The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (40 page)

She taught him the rudiments and crossed her fingers. “You cover the back.”

The storm was getting worse. Walking was a nightmare, involving quite a bit of falling—as well as dodging foreign objects. The good news was, the wind and rain were so loud the perps probably hadn’t heard the car.

As they approached, she and Steve could make do with the light from the house, so they almost certainly couldn’t be seen from inside. Thus, they might make it without getting shot.

But then what?

She thought,
What are we going to do? Giving the police knock just doesn’t seem like a way to live very long.

But what else? Break a window? Climb up on the roof and slide down the chimney?

Tear gas would be good, but I’m fresh out.

Firebomb? Not with Sheila in there.

Suddenly, the situation seemed futile.

Fuck. Am I going to have to wait them out after all? With the worst part of the storm yet to come?

No! What do I have that they haven’t got?

Steve. That’s about it—and he doesn’t even know how to shoot.

Wait a minute!

It’s not Steve himself. It’s the fact that he’s here.

She saw there was only one way to play it—as a solo. Which meant back to Plan A—the police knock.

Steve said, “Are you out of your mind? What’s to keep them from killing you?”

It was a real possibility. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Hey, why don’t I do it? They don’t know me. I could be a guy lost in the storm. Or better yet—I’m a neighbor with an emergency.”

“They probably do know you. They’ve been having me tailed.”

“Well, it’ll take them a while to figure out it’s me. I can do a Cajun accent.”

“Do me a favor and forget that part.”

“Aha. Like the plan, do you?”

She did. But she couldn’t believe she’d more or less just acquiesced to it. Everything in her said not to put a civilian in that kind of danger.

But what choice have I got? He’s right—they’d be downright delighted to shoot me on sight. Steve could buy us a couple of minutes.

Deep down, she knew the truth, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with putting a civilian in danger. It was too late to worry about that one: Both their lives were on the line.

She said, “Okay, forget the back. It’s mine. But make sure you know I’m there before showtime.”

“How am I going to know? I can’t see doing bird calls about this.”

“Why don’t we just set a time limit? Give me ten minutes to reach the back. That should work even if I twist an ankle.”

“Ha. I knew there was a use for my Timex Indiglo feature.”

Good old Steve. Making jokes in the heat of battle.

She couldn’t help wondering if he had any idea how much danger they were in. But he was a grown-up— he must.

After they split, on higher ground so that at least she was no longer knee-deep, she pulled off her boots, emptied them, and put them back on. After that, she kept up a steady crawl, holding onto the house the way she’d learned in New Orleans, trying not to splash. Yet the storm was so loud it probably didn’t matter about the noise. By the same token, no matter how she strained, she couldn’t hear a sound from inside.

On the side of the house, where there was no light from candles, it was pitch-dark, and she could see nothing.

She’d progressed past what she thought was less than a third of the house when she hit her forehead on something big. What? She could get her arms around it.

Exploring a little more with her hands, feeling bark and then branches, she realized it was a tree that had fallen against the house. It took her awhile to get around it, but she made it to the back with no further obstacles. She should be well within her ten-minute limit.

There were steps leading to a back door. As soon as she put her foot up, she crunched glass. She knew instantly what it meant—an earlier forced entry.

Good—that’ll just make it easier.

Steve started to holler. “Denis!” The house shook as he pounded the door. “Denis, it’s Etienne. Open up, goddammit! Let me in.”

Etienne! It was as if he was trying to make her laugh—at least to amuse her, to remind her it was Steve out there, that he was with her. Skip recognized that and drew strength from it. Perhaps unintentionally, the small joke, the spark of humor in the face of adversity, reminded her how good life could be.

Adversity, hell
, she thought.
That sounds pretty trivial—like ants at a picnic.

She tried not to let the rest of the thought materialize into words, but in the back of her mind she knew: He could be dead in five minutes.

However, the perps had done her a favor. Effortlessly, she found the hole in the door where the glass had broken. She stuck her hand in, opened the door, and slipped in. Simple as that.

“Denis, I’ve lost my house. Tree crashed in and hit my wife. I think her hip’s broken. Denis, goddammit, I fixed ya boat that time. Ya owe me, man!”

