Dead Run (23 page)

Annie and Sharon nodded understanding, then watched with wide eyes as Grace slipped down into the ditch, up the other side, hesitated, then darted across the road and disappeared into the ditch on the other side.

Sharon caught a deep breath, then followed; Annie went a few seconds later.

On their bellies once more, single file, they wriggled like the disconnected segments of a crippled worm back toward the deserted town.

The ditch seemed like an old friend now, its banks rising as if to shelter them from the road. Annie made a face as they slipped into the rank water puddling around slimy grass stems, and it occurred to her that she had to go to the bathroom. Bad. It seemed preposterous. You shouldn't have to go to the bathroom when you're busy running for your life and the lives of a thousand other people. Certainly Superman never had this problem.

Gradually, the ground beneath them began to rise again, and they were on dry grass. A few more yards, and the old lilac hedge bordering the cafe and house behind it popped into view on the left.

Grace scrambled around into the deep shadows between the cafe and the hedge, the other two close behind. For a moment, they all huddled close to the lilacs, blunt-nosed twigs poking their backs. The wall of the cafe blocked their view of the town, and the only thing they could hear was the sound of their own labored breathing. Eventually, even that quieted and the world was perfectly still.

The peculiar silence of this place had become normal, almost restful. Grace was kneeling comfortably, hands on her thighs, eyelids at a heavy half-mast as she rested her body and mind. In a minute, they'd head back toward the basement to gather what they needed. In just a minute . . .

"I have to go to the bathroom," Annie whispered. "Right this second."

Sharon rolled her head to look at her, amazed to feel a smile come from somewhere. It didn't make it to her mouth, but it was there, on the inside. A stupid smile, really, and all because there was something strangely comforting about Annie having to go to the bathroom. It was so wonderfully ordinary, so damnnormal.

Without thinking about it, she reached out and touched Annie on the arm, one of those priestly gestures that seem to convey some kindof a blessing:Go to the bathroom in peace, my child.

Annie pressed back into the embrace of the lilacs' greenery while Grace and Sharon crawled a few feet away, more to get out of the splash zone than to give her privacy. They hunkered down close to the hedge, facing each other like two Aborigine elders in the bush. They grinned like guilty, eavesdropping children when the silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of a stream of liquid hitting dirt.

Annie's black lace underwear was puddled around her ankles, her eyes closed in almost euphoric relief, her bare backside jammed against the impenetrable tangle of the lilac hedge's thick, horny trunks. After the first few seconds, the muscles in her legs started to quiver with the strain, and she thought she'd finally found something else that a penis might be good for.

She wiggled her butt in a vain attempt to shake herself dry, then, discouraged, started plucking glossy leaves from the tangle of branches. It was more noise than she'd made crawling all the way from the farmyard, but for the first time, she was beginning to believe they really did have the town all to themselves. She could make a little noise gathering makeshift toilet paper, she decided, and no one would shoot her.

She had almost enough when a huge, calloused hand shot around from behind her and clamped down hard over her mouth, jerking her backward.

GRACE AND SHARON were crouched by the side of the lilac hedge, waiting for Annie to finish. It seemed to be taking her forever.

Sharon shifted her shoulders anxiously. The skin on the back of her neck seemed to be moving. She shuddered and pulled the sides of her mouth down. Lord. So that's what it felt like when something really made your skin crawl. It was this blasted, deadly-silent town. The slightest noise sounded malevolent, like Annie jerking leaves off the branches to use as toilet paper. And just when you got used to the noise, it stopped, and that seemed more malevolent still.

"Annie?" Grace leaned forward on her knees, peering back along the hedge at the spot where Annie was still hidden in greenery.

Silence.

Sharon frowned and moved a little closer to Grace. If she'd been an animal, her ears would have been pricked forward. "Annie?" she echoed Grace's whisper.

More silence.

Grace hadn't moved; she was barely breathing, her eyes fixed on the wall of leaves where Annie had been just a moment ago-where Annie absolutely, positively still was, still had to be ... "Annie!"

"Be quiet."

Sharon shrank back and her mouth dropped open. The voice had sounded like God-big and booming, even in a whisper, coming from a bush, no less.God isn't really a bush, Sharon, honey. That's just how he talked to Moses.

