It was maybe 4:00 A.M. when Francis heard Emma get out of bed, slip on her T-shirt and panties, and leave the room. He thought maybe she’d gone to sleep elsewhere, but a moment later he heard the toiled flush down the hall, and then she slipped back into bed again. She burrowed beneath the covers and was breathing steadily again in seconds.
Francis couldn’t get back to sleep, thoughts tumbling in his head. It took him a minute to remember which state he was in.
South Dakota. How the hell did I end up in South Dakota?
There was no Open Spaces Trek guide to tell him what to do.
Over coffee, Francis would change her mind. He’d explain …
What? Emma had every right to want to handle her own business herself. The fact that Francis had just had some of the best sex in his life simply wasn’t pertinent. And he couldn’t say, You’re a weak little girl, and you need a man around to look after you. She’d laugh. Or kick his ass.
But the idea of Emma going out of his life tomorrow made his chest tighten. In a week or a month? Maybe. But not tomorrow. Not before he’d had the chance to see if this could be something good, that maybe the boring doofus who worked in a cubicle and the wild-haired girl with the alligator suitcase could actually mesh.
He mentally rehearsed what he’d say to her, but it all sounded so feeble.
Slowly, a gray, grim light leaked through the blinds. The dawn was still a ways off, but the beginnings of a predawn glow edged the horizon, a bleak and timid preview of the sunrise to come.
Francis rolled out of bed, trying not to make any noise, and gathered up his clothes and shoes. He carried them into the hall and dressed there. In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee. He looked out the kitchen window over the sink. The landscape had been enveloped by a dense gloom.
He stepped out onto the front porch. The air was pleasantly chilly without being cold. A thick fog had rolled in. From where Francis stood, he could see neither the tree line nor the barn. The row of rusted cars was close enough to appear as a line of dark shapes humping up from the tall grass.
There was something hypnotic about the morning’s utter silence. Everything was so still. He could have been on a soundstage. Odd how the fog transformed everything, made his surroundings seem artificial. He stepped down from the porch, ventured across the wet grass toward the barn.
A form congealed in the mist to his left and startled him. He realized it was the old tractor. He’d forgotten it was there. He paused, looked back at the house. He’d only walked a few dozen yards, but already the house was nothing more than a dark outline, the kitchen light in the window a fuzzy orange beacon.
The snap of a twig. A frantic flutter of bird’s wings.
The sounds were sudden and loud in the silent fog. Francis strained his eyes, trying to catch sight of whatever startled the bird. He knew nothing of South Dakota wildlife. Did they have coyotes?
When Francis saw them, his breath caught.
They came through the fog like ghosts, five of them or maybe six, although he sensed more beyond the range of his sight. They advanced toward the house, stepping lightly and slowly. Most of the men were merely vague silhouettes in the gray soup, but the closest was visible enough to see details. At first, Francis thought it was Cavanaugh, the same general build. But it was a younger guy with an enormous automatic pistol in his fist. Other than the occasional crunch of gravel under a shoe, they were keeping it quiet. If Francis had still been sleeping in bed, he would never have known they were coming.
Emma! Oh, shit, what do I do?
Shouting a warning was obviously a bad idea. It would only draw attention to himself. They’d have him, and then there wouldn’t be a thing he could do to help Emma.
It dawned on Francis that if he could see them, then they could see him. Their attention was fixed on the house, but they had only to turn their heads to see him gawking there like an imbecile.
Francis shrank back against the tractor, slowly lowering himself and scooting around to crouch behind a big tire. He watched, feeling helpless and stupid.
Two of the men climbed the steps to the porch. The others circled around.
Francis forced slower breaths before he hyperventilated. He felt sick and nervous and sweaty behind his ears. This is what Emma had meant, Francis realized, what she’d wanted to spare him. This wasn’t white-water rafting. These were men with guns, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. In fact, he’d made it easy for them. They could dump his body in the woods, and nobody would ever know. All he could do was cower there and watch.
No! Use your brain, dink. Think of something!
He looked over his shoulder back at the barn. Going toward it would put him deeper into the fog and out of sight, but it wouldn’t last forever. As the sun rose, the fog would burn off. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to get on with it.
He turned slowly and quietly, duck-walking toward the barn.