It was dark as a cave in the kitchen. The door to the living space had been closed, probably against the storm.

Slowly, silently, she cracked it.

A storm blast came from the front—the door opening to Steve. Skip breathed deeply, grateful they hadn’t shot him.

A thick-bodied white man was speaking to him. “Denis ain’t here. Look, we got our own emergency …”

Skip surveyed the scene quickly, knowing she had to move before they shut the door on him. There were two other men there.

Potter was one, holding a gun on a tall woman, her arm twisted behind her back. He was facing the door, intent on the intruder.

Another black man held Sheila’s arm, much the same way. He had his gun trained on Torian, who sat on the floor hugging a cloth to her leg, having evidently hurt it.

A black girl Skip didn’t know was gaping at the door. The gunman was, too.

Steve butted the white man back into the room. At almost the same moment, Torian, so motionless and white-faced, seemingly so frightened, leaped for the black man’s gun, got his hand in her mouth, and bit him hard, judging from his howl. Sheila seized the moment to jerk away; he still held on, but by this time the black girl had also joined the fray.

Skip hesitated a moment, thinking to help the children first, but really there was no choice—she stepped up behind Potter, stuck her gun in his neck, and said, “Let her go or you’re dead.”

He said, “If you were going to shoot me, you would have already.”

That was the signal to pull the trigger.

Oh, God, I can’t do this again. I can’t.

Sheila hit him like a cannonball, having wrenched away from the other one. He was knocked off balance, which gave Paulette a chance to knee him.

Steve yelled, “Skip!” Only one word, but the urgency in it was riveting.

She could almost feel the adrenaline course through her bloodstream, take over her mind and body. As fast as her eyes could flick to Steve, could take in the sight of the white man holding a gun on him, she fired and watched him fall.

Oh, shit, it’s like before.

She thought later that it was amazingly like the time she had killed before. It was not like shooting Potter in the back would have been. That time she had been immediately threatened, this time Steve was, and neither time had she hesitated.

There’s no way out. I just go through life killing and killing…

Another shot, this one behind her, cut through her thoughts. She whirled to see Paulette holding Potter’s gun, Potter bleeding on the floor. Sheila was sitting beside him, trying to catch her breath.

That left the second black man. The black girl was squeezing him around the waist, as if she could make him stop breathing. Torian still had his hand in her mouth, the hand with the gun.

Skip realized only a few seconds had passed.
Two seconds; two men killed
, she thought.

Steve said, “Drop it,” and she saw that he had the white man’s gun, had it pointed at the black man. For the first time she looked at the black man’s face and saw how wide his eyes were, how frightened.

This was not a professional thug. This was just some kid from the church.

“Police,” she said. “Do what the man said.”

His eyes flicked to her, took in her gun, and the fight went out of them—fear turned to relief. The game was up, and he didn’t have to keep trying to play it.

The gun slipped from his grip. Torian kicked it toward Steve, but she must have bitten down once more for good measure: the man yelped like a struck dog.

Another noise covered his voice—a ripping sound overhead. They all stared up as a chunk of the roof opened up and blew away. Papers and garments flew about the room, as well as some of the crockery from the broken china cabinet—anything small enough to fly flew. The candles went out.

Skip grabbed the standing man’s arm, so he’d know how close she was. “Steve, I need you.” When he had stepped closer, she pulled a pair of handcuffs from her pocket. “Get these on him,” she said, and turned quickly, wildly uncomfortable, knowing there was still one loose gun in the room. “Paulette, drop the gun and kick it over.”

She breathed easy when she heard a thunk and a dragging noise. Paulette wasn’t going to fight—at least not right now. “Sheila, pick it up and give it to me.”

When she had the gun, she said, “Okay, everybody into the kitchen.” Where there was a roof. “Steve, handcuff that dude to something in there. Girls, get the candles and matches. Can you do that?”

“Sure can,” said the black girl. “But Torian better sit still. Her leg bleedin’ again.”

Skip kept Paulette covered, Paulette and the two fallen men, while Sheila and Faylice lit up the kitchen. Then she, Steve, and Paulette examined Potter and Rob. Both were alive and bleeding.
Thank God
, Skip thought.
Thank God! I couldn’t handle that again.
They dragged them into the kitchen and did what they could to stop the bleeding.

