Very Bad Men (29 page)

Or she might be playing with her cat.

Lark turned his head to the left and the coiled ache behind his eyes played a trick on him. He felt Delacorte's pistol against his back and at the same time, impossibly, he saw it coming toward him. A black void, smooth and round and perfect, and the foreshortened shape of the gun around it. A finger on the trigger, the white of the nail like a crescent moon. Eyes looking down the length of the barrel at him. A face shadowed by the bill of a ball cap. A skinny man in a loose windbreaker.

Lark heard Delacorte's voice soft behind him. “Jesus Christ, Paul. What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Walt,” said the man in the windbreaker.

 

 

LARK STOOD IN the center of the bare living room, his eyes half shut against the unforgiving light from the kitchen. Paul Rhiner was a gray silhouette rimmed in a white glare. His right arm rigid, holding his pistol level, the muzzle less than a foot away from the bridge of Lark's nose.

Paul Rhiner, one of the deputies from Whiteleaf Cemetery. The one who had shot Terry Dawtrey as he tried to escape.

Lark took deep breaths, tried to get the pain in his head to hold still. He was vaguely aware of the touch of Walter Delacorte's gun at his back. He felt the floor solid and steady beneath him. Progress. He tried to focus on minor discomforts: the bite of the handcuffs on his wrists, the stiffness of his arms.

Delacorte had pulled him backward through the doorway, through the kitchen, to the living room—a slow reverse march as if they were traveling back in time. Rhiner had followed, closing the door behind him. His pistol had never wavered.

Now they were continuing the conversation they had begun in the hall.

“You shouldn't have come here, Paul,” Delacorte said. “I don't know how you managed it. Did you follow me the whole way?”

“You're not that hard to follow, Walt,” said Rhiner.

“Well, what you want to do now is walk away,” Delacorte said. “Get yourself home and stay there. That's where you belong.”

“I like it right here,” said Rhiner. “This is him, isn't it? The rifleman from the cemetery. He's not made up. He's real.”

“Walk away, Paul.”

“You know I can't, Walt. I need to talk to him. He killed old Charlie Dawtrey. That's how everything started. I need to know there's a reason for what happened.” Rhiner's eyes shifted to Lark. “You killed Charlie so they'd let his son out of prison. Isn't that right?”

Lark nodded.

“And you meant to kill Terry Dawtrey. That was your plan.”

“Yes,” Lark said.

“Why?”

“He needed killing.”

“That's not a reason. There must be more to it. I have to know.”

Delacorte said, “There's no reason, Paul. He did it because he's a goddamn nutcase.”

“No. I need to understand.”

“There's nothing to understand.”

Something like desperation in Rhiner's eyes. “I need this, Walt. He has to talk to me. After that, you can take him in. But he talks to me first.”

Lark bent his body forward as if he were leaning into the wind. He pitched his voice low.

“Do you really think he's going to take me in?”

“What?” said Rhiner.

“He never showed me a badge,” Lark said. “He hasn't read me my rights.”

Rhiner's pistol dropped slightly and doubt entered his eyes.

“What's going on, Walt?”

Delacorte's voice was cold. “I'll tell you what's going on. You're putting your gun away. You're driving home and you're forgetting all about this.”

“Ask him if he's called the local police,” Lark said. “Shouldn't he have done that as soon as he tracked me down?”

The barrel of Rhiner's pistol traced a small circle in the air. “I don't like this, Walt. What's the plan here?”

“I told you the plan. You leave. I deal with him. Don't make me say it again.”

“If you leave me alone with him, I'm dead,” said Lark. “You know that, don't you?”

Suddenly Lark felt Delacorte's hand on his neck. He felt himself shoved to the side, his feet swept from under him. The floor rushed up toward his chin, but he managed to twist and catch the impact on his shoulder. With a groan he rolled onto his back. Now he could see Rhiner and Delacorte facing off like duelists.

“Come on now,” Delacorte said to Rhiner. “Put the gun away.”

Rhiner stood firm. “What are you going to do with him?”

“I'm trying to look out for you, Paul. You shouldn't even be here.”

