Days of Reckoning (12 page)

Wainwright gagged, but made a valiant effort to recover. He blew at a drop of sweat that tickled the end of his nose and spoke fervently. “You killing Damon’s done me a favor. If you’ve got the goods he stole, we can work something out! Why don’t you and I talk like civilized folks, see if we can make a deal?”

“My brother’s dead, Chief. There isn’t anything you can offer that will bring him back.” She rose and went into the den. When she returned she had the poker from the fireplace in her hand. Wainwright watched her with wary eyes. She stared at him coolly, then walked behind him. He craned his head to see her. Then his world went dark as she tied a napkin around his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked with just a hint of a tremor in his voice.

“I’m settling, Chief. Consider this my consolation prize. I get to make your last minutes on earth a living hell.” Miranda lifted the poker and brought it down sharply on his bound hands. Several of his fingers broke with a satisfying crunch. Wainwright screamed and jerked forward, tumbling over with the chair. Miranda left him on the floor.

Her next blow landed on his left shin. It didn’t break the bone, but it tore through his jeans and left a deep gash. Wainwright screamed again. Miranda knelt down close to his face. He was pale now and covered in sweat.

“You’re right about the weapons. I have them. And I have some names too. If you want, you can give me any others I might need. If you don’t, I’ll find them anyway. This will just be a much longer night for you.” She stood again and delivered another blow to Wainwright’s leg. This time she heard the shin crack.

Wainwright retched from the pain and briefly drifted unconscious. Miranda toed him roughly in the ribs until he stirred awake. “For God’s sake,” he gasped. “Please stop!”

“Did Justin plead the same way with you? Did you listen to him?”

Wainwright swallowed before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered. He flinched, waiting for the next blow.

Miranda considered her next form of punishment. “You know,” she said lowly, “Damon wasn’t the first person I killed for my brother. The first person was some punk who raped him when he was a kid in a camp bathroom. I crushed that bastard’s skull with a rock and dropped his body off a cliff.” She paused to let the fact sink in. “He never knew what hit him. One minute he was hiking, the next he was gone.” She stood and paced around Wainwright’s crumpled form, slapping her palm with the poker. “Remember what I told you earlier?”

He didn’t answer.

“I told you that you are going to die. And you are, Chief. Tonight. I can shoot you in the back of the head, and all your pain will go away, or I can look for other tools and tear you apart piece by piece. How you die is totally up to you. If you want to make a deal, those are the only options you have.” She smacked him hard in the shoulder with the poker. “Why’d you kill my brother?”

“I honestly don’t know now,” Wainwright rasped. “I told the boys to make sure he wouldn’t be captured again. He knew too much, and too many people were looking for him. I don’t know where they took him.”

“They were the ones there at the time,” he answered hurriedly. “They’re probably the ones who left with your brother. They’re a bit rough, but they ain’t animals. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, just like Damon.”

Miranda winced, and fought to hold back a sob. So Justin’s death was a murder, as she had suspected. Betrayed by a friend, shunned by his leader, and executed by two cronies. She shuddered. “I’m sorry, Justin,” she whispered.

“What’d you say?”

Miranda turned to the form on the floor. She cleared her mind of her brother’s image. “You shouldn’t have worried so much about Justin talking. You should have worried more about Damon.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Wainwright stammered.

“Tell me, is The Reverend still coming into town? I did my homework on him after my talk with Damon. Even watched one of his evangelist shows on TV. You know, he doesn’t preach much about love and acceptance. Or forgiveness.” She struck the Chief again with the poker, cracking several of his ribs. “And unfortunately for you, I listened to every word he said.” She raised the poker again, ignoring his cries for mercy.

Chapter 13

Sam Connor returned to the station after visiting his aunt. Gutierrez was not there; presumably he was out on a call. Wainwright had not returned his messages, and Miranda was apparently at home for the evening. With no further leads, and no one to discuss the case with, he bade the duty officer a good night and went to his house. He listened to his home voice mail, hoping that Wainwright had perhaps called him there, but the only message was from Tracy.

“Sam, it’s me,” she said. “I think we should talk. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should give things another chance. I saw you getting coffee today, and I just really missed you. So give me a call when you get the chance, and let’s go on a date or something, ‘kay? Bye.”

Sam laughed out loud for a long time, enough that tears formed in the corners of his eyes. What was Tracy doing, spying on him? He remembered wishing briefly that she would see him with Miranda, but he never thought that would actually happen. It was just too rich. He hit erased the message and went to his fridge to get a beer, shaking his head.

#

His phone rang shortly after midnight, blasting him out of sleep, which for once was in his own bed. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his mind. The phone rang again. He wondered if it might be Tracy. More likely it was Barry, calling about Loretta again. He considered briefly leaving them to their own devices, but decided that would be unethical. As the third ring died away, he picked up the phone and answered with a groggy “H’lo?”

“Sam? It’s Sergeant Peterson, at the station. You might want to come in. Something’s happened. It’s pretty bad.”

Sam was immediately on his feet. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said hurriedly, switching off his cordless phone and tossing it on the bed. He pulled his Glock 22 off of the nightstand and reached for his shoulder holster.

#

Sam expected to station to be a flurry of activity, but it was strangely empty, with even the desk clerk missing. Puzzled, Sam walked into his office. No voice-mails or memos greeted him. He shook his head and walked back out into the hall. The desk clerk emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants.

