Confession (25 page)

Carl couldn't speak, but he nodded.

Luke's vision was starting to clear after the pepper spray. His skin stung, and his lungs ached, but that was of little interest to him at the moment. He had to get Carl out of this barn.

With the boy clinging to him, he hopped onto the highest crate. It wobbled slightly beneath his feet, but luck was with him. Whatever was in that crate must've been heavy, because it held the weight of both men. The crates were staggered just enough to allow Luke to find purchase with his feet and use them like a staircase.

At the bottom, Luke propped Carl against the barn wall. “Keep breathing, Carl. I'm going to get us out of here.”

Behind the crates, he found a sledgehammer and used it to bust up the door's planks. Then he dragged Carl out into the fresh night air. “Stay quiet.” He almost laughed, then. There was no need to tell Carl not to talk. He couldn't cry out if he wanted to. Not to mention they'd sledgehammered the barn door. “You did your job, Carl. You ran. Now you've got a new job, and that's to keep breathing. Let me worry about everything else.”

Carl's hand reached up, and Luke squeezed it. Then Carl's arm went limp.

Don't you dare die, Carl. Don't you dare die.

And then Luke was carrying the boy again. By now, his right shoulder had gone completely numb, and about a hundred yards from the barn, his left arm started to cramp, but he had to get Carl out of sight. At last, he found a good hiding place, a metal toolshed.

He kicked open the door and choked back a grateful cry.

Inside the shed, on her knees, with her hands clasped in prayer, was Mrs. Donovan. Wordlessly, Luke lay Carl on the ground and checked his pulse—­still strong. The boy's chest heaved, but no breath came out. He looked to Carl's mother. “Asthma?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she fished something shiny out of her pocket and stuck it in Carl's mouth. Two soft
whooshes
sounded.

Nothing.

She squeezed the inhaler again and waited. A loud cough followed a wheeze, and Carl's chest started to lift higher. He was breathing—­not exactly with ease, but nice and steady. It seemed Mrs. Donovan had been thinking of her children throughout her ordeal. And despite the risk, she'd managed to find Carl's inhaler and stuff it into her pocket sometime between the moment Scourge entered her home and the time Luke and Faith had dragged her out of that window.

Luke let out a soft, admiring whistle.

Mothers.

 

TWENTY-­NINE

Thursday, August 15, 11:00
P.M.

F
aith opened the final closet door in the last upstairs bedroom in the Donovan home, and a pungent, chemical odor hit her in the face. Other than a conglomeration of old coats and worn boots and a spilled container of mothballs, the closet was empty. If either Mr. Donovan or his son was upstairs, they were well hidden. Well hidden was exactly what she planned to be when the police and Luke arrived. She'd given Luke her word she'd wouldn't go downstairs, and she didn't plan to break her promise—­not unless she had to.

Boom!

She'd given Luke her word—­he'd given her his gun. That wasn't Luke firing off shots. She rushed to a window and ducked below the sill.

Boom!

The second shot sounded faint, farther away than the first. Edging her face above the windowsill, she peered into the night and spotted a stocky figure darting across the yard. She heard a softer boom and saw a flash of light. Another figure darted after the first.

Her breath released all at once. Luke was alive. But then her heart skipped and stuttered—­Luke was alive, and he was chasing Scourge, armed only with her pepper spray. The weight of Luke's Glock felt heavy and cold in her hand. She turned it over in her palm, wondering if she'd find the inner strength to pull the trigger if it came down to it. All she'd ever wanted was to help others live their best lives. She'd never envisioned
taking
one of those lives. She shook her shoulders out.

Don't second-­guess yourself.

Don't second-­guess Luke.

Scourge was running away from the house. How or why didn't matter. What mattered was this was a chance, and it might be the only one she had to get downstairs and free whoever remained alive.

If anyone remained alive.

A sour thought fermented in her belly like a cake of yeast. Had Scourge done his worst to the men while she and Luke worked to free the women?

She flew to the staircase. With Scourge out of the house, there was no need for quiet. She raced down the stairs and, taking them too fast, tumbled. Her back cracked against the wooden steps, and the gun fell from her hands. She wrapped her arms around herself and craned her neck to protect her head as best she could, but she didn't try to stop the fall. Every sharp blow to her arms and legs and torso brought her one second closer to the bottom. Once the fall happened, she welcomed it.

Fastest way down.

An instant later, she saw the floor coming toward her. She stuck out her hands to break the fall and catapulted to her feet. Her body was a collection of throbbing muscles and aching bones, but that was nothing compared to the urgent voice in her head.

Hurry.

Scourge might be back any minute.

Gun!

