The Burnt Orange Sunrise (36 page)

“Oh, okay, this is starting to make some sense,” Mitch said, nodding his head. “Now it’s
me
who’s making you behave so badly. First Jory, now Mitch. Not you, never you. Well, guess what, Jase? It
is
you. It’s your decision. It’s your life. Either put the gun down or shoot me. You decide. But do it fast, because we’re running out of time here.” Mitch was less than three feet from him now. Close enough to stare right down the barrel of the .38. Close enough to see just how tightly clenched Jase’s trigger finger was. So tight his knuckle was white. “What’s it going to be, Jase?” he demanded, sounding very sure of himself even though his heart was pounding
and his knees were quivering. Because he wasn’t just staring down a gun barrel, he was staring at the ultimate reality.

It was kill or be killed, and Mitch knew it. And he knew something else. Something that they both knew, which was that Jase had already used his gun and Mitch had not. Jase had proved himself capable of killing. Mitch had not. Jase had crossed over to the dark side of human behavior. Mitch had not.

Jase knew from murder. Mitch knew from Rin Tin Tin.

“What’s it going to be, Jase?” he repeated, his voice raised over the helicopter, which was whirring louder and louder as it descended on the castle’s parking lot. “For once in your life, make up your own goddamned mind, will you?”

“Don’t come any closer,” warned Jase, his finger squeezing tighter and tighter on that trigger. “Don’t do this! Please, don’t! I’m
begging
you …!”

T
HERE WASN’T A HUGE
amount of blood. This was a good thing.

Which was not to say that Des’s forearm wasn’t bleeding as she slumped there at the kitchen table, staring at it dumbly. But the entry and exit wounds were seeping, not gushing. That meant the bullet hadn’t blown out an artery and she wouldn’t bleed to death before the chopper got there.

The bone was definitely broken. It wasn’t protruding through the skin or anything, but it was broken. Des knew it because she couldn’t move her hand at all—the nerves just plain wouldn’t respond. She knew it because of the unbelievably gut-wrenching pain, pain so bad that she felt as if she might pass out. But she could not, must not.

Because as bad as her arm hurt, Des was more concerned about Mitch and what was happening to him out there in the snow. She’d heard a couple of gunshots not long after he’d chased out the door after Jase. Then nothing. She feared the worst. And no matter how hard she tried not to, she kept thinking about that damned old movie of his. About how he’d said it all turned out in the end:

“No one gets out alive.”

“Something has happened to Mitch,” she declared, struggling to get up out of her chair. “I have to help him.”

“You have to sit still is what you have to do,” Hannah said firmly, pushing her back down into the chair and holding her there. It was Hannah who had taken charge after they’d all coming rushing in. Hannah who had ordered Aaron, Carly, Spence and Teddy out of the kitchen. Not that they’d seemed any too anxious to stay. “For your information, missy, you have just been shot.”

“But Mitch needs me.” For some strange reason, Des couldn’t manage to struggle out of Hannah’s grasp. Which she found totally
amazing. It was incredible how strong Hannah was. Jory seemed to agree. Jory who sat there across the table from her, her head listed over to one side, one eye open, the other eye gone. Jory who was …

I am going to faint. I must not faint.

Hannah was wrapping a clean dish towel around her right forearm. And she was talking to her. “Do you know where you are?” Hannah’s voice seemed very far away and yet very close at the same time. And the light in the kitchen seemed uncommonly bright. “Do you know
who
you are?”

“I totally do. I’m Resident Trooper Desiree Velma Mitry. I live at number seventeen Uncas Lake Road. I am a Virgo. I wear a size twelve and one-half double-A shoe …”

“Wow, you’re a big girl, Desiree Velma.”

“Yeah, I’m all grown up now. And I
have
to go help Mitch.”

“Mitch can take care of himself, big girl.”

“Hannah, I love that man to death, but he’s never squeezed out a round in his life.” Again, Des struggled to get up. “I’ve got to go help him.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Hannah growled, shoving her back down into her chair again with amazing ease. It had to be the bullet wound. That was it. She wasn’t at full strength. “Des, could we cover Jory over or something?”

“We don’t want to be going anywhere near her. That’s for the Crime Scene people.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever you say. Here, can you hold this in place for me?”

