The Inside Ring (23 page)

39

DeMarco could see the first streaks of pink-and-gray daylight through the gaps in the walls of the barn. His head still ached but the blinding pain of the previous night was gone. He took three more aspirin and finished the rest of the water in the pitcher.

As his eyes adjusted to the morning light he saw Morgan sitting with his back against the barn’s double doors, his muscular body motionless, his arms folded across his chest like an executioner in repose. His eyes were open, looking at DeMarco. DeMarco looked away from Morgan and searched for Jillian Mattis. She was lying a few feet from Morgan, on her side, in one of the horse stalls. She seemed to be sleeping; he hoped she was sleeping.

DeMarco had to relieve himself. He had endured enough indignities in the last few hours and didn’t need to add to his humiliation by pissing his pants. He stood up slowly, bracing one hand against the wall of the barn for balance. He waited for the pain to bring him back to his knees but it looked as though the aspirin and a few hours of rest had improved his condition. He walked to the end of the chain, as far as he could from the spot where he had been lying, and urinated. When he finished he walked slowly back, sat back down on the floor, and leaned against the wall.

For the first time he took stock of his situation. The chain attached to the collar on his neck was rusty but the links were solid and heavy. It would take a welder’s torch to separate them. He could feel a padlock securing the metal collar to his neck but he couldn’t see it. He checked his pockets with as little motion as possible but he had nothing to use for a lock pick. His cell phone was gone and the only exit he could see were the doors Morgan was leaning against.

Morgan was the real problem. Even if he could find some way to free himself of the chain and collar, he knew he wouldn’t be able get by the man unless he could find a weapon, something to club the son of a bitch to death.

DeMarco looked over at Morgan again and Morgan stared back. The white scar against his dark face was vivid, a neon brand in the morning light. DeMarco inhaled sharply when he noticed Morgan had a small stick in his hand, probably the same one he’d used last night. He was tapping the stick idly against his thigh as he looked back at DeMarco, and DeMarco knew that in his current condition if Morgan decided to torment him again the only thing he could do was endure it. To his relief, Morgan remained seated then closed his eyes and appeared to fall into a light sleep.

DeMarco thought briefly of Mahoney. It was almost thirty-six hours since DeMarco had called him from Hattie McCormack’s farm. He wondered if Mahoney had become sufficiently worried to call out the cavalry. He doubted it, but even if he had, where would they look?

An hour later the sun was completely above the horizon. DeMarco saw Jillian Mattis stir, then sit up looking confused. Her torn dress exposed her left shoulder and yesterday’s burn marks were vivid red blotches against her skin. The left side of her face was swollen, giving her head a lopsided look, and the bruise on her cheek was an ugly yellow-purple circle. The auburn hair DeMarco had admired the day before was plastered against her skull and hung in dirty, clotted strands to her shoulders. Every inch of her exposed skin was smudged and raw from being dragged about the straw-covered floor. DeMarco had calculated Jillian’s age at forty-eight, but one night with Morgan had aged her twenty years.

Jillian came fully awake at that moment, and when she did, and when she saw Morgan, she suddenly remembered where she was. She immediately scooted backward into the horse stall until her back was pressed against the wall of the barn. She hugged her knees to her chest and began to make a soft keening sound, like an animal with its paw caught in a trap. DeMarco flashed back to the dream he had during the night, of the beast in the dark pinning its prey to the ground.

The barn doors opened. Taylor looked well rested and as if he’d just stepped from the shower. Drops of moisture twinkled in his white hair. He came over to where DeMarco was sitting, looked down at him, and smiled. The smile had all the warmth of the silk lining in a casket.

“So how we doin’ on this fine mornin’, Mr. DeMarco?” Taylor asked. When DeMarco didn’t respond, he said, “Well you look pretty good to me, son. A little sleep does a body wonders, don’t it?”

Jerking his thumb in the direction of Jillian, he said, “I’m afraid Honey over there looks like hell. It’s going to take more than a good night’s sleep to make her right again. Do you see the pain you’ve caused that poor woman?”

DeMarco knew Taylor was right. Jillian Mattis had suffered beyond description because of his visit. He had fucked up everything. Emma was missing, possibly dead, and Jillian Mattis had been tortured and raped. As for himself, he was chained to a stake in the ground and would be dead before long. And all for nothing.

