Throwdown Page 16
“It’s okay,” Frank told him, “it’s Frank Stallings.”
Frank didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed him under his arms and manhandled him down the steps and over behind the Toyota. He looked back up at the front of the house. No other movement there, but that wouldn’t last. He looked down, finally recognized Rich Comeau through the mask of blood. It looked like flying glass had done the damage. Frank couldn’t tell if Comeau’s eyes were actually intact or if they were just obscured by blood. Frank shrugged off his jacket.
“Use this. Try to stop the bleeding,” Frank pressed the jacket into Comeau’s hands, “Rich, I’ve got to take your gun.”
Comeau let him do it. He had two clips on his belt and Frank took those too.
“Shotgun,” Comeau hissed, “it’s up on the porch.”
Great, Frank thought.
49
Billy got feelings sometimes, both good and bad, and while he was almost always afraid to do something about them he often found out afterward–when it was too late–that he’d been right all along. Then he’d feel bad because he hadn’t done anything about them.
That was the way he’d felt when Frank had looked at him and told him to go home. Billy didn’t ask any questions. He had never questioned anything Frank had ever told him, but this time he’d just sat in the truck and watched as Frank walked away. Billy was afraid to follow him and afraid to leave, afraid something was going to happen to Frank, so he just stayed where he was and tried to decide what he should do. He was still trying to decide when the sound of gunfire decided for him.
He didn’t waste time going back along the road, just left the truck and walked straight into the woods. The ground fell steeply away and it was strewn with deadfalls and brush. Billy was good in the woods, even in darkness, and he just plowed through and over what he couldn’t see. He stumbled and fell a couple of times but he knew it wasn’t far and he just kept going.
When Billy stumbled out of the woods at the bottom of the hill he stopped for a moment, confused. He knew the river, knew there were little cutouts like this all along its length, short dirt roads with a handful of cottages or old houses. He’d never been to Langdon’s but there weren’t many places down here, so he thought he could find Frank. The gunshots had stopped when he was still in the woods but he was sure they’d come from somewhere off to the left of where he was now. It was pitch dark and he was standing in the middle of someone’s back yard, the faint outline of a cottage in front of him.
He looked to his left, started walking through the adjoining yards. The cottages he passed were dark, no vehicles in their driveways, and when he looked up again he could see a small, old-fashioned farmhouse ahead of him. There were a couple of cars in the driveway and what looked like a small campfire burning in its backyard. There was something else on the ground too and at first Billy couldn’t see what it was.
50
It was a miracle Elway hadn’t been hit. He knew that was just a matter of luck, not reflexes, even though he’d hit the floor hard when the kitchen window had exploded inward and he heard Sherry scream. It felt like he’d picked up a couple of cuts from flying glass but that was all. He’d raised his head at the edge of the window frame, finally saw a dark figure standing at the rear of the back yard. It looked like a cop but the guy was just standing still, gaping at the assault rifle in his hands as if he’d just discovered it was there. Elway brought the pistol up, rested it on the bottom of the window frame. He snapped off a double tap and the man went down.
He wasn’t sure how many incoming shots there’d been. Even the outside walls probably wouldn’t have stopped them, and most had come in through the window anyway. Elway looked over his shoulder, could see through the gap over the kitchen counter to the living room. A lot of open space, nothing to stop a bullet, and no sign of Langdon or Sherry. That meant nothing, since either way they’d be on the floor by now.
They’d kept the lights on in the house, going on the theory that if the cops did show up to ask questions the place would look normal, like they’d been in the farmhouse all night. They hadn’t anticipated that someone would just open fire without no warning at all. He’d been walking around in a goldfish bowl and only dumbass luck had saved him.
Elway needed more firepower and he made up his mind to go for the long guns first. He started crawling out of the kitchen and down the hallway. So far he hadn’t heard anything from Langdon or Sherry. Maybe they’d been hit, maybe they’d just had enough sense to stay low and keep quiet. He didn’t hear any more from the outside either but reminded himself that anything could be going on out there, that he should concentrate on getting his own act together.
The guns were in a recessed crawl space under the stairwell. He’d expected to see Kenny going for them too, but the hallway was clear. Elway crawled another couple of feet, far enough to look into the living room.
What he saw there changed everything. Kenny was on his back on the floor, Sherry’s body sprawled across his. There was blood everywhere–some of the incoming rounds had blown right through and hit them. The ones that had missed had shattered the picture window on the way out. Neither Langdon or Sherry showed any signs of movement. He thought of making sure, using the handgun to finish them, but if they weren’t dead already they’d probably bleed out anyway. Putting rounds from the pistol into the mix would just point back to him. He thought of the shots he’d already fired, knew that Kenny would have had to be the one who fired them. Elway’s little murder–suicide scenario had disintegrated but he could make this work instead. He backed up to the crawl space.
There was a horizontal rod in there, clothes on hangers that screened the guns from view. He reached in, yanked an old shirt from its hanger, wiped the pistol down with it. Then he wrapped the shirt around his hand and gripped the gun with it, crawled back toward the front room. It was awkward but he managed to toss the weapon so it landed beside the bodies. He backpedaled toward the crawl space, replaced the shirt on its hanger. He was winging it, improvising, but he had no choice. It was a chance, and sometimes that was all you had.
