All the Dead Fathers (34 page)

“Okay, okay,” she said, and yanked open the door. Grabbing his ankles, she checked the soles of his feet. They were scraped and bloody from running on the coarse grass and sharp stones, but there were other wounds, too. Older wounds. Large blisters she could tell were from burns, some of them puffy and some broken open and raw, and oozing blood-tinged pus.

“And here I was,” she said, forcing a laugh to keep from crying, “thinking you should get an Oscar for some phony ‘I can hardly walk' routine, when—”

She shut up because he was obviously trying to tell her something, and couldn't. She reached for the duct tape, but he twisted around and obviously wanted the handcuffs removed first. She dug the tiny key out of her jacket pocket. As soon as she got one cuff unlocked Dugan pulled away and started clawing at the tape. There was layer after layer and she tried to help, but then her cell phone rang. She reached over into the front seat and grabbed the phone and answered it.

“Kirsten?” A man's voice. “Kirsten? Please … keep going. Don't worry about—” Then nothing.

She opened her mouth and finally drew enough breath to say, “Michael? Is that you?”

Michael didn't answer, but Debra did. “Now it's
your
turn,” she said. “Aren't surprises fun?”

57.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Dugan said, finally getting the tape away from his mouth. “That crazy woman has—”

Kirsten waved him quiet and listened to Debra rant on about priests who ruin the lives of helpless little children. “Take your husband and go,” she said. “Some day I'll be back for you. But meanwhile this one? This priest Father Nolan? He will pay a just and painful price for his evil.”

“Do you even know what he did?” Kirsten was out of the car now, standing in the road. “It had nothing to do with a little—”

“So … is he worth saving? Then save him.”

“What?”

“I'll trade his life for yours. Come back now—at once—and we'll do it. Meanwhile, any sign of police and I will slice this one to ribbons … with my last breath if it comes to that. I'm watching you. Come back now. Otherwise, I will take him and—”

Kirsten terminated the call and reached into the front seat for the Remington.

“What are you doing?” Dugan said.

“Stay with the car.” She reloaded the shotgun. “I'm going back.”

“You can't do that, dammit. Call the cops.”

“She'll kill him if they come. And anyway, if we wait for them she'll be gone. She has a plane.”

“And she has a rifle,” he said. “You won't get halfway there.”

“I can't leave him. Think about your feet. Think about what she
would
have done to you if she hadn't needed you to get to me.”

“No,
you
think,” he said. “She's going to kill Michael whatever you do. And if you go back, she'll kill you, too. You can't save Michael, but you can save yourself … and me.”

“I have to try,” she said. “I can't just—”

“You
can
. But you won't. So I'm coming with. But first call the—”

“No.”

“But you—” He looked past her, out the windshield. “What's that?”

She turned and saw headlights coming toward them from the west. It was someone in a hurry and the lights bounced and swerved back and forth wildly. She stood in the road, arms out wide, waving the shotgun.

The car skidded to a stop less than five yards from her. She stepped to her right, out of the blinding headlights, and saw then that it was a Jeep. “Get out!” the driver yelled. It was Cuffs. “I said
out,
dammit.”

The man who climbed out of the passenger seat was George Kleeman, the postmaster. Kirsten stepped closer. “Cuffs, how did—”

“Where's Dugan?” Cuffs said. She was on the driver's side of the Jeep and he pulled forward and stopped right beside her. He wore the same fedora and black raincoat, and despite the night air and the open vehicle, his face was shiny with sweat. “Where
is
he?”

“He's right there, in the car. But Debra Morelli's up at that house.” She turned and pointed with the shotgun. “She got Michael somehow, and—”

“I know what happened. I got word this evening, in Cleveland.” His voice was strangely flat, but too loud at the same time. “I called you five times over the last three or four hours. Kept getting voice mail.”

“That's because I—”

“Gimme that!” Before she could react he snatched the shotgun out of her hand.

“Cuffs! What are you—”

“Fuck it. Get outta my way.” Cuffs almost always seemed mean and angry, but now he was a volcano, shuddering and about to blow. He checked the Remington's magazine for shells. “Call the fucking cops if you want. But that bitch killed my guy to get to your uncle, and now she's mine. You stay here.”

