The Siege (41 page)

Judging by the noise upstairs, things up there were getting worse. The car seemed to be making circuits of the house. It sounded to Winfield like a heavy-bodied, big-engine thing. Maybe it was the limousine that guy Harmon had mentioned? The racing sound rose and fell, hitting high frequencies and then fading as it moved around. Finally, Winfield thought he heard the car speed off into the distance, and the night plunged back into silence.

“It’s still not too late,” Winfield whispered as he and Tasha craned their necks to hear what was going on up there. The silence coming from upstairs had an ominous edge to it, like a well-honed knife.

Tasha’s biggest fear was that Hocker had been discovered and she would be next; everything this cop had said about helping her out would fly out the window, and she’d end up doing a jail sentence. The things they had done since they crossed the Maine state line would be good for at least twenty years in the slammer. If that old man had died, she figured she’d be in for life!

Through the floorboards, Winfield heard the stealthy sound of footsteps, and then the sound of other, heavier feet. The voices of two people were muffled by the floor, and sounded like nothing more than tantalizing buzzings. Winfield watched Tasha, trying to guess if she knew what was going on up there. He was frantically debating whether or not to yell. Even if he ended up dead, maybe those people upstairs would get away before Hocker caught them.

Suddenly, the cellar door flew open, and two people, one practically dragging the other, came down the stairs quickly. Hocker’s face was wild with fury as he shoved a woman to where Winfield was bound. She fell face-down on the floor, her arms and legs splayed.

“Take this and tie her,” Hocker shouted. “Quick!” He flung a coil of rope at Tasha, who quickly scooped it up and went over to where the woman lay. She rolled her onto her back and ran several loops around the woman’s wrists. She made two knots and leaned back, pulling them tightly.

As soon as Tasha had rolled the woman onto her back, Winfield gasped with surprise to see Donna LaPierre. He started to say something, but as soon as a syllable came from his mouth, he was looking at the unblinking black eye of the revolver’s bore.

“Go ahead,” Hocker said, low and evenly. “Just one fucking word!”

Winfield shook his head and sagged back against the cellar wall, watching helplessly as Tasha began binding Donna’s legs.

“Still got a little business to do upstairs,” Hocker said, and for the first time, Winfield saw him live up to his name; he spit viciously into the dirt beside Donna’s face, missing her by less than an inch.

“You keep these assholes quiet while I go up and get the last little member of our party. He’s gonna have an Excedrin headache like you got, copper.” Hocker said, laughing and shaking his head from side to side. “Christ! This is turning out to be busier than Grand-Fucking Central Station!”

IV

A
s soon as they had entered the house, Dale had said, “Just wait here in the kitchen. I want to take a look in the barn. See if there’s anything we can use to shore up the front door. I won’t be a minute.”

Donna wanted to protest. As far as she was concerned, when Rodgers returned, a few planks nailed over the door weren’t going to stop him. Their best chance, she thought, was to make a run for it. Whether they stayed to the road or chanced the forest at night, they had to get out of here. Rodgers knew where they were, and there was no sense waiting around, giving him all the options.

“We can’t be as surprised in the daylight,” Dale said as he swung open the kitchen door and glanced out at the barn. “So if we can hold him off for the night, we should be all right.” For all he knew, the barn itself could be swarming with Rodgers’ creatures. He might walk out there, bold as can be, and they’d be ripping his arms and legs off before he could say
ouch!

The woods and surrounding yard were quiet, almost peaceful, if he ignored the trenches carved in the lawn by Rodgers’ limo. The moon cast a long, pointed shadow from the peak of the barn. Only the brightest stars twinkled through the hazy glow in the sky. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it was still only a few minutes before midnight. He felt as though the night had stretched out like soft taffy, dragging minutes into hours.

“Just be cool,” he said to himself as he stepped into the night. Dale quickly crossed the dooryard to the barn, hesitating for only a second at the barn door before pushing it inward. His penlight was nothing more than a feeble splinter of light in the darkness, but as soon as he saw what was inside the barn, he knew he and Donna were in serious trouble.

For just a moment, as he looked at the smashed cruiser, he considered going straight back to the house for her. Something was
seriously
wrong.

Maybe Donna was right, he thought. Maybe they should take a chance on the woods.

If he had gone back right then, he might have changed everything because, as soon as he was out the door and the door closed shut behind him, Hocker had stepped out of the stairwell where he had been hiding and clapped his rough hand over Donna’s mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound died quickly in her throat when she saw the heavy revolver come around in front of her and press like cold lips against the side of her head.

But Dale didn’t go back to the house right away; he took a few minutes to inspect the damage to the car. Headlights and flashing lights were nothing but broken glass and plastic. Huge, baseball-sized dents pocked the side panels, hood, and roof and especially on the town police insignia on the side doors. The trunk was open, obviously already looted for anything useful.

Dale’s first thought was to see if the radio was working, but as soon as he looked into the trashed front seat, he saw the radio’s guts spilled all over the cruiser floor.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, as his thin beam of light danced over the interior of the car. His mind was rapidly clicking off the possibilities here.

—
If Winfield’s cruiser was here—in this condition—where and in what condition was the policeman?

—Had Rodgers—or some of his creatures—done this while they were held at bay on the porch? Or before they had even gotten there?

—Or was Donna right? Was there a prowler out at the house who had done this? ... and right now was he waiting for them back there in the dark house?

Panic flooded Dale as he straightened up and looked back out the barn door at the house. Was that Donna’s face in the window? He couldn’t tell for sure because of the glare of moonlight on the window panes. As he exited the barn, though, just for his own security, he waved a greeting in case that was her.

