The Siege (29 page)

Winfield slowly stood to his full height and clicked the safety off his revolver. Pointing it off to the side, he shone his flashlight on the moving figures.

“This is the police!” he shouted, his voice echoing back from the woods with a hollow distortion. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The night swallowed up his light, so it never reached the people at the distance they were away from him. He cursed softly under his breath, knowing that what he had done was foolish. Who the hell, with that kind of lead, was going to stop for one lone cop? But what the hell! He figured they had seen him coming, anyway, so it was worth a try. He also figured—
what the hell?
—take the next step, too.

He slowly squeezed the trigger. His revolver kicked in his hand as it spit a splinter of orange flame and a lead bullet into the night. The explosion of the gunshot made his ears ring, and he watched in frustration as the figures continued up the hill. They didn’t even increase their pace, so confident were they of the lead they had on him, and that made Winfield all the madder.

He leaped over the railing to the ground as if to follow them, but he knew it was futile to try. They were already cresting the hill, and then the night swallowed them up without a sound. Winfield was left with the impression that they had never really been there, that he had let the night shadows trick his eyes, but he knew better. Donna had said she was sure
someone
had broken into the house, and that was the proof, disappearing over the hill.

“Might as well take a quick look around,” he said as he went up the back steps to the porch. He knew from what Donna had told him that there weren’t any valuables in the house, at most, some left-behind old furniture and a bunch of rusted old tools in the cellar. Still, he figured he’d better take a look around inside to see if they had done any damage before leaving.

He reached for the doorknob to the back door, and was surprised when it turned in his hand and the door swung slowly open, squeaking loudly on rusted hinges. Again, just before he entered the darkened kitchen, a gust of wind hooted in the eaves. His grip on the flashlight handle tightened when he took one last look up the slope to where those people had disappeared.

Maybe
, he thought,
they’ll come back when they think it’s safe
.

Winfield stepped into the kitchen, letting his flashlight beam sweep the room like a hungry animal. He saw only a few signs that someone had been here: one edge of the rug by the door was flipped over, and there were a few clumps of dirt on the floor. No damage, though, at least not here in the kitchen.

The short hallway to his right led to the living room. As he started in that direction, he suddenly became aware of a shifting noise from behind him. He was just turning around when the closet door beside him slammed open. A dark figure shot out like a jack-in-the-box, but Winfield never saw the lead pipe that came swooping down at him. In the next split second, he felt a sudden explosion of pain that started from his forehead but instantly crashed through every nerve in his body in burning, white splinters.

His last hazy thought was really a question: was that loud explosion the sound of his gun going off in his hand as his fingers clenched from the pain, or was it his head, smashing the floor as he fell? He wouldn’t have his answer until three hours later, when he woke up, bound and gagged, in the old coal bin in the cellar of the LaPierre house.

V

H
ocker and Tasha were sitting cross-legged on their spread-out sleeping bags on the living room floor when the cruiser pulled into the driveway. They had spent most of the day rummaging through the house and the barn out back; and now, after a light supper, they were taking it easy before retiring early for the night. Hocker had found a few things worth hanging onto, but the house had been pretty much cleaned out before now.

As soon as they heard the car’s engine at the foot of the driveway, they crept to the front windows and crouched, watching as the cruiser’s high beams swept across the back yard before coming to a stop, pointing up at the house. The headlights winked out, and they heard the engine shut off.

“Get upstairs quick!” Hocker whispered to Tasha.

She could see, in silhouette, the siren and beacon lights on the roof of the car, and she froze like a jacked deer.
This is the same cop I nailed yesterday afternoon!
she thought.
He knows I’m here, and he’s coming to get me!
Her hands turned cold and clammy as she gripped the edge of the window. She felt an urgent need to urinate.

Other, even scarier, thoughts flooded into her mind with a rush that sounded like the wind in her ears:

—
The old man Hocker had slugged and whose truck they had stolen and now we’re both wanted for questioning!

—Maybe, all along the way from Georgia, Rocker has been killing people! I’m on a cross-country murder spree, and I don’t even know it!

—The truck Hocker had sent over the cliff in a ball of flames had started a major forest fire, and now they want us for arson!

No matter what she thought, it was all bad, so the small part of her mind that had wanted to kiss Hocker’s ass goodbye and be gone barely had a voice. She knew that no matter what happened, she wouldn’t let the cops get her!

“Get the fuck down!” Hocker yelled, slapping her shoulder hard when the spotlight on the side of the cruiser suddenly came on and started waving back and forth across the front of the house. Whenever the beam came through one of the windows, it cast hard bars of light onto the back walls. The light had a laser intensity that, Tasha was convinced, could start a fire if it was focused long enough on one spot. “We’re gonna get nailed!” Tasha said, her voice a twisted whine. Tears had formed in her eyes and shattered the sweeping light into thousands of diamond-sharp pieces.

“Just be cool,” Hocker said. He was crouched under the window by the front door, his hand wrapped around a piece of lead pipe he had picked up in the cellar. “I’ve handled stuff worse than this before.”

I’ll bet you have
, Tasha thought, unable to keep from her mind the memory of that old man, unconscious and crumpled on the ground.

“Just get your skinny little ass upstairs,” Hocker whispered. “And don’t come down ’till I tell you it’s all right.”

Tasha knew she didn’t really have a choice. She silently gnawed at her lower lip as she watched the floodlight wash the room, but she didn’t move.

But when she heard the cruiser door open and slam shut, Tasha sprang up and scurried as fast as she could up the stairs. In the dark, she tripped on the top flight and went sprawling onto her face, but she felt for the wall, regained her bearings, and hurried down the hallway to one of the empty bedrooms. She went over to the far wall by the closet, and crouched there, listening in the dark. The only sound she made was a mouse-like squeak when she heard a gunshot go off. It sounded like it was outside, behind the house.

