A Time of Torment (46 page)

Louis heard footsteps approaching from his left. He drained the last of the wine from his glass, placed one towel on the ground, laid the glass on its side on top of it, then covered it with a second towel. He put his heel on the bowl of the glass, broke it, and gently scattered the fragments on the ground between the office and the wall of the main building. When that was done, he retrieved the stem and moved into the shadows.

The man was careless: careless about where he placed his feet, careless in his approach, careless in not holding the pistol, bulbous with its added suppressor, closer to his body. He barely had time to react to the crunching of the shards beneath his boot before Louis stepped into his right side, his left hand grabbing the pistol while his right, the base of the wineglass flat against the palm, sent the sharp stem into the man’s throat, then twisted it to do maximum damage. It broke off in the wound, sending a gush of red against the night sky, and the motel wall blushed crimson. The man staggered backward and went down, his hand to his throat in an effort to stop the flow of blood, a wet noise heaving from him like a child gathering the strength to cry. Louis recognized him from the Porterhouse. Parker had told him the names of the two men who had sat alongside Harpur Griffin. This was not Lucius, the red-haired one, but the other: Jabal.

Louis didn’t have time to watch him die. A second gunman appeared, armed with a shotgun, and almost stumbled over Jabal’s body. Louis shot him through the heart with Jabal’s gun, the noise loud in the night even with the suppressor. Another truck pulled into the lot at speed, but Louis was already moving to his right, where he risked a glance at the three men who had been advancing across the lot. One was heading Louis’s way, alerted by the gunshot, using the parked cars for cover. The others, farther behind, were trying to get a lighter to strike. Louis could see it sparking, and glimpsed the bottle held close, a second one standing between the feet of the two men. As Louis watched, a flame appeared, and a rag ignited.

And Louis understood. They were going to burn Parker in his room. If he came out, or tried to make a run for it, the men in the lot would shoot him, presumably aided by the two who were now lying dead on the ground, had they survived. The second vehicle, and whoever might be left in it, would cover the back, in case Parker tried to escape through a bathroom window.

The man with the Molotov cocktail drew his arm back to throw, and Louis shot him. The bottle dropped and exploded into flame on the ground, the fire engulfing the legs of his companion as the wounded man dropped to his knees before tumbling face first into the blaze. There was a rattle of semi-automatic fire, and the motel wall to Louis’s left spat fragments of masonry into the air. He pulled back to the office, which had a brick surround beneath its large windows, and tried to draw a bead on the gunman among the cars. Now he heard more shots coming from near Parker’s room – an exchange of fire, which meant Parker and Angel were alert to the danger. Glass broke seconds later, followed by the boom of another Molotov igniting, and the eruption was reflected in the windshields of the cars. Someone cried out in pain, and the second of the attackers in the lot wandered aimlessly into Louis’s sights, the legs of his trousers still smoldering. Before Louis could shoot, the figure tripped over his own feet and lay unmoving on the ground. Behind him, a pyre burned in the shape of a man.

Semi-automatic fire came Louis’s way, this time cutting a swath through the glass of the office, forcing him to lie flat on the ground. He prayed that they had no more Molotovs. If one were lobbed into the office, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

The onslaught on the office ceased, then recommenced piecemeal. Covering fire, thought Louis. He got to his knees and moved around the wall toward the door, just in time to see a pair of feet disappear around the corner, leaving a smear of blood behind them. They were removing their dead and wounded. He made an attempt to go after them, but the semi-automatic opened up on him for a final time, keeping him pinned down. Somewhere a woman was screaming, and then the sound was lost in the roar of a departing truck. One more pistol shot, and all went quiet.

‘Louis?’

It was Angel.

‘Here,’ he called. ‘In the office.’

‘They’re gone,’ said Angel. ‘But we got one of them alive.’

The east arm of the motel was entirely engulfed in flames. The sound of sirens came from the north. Three women and a man were standing in the lot, having emerged from their rooms in the other parts of the motel. One of the women was staring in horror at the shattered windows and bullet-pocked body of her car.