There, at the bottom of the steps. The Glock had tumbled down, too. Thank heavens it hadn't discharged. She stuck it in the back of her pants.

She saw a door to the right and ducked inside. Too dark to see. She decided against searching for a light. “Is anyone in here? Can you hear me?”

No response.

Hurry.

She moved on. In the next room, the light was on. Curtains flapped. A breeze cooled her burning cheeks. A couch, magazines, and cups littered the floor, and rope—­lots of it—­cut into pieces was scattered everywhere. Two things were notably absent: blood and bodies. Her chest felt as though a constricting band had burst open, allowing her heart to beat freely again.

Luke must have rescued at least one of the men.

Next she flung open the door to a downstairs office and was greeted by muffled cries. To her right, a man in a wheelchair was bound and gagged with duct tape. “Mr. Donovan, I have to get you out of here now,” she said, and rushed to his side, ripped off the duct tape. “Can you walk?”

He shook his head. “Back injury,” he rasped the words and drew a deep breath of air.

His hands and legs had been tied, and his injury was a blessing in at least one way—­she could wheel him out now and work on the ropes later. From the corner of her eye, she noticed an open door on the other side of the room, and that jogged her memory of the home's blueprint and what had happened to the Clutters.

The basement.

“Is anyone down there? Anyone home beside you and your wife and children.”

He sputtered, then started to cry. “My children. My wife.”

“They're safe.” They
had
to be. “Is anyone else in the house?”

His chin trembled. “No.” His eyes flicked to basement door. “He-­he was going to take me down there, but he changed his mind.”

The injury must've been recent. Scourge wouldn't be expecting to have to carry or wheel the man down to the basement, so he'd taken the easy way out and bound him in this room instead. Clearly, Scourge followed whichever parts of the book were convenient and tossed the others aside, which was good for her and good for Mr. Donovan. It would've been far more difficult to get him up those basement stairs. “Let's get you out of here.”

She released the hand brake and heaved. The chair rolled forward, and she worked her quads to gain speed and momentum. Out of the office, down the hall, around the corner. They were almost to the front door.

Crack!

Her muscles jumped. She looked up to see Scourge lounging in the front doorway, his body leaning against the frame, his shotgun pointed straight up.

“Hello, Dr. Clancy. I'm glad you could make it. I wanted you with me, and now here you are.”

Her heart boomed in her ears like a stereo with too much bass, muffling his words. His oily smile made her gag. Steeling her legs, she gripped the chair to stop her hands from trembling. For one crazy second, she thought about charging Scourge with the wheelchair, or drawing the Glock from the back of her pants and facing off with him, gun to gun. She bent at the knees, gritted her teeth, but then a strange calm overtook her.

His advantage was a shotgun and the will to use it. Her advantage was her wits.

She should try those first.

“I've scared you speechless it seems.” Scourge tilted his head sympathetically.

Mr. Donovan was crying softly.

Before speaking, Faith let out a long breath to steady her voice. Focusing on the distorted face in front of her, she told herself to see Scourge as a man in pain, a man in need of help and not some monster with a gun.

Then an image of Nancy Aberdeen and her prizewinning cherry pie came back to her, and she knew she couldn't do it. All she could see here was a villain of the worst sort. Devoid of empathy, she was going to have to fake it.

“Run, Scourge. Run now.”
Sounds wooden. Next time do better.

“No need for that, Dr. Clancy. We have plenty of time. Your friend is locked in the barn. He can't get out, or if does manage, it's going to take a while, and we'll be . . . finished by then.”

“Run while you still can, Scourge. The police know everything. They'll be here any minute.” She released her grip on the chair and extended her hand. “I care about you, Scourge; I don't want to see you hurt. Please run, run now,” she said, suppressing the need to retch.

He leveled his shotgun at Mr. Donovan. “If you'd been able to convince the police, you'd never have come on your own.” He shrugged. “You and your boyfriend. I mean.”

She jerked her head up. “Leave now.”

“Absolutely not. You're starting to irritate me, Dr. Clancy. Maybe we should stop chatting and just get started.”

Summoning every ounce of cunning in her body, she said, “We can put a stop to this right now. I can help you.”

“You already have helped me. You cured me to kill again.” He wagged the gun at Mr. Donovan.

“And I'll help you again. Put the gun down right now, and I promise you I'll convince a jury you're insane.
Not guilty by reason of insanity.
” She stepped to the side of the chair, then in front of it, blocking Mr. Donovan with her body. “You'll walk away a free man. I can sell that to a jury, Scourge, but only if you put the gun down now.” Her arm snuck around her back, and she gripped the handle of the Glock, slowly inching it from her waistband.