“Are you going to shoot him?”

“What kind of question is that? No one's getting shot tonight.”

Delacorte tipped his pistol up toward the ceiling, then swept it around behind his back and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. He showed Rhiner his empty hands.

“Come on, Paul,” Delacorte said. “How long have we known each other?”

Lark watched Rhiner's profile, saw the moment when he decided. Rhiner's chin dipped toward his chest, eyes downcast. A sheepish look. He aimed his gun up as Delacorte had done, brought it slowly around to the small of his back.

Delacorte's hands descended to his sides. Lark watched them move in measured arcs. But when the right hand should have come to rest, it kept going. It crossed the big man's stomach, reaching for something.

The tire iron, Lark realized. The sheriff had it hanging from his belt loop.

Delacorte drew it like a sword. Rhiner's eyes went wide. Delacorte sprang forward, nimble. Rhiner yanked his pistol around from behind his back, too late. The tire iron slapped down hard against the barrel, the sound of it sharp like the crack of a whip. Rhiner's hand jerked away as if he'd been stung. The pistol bounced on the carpet.

The tire iron leapt up again and Rhiner had the presence of mind to duck under it, driving his shoulder into Delacorte's chest with a force that might have carried a smaller man across the room. Delacorte faded two steps back. The tire iron fell weakly across Rhiner's shoulder blades.

Anthony Lark braced an elbow against the floor and in one motion rocked himself up to a sitting position. He bent his legs and used his feet to push himself along the carpet until he had a wall at his back. Rhiner was grappling with Delacorte, the tire iron held high between them so that the tip of it scratched the ceiling. The deputy aimed a knee at Delacorte's groin, but the bigger man twisted sideways to catch it on his hip. He wrenched the iron away from Rhiner and jabbed the bent end at Rhiner's midriff.

Lark saw it connect, saw Rhiner's body fold. The deputy backpedaled, struggling to get a grip on the iron. Delacorte charged forward. Rhiner tripped over his own feet, fell back against the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. Then the full weight of Walter Delacorte hit him.

There was a scream, a scream that belonged in a slaughterhouse. Lark turned his face away, as if that might dull the sound. When the scream ended and he turned back, he saw Paul Rhiner crumpled against the counter, a splotch of red on the front of his windbreaker. He saw Walter Delacorte's broad back, Delacorte drawn to his full height, walking backward on tiptoe. He saw Delacorte turn a half circle, his hands held up, palms facing his body, fingers curled. Head bowed. Eyes gazing down raptly at the tire iron sticking out of his chest.

R
hiner struggled to his feet as Delacorte's knees buckled. The sheriff turned as he fell and landed on his side. Rolled onto his back. The tire iron had entered low on his chest and traveled upward. It jutted out of him now, a thin black line leaning over the bulge of his stomach, then bending down ninety degrees.

Lark saw the sheriff's blood flowing out of him, a wet sheen spreading over the man's black shirt. Rhiner knelt down beside Delacorte and laid a palm against the sheriff's chest, as if it might stop the bleeding.

Delacorte's head slumped to the side, his eyes fixed on Lark. His mouth opened and closed, but the only sound was the labor of his breathing.

Lark turned his left shoulder to the wall, rocked himself onto his knees, got to his feet.

Rhiner pointed a finger at him. Said, “Stay right there. Don't move.”

Lark nodded and Rhiner turned his attention back to Delacorte, whose right leg had begun to twitch. Rhiner lifted his palm from the sheriff's chest as if he meant to move it to the leg, to hold it still. A second later he shook his head. He dug into a pocket and came out with a cell phone. Flipped it open.

Lark pushed off from the wall with his cuffed hands. Rhiner looked up from the phone, then cast around in a panic, searching for his pistol.

“No,” he said. “Don't you move.”

Lark kept coming. Rhiner sprawled across the floor, reaching for the pistol. Lark stepped over Delacorte's legs and drove the toe of his shoe into Paul Rhiner's ribs. Rhiner scrambled for the gun and Lark hopped sideways, steadied himself, and kicked with everything he had at Rhiner's temple.