But Parker, Angel, and Louis were already leaving the motel behind them. Parker drove, Louis in the passenger seat, his gun fixed on the man who sat beside Angel in the back. Benedict’s right elbow was shattered, and he was in considerable pain, but he’d live. He’d been initially reluctant to tell his captors anything, not even his name, but Angel had tapped him on his damaged elbow with the barrel of a Glock, and that seemed to do the trick.

They could have waited for the police to arrive, but Parker knew that their enemies would be shocked and panicked after the failure of the assault on the motel. It was the time to counterattack, and Benedict would provide them with a way in.

The hours of the Cut were numbered.

H
enkel arrived at Irene Colter’s property to find the house lit up, but no signs of movement inside or out. He took in the woods as his headlights moved across them. He stopped the car, and heard no sound beyond the faint clicking of the turret lights above his head. He’d come in with the roof blazing, because if it was the Cut then he wanted them to know he was on his way, although he couldn’t imagine what business they might have had with Irene, beyond trying to get at him through her.

He climbed from his vehicle. His MP9 was sitting in a holster on his belt, and in his arms he carried one of the department’s Remington 870 shotguns. He called Irene’s name, but received no reply, so he backed up to her porch steps, keeping his eyes on the woods, and knocked. Still nothing. He tried the door, but it was locked, so he moved around the house until he came to the back entrance. This, too, was locked.

He thought for a moment. If she’d done as he asked, then she was still inside. He could see no indications of a break-in, but it was always possible that intruders could have gained access to the house before she’d had a chance to secure it, and locked the doors behind them. He had no choice: he’d have to break the glass to get inside.

He twisted the shotgun so the stock was against the glass, and was about to shatter the pane when he caught a flash of reflected movement. He went right and brought the gun up, his finger already on the trigger. He eased the pressure when he saw Irene standing before him.

‘God,’ he said, ‘don’t sneak up on me like that. Why aren’t you inside like I told you?’

‘It’s complicated,’ she said.

He moved to join her, his attention focused solely on her face, and a man stepped from the shadows to his right and held a pistol about a foot from his head.

Henkel froze.

Maybe this is just a warning
, he thought.
Maybe they’ll let me live
.

The figure to his right shifted position. It was Nestor, one of Brion Moline’s sons from the Cut, and he wasn’t wearing a mask, which meant this wasn’t going to be simply a warning. Henkel had never figured Nestor for a killer, but it seemed that he’d been wrong. It looked like he wasn’t going to live after all, not if Nestor was prepared to show his face like this, but maybe he could still save Irene.

Then she spoke to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I did kind of like you.’

‘No,’ said Henkel, and in that one syllable he heard all the tiredness and disappointment of a life that had never worked out as he might have hoped, and now seemed destined to end in a manner befitting all that had gone before.

Irene turned to Nestor.

‘Just do it,’ she said, like Henkel was some old dog that needed to be put down swiftly and painlessly.

Henkel heard the shot. He shouldn’t have, not if it was meant for him, not at that range. Nestor fell to the ground. The bullet had taken him under his raised right arm and passed straight through his torso. He made a low wheezing sound, and a blood bubble sprang from his lips before bursting with his last breath.

Irene stood open-mouthed, staring at the body between them. Henkel didn’t know if she’d ever watched a man die before. Right now, he didn’t much care. He saw Rob Channer advancing across the lawn, and for a moment thought that someone else must have killed Nestor, and now Channer was going to finish the job for the Cut, but he couldn’t make the logic of it work.

Channer kicked the gun away from beside Nestor’s hand, all the time keeping his own weapon fixed on Irene.

‘On your knees!’ he told her.

Irene looked beseechingly at Henkel.

‘They made me do it,’ she said. ‘They threatened me.’

Just do it.

‘You heard the man,’ said Henkel. ‘On your knees.’

She knelt. Channer pushed her down flat on her stomach and searched her before holstering his weapon and cuffing her. When Channer was done, Henkel said to him, ‘I didn’t expect it to be her, and I didn’t expect it to be you.’

‘I wanted your job,’ said Channer, ‘but not like this.’