“What a lovely offer, Dr. Clancy, but I won't be needing it because I'm not going to get caught.” In one long stride, he came to her, and before she could stop him, he'd grabbed her right arm and wrenched. She tried to hang on to the gun, but the crushing pain of his fingers gouging her wrist caused her muscles to go slack. Her hand opened, and the gun slid to the floor.

He smiled. “The good news is I've saved my best rosary for you, and I just happen to have it on me.”

She'd dropped the gun.

Luke had trusted her with his own weapon, given her his one advantage, and she'd wasted it. Her mouth went dry. She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe.

“Today's your lucky day, Dr. Clancy.” Scourge kicked the Glock across the room, dropped her wrist, and pulled a rosary from his pocket. “Sister Cecily gave this to me, and now I'm giving it to you.” He twisted his arm and let the rosary wind around it like a bracelet.

A flash of headlights, the sound of wheels screeching up the drive made both of them jump.

The police.

“They're here, Scourge. Time to take my advice. You listened to me before, and I didn't steer you wrong.”

“I'm not going to surrender, and I'm not going to trial, so take your offer and—­”

“Then let
him
go.” She slid her gaze to Mr. Donovan. “You have nothing to gain by keeping this man.”

“Nothing to gain except my freedom. Sorry, Dr. Clancy, but the two of you are my ticket out. I need living hostages, and, you see, I lied before when I said I'd locked your friend in the barn.” A sadistic smile cut across his cheeks. “Luke's already dead.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He was lying. He'd lost control of the situation, and now he was trying to hurt her any way he could. In her mind, she pictured punching him with her fists, kicking him in the groin, gouging his eyes, but she held perfectly still, didn't move a muscle while she waited for her hatred to die down enough for her to fake a civil tone. “
I'm
your ticket to freedom. You don't need two.”

For the first time, his eyes flickered with something akin to reason. His chin thrust forward. He was listening.

“In fact, you'll never get away if you try to take both of us. You can't hold me at gunpoint and wheel him out at the same time.”

She'd expected the police to do something—­anything by now. What the hell was going on out there? Did they know the Saint was here and holding hostages, or were they still under the impression this was a simple wellness check?

“You can wheel him for me,” Scourge said.

“All the way to Mexico? That's where you're headed isn't it—­like Perry? Do you have a treasure map like Perry, too?” Oh God. She'd let sarcasm slip into her tone.

His eyes snapped. “You're right. A man who can't walk is a liability. I'll shoot him now.”

“No!” She spread her arms and widened her stance. If Scourge wanted Mr. Donovan, he'd have to shoot her first.

“Get out of my way! You're making me lose my temper, and you're not going to like it if I lose my temper.”

“You want a living hostage? Do as I say.” Through gritted teeth, she bit out the words. She didn't know what the cops were doing out there, but she wasn't leaving her fate, or this innocent man's, to someone else.

“You're not the one in charge here. I've got the gun.”

“But
I'm
your ticket out. And if you so much as look at this man again, if you so much as say one more cruel word to him, I won't cooperate. I'll force you to shoot me. You can't manage a man in a wheelchair, and you'll have no more ticket. Tickets aren't free.” The last thing she wanted to do was look at Scourge. She squared her eyes with his. “The price of your ticket is Mr. Donovan's life.”

Another set of headlights flashed.

Backup!

Scourge gaped at her a split second. Then jerked his shotgun. “Over here. Hands in the air. Slow. No sudden moves.”

“Or what? You'll shoot me? I believe we've covered the fact you need me alive.” She sucked in a breath. “I'm taking Mr. Donovan back to his office, so he can lock the door from the inside. He stays here. Once he's locked safely in his office, you and I walk out this door together. You'll be holding me at gunpoint, naturally. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”

L
uke hurled himself down the hill, aiming straight for the farmhouse. Not so much as a pitchfork would stand between him and the devil when he got there, but he had to get to Faith, and he had to get to her
now.
His muscles still coiled and humming, his vision as sharp as it had ever been in his life, he plowed an easy path through the brush and cut out into the open.

He could see the Donovan place up ahead. A lone patrol vehicle in the driveway.

The wellness check.

His arms and legs worked furiously until he'd reached shouting distance of the cop car. An officer crouched beside the vehicle, radio in hand, pistol drawn. He must've called for backup because from somewhere behind Luke, headlights suddenly lit the road.

“Gun! He's got a gun!” Luke prayed the officer wouldn't turn and fire on
him
in confusion. “Up at the house!” He panted and held both hands high in the air to show he was unarmed. Then, like a punch to the gut, a realization hit him—­the officer would detain him. The police would need time to sort out the good guys from the bad guys, and Luke with his six-­foot-­four build would be viewed as a serious threat. Making a sharp change in direction, he zipped past the patrol car.