grabbing the car keys from his pocket, I picked up the Magnum and ran to the car, leaving Stormin' Norman Tate to bleed out.

Then I drove like Dale Earnhardt on uppers for Adam's sacrificial altar, desperately hoping I wasn't too late.