“No!” She moved to climb up into the Jeep behind him. “I'm going—”

“Move!”
He shoved her away and slipped the clutch, and the Jeep roared off toward the farmhouse.

Kleeman grabbed her arm as she started back to the Impala. “Gives me five hundred cash to show him where you are,” he said. “I knew you found this place, 'cause I drove out that day and saw you. Hah! You see my red pickup? I was—”

“Shut up!” She yanked her arm away. “Dugan!” She tossed the phone to him in the backseat. “Call nine-one-one!” She reached in across the steering wheel and snatched the ignition key and dropped it in her pocket. “You wait here.” No way he could follow her on those bloody feet, and if Debra took her out, the cops would be there before Debra could get to him. She hoped.

With her pistol in her hand, she broke into a run. Cuffs had already gotten to the house. He'd seen the chain, because he was stopped at the driveway and out of the Jeep, obviously looking for a good place to take it across the ditch.

As she ran, she screamed, “Cuffs, look!”

He looked up, first at her and then toward where she was pointing. Silhouetted in the bright moonlight, three figures were headed across the yard away from the house, toward the shed out back by the evergreen trees. One of them, Debra, had a small duffel bag in one hand and the rifle in the other. Carlo walked in front of her, limping. The handcuffs were off him and he was dragging a smaller man—it had to be Michael—by the arm. Michael stumbled and fell to his knees. Carlo looked at Debra, then grabbed Michael and hoisted him up and over his shoulder, and kept going.

Kirsten stopped running long enough to draw breath and yell. “She has an airplane, Cuffs. She'll get away!” Then she ran again.

To her surprise, instead of jumping across the ditch and running after Debra, Cuffs got back in the Jeep. He tore off eastward, then suddenly swerved off the road and tried to take the ditch at a diagonal.

The shed with the plane was far behind the house, maybe a hundred yards from the road, so it made sense to use the Jeep to get there … if he got it across the ditch. But he didn't. Kirsten stopped running and stood, horrified, as his left front wheel dropped down and caught. The rear end rose into the air, and the vehicle flipped, rear over front. Cuffs was thrown out of the open vehicle and went tumbling like a doll into the field. The Jeep landed upside down, wheels spinning. Cuffs didn't get up.

Kirsten ran again, leaving the road to cut across the field toward the plane. She jumped and made it easily over the ditch, but her foot landed in a little hole in the ground. Her ankle twisted the wrong way, hard. She went sprawling face-first into the dirt, and the gun flew out of her hand.

When she got to her feet her ankle hurt terribly, but she couldn't stop now. She used up valuable seconds scrambing around for her weapon, found it, and took off again. By the time she got close to the house Debra and Carlo and Michael were all out of sight.

She kept going until finally she could see into the shed, still fifty yards off. She saw only Debra, her rifle in her hand and obviously about to climb up and into the plane. Kirsten stopped and raised the Colt with two hands and fired, once.

She was too far away, though, and the shot did nothing but alert Debra, who turned and raised the rifle and fired back. Kirsten dove to the ground and rolled, then got up and ran—as well as she
could
run with that grinding, screaming pain in her ankle. She made it to the shade trees near the house, then suddenly heard two shotgun blasts.

She crouched behind a large oak, peered around, and saw Cuffs, in the field east of the house, heading toward the shed. He was crabwalking on one leg and one arm, dragging one useless leg with him. He tripped and fell to the ground, got himself into a sitting position, and fired again. Two more shots, but so clearly wild that he might as well have been shooting at the full moon.

She turned back toward the shed and saw Debra again, now aiming her rifle at Cuffs. Debra fired once, then again, and Cuffs gave a roar like an angry lion, and fell backward into the dirt.

Kirsten yelled, too, and fired off another useless pistol round, and Debra swung around to face her. Kirsten, screaming now from anger and from the fearful pain shooting through her ankle, ran in a crouch, zigzagging, stumbling, and tripping her way across the uneven ground. But always toward Debra. Firing an occasional round, not stopping to take better aim, not wanting to make a better target.