Squatting down in front of him, Taylor took hold of the rusty chain affixed to the collar on DeMarco’s neck. “You know what this is?” he said. “It’s a bit of
penal
history. When I lived in Texas I got this chain and collar from an ol’ boy that worked at the Huntsville penitentiary in the fifties. They knew how to treat criminals back in those days. And today, this chain’s
still
serving a useful purpose, half a century later. Not too many things around you can say that about, is there?”

Taylor gave the chain a small tug, jerking DeMarco’s head toward him. “But I’m gettin’ off the point. We have a little chore in front of us this morning, son. What we have to do is find out what you know and who else knows it. Honey told me what she knew last night and as you can see, the tellin’ just plumb wore her out.”

“Why did your sons try to assassinate the President?” DeMarco asked. His voice was weak and his words were slurred, reminding him of the way people talked after having a stroke.

Taylor shook his head and chuckled; his dark eyes shined with mirth. “Assassinate the President! I’m a God fearin’ American, mister, not some pinko nut!”

“I know Estep and Billy were involved,” DeMarco persisted.

Taylor started to answer, then wagged a finger playfully at DeMarco. “Shame on you. You’re tryin’ to distract me from my chores.”

Rising to his feet, Taylor rubbed his hands together, brushing off the rust that had transferred from the chain to his palms. “Now, sir,” he said, “what I need to know is real simple.” He held up a finger for each question. “One, I need to know all the people you’ve told this silly story of yours to besides Honey over there, and two, I need to know what evidence you have to back it up. Now did you get those two questions? Well if you didn’t, that’s okay, because I’m gonna repeat ’em several times before we’re through.”

DeMarco knew Taylor was going to kill him whether he answered his questions or not. He had to invent something to tell Taylor, something Taylor would have to verify and keep DeMarco alive while he did. He had to come up with something to gain some time. He had to.

Taylor winked and said, “I can see the wheels of your small Yankee brain a spinnin’, son. It’s no use. I’m gonna get to the truth.”

Taylor walked over to a milking stool a few feet from DeMarco and sat down. He paused as if to collect his thoughts, like a professor about to address a class of one.

“You probably thought you were in pain last night, didn’t you,” Taylor said, “with your noggin hurtin’ like it was? That wasn’t real pain, son. The human body, you see, is like an onion—and as you peel away each layer the pain intensifies, until you reach the core, that sweet place in the very middle where every nerve ending is particularly fine and tender. That headache you had last night was the outer layer of the onion, son. Just the outer layer.”

DeMarco realized he had been holding his breath the entire time Taylor had been speaking, and as he exhaled he could smell the sour odor of his own fear. He knew it wouldn’t take long for Taylor to reduce him to the groveling, semi-deranged condition of Jillian Mattis. Morgan had proven that last night with his tapping stick.

Sounding more in control than he felt, DeMarco said, “Taylor, I’ll be happy to tell you what I know. And when I do, you’ll realize that killing me is the biggest mistake you could make.”

Taylor shook his head as though DeMarco was a poor pupil who continuously gave the wrong answer. Even a class of one could have a dunce.

“Now, son, I doubt that,” Taylor said. “See I can always tell the truth when I hear it and I didn’t hear it in your voice just now. I didn’t see it in your eyes. I’m tellin’ you, boy, I’m a human lie detector!”

Taylor smiled at DeMarco, his eyes radiating arrogance. “You gotta know a man as rich as I am, a man with powerful friends in powerful places, can avoid trouble if he’s properly forewarned. In fact, I sometimes think there isn’t anything I can’t do when I set my mind to it.”

Taylor, DeMarco realized, was a psychotic control freak, a man who had bought an entire county so he could completely dominate his environment. He didn’t want the material trappings of wealth; he wanted the unbridled power that wealth could bring when totally focused on a small, rural backwater. He controlled the lives of a few thousand humble people and was able to indulge his every desire. He was the King of Charlton County, as Jillian had said, and he thought he’d live forever.

DeMarco still didn’t know why Taylor had tried to assassinate the President but suspected it was just as Jillian had said. The President had somehow annoyed Taylor or endangered his lifestyle, and Taylor in turn had set about to remove the source of his annoyance, totally undaunted by the power of the highest office in the land.

