Unspeakable (51 page)

Jack said, "Myron let you down, screwed up your plan, made you furious. But you can't eliminate him. Even wounded as he is, you might need him to go back for the money." When Carl shifted his eyes toward Myron, Jack knew he was on the right track. "You should have killed us sooner."

Carl hefted the pistol. "Of all you've said, that makes the most sense."

"Because now it's too late."

"Okay, smart-ass. I'll play. Why's it too late?"

"Because if that second cop is still alive—"

"He's not."

"You think he might be, though, don't you, Carl? At the very least you know it's a good possibility."

He let Carl ruminate on that for a few seconds. Anna put her hand into the backpack and it came out holding a wad of Silly Putty, which she playfully molded over David's knee. Jack continued. "By now, that officer has called for help. In a matter of minutes cops're gonna be all over you, in which case you'll need hostages. Without hostages, you don't stand a chance of getting out of here. Dead, we're no good to you. Hope you got your jollies by torturing us, because it really screwed you, Carl.

"Lastly, you'd like to take Lomax's car and go back for the money yourself, then run like hell, leaving poor Myron to fend for himself. That would be your first choice." Jack frowned. "But there's one major drawback. You're afraid to take the risk. You're afraid that if you return to your car, you'll be walking straight into hell. A sticky predicament for a man with only one pistol."

"These hayseed laws?" he scoffed. "I could whip them with one hand tied behind me."

"I don't think so, Carl. And neither do you."

"Don't do my thinking, okay?"

"If you weren't worried about it you would have already been out that door. Something's holding you back."

"If you're so smart, how come I'm the one standing holding the gun and you're the one on the floor with nothing?"

"Know what I think, Carl?"

"I don't give a rat's ass."

"You didn't kill David when he was crying. You didn't kill me, either, and I've been provoking as hell. I think you know your time is running out. You're getting nervous about your future. What's left of it. Or maybe it's the afterlife you're scared of. Bottom line, I think you're a gutless coward."

Carl drew back his foot to kick him, but Jack was poised for an attack. He grabbed the heel of Carl's shoe. When he did, Anna plunged the knife into Carl's thigh, high and on the inside. She withdrew it; blood spurted out in a perfect red arc that sprayed the wall behind them. Carl screamed.

Jack used the man's raised foot as a lever to topple him backward. "Run, Anna!" he shouted. She couldn't hear him, but she reacted with incredible speed. Yanking David into her arms, she jumped over Lomax's body and ran toward the door. Jack opened it for them and shoved them through.

"Myron!" Carl shouted.

Galvanized by Carl's frantic cry, Myron pounced. To Jack it felt as though a sack of cement had landed on him. He fell facefirst onto the floor, Myron on top of him.

"Take the gun, Myron!"

Carl, maniacally trying to stanch the geyser of blood spraying from his severed femoral artery, slid the pistol across the oak planks toward Myron. When he reached for the gun, Jack scrambled from beneath him, dove for the corner, grabbed the only weapon available, and rolled onto his back.

Myron pointed the pistol in the general direction of the corner.

Jack depressed the button on the flash attachment of Anna's camera and held it down. It fired shards of brilliant light as fast as a machine gun fires bullets.

Blinded by the strobe, Myron's first shot went wide. His second, fired as he reflexively raised his hand to protect his eyes, shattered the foyer chandelier. Glass rained down. Jack didn't waste a second, but bounded to his feet. As long as Myron had the pistol, he had to fight him. He ducked his head and rammed it into Myron's stomach. The albino careened backward, his head striking the wall with a sickening noise. Jack encircled his wrist, squeezing it hard, shaking it with all his might to try to loosen the gun from Myron's grip. He used the weakness caused by Myron's shoulder wound and pounded his hand against the wall several times.

Jack's own strength was almost exhausted when the long, pale fingers finally relaxed and the pistol fell to the floor. Jack kicked it out the door, then hit Myron as hard as he could in the face. He gave his throat a hard chop with the side of his hand. Myron crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Jack spun around in time to see Carl dragging himself along the floor using his free hand. The other was pressed tightly to his thigh wound. Jack was tempted to run from the house now, but then he spied what Carl was after.

Jack's knife. Anna must have dropped it in her haste to flee the house. Now it lay only inches from Carl's grasping fingers. Jack lunged for it, beating Carl to it with barely a second to spare. He turned Carl over onto his back and pinned him to the floor with one knee on his chest, the other on his right biceps. The blue point of his knife found a soft, vulnerable spot behind the convict's jawbone.

Carl whimpered, "No, please. Please. Don't."

Jack's face dripped bloodstained sweat onto Carl's as he bent over him. His breathing was fast and raspy from his struggle with Myron. But he was unaware of his exertion or his broken rib or the myriad minor injuries he'd sustained in the fight.

He felt supremely alive, oxygen-rich, bloodthirsty.

For all the crimes Carl Herbold had committed against innocent people, even for the crimes he had committed against the not-so-innocent, he should pay with his life.

"You need killing real bad."

Jack pressed the knife deeper into the soft underbelly of the man's chin, opening the skin, causing a thread of blood to trickle down the blade. Carl thrashed his uninjured left leg. His voice cracked around another plea for mercy.

The temptation was overwhelming. The desire blazing and irresistible. The Tightness and morality of it compelled Jack to push the rippled blade into Carl's throat.

"I give you to the devil, you son of a bitch."

***

The distance between the wrought-iron gate and the house was at least seventy-five yards, most of it in the open. The blood trail marked the way. Ezzy dashed from tree to bush to anything else that would provide him cover. With still about twenty yards to go, he paused to catch his breath behind a large pecan tree from which a child's swing was suspended. He could hear raised voices coming from the house, but at this distance he couldn't make out the words. He checked his pistol to assure that all the chambers were loaded, then stepped around the tree. As he did, a bloodcurdling scream issued from the house, followed by the shouted words, "Run, Anna!"