Even when she saw Debra fall backward, hard, against the wall of the shed, and the rifle fly out of her hand, Kirsten kept going. Then she saw Debra slide down into a sitting position, and suddenly realized she was standing still, aiming at Debra from ten feet away, squeezing off round after round … except that her gun was long empty.

Debra wasn't dead. She sat there moaning and rocking forward and then back against the wall, her hand pressed to her left shoulder, blood oozing out between her fingers. Kirsten picked up the rifle and flipped it, end over end, as far as she could out into the field. Her whole leg throbbed now, keeping time with the beat of her heart, as she turned to go do what she could for Cuffs.

“Hold it!” It was Carlo. “Drop the fucking gun,” he said, “or—”

“Jesus,” Debra yelled, “her gun's empty, you idiot.” Kirsten turned to see Carlo standing by Debra. He had a pistol in his hand, a nine millimeter. “Shoot her,” Debra said. “Just shoot her. Do as I say, dammit.”

“I don't know.” Carlo shook his head. “I just got out, and I don't wanna go back again.” So he
had
been paying attention to her, Kirsten thought. But he kept the pistol pointed at her.

She let her own gun fall to the ground and raised her hands. “You're right, Carlo,” she said. “She'll buy you a return ticket to—”

“You told me that already,” he rasped. “So shut up.”

“That's a good boy,” Debra said. “You get me up into this fucking plane before the cops get here and I can fly it into Canada, to a place I know. But first you have to shoot her and—”

“You shut up, too,” he said. “I'm trying to fucking
think
here.”

“Carlo!” Debra's voice was harsh and Carlo jumped as though she'd slapped him. “Don't
ever
talk to me like that. Now you stand up straight.” He did, as though yanked up by a chain, and pulled his shoulders back. “That's a good boy.” Debra spoke soothingly now, a mother to her son. “Look, Carlo honey, you don't
have
to think. I'm the one who thinks.” She struggled to her feet, using the wall as support. “I'm the one who takes care of you. I'm the one who
loves
you. Now … do what I say … and shoot that fucking bitch.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but I don't wanna go back—”

“But nothing!” Her face was strained and flushed. “
Listen
to me. Shoot her!” A mother enraged now.
“Shoot,
you stupid little shit. Do as I say, right now, or
else.”

And Carlo turned … and shot his sister, twice, in the face. He stood there a moment, staring down at the gun in his hand, then heaved it out into the darkness.

*   *   *

When Kirsten got to Cuffs he was on his back, his left leg twisted out at a grotesque, sickening angle. She crouched down and reached to close his raincoat to keep him warm, and discovered blood soaking through the left side of his sweatshirt. He was staring up at the sky, eyes wide open … but he was breathing, although in harsh, rapid gasps.

She heard sirens in the distance, and then heard her name being called. She looked around and saw Dugan maybe seventy-five yards away, hobbling toward her, with George Kleeman helping him. She waved, to show that she was okay, and Dugan stopped immediately and sat down right where he was. She was sweating and felt very cold, and was afraid she'd pass out from the throbbing pain in her ankle and leg. So she sat down, too, in the dirt beside Cuffs.

“You'll be okay,” she told him. “The paramedics are coming. Can you hear the sirens?” He gave one barely perceptible nod, and tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, Cuffs,” she said. “Thanks for coming to help us.”

His eyes widened even farther at that, and he was trying to say something. She leaned close to his mouth to hear him. “… can skip the bullshit,” he was saying. “She's mine, dammit.”

58.

Dugan's feet were healing “remarkably well” according to the doctor, and although Kirsten's ankle required surgery to set it properly, she was up and around right away on crutches. So they were both able to go and help with the arrangements a few days later when Cuffs was airlifted from the hospital in Saginaw, Michigan, to one in Chicago.

Kirsten would never forget the looks on the faces of the hospital staff when Cuffs left. “An
interesting
patient,” one of the nurses said. But clearly, even sedated and bedridden, he was nobody's favorite.