Taylor stood up from the milk stool and winked at DeMarco. “Well, sir,” he said, “it’s time to begin. It’s time to remove a layer from that onion.” Turning to Morgan he said, “Morgan, go on out to the truck, will ya? There’s a pair of bolt cutters in the toolbox; bring ’em here. Ah hell, bring the whole damn box.”

Jesus help me, DeMarco prayed.

Morgan left the barn without a word. Did that bastard ever talk, DeMarco wondered. He had yet to hear him speak.

“Now tell me, son. Did anyone else come down here with you?” Taylor asked.

At that moment, DeMarco saw Jillian Mattis emerge from the horse stall where she had been sitting while Taylor had been lecturing DeMarco. She looked at the double doors that Morgan had exited through, then over at Taylor and DeMarco. Taylor’s back was to her.

“Listen to me, Taylor,” DeMarco said. He needed to keep Taylor focused on him.

Jillian scampered quickly to the wall near the barn doors, her bare feet silent on the packed earth, and grabbed the rusty pitchfork that was hanging there. She glanced again at the double doors, and then with a shriek that contained the grief of every mother who had ever lost a son, she charged across the barn at Taylor. Holding the pitchfork with both hands high over her head she looked like Neptune’s daughter, straw clinging to her hair like dry seaweed, the pitchfork a trident of revenge.

Taylor swung around at the noise but before he could evade her, Jillian plunged the four sharp tines of the pitchfork into his chest with all the strength she had. For a minute they were frozen in place—Jillian pressing the pitchfork into Taylor’s chest, her face primitive in its rage, and Taylor, wide-eyed in pain and disbelief, amazed that this pitiful creature who he had abused for so long had finally struck back.

Taylor fell at last, onto his back, only a few feet from DeMarco. As he fell the pitchfork was wrenched from Jillian’s hands and remained upright in Taylor’s chest. He turned his head toward DeMarco, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes no longer arrogant but begging for help. DeMarco didn’t move; he just sat there listening to the air bubbling out of Taylor’s wound, making a liquid, gurgling sound. And then the sound stopped and Taylor was still.

DeMarco looked up at Jillian Mattis, still standing where she had been when she thrust the pitchfork into Taylor. There was a small smile on her face.

“Jillian,” DeMarco hissed, “run and bar the doors!” Morgan had to have heard her shriek.

Jillian just stood there, the small smile still on her lips, but now with an aspect of lunacy.

“Jillian!” DeMarco hissed again, but the woman didn’t move.

DeMarco looked at Taylor’s body. He was wearing a light jacket to ward off the morning chill. The jacket gaped open and DeMarco could see he had a pistol in a holster on his hip. Thank God for the Second Amendment. DeMarco tried to reach the gun, but the chain around his neck wasn’t long enough by a foot. He grasped the sleeve of Taylor’s jacket, which he could reach, and began pulling, trying to draw the body closer to him. The gun was still inches from DeMarco’s straining fingers when Morgan burst through the barn doors.

DeMarco tugged fiercely on Taylor’s arm. He maneuvered Taylor close enough to finally touch the gun with his fingertips but before he could clear the gun from its holster, Morgan saw what he was doing. Morgan moved across the barn in three quick strides and pulled the body out of DeMarco’s reach with a single strong yank on one of Taylor’s legs. DeMarco still couldn’t believe how incredibly fast the man was.

Morgan looked down at Taylor, and an expression—the only one DeMarco had ever seen him display—flitted across his face. The skin rippled as though something live was moving beneath it and for just an instant the rage and grief he felt at losing the only person who had ever cared for him was there for DeMarco to see. Then as quickly as it had come the expression was gone, and Morgan’s features froze back into an inhuman, merciless mask.

Morgan turned toward Jillian Mattis. He realized she was the one who had stabbed Taylor with the pitchfork. She looked back at him defiantly. Her whole life had been one of degradation and shame, but for one instant she was the picture of pride—ragged and ravaged, but finally triumphant.

Morgan walked slowly toward her. She didn’t back up as he approached but held her ground, continuing to stare straight into Morgan’s lifeless eyes. He stopped in front of her, then reached out slowly, almost tenderly, and grasped Jillian’s face between his two huge hands. He paused a moment, nodded to her as though acknowledging her courage, then twisted his hands viciously. The snap of her neck breaking sounded like a rifle shot in the empty barn.