Someone had done his job for him, saved him the trouble of taking out the only two people who knew what had happened. He had only seconds now and no idea how many cops were outside. When the time came they’d be coming in both front and back. The basement was a lousy option but it was the only one he could think of. There were windows down there but he couldn’t remember how big they were. If he couldn’t get himself through one of them he’d be fucked, trapped in a big hole in the ground. He had no intention of making some kind of last stand. All he wanted to do was somehow get the fuck out of the house.
There wasn’t any use thinking about it. The basement door was close, nearly beside him in the hallway, and he backed up a couple of feet, opened it only enough to slide through and then close it softly behind him. He reached out with his left hand, groped for support until he found a railing.
When he got to the bottom it took him a moment to get his bearings and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was able to make out the outline of a window on the wall farthest from the driveway. The basement floor was littered with junk and he forced himself to stay quiet, take his time getting to the window. Just because he didn’t hear anything didn’t mean they weren’t already in the house. Elway didn’t want anyone to hear him at all. The window wouldn’t make that easy. It was held in place by nails hammered into the casement and bent over its frame. Elway still had the other gun he’d taken from Nason and Hendricks, used its butt and his fingers to pry the bent nails down and away from the window frame. He stuffed the pistol back into his waistband, used his fingertips to work the window away from its casement. It was taking too damn long but finally he got it out, put it down as quietly as he could. He turned back to the window, cautiously craned his neck to see what was out there.
The air was cool and sharp but it was too dark to see much. There was a narrow strip of unkempt grass between the house and the trees and brush on the
other side. Maybe there were cops out there, but it didn’t feel that way. If they were outside and close they would have heard or seen him screwing around with the window. Or maybe there was some smartass out there waiting to blow his head off.
One way to find out, he thought. At the last moment he remembered the keys to the Camaro, then dismissed the thought. Langdon and Sherry had been here by themselves and he hadn’t been here at all. The cars had to stay where they were, and he’d never make it to the driveway anyhow. He had to go for the woods at the back of the house and then travel that way for at least a couple of days. That was alright – he’d been trained for that, a while ago now, but it was just like riding a bicycle. He wouldn’t forget.
Elway got his arms out through the window and squirmed like hell to get out. He was big and his shoulders were big and for the briefest moment he felt an unaccustomed flash of panic, a sudden feeling that he’d wedged himself in there, but he got one arm out straight along the ground and clawed into the grass with his fingernails, canted his shoulders at an impossible angle and got most of his upper body through. He expected the shock of a bullet impact any time but he kept moving to preserve whatever pathetic momentum he’d generated. If he didn’t he’d be trapped half in and half out of that narrow space, so he contorted his body even more and finally twisted his way out of that goddamn window and collapsed on the grass. In that single vulnerable moment a preschooler with a sharp stick could have taken him out, but nothing happened. He gasped for air and lurched to his feet.
51
Frank made the front steps and sprawled onto the porch, then rolled to one side of the door. He took a deep breath and crawled to what was left of the picture window, darted a quick glance inside. It took him a moment to register what he saw. Two bodies were sprawled across each other on the floor. There was blood everywhere but Frank could see that the man was Langdon, the girl probably the one from the bar. Neither one was moving. He thought of the big man he had seen with Elway at Saunders’ place, didn’t know where he was or if he was there at all.
He ducked back and away from the windowsill. He was poised at the front door when he heard a shout from the back yard, went over the railing at the side of the porch and came down running.
• • •
Billy thought the man lying on the ground was Frank. He was starting toward him when he saw a dark figure come around the back corner of the house. He was holding a gun and he was headed for the trees at the back of the yard.
Something went off in Billy’s head and he just charged, the man turning toward him and then suddenly not there anymore. Billy plunged through empty space, the man coming up underneath him and cartwheeling him into the air. Billy landed hard on his back, so hard he couldn’t breathe. He was looking straight up but he couldn’t see right, just a fuzzy image of the man looking down at him over the gaping muzzle of a gun. Billy tried to raise his hand, to somehow ward him off, but his arm felt numb, useless, and he knew he was going to die.
Suddenly the man looked back toward the driveway and wheeled around, brought the gun up and away from Billy. Billy had never seen anyone move that fast but he heard the hollow pop of gunshots from somewhere he couldn’t see and the man staggered and then pitched forward onto his face.
• • •
“You okay, Billy?” Frank walked in closer, kept his eyes and the gun on Elway.
Billy could only manage a grunt in response, still hadn’t moved. Frank could see Wheelock lying face up on the ground. Frank kicked the gun out of Elway’s reach, crouched down and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
Frank ignored Billy for now, turned his attention to Wheelock. There was a lot of blood, an entry wound just below his right cheekbone, a larger exit wound on the other side of his face. It looked like another round had hit him high on the right shoulder. Wheelock wasn`t conscious but he was alive, at least for now. It all depended on blood loss.
