Confession (24 page)

A beat passed in silence. Then, “I don't know how to use a gun. You keep it.”

“Point center mass and pull the trigger.”

“Isn't there a safety or something? You should keep it.”

A muscle spasm shot up his arm, and he nearly dropped his Glock. He'd felt something snap in his shoulder earlier, and now his hand tingled, his fingers had long since gone numb. “Either take the gun or get the hell out of the house. My vote is get out now.”

“I won't leave them.”

“But you expect me to leave you,” his words hissed out.

“You're not leaving me. You're just attacking the problem from another angle. If for some reason, you can't get to the men from below, I'll still have a chance to sneak downstairs and free them. This is a team effort.”

As much as he hated to leave her, time was running out. The longer he stayed here arguing, the greater the chance he'd be too late to save the father and son, and the greater the chance Scourge would head upstairs for the women and find Faith instead. She wasn't going to budge. She was too goddamn stubborn. “One condition—­take the gun and hide. Do not come downstairs. Leave the men to me. Then I'll come back for you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” First her voice floated up, then her arm.

What the hell was that?

Pepper spray!

She was trading him her pink pepper spray for his Glock. He took it, and for a split second, smiled. As he handed the gun off to Faith, the world turned grim again. “Pull the trigger hard. That's how you disengage the safety.” Then he was on his belly. Combat crawling back to the ladder, forcing his mind to focus only one step ahead.

Make it to the ladder.

He reached the bottom rung, stepped nice and easy, nice and quiet onto the ground. He secured the ladder against the side of the house, just in case Faith came to her senses. Meanwhile, the best he could do was get to the men, who, according to the book, would be in the basement. The only way to stop Faith from confronting Scourge would be to get the father and son out before she changed her mind and tried to free them herself.

Find the son.

From the roof, he'd had the advantage of distance to distort and cover his noise. But on the ground, he needed to be even more stealthy in his approach. Scourge might be anywhere—­doing God knew what to anyone. His stomach clenched. He wiped his palms on his thighs.

Find the boy.

Back pressed against the wall, he sidestepped to the nearest window, closed his eyes, and prayed to whoever was up there for a little help.
Please let the book be wrong.
Please let the boy be on the first floor and not in the basement.
He darted his head in front of the window. The room was lit up inside, and it only took a split second to process what he'd seen—­the boy.

And the boy had seen him.

Thanks. I owe you one.

He stuck his head in front of the window again, this time pausing long enough to search the room for signs of Scourge. The kid shook his head violently. His eyes pleaded for help, and in that moment, Luke understood Faith completely.

Impossible to leave this family at the mercy of a sadistic maniac.

The son's hands and feet were hog-­tied. His body stretched on the couch, head elevated by a pillow.

Kenyon Clutter's head had also been elevated by a pillow. The Kansas Bureau of Investigation had speculated Perry Smith had propped the boy's head to make it an easier target for his shotgun.

Luke's whole body tensed. His hands fisted so hard, his knuckles popped. A wave of sheer hatred for the man who'd done this threatened to swamp him. He rolled with that hate one second, then pushed it aside before it could disable him.

Focus.

The chances of the window being locked—­he couldn't guess. Under normal circumstances, ­people keep their downstairs windows secured. But out here in the middle of just-­good-­folks country, families often neglected to lock their homes. He leaned his weight against the bottom ledge of the window and felt it give, heard a creak. Another break. The window was unlocked.

Opening it fast, like ripping off a Band-­Aid, would make the least noise, or at least make noise for the shortest amount of time. Either way . . . he shoved hard, the window screeched open. In a heartbeat, he was inside the den, sawing at ropes, watching with rising alarm as the boy's chest heaved in an unnatural rhythm. Luke heard wheezing seep out from under the duct tape that covered the kid's mouth.

Fuck.

The kid had asthma.

“Don't scream. I've got you,” he whispered in the boy's ear, still sawing at ropes with one hand as he ripped the gag from the boy's mouth with the other.