* * *
Cavanaugh paused in front of the front door, Ike and Ernie right behind him. He motioned for the new guys to circle the house. The last thing he wanted was the girl and the kid running out the back. He was in no mood to chase those fuckers around in the fog.
He gave Ike and Ernie the eye. You ready?
They nodded and drew their pistols. Cavanaugh already had his little automatic out. Everyone had been instructed on how to handle this. Shooting Berringer was fine—they’d probably have to dispose of him sooner or later anyway—but the girl had to be taken in one piece. She was their payday. They’d make her talk, make her think it was the only way to save herself.
Of course, she’d probably need to disappear too. Cavanaugh was making up a lot of this as he went along. He was usually the guy carrying out somebody else’s plan, not coming up with the plan himself. Soon those days would be over, and nobody would boss Cavanaugh but Cavanaugh.
He put a hand on the doorknob, paused. Were they sure this was the right house? The map really was crap, and they could have missed a turn in the fog.
Fuck it.
He turned the knob slowly. It was unlocked. He pushed the door inward, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. They entered, clicked the door closed behind them.
A very small foyer. It opened to a small living room, a threadbare couch, fifteen-year-old TV, rough stone fireplace. It led the other way to a small dining room, round table and four chairs, a doorway beyond which Cavanaugh assumed went to the kitchen. A hallway ahead of them.
Cavanaugh motioned Ike toward the dining room and kitchen, indicated Ernie should follow him into the hallway. They paused at a bathroom, found it empty, and kept moving. The door to the bedroom was already open. Cavanaugh peeked around the corner, saw a lump curled under the covers in the double bed. The other side of the bed looked like maybe it had been slept in also. Cavanaugh raked the rest of the room with his eyes and wondered where Berringer might be.
He went to one knee and looked under the bed. Nobody.
Cavanaugh opened the closet door—
She leaped out at him, swinging something down at him hard. It would have hit him square in the forehead, but he flinched and turned aside and took the strike on the collarbone. He screamed in pain as she pushed past him, making a run for it.
Ernie filled the doorway, blocking her. She swung again—Cavanaugh could see now she was wielding a baseball trophy like a club—but Ernie caught her by the wrist and twisted. She yelped and dropped the trophy.
She punched Ernie in the jaw, but he just grunted and grabbed her. She struggled, trying to wrench loose, and he turned her around, grabbed her around the waist, and lifted. She thrashed, bare feet churning the air.
“She’s like some fucking rabid wolverine!” Ernie shouted.
Cavanaugh rushed forward to help subdue her.
“Motherfuckers!” She kicked out hard, caught Cavanaugh in the gut with her heel.
Cavanaugh double over and whuffed air. “Damn bitch!”
Ike burst into the room. “What the fuck?”
“Get her legs!” Ernie shouted.
Ike grabbed her legs, taking several kicks to the chest in the process. Eventually, he had her by the ankles, and Ernie held her under the arms. It was tough going as she wriggled and cursed them. She twisted around a couple of times, trying to bite Ernie.
“Get her on the bed,” Ike said. “Then hold her down.”
They tossed her on the bed, and Ernie put a hand on her chest between her breasts, leaned all his weight into it, pinning her against the mattress. She reached up and clawed his cheek, drawing three red welts.
“Jesus!” Ernie shouted. “Do whatever you’re going to do already!”
Ike pulled something from his jacket pocket. “Stand back.”
Ernie stood back just as Ike reached in and touched the object to the girl’s bare thigh. There was a blue flash and a crackle and pop. The girl went rigid a moment, then limp. She tried to lift her head but couldn’t, eyes going glassy and unfocused.
Cavanaugh rubbed his gut. “What the hell was that?”
“Stun gun.” Ike held it up, thumbing the trigger. Blue fire leaped between the two contacts.
“Where’d you get that?” Cavanaugh asked. “I didn’t know you had that.”
Ike shrugged. “Mail order.”
The girl moaned, her limbs making jerky motions as she tried to move.
“I hope you didn’t brain damage her,” Cavanaugh said. “We need her to talk.”
“She’ll come out of it in a few minutes.”
Cavanaugh grabbed a lamp from the bedside table and yanked out the power cord. He used it to tie her wrists. “Get something for her feet.”
Ernie found a belt in one of the dresser drawers and cinched it tight around her ankles. “I’m getting tired of this little girl kicking the crap out of us.” He dabbed at the scratches on his face, and his fingertips came away wet and red. “I need to find Bactine or something.” He left the room, muttering about his various injuries.