The radio in Henkel’s car squawked to life from the front of the house. He stepped over his ex-girlfriend – because that was what she most assuredly was, and he didn’t believe he needed to confirm for her that they were no longer an item – and went to pick up the handset.

‘Henkel.’

Lucy’s voice was both urgent and excited.

‘We have reports of shots fired at Dryden’s Inn,’ she said. ‘And it’s burning.’

H
annah and Sherah entered the prison house earlier than usual, Hannah leading, Sherah with two meals on a tray: bread, cereal, fruit, and some lukewarm coffee in plastic cups, to avoid any chance of the captives using them as scalding weapons.

The routine was well established. Paige and Gayle were required to be seated at the table when the women entered, so that the inner door could be locked before the meal was served. One woman would place the food before them while the other maintained her distance, just in case an attempt was made to get at the keys. In reality, though, the procedures had become more relaxed as the years had gone by, with either Hannah or Sherah – because they were the ones who most frequently tended to the breeders – taking care of the food while the other checked the rooms, or replenished the cupboard, or just looked bored. On this occasion, though, there was clearly some urgency involved, and Hannah was standing close by Sherah as she served, keys jangling in her left hand.

This was all good.

Paige gave the slightest of nods to Gayle, who toppled her cereal to the floor and began to wail. Hannah turned away to grab a cloth while Sherah squatted to rescue the food, which was when Paige brought the piece of brick in her right hand down hard on Sherah’s left temple. Paige thought she felt something crack, but Sherah didn’t fall. She just rocked on her feet, and made a sound like an old crow on a branch, so Paige hit her again, and Sherah dropped.

Gayle moved as soon as Paige struck the first blow. She pushed Hannah so hard from behind that the older woman tumbled face first to the floor, but Hannah managed to get on her back and started struggling against Gayle, who was sitting on her stomach and working her way up Hannah’s body in order to pin her arms.

Beside Paige, Sherah was trying to rise. She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, and shook her head. There was a swelling on her temple where the brick had connected, with a slight cut to the skin that wasn’t bleeding much. Most of the blood was coming from her right ear, a steady
drip-drip-drip
that pooled on the floorboards, and her right eye now had a downward cast to it. Sherah’s lips moved, and an assemblage of noises emerged, but they made no sense to Paige. She raised the brick again, Sherah’s remaining good eye trying to follow its progress as Paige put all her upper body power behind the blow. This time, Paige both felt and heard the crack, and Sherah’s eyes rolled up in her skull as she slipped sideways and lay twitching on the floor.

Now that Sherah was taken care of, Paige could help Gayle, but Gayle needed no assistance. She was standing beside Hannah, who was convulsing on her back by the kitchen closets, her hands clawing at her mouth and neck. Hannah appeared to be having some sort of seizure. Her face had turned purple, and a series of clicking noises were emerging from her throat. Paige didn’t make any move to help her, or to reach for the discarded keys. She was fascinated by Hannah’s suffering, but she also noticed that Gayle’s left cheek was bleeding.

‘What happened to your face?’ Paige asked.

‘She cut me with a key.’

‘Ah.’

They returned to watching Hannah, whose struggles were clearly nearing their climax.

‘And what did you do to her?’ asked Paige.

‘I made her eat the stone,’ said Gayle.

‘Ah,’ said Paige, again.

The top of Hannah’s head banged hard against one of the closet doors. Her eyes grew very large, her throat clicked one last time, and her struggles ceased. Paige stepped around her and picked up the keys from the floor. She went to the window and saw that the Square was clear, with nobody in sight of the prison house. She removed Hannah’s shoes, while Gayle took off Sherah’s. They were about the right size for Gayle’s feet, but Hannah’s were too big for Paige, so she stuffed some newspaper into the toes, which helped.

Paige had no idea of their location. She knew only that the window onto the Square faced south, but as for where the nearest road or even town might be, she could not say. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. They couldn’t stay here, not now. They could only flee, and hope.

The door was to the far side of the house, which meant that the safest approach would be to turn left out of it, skirt the eastern wall, and then allow the building and the early morning gloom to shield them while they made their way into the woods at the rear. She explained this to Gayle, who took her hand as they walked to the door. Paige thought that she looked sad.