Hocker, meanwhile, had crept over to the stairwell and flattened himself against the wall as he listened, tense, as the cop came up the front steps. A less intense beam of light came in through the front door window and wormed its way back and forth; then the heavy clumping of footsteps went around the side of the house to the back.

Hocker quickly darted back through the living room and into the kitchen, pausing for only a moment to see what the cop was doing out there. He could see the man poised, caught in mid-step as he stared out over the field behind the house. When the man outside shouted, “This is the police! Stop or I’ll shoot!” Hocker thought for a moment that the cop had seen him inside the house, but a quick glance out the kitchen window showed him that wasn’t the case. The cop still had his back to the house and was looking into the back yard.

Hocker’s mind rapidly snapped off the possibilities:
who the hell else might be out there?
he wondered.

In the hallway between the kitchen and living room, he looked around for the best place to be if the cop came inside. Without thinking, he clicked open the closet door and slipped inside, pulling it closed, leaving a small space open. If this worked, he thought, fine; if not, the cop would just go away and that would be it.

When the gun went off, Hocker thought the cop was shooting the door lock to get inside, but that struck Hocker as ridiculous; no cop would do something like that! Unless, of course, it wasn’t a cop after all.
Naw
, Hocker thought. The guy shouted out “This is the police!” So what the hell was he doing? Was there really someone else out there?

The pulse in Hocker’s ears was as loud as a drum when he heard the hinges squeal as the kitchen door slowly opened. He tensed, waiting in the darkness, trying to judge exactly where the cop was in the darkened kitchen.

That dumb cunt left the door unlocked! Stupid bitch!

The floorboards creaked underfoot as the cop walked across the kitchen floor. The crack underneath the closet door glowed with yellow light as the cop swept his flashlight beam back and forth. Then the footsteps got closer and closer. Hocker held his breath, hoping to Christ he timed this right because if he didn’t, he was going to be in a world of hurt!

The beam of light bobbed closer, swinging silently from side to side. The floorboards creaked, and Hocker could hear the heavy breathing of the man. Hocker sensed, more than saw, the bulk of the man passing the closet door. Thankfully, the cop didn’t think to check in the closet before starting for the living room.

Hocker took a quick, shallow breath and, heaving his weight forward, suddenly swung the door open, raised the lead pipe up, and brought it swiftly down. He knew he would never be able to describe his satisfaction when he heard the soft thump the pipe made when it connected with the top of the cop’s head. The cop’s revolver dropped to the floor as the cop did a slow, spinning fall, bumping his head on the closet door as he dropped to the floor.

Hocker’s jaw almost hurt from the wide smile that widened across his face. He leaned over and picked up the cop’s flashlight, taking a moment to scan the unconscious man’s face. The lead pipe had hit a glancing blow, lifting up a wide patch of skin that now was beaded with blood. By the look of it, Hocker knew this man was going to have one hell of a headache, but he also knew, like the old fart he had aced to steal his truck, this cop was going to wake up eventually. By then, of course, Hocker would have to have him safely “iced,” unless he decided to permanently ice him.

He’d wait and see, but for now, he had to get this jerk out of the way. Hocker picked up the cop’s service revolver and inspected it in the glow of the flashlight. It was a solid little handgun, much better than the one he already had, so after clicking the safety back on, he tucked it into his belt and went over to the stairwell.

“Hey! You can come down now!” he shouted. His voice echoed in the stairwell.

From upstairs, he heard a faint shuffling as Tasha made her way cautiously down the hallway. Hocker shined the light up the stairs as she rounded the corner, and she held her arm up to shield her eyes from the sudden glare.

“What happened?” she said as she started slowly down the stairs. “I heard a gun go off. You didn’t kill him, did you?”

Hocker spit a thick gob of mucous onto the wall. “Naw! The asshole never even saw me coming. He was shooting at something out back.”

“He didn’t leave, though,” Tasha said nervously. “I didn’t hear his car start up.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Hocker said, laughing. “He’s right down here, safe and sound. Before I haul his ass down to the cellar, I want you to take a look at him. See if he’s the one you kicked in the nuts today.”

Tasha followed Hocker into the kitchen. She let out a faint gasp when she saw the unconscious man. Broken blood vessels under his skin were spreading a plum-purple bruise over the side of his forehead. The little bit of bleeding had already stopped, leaving little claw marks of blood streaks running into his hair.

“You’re getting pretty handy at knocking people cold, aren’t you?” Tasha said, unable to disguise the trembling in her voice. “You know, when the other cops around town notice this guy’s missing, they’re gonna be swarming over the countryside, looking for him.”

“Hell, he’s probably the whole department. And if he isn’t, well fuck them!” Hocker said, and he spit again on the floor. “By the time they get their shit together, we’ll be long gone. No problem.”

Tasha shook her head quickly from side to side. “I don’t know, Hock. I mean, hitting an old man is one thing, but when you start screwing with the cops, it’s getting serious!”

“The only thing serious right now is dragging this useless sack of shit down into the cellar. I saw some rope down there, though I’d bet it ain’t the strongest stuff. We can use his handcuffs to make sure he don’t get away.”

“What are you gonna do, just leave him down there?” Tasha said. “You can’t do that! He’ll die!”

“You think I give a shit? Have you all of a sudden developed a fondness for cops?”

Tasha turned away, looking down at the floor, but her eyes came to rest on the fallen cop, she shivered.
It’s incredible
, she thought,
how being with Hocker, things just keep going from shitty to shittier!