“Ike, get out there and tell the rest of the boys to comb the entire place for Berringer,” Cavanaugh said. “And tell them to take their time, no stone unturned and all that. I want time to question her without anyone around. Remember, just me, you, and Ernie on this.”
“Right.”
Cavanaugh went to the bed, loomed over the girl. “You gave us some trouble there, didn’t you? Led us on a merry chase.”
She worked her mouth, struggling to make words. “Fuh … fug … you.”
“You’re a real spitfire,” Cavanaugh said. “But I know ways to take the piss out of you real quick. And we can make this an all-day thing if you want. Just try me. I’m a patient man, but you’ve used up just about all of it. Test me and see.”
* * *
Francis ducked inside the barn and made sure the door was completely closed before switching on the light. He remembered what Emma had said about already packing the Pontiac’s trunk and hoped it meant what he thought it meant. He found the keys in the ignition, grabbed them, and circled back to the trunk and opened it.
On one side of the trunk sat a big, olive drab canvas duffel bag with zippers. All the way on the other side was the alligator suitcase. Right in the middle was the footlocker Francis had been hoping to see. He opened it and scanned the assortment of weaponry.
He took a pass on the automatics. He understood you put the bullets in the handle, but after that he wasn’t sure enough of his ability to mess with them. He’d been a pretty crappy marksman with the revolver, but at least he’d loaded it several times while trying it out and felt comfortable with that much. He swung out the cylinder. Loaded. Good. He clicked the cylinder back into place and set it aside for a moment.
Then he dug deeper into the footlocker for the shotgun. He opened a box of shells, tried to load, but his hands shook, palms sweaty. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His heart beat so fast he felt it in his stomach and all over his body. He pulsed with nervous energy. His face felt like it was burning up.
He took one more deep breath, then thumbed in the double-aught shells one by one. He snatched a canvas bandolier out of the footlocker, filled it with more shells, and then slung it over his head and across his shoulder.
The idea of wading back into the fog and pumping buckshot in random directions was a nonstarter. Francis needed a plan. He could—and probably should—save himself.
I could just take off.
He discarded the notion immediately. He was going back for Emma. Case closed.
He cracked the barn door open a half inch and peeked out into the fog. A shape slowly resolved as it came. Another second and details snapped into focus. It was one of Cavanaugh’s flunkies, the bald one. He had a pistol out and walked straight toward Francis.
Francis backed into the barn, shut the light off, positioned himself, and waited.
And waited.
For a second, Francis wondered if the thug had wandered off somewhere else, but a moment later, the barn door creaked open. He eased in, gun up, squinting into the shadows.
Francis leaped forward and slammed the butt of the shotgun against the side of the guy’s head. He grunted and went down but began muttering obscenities immediately. Francis hadn’t put his full strength into the blow, was squeamish about cracking the guy’s head open, but he swung again harder, striking the man at the base of the skull. This time he went down and stayed down.
Francis grabbed the man’s pistol and flung it across the barn. He searched the guy’s pockets in case he had another gun. He didn’t, but Francis did find something he thought might be useful. He put it in his pocket.
He dragged him by the ankles to a spot between the truck and the tractor and tossed the tarp over him that had previously covered the Pontiac.
Francis took stock of the other things in the barn, and slowly a terrible plan came together, but it was the best terrible plan he could think of on short notice.
* * *
“Where is it?” Cavanaugh asked.
The girl lay bound on the bed, stabbing Cavanaugh with eye daggers.
“Once I get it, Middleton wants you gone,” Cavanaugh said. “You know that, right?”
Something in her face shifted. Yeah, she’d known, but it was something else to hear it. Few people can hear we’re going to kill you and not feel it. This was when Cavanaugh needed to drive his point home. You’ve got one chance to save yourself, little girl.
“So this is a foregone conclusion,” Cavanaugh said. “You’re dead. And there’s not one thing you can do about.” A slight shrug. “Unless maybe … there is?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re listening now, huh? You give me what I want, and I let you go. Simple.”
“Why?” she asked.
“So you can live, you dumb shit,” Cavanaugh told her. “Aren’t you listening?”
“I mean, why do you want it?”