A gasp, a violent coughing attack, and finally a wheezy cry. “Help!”

The ropes were almost off.

“Quiet!” Luke grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him hard. “Your father's still inside. What's your name, son?” he asked, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“Carl.”

“You're going to be okay, Carl. But you gotta run, fast as you can, find someplace to hide.”

“My dad. He can't—­”

“Your mom and sister are already out of the house. I won't leave anyone behind. I promise, Carl. So when I say run, you run and do not look back. My job is to get your dad out. Your job is to run and hide. What's your job, Carl?”

“Run.” Carl wheezed out the word.

“That's right.” Luke cut the last bit of rope. The boy had been tied like an animal waiting for the slaughter. Luke climbed out the window, took a fast look around to make sure the area was clear, and helped Carl out behind him. “Now, Carl! Run!”

Carl took off, coughing and gasping. He made it under fifty yards before tripping and landing flat on his face.

Get up. Get up.

Luke had one foot back in the window already. He hesitated.

Carl bolted to his feet, but he didn't run. Instead, he looked back at the house, searching the high windows, trying to glimpse his family.

Boom!

A gunshot split the air. Carl turned and ran. The shadow of a male figure emerged from behind a tree, short, and stocky, a long gun in his hand.

Scourge.

Scourge loped after the boy.

Goddamnit!

Luke's foot caught on the windowsill as he scrambled back out. He yanked it free and took off after Scourge and Carl. Faster and faster his legs pumped, but the boy and Scourge had a head start. He lost sight of them for a few seconds, then rounded a corner and saw a barn door swinging open.

Boom!

Luke crashed through the barn door in time to see a dark shadow disappear atop a ladder and into the hayloft.

Quiet. All was quiet now . . . and dark.

The scents of hay and manure and sweat mingled with something more disturbing. Luke wouldn't have believed it if someone else had told him, but evil has a smell—­dank and putrid and saturated with hate. The sickly-­sweet odor in the barn made his eyes water. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. And then a scraping sound made him forget all about the smell.

He pressed his back against the wall and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Long moments passed. Seconds seemed like hours. Time stretched and strained, helping him milk every nanosecond out of the time he had left on this earth. Like the barn, his brain had quieted, allowing instinct to take over. He was all muscle and nerve now. No emotion. No doubt. Just a crystalline understanding that this was the moment that would determine everything. What he chose, right now, would make him into either the man he wished he could be or the man he feared he might become. His father's face flashed before his eyes. His chin came up, and he swiped moisture from his cheeks.

I won't let you die, Carl. Not by this monster's hand.

He edged forward, the ambient light illuminating shapes and forms but not defining them.

Not tonight, Carl. You're not going to die tonight.

Luke's muscles coiled into tight ropes of energy. His eyes searched the barn.

There, in the corner, he spotted a long shape with spiked shadows sticking up like a crown.

Pitchfork.

Keeping to the walls, he crept to the corner, all the while willing the night to creak its natural sounds alongside his footsteps. Let a coyote howl, a mouse scamper, branches scrape. He was almost there.

His senses sharpened to the point he could practically feel his pupils widening in the dark, and he focused all his energy on his eyes. It crossed his mind that if he survived, he should try to remember how to do this, how to control his body so completely.

He blinked. Imagined himself with night-­vision goggles and damn if he couldn't see clearly now. The pitchfork. His hand darted out and clamped on. The splintered wooden handle scraped his skin. He gripped his weapon tighter, until it became an extension of his arm.

More noises from the loft.

How long had he been in this barn? A minute, an hour? He had no idea. He crept forward, making his way to the bottom of the ladder, not knowing for certain if Carl was in the hayloft, too. The figure he'd seen on the ladder he believed to be Scourge.

“Come out come out wherever you are, little buddy. Come out with your hands up, or I'll make Mommy and Daddy pay.”

And there was his confirmation. Scourge had chased Carl into the barn.

Don't do it, kid. Don't look back.