Des used her left hand to press the towel against her wounded forearm while Hannah went riffling through the drawers over by the sink. A little blood was starting to ooze through the towel by the time Hannah returned with a pair of wooden cooking spoons.

“We’re going to splint this puppy until we can get you to the hospital,” she informed Des briskly. “How does that sound to you?”

“Fine, great. Just get it done.” Des gazed up at her. “Hey, I owe you one.”

“Not a problem. Believe me, my mom will be thrilled that all of my first aid training came in so handy today.”

“I’m sure plenty grateful,” Des said, hearing another gunshot now, this one from farther away. Much farther. “Especially if you can speed this the hell up.”

“Des, I’m doing the best I can,” Hannah said patiently. “Could you put your hand out on the table for me, palm up? No,
up.
That’s a girl. Good job.” Hannah placed the back of one spoon in Des’s palm, running the length of it up the inside of her arm toward her elbow. “Okay, go ahead and close your hand around that for me.”

Now Des heard a second gunshot in the distance.

Mitch. I have to save Mitch.

“Des, you’re not helping me here. Can you close your hand?”

Des really tried to, but her right hand wouldn’t respond at all. It did occur to her that this might present a problem. It was kind of an important hand, after all. Her drawing hand.

“Not to worry,” Hannah assured her. “Just hold the spoon there for me with your other hand, okay? That’s a girl.” Quickly, Hannah positioned the second spoon against the back of Des’s hand and forearm, and wrapped a second kitchen towel around the two spoons. She secured the improvised splint in place with a pair of cloth napkins, one knotted at Des’s wrist, the other at her elbow. Then she folded a checkered tablecloth into a big triangle and fashioned a sling out of it, first cradling Des’s wounded arm inside it, then tying the ends together around Des’s neck. “Try to keep the arm elevated, okay? And don’t eat or drink anything. Not even water. They may want to go in as soon as you’re out of X ray.”

“‘Go in?’” Des repeated, frowning at her.

“Operate. If there’s anything in your stomach, it might delay them. That’s why I’m not giving you any Tylenol.”

“I just ate a sandwich.”

“Okay, be sure they know that.”

As Des shifted her arm around inside the sling, wincing from the pain, she became aware of a faint whirring noise. She couldn’t tell
where it was coming from. It sure wasn’t coming from Jory there across the table. Possibly it was inside her own head. Her wheels spinning away as she wondered where Mitch was, how Mitch was. If she could get to him before he got his head blown off. If she could fire one of those deer rifles with only her one good arm. Didn’t matter. She had to try. She got up out of her chair now and tottered over toward the gun case on rubber legs, fishing around with her left hand for Les’s key ring in the pocket of her beloved shearling coat, ruined now. Two bullet holes, bloodstains. Then again, maybe that all just gave it more character. What would
Vogue
call it, Victim Chic?

“Just exactly what do you think you’re doing?” Hannah demanded.

“My job,” she replied, wondering which key would open the case. She ought to just smash the glass open with a cast-iron skillet. “I’ve got to help Mitch.”

“Des, you can’t! You’ve go to sit still until…” Hannah fell silent, standing there with her ears cocked. She’d heard it, too. The whirring noise. She went over to the window and glanced hopefully up at the bright blue sky. “I think your helicopter’s here, Des. I think it wants to land.”

Des could hear it loud and clear now, hovering directly overhead. “Come on, we need to be out there in the parking lot when they touch down. There’s no time to waste. This is urgent.”

“Are you sure you can make it?” Hannah asked her doubtfully.

“If you don’t mind me leaning on you.”

“Lean away.”

Hannah looped Des’s good arm over her shoulders and helped her past Jory’s body and out the kitchen door. Together, they tramped their way across the courtyard through the snow. Des could not believe how hard it was simply to put one foot in front of the other. Without Hannah, she wouldn’t have made it at all. Part of it was how deep the snow was. But most of it was how wobbly she was. She felt as if she’d been laid up in bed for a week with a wicked Asian flu.

Up above, SP-One was still a few hundred feet over the parking lot, descending slowly.

“You’re the real deal, aren’t you?” she said as they plowed their way through the snow together. “As a director, I mean.”

“I think I am.” Hannah glanced at her curiously. “But why do you say that?”

“You don’t fold under pressure. You get stronger.”