She could feel Grace's arm pressed tightly against hers. They trembled in unison, shudders passing from one body to the next, because somebody else was in there with Annie.

Sharon slammed her mouth closed, trapping a scream that belonged to a woman, not a cop. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grace fall to her belly, elbows braced on the ground, the big Sig pointed at the bushes before Sharon's gun had even cleared the holster. Grace's expression was tight and hard, and her eyes were so big that they looked like they were eating her face.

The big whisper, definitely male, sounded again. "Who are you?"

Sharon swallowed. It was one of them. God in heaven, one of the soldiers had Annie.

Grace moved her hands slightly, drawing a bead on the sound of the voice, but she kept her eyes forward, her gaze laying right on the barrel of the Sig.

There was a little squeaking Annie-noise from deep inside the hedge, and Grace nearly fainted with relief. Annie was in there, she was alive, but then there were muffled grunts and sounds of a struggle and oh, God, he was hurting her. "Let her go!" Grace's voice was the one that boomed now.

"Quiet! I have a gun to your friend's head. How many of you are there, and what are you doing here?"

There was a sudden commotion in the bushes-a loud cracking of branches, a gut-deep grunt, then a high, whistling sound as branches burst open and Annie came tearing out on her hands and knees like an enormous motorized toddler, her underwear tangled around her ankles, her face horribly contorted. She plowed into Grace and nearly knocked her backward. "That goddamned son of a bitch grabbed me while I wasgoing to the bathroom, for Christ's sake. What kind of a person does that? Shoot the bastard." She tugged furiously at her panties, struggling to pull them up while she was still kneeling. "I got him a good one with my elbow, but he's still wiggling. Go on. Shoot him!"

"Don't shoot," the man's voice said weakly. "Don't. . , please . . . Jesus.. . I'm already shot. ..."

Grace's eyes narrowed. He was lying. He wasn't shot. She hadn't pulled the trigger yet.

".., your friends . . , already shot me . . ."

Grace frowned.Their friends? Not his? Was he telling the truth? Or was it a trick? Was he sitting in there perfectly all right, pretending to be shot so she'd creep over and peekaboo in and then he'd yell, "Surprise!" and blow her off?

"Who are you?" she demanded.

".., deputy . . , deputy . . ." the voice faded.

The three women exchanged glances, then jumped when something small and metal sailed out of the bushes and landed in front of them. Moonlight glittered on it, outlining it on the dark grass blanket. It looked like a perfectly shaped star had fallen from the sky.

"Oh, God," Sharon murmured, leaning forward to pick up the Missaqua County badge. "Who are you? Who's the Sheriff of Missaqua County?"

No answer.

"Hey, you. Throw out your gun."

Silence.

Grace glanced at Annie. "Did you see him? Is he one of them?"

Still outraged, Annie shrugged. "He grabbed me from behind."

Sharon was already moving cautiously up to the hedge, creeping forward to where Annie's exit had left the greenery in disorder. She stopped just shy of the spot, then led the way in with her 9mm. It was a thoughtless act, automatic. She'd done it a million times before. Sure, she'd been stuck behind a desk for the past several months, hiding from the memory of what it felt like to have a bullet plow through your neck, losing her edge and dulling her senses, but she was back in full cop mode now.

She saw him behind the tangle of thick branches at the roots, slumped into it, his arms snaked around from behind as if he were hugging the hedge. His shirtsleeves were light tan, not camouflage. His gun had fallen from his hand and lay in the dirt in front of the bush, beyond his reach.

Sharon released a soft breath, looked at his head, and saw blood. His eyelids fluttered and he groaned.

It took them ten minutes they didn't have to get him down into the basement.

A miracle, Grace thought, grunting as they negotiated the last step down. He had his right arm over her shoulder, his left over Sharon's, and Grace wasn't sure he'd been entirely conscious during the halting trip from the lilacs. Her back ached from the weight of his arm. He was a big man.

"Maybe if I could just sit for a minute," his voice strained.

Annie closed the doors behind them while they eased him down to the dirt floor. He leaned back against a wooden support beam and closed his eyes.

