nineteen

The last time Death saw his grandmother was the day he left for his last deployment.

Death sped down the narrow back street, taking the most direct route he knew, completely ignoring speed limits. A small kitten was sunning itself in the middle of the street. It started when it saw his Jeep bearing down on it and dashed for the sidewalk, barely avoiding his rushing wheels. He was glad that it got out of the way. If he’d hit it, he would have felt bad, but he wouldn’t have stopped.

He knew how Wren had felt, driving like a bat out of hell.

He pulled the Jeep into the park next to the Campbell house, turned it off and practically fell out of it in his haste. A tall wooden fence ran around the perimeter of the park. Unless Wren’s captors (the note had said “we”) were watching from the second floor, he should be hidden from them. Keeping a low profile and ignoring the strange looks he was getting from a couple of young mothers over by the playground equipment, he crossed the park at a run and circled the fence to come at the Campbell house from the back, at an angle overlooked by only the tiny window in the pantry.

The last care package he’d gotten from his parents had arrived in the mail the same morning they were killed.

His heart was pounding, his head spinning and he found himself gasping for air. Only force of will and the knowledge that Wren was counting on him allowed him to slow down for two precious minutes and just breathe. When he could see again and the gasping had subsided, he dropped down and belly-crawled across the lawn to come out under the verandah.

He paused to look at his watch. He had eleven minutes, if they were true to their word.

The ground under the verandah was dry and dusty. It hadn’t seen direct rain in well over a century and a half. He had to crawl clear around the house, keeping his head down so he didn’t knock against the floorboards and alert them that he was under here. On his left side, wooden lattice supported the lower branches of climbing roses and sweet pea and morning glory. The house was on his right. The foundation was made of big, rough-cut stones, a mixture of limestone and sandstone by the look of it. They were joined by thick strips of discolored mortar.

On the east side, under the morning room, he found the sliding panel that led to the secret entrance. He looked at his watch. He had eight minutes to go.

Crawling under the house, Death held his breath. He listened for any sound that would tell him anything, but everything was silent as a tomb. He found the place where the end of the window seat opened and pushed it in carefully. Gently, ever so gently, desperate to not be heard, he took his gun from his belt, made sure the safety was off, and slid it into the window seat. His phone followed. Then he closed the secret door and backed away.

He Skyped with Randy last thing before he left on his final mission, never dreaming that within 48 hours his brother would be dead.

He backed out from under the house, back out to the run beneath the verandah, and headed for the nearest opening. According to his watch, he had five minutes.

Death left the cover of the verandah and ran for the nearest bushes in the Campbell house’s old, overgrown flower garden. He circled and came at the place from the front, not trying to hide now and not trying to disguise that he was sweating and out of breath.

The porch steps sounded hollow under his tread. There was no movement at any of the windows and no sign of any kind of life inside.

When he told Wren goodbye that morning, he’d never imagined that he might not see her again.

He pounded on the Campbell house door. “I’m here, dammit! Fairchild? Is that you? I’m here. Don’t hurt her! Don’t you hurt her. I came just like you asked me to. Are you there, Fairchild? I’m here!”

There was a step in the foyer and Death braced himself and waited for the door to open.

It swung inward. Death could sense two bodies waiting in the shadows. The door opened all the way back and he could see the entire entry hall except for two little slices hidden by perspective, one on either side of the door. Then his eyes fell on the parlor door, which also stood open.

Wren was in the parlor—the Naked Dead Guy Room, she called it. She was tied to a straight chair and there was a strip of duct tape over her mouth. Her blouse was half open and her face red from crying. Her ravaged hair stood out around her head, making her look both vulnerable and wild.

“Don’t hurt her,” he said. “Just don’t hurt her. You can do anything you want to me, but, I’m begging you, please! Don’t hurt her!”

_____

Death stood in the doorway and he looked scared. He was slightly gray and sweating, dusty and disheveled and there was a wheeze in his voice when he spoke. Wren wanted nothing so much as to take him in her arms and comfort him, promise it would be okay. But her arms were still tied tight to the chair and any promise she could have given him at this point would have been a lie.

Fairchild stepped out on the porch behind him, out of her line of vision, just for a second.

“Where’s your car?” he demanded when he came back in.

Death tipped his head toward Wren’s house. “Three blocks that way. Ran out of gas.”

Fairchild thought about it and apparently decided to accept that as truth. He swung the door closed and motioned with the gun. “Put your hands above your head and go into the parlor. I want you over by the stairway. Try anything stupid I’ll shoot you, and then I’ll let Ten Oeck start carving up your girlfriend.”

Death raised his hands and moved forward cautiously, coming into the room.

“You okay?” he asked her as he passed.

She nodded, still silenced by the duct tape, and Fairchild kicked Death in the back of the knee.

“No talking! I’ll tell you when you can talk.”

They put Death against the inner curve of the stairway, brought his hands down and she heard the high rattling noise as they fastened a plastic zip tie around them.

“Search him,” Fairchild told Ten Oeck. “See if he’s carrying or wired.”

Ten Oeck searched him thoroughly, but Death ignored the man and just stared at Wren. He seemed to be drinking in the sight, memorizing her. She met his eyes, tried to offer him some measure of reassurance. It would have been easier if she’d believed herself that everything would be okay.

Fairchild quickly lost patience. “Is he clean or not?”

Ten Oeck stood up. “He’s clean.”

“Yeah, good.” Fairchild sounded bored. “Here, hold my gun.”

“I don’t like guns.”

“For Pete’s sake! Just hold the damn thing!”

Ten Oeck reluctantly took the gun and wandered back to stand by Wren. Fairchild spun suddenly and drove his fist into Death’s stomach.

Death rocked back against the railing as Fairchild hit him again and again. Wren struggled against her bonds, sobbing. Fairchild moved up to slug Death in the jaw and the Marine shook his head and spat out blood.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Just softening you up, tough guy.”

Ten Oeck watched dispassionately. “I could get him to talk faster,” he offered.

“Yeah,” Fairchild said sarcastically. He was panting with the exertion of the beating he was delivering and he staggered away from Death now, wiping his forehead. “And then you get carried away and sever the carotid or the femoral artery and he goes and bleeds out before we learn anything. You see? This is why you never accomplish anything.”

Death’s left eye was swelling. He had a cut on his mouth and a bruise was already darkening his jawline. He glared at the two men. “Just what is it you think that I can tell you, anyway?”

“I think you know,” Fairchild said. He paced around the room once, then turned again to his captives. “Look, there’s two ways we can do this. I can torture you to make her talk, or I can torture her to make you talk. Frankly, I prefer the first option, because I have much better plans for her, but I’m flexible, you know. So here’s the question, and I don’t care which one of you answers me.” He went back over to Wren and ripped the duct tape from her mouth, then glared at them, first one and then another.

“What did you do with my goddamn jewels?”