“I have to be that way, if I’m going to make it.”

“You’re going to make it. I have a good feeling about you.”

“Thanks,” said Hannah, her cheeks flushing from the praise.

Ahead of them in the courtyard, Des could see footprints in the virgin white snow. And a deep depression, as if someone had taken a head-first slide into it. But there was no sign of blood. This was positive. This was good. The footprints continued on across the drawbridge in the direction of Choo-Choo Cholly’s flattened depot. As she and Hannah came around to the front of the castle, she spotted the others gathered outside the front door, waiting for the chopper to touch down. They reminded Des of frightened mice the way they were all cowered there together.

SP-One touched down smack-dab in the center of the plowed parking lot, its rotor blades gradually slowing as Des and Hannah reached the cleared pavement. The pilot remained on board as Soave and Yolie climbed out and scooted toward them in heavy-duty black ski parkas, their heads ducked low against the swirling air.

Soave, who was short-legged and bigged-up from weight lifting, looked remarkably like a bowling ball as he scooted toward them in his parka. Yolie, a four-year starter at point guard for Coach Vivian Stringer at Rutgers, moved like a gazelle in comparison. And looked way less street than usual with her braids buried under a black wool skullcap.

A medical examiner’s man climbed out of the chopper, too, and started toward them, clutching his gear.

“Yo, what’s up with that?” Soave called to Des as soon as they were within earshot. He was eyeballing her slinged arm with great concern. “Are you hit?”

“I’m fine, Rico. Don’t worry about me. Our immediate concern is—”

“She’s stable, but
not
fine,” Hannah interjected. “She’s been shot. She’s sustained a compound ulnar fracture and there appears to be neurological damage. The bleeding’s under control, but she requires immediate medical attention.”

“What are you, a doctor?” Soave asked Hannah.

“No, a documentary filmmaker.”

“Oh, boy, here we go again,” Soave groaned, rolling his eyes. “Already, I can tell this one’ll be a trip to unravel. Am I right, Yolie?” He frowned at his silent partner. “Yolie, you okay?”

“Not really,” Yolie Snipes replied glumly, a sickly expression on her face. “I left my stomach and toenails somewhere back over East Haddam. Or maybe it was over—”

“Will you
all please
shut up and listen to me!” Des shouted over them. “We’ve still got us a hot one—white male, early twenties, name of Jase Hearn. He’s armed. He’s killed three people. And he’s running. Mitch took off after him that-a-way,” she said, pointing toward Cholly’s depot. “We’ve heard shots fired. Last one was a few minutes ago.”

“Is Berger armed?” Soave asked her.

“He has my weapon.”

Soave eye’s widened at her with surprise. “Who does he think he is, Vin Diesel?”

“God, I hope not.” Des let out an involuntary sob that caught her totally by surprise. It was the bullet wound. Had to be. Because she was totally
not
a girlie-girl. And yet here she was, sobbing just like one. “Rico,
if anything
happens to that man, I swear I will just curl up and die.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Soave squeezed her good arm reassuringly. “Not to worry. We got your boy covered, right, Yolie?”

“On it,” Yolie vowed, striding off toward the depot with her SIG drawn.

“Excuse me, where will I find the bodies?” the medical examiner spoke up.

“There’s so many locations to choose from,” Des replied, swiping
at her teary eyes. “You can start in the kitchen, if you’d like. Or the woodshed …”

“There’s also two second-floor rooms,” Hannah added. “Numbers one and three.”

“Jeez, did Charlie Manson bust out?” Soave marveled, shaking his head.

“The mice can show you the way,” Des told the ME, indicating the four who were still gathered at the castle’s front door. As the ME started toward them, she said, “Rico, you’ll want to make sure you seal off that big freezer in the kitchen, okay? Jase threw some bloody clothes in there.”

“Gotcha,” he said, nodding. “You ready to go?”

“Go?” She looked at him blankly. “Go where?”

“Our pilot’s heading back up to Meriden to fetch us a load of tekkies. He’ll drop you at the hospital on his way. Hop aboard.”

“No way. Not a chance.”

“Des, you need emergency medical care right away,” Hannah said insistently. “Every minute is precious.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Des insisted, her eyes following Yolie as Soave’s sergeant marched her way past the toy railroad station and down the snow-covered tracks.