“Don't make me angry, Carl. I'm going back to the house with or without you, and you really don't want me to be angry when I get back there. Come out now, and I promise not to hurt you or your family.”

Silence.

The kid was too smart to be fooled.

One hand clutching the pitchfork, Luke placed a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. It groaned beneath his weight.

Boom!

His body jumped in response to the blast, and the ladder jerked up and back down with a
crack.
He covered his ears. Hay and bits of wood rained down from above. The barn filled with smell of gunpowder. He swung his body behind the ladder and climbed the rungs, gripping the wood with one hand, the weight of his pitchfork, a comfort in the other.

Boom!
Hard to localize the gunshot in the dark. Scourge could be shooting at Carl, or at him. Either way, it didn't change the plan. He kept climbing the backside of the ladder until he felt the floor of the loft bump the top of his head. In a nonstop series of movements, he pushed his body to the front of the ladder and leapt into the hayloft, pitchfork sweeping out in front of him. “Stay down, Carl!”

Boom!

He heard mostly ringing now. But the flash of light had come from behind him.

He whirled, and there, standing a yard in front of him was the devil himself. Shotgun in hand, aimed just to the side of him. He jumped the opposite direction just as the shotgun swung and fired. Heat from the blast singed the air. Rage rose inside him fueling his muscles, overriding his fear.

He charged.

Straight for the shotgun, straight for the devil himself. Pitchfork to the leg, and the devil howled, yet with nearly superhuman strength, wrenched it from his leg and tossed it aside.

It was like fighting a machine. This devil was made of steel and hate. Luke kicked him in shin and grabbed for the long barrel of his gun. The gun pulled back, blasted into the air, and hay and bits of barn battered his body.

Whoosh.

The gun fell from the loft and landed on the floor below with a thud.

Luke grabbed Scourge by the throat, and a fist slammed into his face. His nose cracked. Pain shot all the way to his eye sockets. Scourge slipped from his grip, and Luke's hand brushed against his side, closed around a cool canister.

Pepper spray
.

Scourge leapt on him, and as they rolled through the damp hay, Scourge yanked the canister from Luke's hand. Then a strobe flashed, blinding him. An alarm rang out, and he covered his burning eyes. For a split second, Luke's lungs seized, and he couldn't move, only watch as Scourge raced down the ladder.

Recovering his breath, he bolted to his feet, but the devil just laughed and tossed the ladder across the barn like a toy. Now Luke had no way down from the loft. Through blurry eyes, Luke saw Scourge hobble across the barn, dragging one leg behind him. Luke had gotten him good with the pitchfork.

Without looking behind him, Scourge found his gun and limped outside. The door to the barn slammed shut, then Luke heard the screech of metal against metal as the latch engaged. Scourge had locked them inside.

Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of coughing and gasping. “Help me. Please help me.”

“It's okay, Carl. He's gone.”

“I-­I can't breathe.”

Fuck.

The fallout from the pepper spray had triggered Carl's asthma again. The boy rose out of the hay, then fell back flat.

Luke raced to Carl and lifted him in his arms.

“Can't.” He wheezed and wheezed. “Breathe.”

And then the wheezing stopped altogether. The kid was barely moving air. Luke dropped to his knees and ripped open Carl's shirt. His chest heaved and retracted, the outline of his ribs exaggerating with every shallow breath. Luke cleared the hay from the boy's mouth and nose and felt for a pulse.

Strong.

Carl's chest stopped moving. He was no longer struggling to breathe—­he wasn't breathing at all. Pinching Carl's nose, Luke blew air into his lungs and watched for the rise and fall of the chest. He gave another breath, then another.

Carl's head jerked, and he coughed, spewing warm liquid down his shirt . . . and the wheezing started again.

Good!

At least he was breathing. Luke lifted Carl in his arms and looked for a way out of the loft. He couldn't risk jumping with the boy in this condition. There, to the left, he saw a way—­crates stacked clear to the loft. “Stay with me, kid. I need you to put your arms around my waist. Can you hold on?”