The duty officer nodded grimly. “They don’t think he’s going to make it. I phoned all the guys off duty, told them to head out there and see what they could find. I figured you should be there, too, since it’s your case and all.”

“Hector must have tried. His radio was transmitting, but nothing was coming through, so one of the guys went out to check on him. Found him by his car. Sounds really bad.”

“Any suspects?”

“Not in the vicinity. But they’re looking. They just need someone to coordinate everything.”

“Okay. I’m on my way out there. Keep trying Wainwright; he was out there earlier today – er, yesterday, and might be able to clue us in as to who all showed up. Call me when you get him. If things are quiet, send some of the patrolmen on duty out my way. I want the day-shift fresh tomorrow, since we’ll have a better chance of finding tracks in the daylight.”

Sam flew out the door, back to his car. It hadn’t sunk in that Hector was gone. Well, he wasn’t yet, but apparently would be soon. And Sam realized first that it was his fault, second that it could have been himself that was on his way to die in an emergency room.

Damon. It had to be him. Sam was sure of it. Whatever Damon had wanted from the store must instead have been at the house. Either Damon or Gutierrez had surprised the other, and the result was an officer gunned down. Sam slammed his breaks at a stoplight and pounded his steering wheel, letting off a flurry of expletives. “Gonna get that motherfucker,” he snarled as he peeled off before the light turned green.

#

The scene at Beaumont’s house was at best organized chaos. Sam counted two cruisers, an unmarked car and a pair of personal vehicles outside of the property. Several men were milling about as he pulled up to the driveway.

One of the men, Officer Hal Golding, waved in greeting. “Glad you could make it, Sam.”

“Evening Hal. What have I missed?”

“Squad came and drove off with Hector. He’s pretty bad. His cruiser is there in the driveway. Kevin Jones found him; he’s the other cruiser. Scott Pepper and Arnie Freed came on their own. Sheriff’s Department has a pair of cars touring the county, looking for ditched vehicles and the like.”

Sam walked with Golding over to Gutierrez’s vehicle. “What kind of evidence have we got?”

“Kevin’s kept everyone away from the cruiser, except to get Hector first-aid. The others have been combing the near-by vicinity, looking for shell casings and whatever else they can find. No one’s been in the house yet, but the lights are on, so somebody was in there waiting.”

Sam accepted an offered flashlight from Golding and peered into the cruiser. The driver’s side door was open and the window was shattered. Inside, he could see blood on the dashboard, steering wheel and seat. The keys were in the ignition, but the engine was off. The radio handset lay in the passenger’s seat. Sam played the beam of light over the passenger seat and saw a neat hole in the side of it. “Looks like he was in the car when he was shot.”

“Sounds right. Some type of vehicle is sitting in the driveway. He goes to look at it. Gets shot, comes back to the car, gets hit again.” He rubbed his chin. “Doesn’t work, though. The other vehicle can’t get past his car. His takes up too much of the driveway.”

“Hmm. Maybe. I wonder if he got any shots off?” Holding onto that idea, Sam called back to the station and asked Frank to check the hospital for gunshot victims. Then he turned to Golding and said, “I want to check out that house. People have been in there, and my guess is Hector went to find out who they were.” He called the other officers over and told them to keep the scene secure while he went in. He also told them to be ready to move in case he needed backup. Then he and Golding walked up the long drive to the front of Beaumont’s home.

Miranda was picking up a pair of spent shell casings when she heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel. Cursing under her breath, she grabbed the MAC-11 off of the kitchen table and loaded a fresh magazine, dropping the old one into the mag-pouch at her waist. One fully loaded spare remained.

Avoiding the blood that bathed much of the kitchen floor, Miranda leapt into the den. She stepped around Shane’s body and made her way over to the shattered window. Chips of glass hung from the frame; she knocked them aside and pulled herself through the opening. She moved to the corner of the house, listening intently.

#

“Jesus! What the hell happened to the window?” Jimmy Cole asked as he and Bill Banks made their way up the front steps of the lodge.

Bill, who was still wound up from shooting a cop, pulled his partner off of the porch and drew his .357. “Somethin’ fucked went down, is what happened. Wish I’d kept that police gun,” he muttered.

Jimmy looked confused for a moment; then understanding dawned on his face. Shane and the Chief probably didn’t smash their own window out. He drew a 9mm from the waistband of his pants. “What do we do?”

“Stay low and cover me. I’m gonna take a peek through that window.”

Jimmy crouched low while Bill crept up the stairs to the porch. He whipped his head back and forth, picking up shadows and imagined demons in every bush and tree. One of them seemed to move towards him. He gasped.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Jimmy swung his head back up to his partner. Bill was pale, even in the dark, and leaned against the porch railing for support. “What is it?” Jimmy whispered.

Bill didn’t answer. Jimmy went up the steps to check on his partner, and then a sharp ripping sound tore through the still night air. Chunks of the railing flew up at Jimmy, then he felt a horrible burning in his arm and side. He stumbled on the stairs. “Bill!” he cried.

The gunshots propelled Bill Banks into action. He charged for the end of the porch and jumped over the railing. He landed hard, grunting in pain. Another burst of fire tore into the wall of the lodge over his head. In the silence that followed, he pulled himself to his feet. Jimmy called out again. Another pair of shots, and Jimmy didn’t cry out anymore. Bill held his revolver in both hands, pointed it at the corner of the lodge and stepped forward.