As soon as she could take a break, Skip said, “Sheila, you all right, sweetheart?” To her surprise, the girl leaped into her arms.

“Auntie Skip. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s okay now, baby.”

“Torian’s hurt.”

Faylice said, “Jus’ about stopped bleedin’ again. She gon’ be okay.”

Sheila looked at Skip with as bewildered a look as Skip had ever seen on the girl’s face. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Skip hugged her harder and looked at Paulette. She said, “Maybe you could fill us in.”

Paulette’s face was tragic in the candlelight, cheeks drawn, dark eyes sunk into their sockets. “I had to get the kids. These people, they don’t mess around. You know how they are. They killed Noel Treadaway—they just as soon kill anybody gets in their way. Kids? Ha. That ain’t nothin’ to ‘em. They kill anybody—”

“They did not! They did not kill Noel Treadaway! Noel Treadaway is fine! Noel Treadaway is not dead— do you hear me? I talked to him two days ago.” Torian was standing up, Faylice at her feet. Hands over her ears, she was screaming as loud as the wind.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

WHEN TORIAN HAD been calmed, and Paulette, distraught at upsetting her, had been taken care of as well, day was breaking, and the storm was still blowing.

Skip desperately wanted to get Potter and Rob to a hospital. She looked at Steve: “Think we could get out of here?”

His face was grim. “I don’t know. I just don’t think—” but seeing her face, seeing her glance at the man she had shot, he stopped in mid-sentence and nodded. “I’m going to go take a look.”

It took him nearly a minute to get the door closed behind him. He came back shaking his head. “Water’s up. We can’t get the Explorer any closer—and there’s no way to carry them out to it.”

Skip nodded. She had expected it, but the idea of waiting out the storm made her want to scream.

He said, “Let’s get everyone as comfortable as we can, and one of us can go for help.”

Skip hadn’t handcuffed Paulette, taking her at her word for the moment, but she didn’t feel comfortable leaving the woman alone. She left Steve with her and the three prisoners while she braved the storm within the house to find pillows and blankets for the wounded men and the girls, dry clothes for herself and Steve. Paulette settled the girls and herself while Skip and Steve did what they could for the men. Half-conscious, Potter moaned as Skip tucked a blanket around him, brushing at an area under his hip. Readjusting his clothes, she felt something hard in his pocket—the thing digging into his hip. It was a tiny tape recorder.

It was evidence, she knew she shouldn’t touch it, and if anyone had asked why she pushed the “play” button, she could have supplied only one answer—she couldn’t help it. It was like a junkie going for junk, a woman for a man, a cat for a bird—no thought behind it, only compulsion. If she hadn’t been so tired, and coming off an adrenaline high, she might have palmed it and turned it meekly over to the proper authorities at the proper time.

She didn’t think so, though. This thing was way too personal.

To her surprise, Paulette’s voice came through on the tape, loud and clear: “I carried out Daddy’s order.”

“Shit!” Paulette threw the covers off, leaped up off the floor in her shirt and socks, having shed jeans and shoes, and pounced on the thing.

But she wasn’t quick enough to stop the next voice: Potter’s saying: “Treadaway’s dead?”

Torian leaped up as well, grasping instantly what Skip was still grappling with: “You killed him!”

Paulette wrenched the machine away and opened the door. She splashed out into the storm, pursued by Torian.

For one mad moment Skip thought:
Let them go. Who cares?
And then she was out the door herself, the rain hitting her like a blast from a fire hose, the wind puffing her cheeks.

By the time she got her bearings, Paulette had already fallen, probably stumbled on a rock or root under the water. Torian had caught up with her and was beating her, hitting her in the face with doubled fists.

The sky was gray now, the light was soft and lazy. Even the air seemed gray, the rain steel instead of silver. Torian wore a T-shirt and shorts, soaked and clinging to her skinny little bones. Paulette sat in about a foot of water, facing into the wind, thick short hair blowing back in such a solid, constant mass, her head and upper body looked like a bust of some wind goddess. Her legs, folded in a kind of semi-lotus, thighs and knees sticking up out of the water, were perfectly muscled, strong as a dancer’s.