“You convinced us it was valuable,” Cavanaugh said. “Valuable enough to take it for ourselves and sell it to the highest bidder and tell Middleton to piss off.”
“I don’t believe you’ll let me go,” she said.
“Believe what you like, but if you don’t help, and we rip this house apart and find it, I’m going to remember you didn’t help. In any case, we’re about to go from the conversation part of this to the coercion part. All roads lead to the same place. How long of a trip is up to you. And maybe after you tell us where it is, you might have some ideas how to sell it. The more useful things you think of to tell us, the longer we keep you around. These are all things to ponder.”
“Loosen this up.” She lifted her hands, indicating the cord around her wrists. “My hands and feet are going numb.”
“Tough shit.”
“I’m serious. They’re going numb.”
“You’re going to wish all of you was numb in a minute.” He took a small pocketknife from his pocket and opened it.
Cavanaugh bent over her, brought the point of the little blade to within an inch of her eye. “I need you to talk. Don’t really need you to see.”
She turned her head away, tried to scoot across the bed, but he grabbed her by the face, brought her back to meet his gaze. He lay the flat of the blade against her cheek, the cold metal making her flinch.
Then he put the tip of the blade through her nose ring, gave it a gentle tug. “Or maybe this needs to come out. What do you think about a little amateur surgery?”
She froze, waited to see what he’d do.
Cavanaugh folded the knife and returned it to his pants pocket. “Maybe we’ll work up to that. Let’s start out the old-fashioned way.”
He cranked his hand back, then brought it down hard, slapped her face with a loud pop of skin on skin. The girl’s eyes filled with tears, but she stuck her chin out, teeth grinding, expression defiant.
“Where is it?”
She said nothing.
Cavanaugh grabbed a fistful of her shirt, pulled her halfway into a sitting position, and slapped her back down again. The left side of her face flared an angry red.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s gone.”
“Wrong answer.”
This time he punched her square in the mouth, just a light pop but enough to bloody a lip.
“You can make it stop,” he reminded her. “Just say the word.”
She spit at him. Blood and saliva ran down the side of his nose.
“Fucking bitch.”
He punched hard this time, getting his shoulder into it, catching her right across the jaw and spinning her head around. She went limp all over as if someone had unplugged her, fell back, arms flopping lifelessly.
* * *
Ernie looked in the mirror above the sink and dabbed at the scratches with cotton balls. They came away pink. He put rubbing alcohol on the next cotton ball and continued to dab. It stung. A lot. He hissed in breath and dabbed until he figured the wounds had been sanitized enough.
He turned his head side to side, examining the scratches from different angles. They weren’t as deep as he’d thought at first. He hoped they wouldn’t scar.
He unzipped and started pissing. He thought he heard some noises coming from the room down the hall and figured Cavanaugh had started in on the girl. He hoped Cavanaugh knew what he was doing. Middleton paid well, and up until this current job tracking down the girl, it had been easy work. Ernie just wasn’t able to get fully comfortable with this. He liked to keep things simple. Follow orders. Collect a paycheck. Cavanaugh had made a good case, and Ernie had agreed to go along with the plan, but doubts still nagged him.
Ernie shook, zipped up, and flushed.
He opened the bathroom door and—
A guy was standing there. A shotgun rested lazily on one shoulder. For a tenth of a second, Ernie thought it was one of the new guys. It wasn’t. Recognition hit him like a rubber band snapping back.
It was Berringer.
Ernie’s hand flashed into his jacket for his pistol, but he was too slow.
Berringer jabbed something into his chest. There was a buzzing crackle and a blue flash, and in a blinding moment, every part of Ernie’s body was on fire. His teeth vibrated in his head.
The room tilted violently, and Ernie realized he was stumbling backward, legs like noodles. His arms flailed, looking for something to grab on to. Gravity beckoned. The back of his legs hit the bathtub, and he tumbled backward, grabbing on to the shower curtain as he went down. There was a pop pop pop pop pop pop as the curtain ripped loose from each of the rings. His tailbone hit the bottom of the tub hard, the curtain falling down on top of him.
He tried to push the curtain off him. His arm felt like lead. He could barely lift it, but with a huge effort, he pushed the shower curtain aside.
Just in in time to see Berringer leaning into the tub. Ernie uselessly tried to turn away, but Berringer jabbed the stun gun into Ernie’s neck. Another crackle and a blue flash.
And then everything went dark.