A second later, Anna Corbett darted through the front door with her child in her arms, running like her life depended on it, and Ezzy was certain it did. She crossed the porch, ran down the steps, and started across the yard. Ezzy met her about halfway between the parked vehicles and the house and practically had to tackle her in order to get her behind the old orange pickup. She fought him like hell until she recognized him and realized that he was trying to protect her.

"You're all right, you're all right."

The kid was crying. She was clutching him tightly and patting his back, but she was looking frantically toward the house, and Ezzy wondered who was left inside. The hired hand? Lomax?

Hutts and who else? The Herbolds? Had they come home? Would she be able to tell him if he asked?

Two shots were fired in quick succession.

"Jesus Lord," Ezzy muttered. No time for questions.

He took Anna's chin in his hand and turned her face toward him, ordering, "Stay here!" He crept around the rear of the truck, then sprinted to the porch and crouched down at the side of the front steps where he was out of sight of anyone inside.

He leaned against the wooden trellis material that screened the gap between the ground and the underside of the porch. He counted it a miracle that he had made it this far without being shot and conceded that his critics were right: He was too old for this shit. Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on slowing down his heart.

From the open front door he heard sounds of a struggle-flesh meeting flesh, thumping noises that were unmistakably those of bodies hitting walls, grunts of effort and groans of pain. He raised his head just enough to peer over the edge of the porch. As he did, a pistol clattered out the front door and slid across the porch, coming to rest a few feet from his nose. He stared quizzically at the weapon. "What the hell?"

It was just beyond his reach. He couldn't get it without exposing himself, and he was reluctant to do that. Anna's hired hand might enjoy knowing he had backup, but as long as the criminals were unaware of Ezzy's presence, he held a slight advantage.

He was still debating the next course of action when the man he suddenly remembered was named Jack stumbled out. Bent almost double at the waist, he crossed the porch with lurching footsteps. Momentum more than his own muscle coordination propelled him down the steps. He managed to remain on his feet, however, and, holding his right side with his left hand, staggered across the yard on legs that looked ready to buckle at any second.

CHAPTER FORTY–NINE

T
hank God, thank God, thought Anna when Jack cleared the door. He was in pain from his broken rib, that was apparent. Blood streamed from the blow Carl Herbold had struck on his head. His face was bruised and scratched. But he was alive.

She willed him not to stumble and fall. Anxiously she watched as he made it across the porch and down the steps. Only a few more yards, Jack, and you'll be safely with us. He had almost drawn even with Lomax's car when Carl appeared in the doorway of the house. He braced himself against the doorjamb with a hand that was wet with his own blood. The right leg of his trousers was soaked with it, and the knife wound continued to gush crimson. Already his skin was as pale as a cadaver. Dark circles ringed sunken eyes. His lips looked bloodless. Life was literally draining from him.

But he wasn't dead yet. He had enough strength to shuffle forward, bend down, and pick up the pistol lying on the porch. He had enough life in him to raise his arm.

Anna sprang up from behind the pickup truck. She reached across the hood of it as though to extend Jack a lifeline.

He smiled at her.

Warn him, Anna, warn him!

As though she had spoken it a million times, his name felt familiar as it vibrated across her vocal cords. Her tongue found the correct position against her palate. Her lips cooperated almost unconsciously.

Years of coaching and practice helped, of course. The patience of teachers counted for something. Unheard sounds, endlessly repeated, worked their way out of her memory, resurfacing now when she needed them.

But without the loving, life-saving will to speak his name, she would have remained mute.

"Jack!"

Time stopped. Motion was freeze-framed. She watched his face register stunned surprise. His eyes lit up. The lines around them deepened as a smile broke across his lips. Her mind photographed him far better than any camera could. This would be the picture of him that she would carry with her forever.

Then time resumed at a frenzied pace, making up for that which had been lost. His joyous expression was replaced with a grimace of agony as the bullet from Carl's gun struck him in the back. His arms reflexively flew upward. His palms were face out, as though he were raising them in surrender. He pitched forward, landing first on his knees, then falling facedown. Anna screamed and was about to round the hood of the truck to run to him when she saw Ezzy Hardge crouched at the edge of the porch, frantically waving her back.

Carl raised the pistol again. This time he aimed it at her.

***

Carl watched the hired hand disappear through the front door. He was ashamed of his groveling, ashamed of the way he'd pleaded that his life be spared. The way he'd blubbered, he'd been no braver than Cecil.

He was in a shitload of trouble. He was bleeding like a stuck pig, and if it wasn't stanched soon he was going to die. He'd once watched a guy bleed out from a shank stuck in his liver. It hadn't been Carl's quarrel, so he had done nothing to stop the fight or to help the loser. He'd just stood there along with everybody else, making bets on how long it was going to take, and watching the guy's blood eddy down the shower drain until it ran out.

He didn't want to die like that. He didn't want to die, period. He sure as hell wasn't going to die without taking this cuss with him.

He forced himself to crawl to the door. Myron, he noticed, was out cold, his mouth gaping and drooling. Carl wished he'd had a convenient opportunity to kill him for being so stupid and making such a fucking mess of things. But he hated to waste the time on Myron now. Every second counted.

He wanted that smart-mouthed son of a bitch who thought he had done him a big favor by not killing him. Carl would rather he had slit his throat than extend him mercy. Like he needed mercy. Not him. Not Carl Herbold.

He crawled over the Jag-driving asshole. Next stop, the open door. But getting there was like trying to swim up Niagara Falls. Each second seemed like a millennium. He nearly blacked out several times. Only a murderous intent kept him going.