WHEN LLEWELLYN CARPENTER sees the woman run into the building, he takes his cuffed hand and rattles the metal circling the fence pipe. He takes a deep breath and steels himself for what he’s about to do.
Then he presses the end of the arrow against the concrete and slides the shaft through the hole in his wrist. He grits his teeth and growls in pain, the veins bulging on his neck. When most of it is through, all but the fletching, he takes the bloody shaft between his teeth and uses his mouth to yank the arrow the final few inches.
Fresh blood spills from the wound as he spits the arrow onto the ground. He sits on his hands and knees, snarling from the pain. He tries to move his fingers and finds that his thumb and forefinger seem to be okay, but the others won’t move at all.
In a minute, he’s going to knock the temporary fence down so he’s shackled to one panel. Then he’s going to drag it over to the Texas Ranger’s truck and see if the door is unlocked. He’s hoping for handcuff keys, but a shotgun might do to blast the fence beam to bits.
All of that is on his to-do list, but there’s something else he has to take care of first.
He shoves his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, wincing in pain, and comes out with a Zippo lighter pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
He flicks it open and examines the flame.
It’s about a seven- or eight-foot toss to get the lighter to the wet trail of fluid leading into the doorway. In the air, the flame might blow out. Or he might miss.
But he’s going to try.
Llewellyn Carpenter isn’t the kind of man who quits. Another man would have surrendered when the Texas Rangers and FBI raided the warehouse. Another man would have given up when the Ranger showed up at the brothel.
Llewellyn had gotten away both times.
He might not get away this time, but he’ll at least make sure none of those three piece-of-shit cops live to testify against him in court.
He holds the lit Zippo sideways, like a flat rock he’s about to skip across water. He moves his arm slowly in a throwing motion, getting a sense for the movement. Finally, he cocks his arm back and lets it fly.
The orange flame soars through the air, hits the pavement, and skids toward the wet spot. The Zippo stops a centimeter outside the wetness, like a shuffleboard disc skidding to a halt just short of the scoring line.
“Shit,” Carpenter says, disappointed.
Then he watches as the dancing flame stretches toward the liquid. The wet spot flares up. A six-inch flame darts along the trail of fluid and disappears through the door of the community center. Orange light fills the hallway. He hears a whoosh, like a furnace kicking on—only a hundred times louder. Hot air exhales from the doorway, blowing against Carpenter’s face. The rectangular entrance fills with a bright fiery light, illuminating a malevolent grin on Carpenter’s face.
He laughs like the devil at the pit of hell, ecstatic that he’s just claimed three more souls.