Frank rifled the pouches on Wheelock’s belt, came up with a pair of latex gloves. He wasn’t sure if they’d stretch enough to contain Billy’s massive paws, but he held them out anyway.
“Put them on,” Frank ordered.
Billy just stared for a moment, then took them. He was still on his side, had trouble moving. Frank grabbed his arm, leaned down so he could look him in the eyes.
“Billy, I need you for this. Take off your shirt, then tear it in half. He’s got two bullet wounds and you’ve got to wad up the shirt and put pressure on both of them to stop the bleeding. You understand?”
Billy nodded slowly, then got to his knees and started shrugging off his jacket. Billy was a hunter and he knew all about blood. Frank figured he’d probably do better in that kind of situation than ninety per cent of the people on earth with twice his IQ. There wasn’t a choice anyway. If there was anyone left alive in the house he had to help them, no matter who they were. He left Billy to it, headed for the house. Frank ran up the stairs on the back porch and yanked the kitchen door open.
The shot ripped past his ear, so close he could feel the backwash of the bullet. Kenny Langdon was on the kitchen floor, a blood trail marking where he’d crawled in from the hallway. A pistol was wavering in his upstretched hand. Frank had the Beretta up and centered on Kenny’s head but Kenny’s arm was dropping already, too weak to support the weight of the gun. It clattered to the floor and Frank stepped forward and kicked it away. He looked down at Langdon, saw a feeble flash of that smartass grin and watched the light fading from his eyes.
“Maybe next time, Frank.”
Frank stared at him, knew that next time wasn’t going to happen. Not in this life.
52
Jeff Wagner looked around the ER, decided that things were, if not under control, at least to the point where they didn’t need him anymore. He’d been going nonstop, from the crime scene at the motel, then to Langdon’s, and finally to the hospital. He’d known they wouldn’t have enough staff on duty to deal with this kind of thing, would have to call some people in. Wagner had done his best to fill in the gaps until the cavalry arrived.
He’d still been at the motel when the second call had come in, and there’d been a brief moment of stunned inactivity until Brent recovered sufficiently to get everybody moving. It helped that one team of paramedics was still at the motel, but from the sound of things that wouldn’t be enough. Wagner didn’t work with the living much anymore, but he still kept his bag in the car, just in case. It looked like he’d have to use it.
They’d travelled fast, a convoy of four vehicles with the ambulance bracketed by the two police vehicles in the lead and Wagner trailing. There was a sudden, rippling flurry of brake lights and Wagner narrowly avoided clipping the rear end of the ambulance as it struggled to make the turnoff. He nearly overshot it himself, somehow managed to crank the big sedan around in time. The ambulance nearly lost it again on the sharp left hand turn at the bottom, its left rear wheel actually lifting off the road for a moment before the driver got it under control.
That warned Wagner to slow down himself, and by the time he got around the corner he could see the other vehicles already slowing to a stop up ahead, the glare of their emergency lights strobing the trees marking the road’s end.
He knew there had to be at least another ambulance on the way so he brought the Crown Vic to a stop past the driveway. Brent, Randall and Raycroft had their guns drawn and were cautiously making their way up the hill toward the house. They’d left the driveway clear for the medics and the heavy ambulance fought its way up the muddy track and lurched to a stop just behind an old Camaro.
Wagner grabbed his bag from the trunk, looked up at the house to see Brent and the others flanking the front door. Brent stuck to procedure, held up a hand to hold the medics in place but Wagner kept going to the cover of the ambulance, got there just as the passenger door opened. Jimmy Slade was massive, black, and pissed off.
“Hurry up and wait,” he snarled, “Lori told me the call said the place was clear. Guess the cops didn’t get the memo
.”
“Suppose it depends on who made the call,” Wagner said, “They just want to make sure.”
“Fuck that. I know who called it in, even if they don’t. Frank Stallings made the call, ” Slade wasn’t waiting for anybody, went to the back of the vehicle and opened the doors, “Frank Stallings says the place is clear, it’s clear.”
• • •
There was a commotion by the intake desk and Wagner was jerked abruptly back into the present. He recognized the voice, pushed the door open and stepped into the corridor. Ed Cunningham wasn’t getting the answers he wanted and he was on his way into the E.R. itself until Wagner got in front of him.
“They don’t need you in there right now,” Wagner said.
For a moment Cunningham looked like he was going to try to get around him anyway, but Wagner stayed firmly where he was.
“What the hell happened?” Cunningham demanded.
“Who called you?” Wagner asked.
“What do you mean who called me?” Cunningham exploded, “I’m the mayor, for Chrissakes. People are supposed to call me. You sure as hell didn’t! Where’s Brent?”
“He’s got two crime scenes, Ed. He’s busy right now.”
As tired as he was Wagner realized the most useful thing he could do was keep Cunningham the hell away from the hospital staff, let them do their jobs. He put his hand on Cunningham’s arm, steered him away from the door and into a corner of the waiting room.
“Okay, Ed, I guess I know as much as anyone. We’ve got two officers, Wheelock and Comeau, in here. Comeau may lose an eye but otherwise I think he’ll be okay,” like losing an eye was okay, “A lot of blood loss, mostly from flying glass.”