He approached the house, and as the angle to the window changed, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Donna standing by the window; he could clearly see her dark silhouette outlined in the moonlight. He hurried across the door yard, his hand eager to swing open the door and his arms eager to hug her close.

Maybe things were over for a little while, he thought as he entered the kitchen, a joyful greeting all set to spill out of his mouth. But then Dale saw not Donna, but a man, standing by the kitchen sink. A sliver of moonlight through the window gleamed on the polished surface of the gun he was aiming at him.

“Welcome to the party,” the man said, followed by a low chuckle as he waved the pistol back and forth, its muzzle pointing squarely at Dale’s chest.

“Who the Christ are you? … And where’s Donna?” Dale shouted.

“You mean your lady friend? Why, she’s nice and comfortable. You can see for yourself.”

“If you’ve hurt her, I’ll…” Dale darted forward, but the kitchen suddenly filled with an orange flash and a thunderous explosion. Dale heard the bullet whizz past his ear.

“You make another move like that, and you’ll have a nice big piece of your face blown off,” the man said. There was no tremor in his voice, nor the slightest indication of nervousness, so Dale knew he meant it. “Now there won’t be any trouble if you just follow the bouncing ball down
the
cellar.” Saying that, he snapped on a flashlight and illuminated the stairway, leading down.

Dale had no doubt that this was the man who had left the dirty footprints they had seen in the house earlier that day. There was also no doubt that this man was
dangerously
crazy!

“Just remember,” the man said as Dale started toward the steps, “I’ve got this pea-shooter pointed right at the back of your head. You make a single move that even looks like you’re gonna try to take me out, and you’re fucking dead. You understand?”

Dale grunted. His ears were still ringing from the sudden explosion of the shot, and the last thing he wanted to do was anything to set this jerk off.

The impact of the gun slamming on his head came as a total surprise, but it didn’t knock him out. He staggered forward, slamming into the wall. As much as he wanted to turn on this man and fight him, though, Dale knew he’d be risking a bullet in his skull before he could blink.

“That’s just to remind you to fucking behave,” the man said, his voice low, twisted, and dangerous. “So you just do what I tell you!”

Dale grunted an acknowledgment of the order. The back of his head was throbbing as he started down the steps, slowly and carefully. His legs wanted to fold up underneath him, but he kept telling himself he had to maintain; he had to be strong if he was going to get himself and Donna out of this.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked over by the coal bin, his mouth dropped open in surprise. Sitting on the floor, trussed up with their backs to the wall of the coal bin, were Donna and Winfield! There was also a young-looking girl, squatting across from them, holding a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

“Donna? You all right?” Dale asked, his voice almost breaking when he saw how scared and tired her eyes looked. The steady thump of pain where he had been hit on the head receded in a surge of anger at this creep who had done this to them.

Donna nodded her head but said nothing. The helplessness in her eyes cut him to the core.

“We’re all doing just fine,” Winfield said, smiling broadly. His teeth looked unusually large and shiny in the dim light of the flashlight.

“All of you just shut the fuck up, all right?” the man barked. “Tasha, there’s some more rope in the kitchen closet. Get it for me.”

Without a word, the girl stood and ran quickly up the stairs, her flashlight beam bobbing at her feet in front of her. But Dale noticed the curious exchange of glances between the girl and Winfield just before she left. He tried not to let himself think that there was something “agreed-upon” between them.

“Sit your ass down right over there,” the man said, shining his light onto the wall next to Donna. “Soon as Tasha returns, I’ll make you nice and comfortable. You just might be here a while.”

“Not for the rest of my life, I hope,” Dale said firmly.

Hocker laughed, coughed up a wad of spit, and shot it straight at Dale.

V

“Y
ou screwed the whole thing up,” Rodgers said. He was silhouetted by the street light behind him, which gave his head and shoulders a hazy gold outline. He had one hand resting on the top of his sleek blue Volvo. The black limo, dented and missing one headlight, was parked in the basement garage back at the funeral home.

“I really don’t think so, Mr. Rodgers,” Steve Wayne said nervously. He was clutching the thick envelope Rodgers had just given him, but the security of knowing he had another two thousand dollars didn’t help the rubbery feeling in his legs; he was afraid he would crumple to the ground if he had to stand there under Rodgers’ stare for very much longer.

“First of all,” Rodgers said, ticking off the count with his fingers. “You called me and left me that half-assed, frantic message on my telephone recorder, my business telephone! Second.” He ticked off another finger. “On your own initiative, you attempted to give this girl. What’s her name?”

“Lisa Grant,” Steve said softly. “Her grandmother, Lillian Appleby, has that boardinghouse.”

“I
know
who Lillian Appleby is, for God’s sake!” Rodgers said. He kept his voice low and tight, even though he wanted to shout; but here in the hospital parking lot, the very last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. “And then three…” Still ticking off his fingers. “You botched the injection! You left traces of the drug on her bed sheets at her home, and I suppose you still have the broken hypodermic needle in your personal medical bag! Am I right?” He shook his head, exasperated. “Do you realize how simple it would be to trace this all back to
me
?”

“It’s all under control,” Steve said, but the quiver in his voice betrayed him.

“No it’s not!” Rodgers said, clenching and shaking his fists with repressed rage. “It most certainly is not under control. This man Dale Harmon, the friend of Larry Cole’s, has been asking far too many embarrassing questions around town. He even had the police out to my house, asking if he could see Cole’s body before the burial! It’s not under control at all, and any little screwup now can unravel the whole damned thing!”

Steve glanced around the parking lot, earnestly wishing to see anyone nearby so he could talk loud enough to be noticed; but this late at night the lot wasn’t even half-full of cars, and there was no one around. The solitary guard, watching TV in the parking lot attendant’s booth, was around the corner, clearly out of sight and hearing range.