He was Deputy Douglas Lee, according to the County Sheriff ID card in his wallet. They'd gone through it hurriedly while he was blacked out under the hedge. Grace thought they must have looked like criminals, peering at their booty in the moonlight.

She looked him up and down while his eyes were still closed,

thinking that unless the local Sheriff's Department was involved in this whole thing, he probably wasn't one of the psycho warriors. Then again, identification could always be faked, and the uniform could just be part of an elaborate disguise.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose hard. Nothing was what it seemed anymore. What looked like pretty Wisconsin countryside was really a bloody battlefield; men who looked like U.S, soldiers were really stone-cold killers who shot women in print dresses and wanted to shoot them, too.

Suddenly, the man's chin sagged to his chest and his eyelids went still.

Annie peered down at him. "Is he dead?"

"He's not dead," Grace said, watching his chest rise and fall. "He just blacked out again."

"You think he's really a deputy?"

Sharon shrugged. "The badge looks legit. Which doesn't mean anything."

No, Grace was thinking. We can't trust anyone except ourselves. "I don't know," she said aloud, looking at the wound on his head. One side of his face was streaked with dried blood-a lot of it-and fresh,shiny seepage trickled over it.See that? That's real. And even a crazy man wouldn't shoot himself in the head as part of a disguise, right? So he is a deputy. One more for our side. The odds are improving. We're now up to four against. . , how many?

"Lord God," Annie murmured, staring at the wound. "Who would have thought I could do that much damage with one little ol' elbow."

Sharon had already wet a rag at the sink and was bending from the waist to dab ineffectually at his wound. "Your elbow didn't do this. Might have made it worse, but he really was shot. See the graze right here?" When she pressed a little harder, he groaned awake and leaned forward, grabbing his head in both hands. "Ah, shit, that hurts."

Sharon jerked back involuntarily, holding the rag out at arm's length. He reached for it with a shaky hand and pressed it against his head.

"Who shot you?" Grace said.

"You tell me."

There wasn't much moonlight filtering through the high, narrow windows, but there was enough to show the steadiness in Grace's hand as she raised the Sig and let him see it. "You first."

His eyes widened a little at the gun. "Christ, who are you people? Your goddamned soldiers at the roadblock shot me. I thought they were Guard. Are they?"

Sharon dropped to a crouch and looked right at him. "Who's the Sheriff of Missaqua County?"

"Ed Pitala."

"Tell me something about him a stranger wouldn't know."

The man looked at her hard. "Sixties, hard as nails, two tours in 'Nam, wife Pat, who's about four times tougher and ten times smarter than he is. Loves his wife, his kids, and Jim Beam, in that order. Smokes Marlboros. And he's stone deaf in his right ear."

Sharon raised a brow. Anybody could know most of what he said, except for the deafness. That was under wraps, information for good friends like Halloran, and maybe this man, because if the county commissioners ever found out, old Ed would be out of a job. She held out her hand. "Deputy Sharon Mueller, Kingsford County."

It took a second for Deputy Lee to absorb the information. "Mike Halloran's woman?"

Sharon reddened. "One of his deputies." She looked up at Grace. "He's okay."

"You sure?"

"As sure as I can be."

Grace still didn't trust him. "How'd you get here?"

Surprisingly, Lee felt a nudge of angry indignation. He'd never been on the wrong end of an interrogation before, and he didn't like it. But there was an undercurrent of fear in the woman's voice, and that tempered his response.

"I told you all that. . , didn't I?" He frowned hard, squinting at the dim outline of his legs sprawled before him on the dirt floor, trying to remember.

"You started to, then you passed out."

Lee sighed and squinted as his pupils tried to find enough light. He could almost see her now-see them. Three woman-shadows in this strange, shadowy place. A basement, he decided. Of course. They'd told him they were taking him to the basement, or had that been a dream? "Is there water?"

One of the shadows moved, and he heard water running into something metal. A moment later, a tin cup of some sort was pressed into his hand. He drank, tasted soap, then suddenly remembered grabbing the woman in the hedge. She'd gone immediately rigid- he remembered what that had felt like, like when you pick up a wounded bird and it freezes in your palm, terrified-but then later, she'd started to flail, and . . , had he hit his head on something? He had a vague tactile memory of sticky warmth coursing down his cheek, then nothing.