Rhiner groaned and tumbled onto his side, the fingers of his right hand still groping for the gun. The clear white light from the kitchen gleamed in a fine line along the barrel. Lark balanced himself on one leg, hopped twice, and came down with both heels on Rhiner's hand.

Rhiner shrieked. A sweep of Lark's foot sent the pistol gliding down the hallway. Another sent the cell phone in the opposite direction. Rhiner had curled himself into a ball. Lark couldn't see his face, could only hear the whine of his breathing.

Lark kicked him, solidly, at the base of the spine. Heard a gasp.

A smile, unbidden, tugged at the corners of Lark's mouth.

“Try to take deep breaths,” he said.

He crossed to Walter Delacorte. Saw the man's eyes staring up at him. Lark pressed the sole of his right shoe against the tire iron, gave it a little push. Delacorte's eyes rolled up white. The twitching in his leg became more pronounced.

Stepping over the sheriff's body, Lark eased himself to his knees. Patiently he worked his cuffed hands around to the man's pocket, probed for his key ring. A jingle of metal. He got a finger through the ring and drew it out.

He found the handcuff key by touch and worked it in the locks, left and right. The pressure on his arms released, a magnificent feeling.

He dropped the cuffs and the keys to the floor. Kneeling by Delacorte's body, he rolled the man gently so he could search his pockets. He found his own wallet and notebook, a money clip thick with cash, the sheriff's pistol in his waistband.

He took them all, stowed them away. The gun stayed in his hand. He stood and looked at Rhiner, who had started crawling down the hallway toward his pistol. Rhiner's head was bare; he had lost his ball cap in his struggle with Delacorte. His thinning hair stuck out in tufts.

Lark strode after him, and when he caught up he kicked his heel into the deputy's side, knocked him over. He bent to press the muzzle of Delacorte's gun to Rhiner's temple.

Rhiner shut his eyelids tight. He whispered, “Don't.”

Lark spoke to him calmly. “You should have waited a little, before you shot Terry Dawtrey. If you had waited, I would have done it for you. You wouldn't be here.”

“Please,” Rhiner whispered.

Lark trailed the muzzle along the line of the deputy's jaw. “You should give yourself a break,” he said. “You were in a hard spot. Anyone else would have done the same thing. If it's any consolation, I think you're a good man. Most people are good at heart. That's something my father used to tell me.”

Rhiner stretched his hand out toward the pistol that remained beyond his reach. Lark shifted Delacorte's gun from his right hand to his left, curled his fingers into Rhiner's hair, and slammed the man's face into the floor. He did it a second time to make sure the deputy's nose was broken. The carpet muffled Rhiner's cries.

Lark left him there. Picked up the pistol from the carpet, stuck it in his pocket. Pulled the tail of his shirt over it. Crossing through the living room he glanced at Walter Delacorte. The sheriff's leg had ceased its twitching.

One last look around. Lark grabbed the bottle of Keflex from the counter and headed for the door. The hallway outside was deserted. Lark turned the pill bottle over in his hand, considering. He made up his mind, put the bottle in his pocket, and rapped on the steel of his neighbor's door.

When she didn't answer right away, he began to imagine the worst. Maybe she had heard all the mayhem. Maybe she was cowering inside now, dialing 911 on her phone. Then the bolt turned and the door swung inward. At the last possible instant, Lark looked down and realized he was still holding Walter Delacorte's gun in his left hand.

He hid it behind his back as the door opened wide. There she stood, her face turned up to him. Something white and rectangular in her hand. An iPod. One of the buds still in her ear, the other held between two fingers.

She smiled at him. She had fine teeth. The smile bloomed as she stepped back to let him in. A wondrous thing, as good as Callie Spencer's.

He lingered near the door. Said, “What are you listening to?” Not what he'd planned to say. He hadn't planned anything.

As an answer she lifted up the bud for him, settled it into his ear. Her fingers brushed his cheek, withdrawing. The music was loud and energetic: crashing drums and raging guitars. He listened for a few seconds and passed the earbud back to her. She took hers out too, and pressed a button to turn the iPod off.

“You were meant to come back tomorrow,” she said.