Not a lot of smoke though. Not the black, billowing mass you’d expect from a house fire. This was just the thin, lazy, white tendril from a wood-burning stove, which meant they were still there. I exhaled with relief, bumping down the lumpy road.
I drove beyond Agnes’s driveway and backed in. Parking nose out is always smart. It takes just a moment’s more time and an ounce more skill to back in, but it can save you if you need to get out in a hurry—a distinct tactical advantage. It’s safer, too, in case of pedestrians walking in parking lots and such, not that I expected much foot traffic here, but I backed in anyway.
As I climbed out of the Jeep, I moved Rock’s pistol from my pocket to the waistband of my jeans. It felt a little heavy and awkward.
Mary met me at the door with a hug, which was a little unexpected but much appreciated. I can remember being told on a few occasions that I give good hugs, not that I consider it much of a skill. It’s not rocket science. It’s like a handshake or smiling or breathing. You just do it.
Mary and I held the hug much longer than necessary. Mary’s hug seemed to say all kinds of things, like, I missed you, I was worried about you or, Thanks for not crashing my car or maybe nothing.
“Where’s your phone? I’ve been calling.”
She patted her front pockets and then her back ones and stuck her hands into her sweater pouch.
“Must be downstairs. I’m sorry.”
Agnes appeared in the entryway as I stamped my boots and shut the door. It was warm and cozy inside. The table was cleared. The sink was empty.
“You missed chow,” she said.
“Couldn’t be helped,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Agnes asked.
So I told her. I laid out the series of events as I understood them, adding inferences where needed. During the whole explanation she said nothing, only moving to bite her lip or nod almost imperceptibly. She barely even blinked, like she was trying to simultaneously picture the scene in her mind and also block the awful images out.
Agnes started lacing up her winter shoes. “Let’s go,” she said.
Mary started pulling on a coat, hat, and gloves. “I’ll drive.”
The roads had been bad since I had gotten there. Now they were worse, much worse. Mary was a competent driver, better than I was, and she had lived here all her life. But she said the forecast had not called for snow like this and that, despite living in rural Montana, she did not have a lot of experience driving through snow. Her theory was, she said, that if it was too snowy to drive normally, then it was too snowy to go out at all.
At turtle speed we managed to clear the unpaved road and pass the church.
I rode shotgun, except I didn’t have a shotgun—I had a pistol, which I hoped would be enough. I didn’t want to kill anyone, not even Lang, as atrocious as he was. But you have to be prepared. Because bad guys will always have an advantage if they don’t have the same inhibitions as you. It was like Captain Moroni said: “I do not delight in the shedding of blood.” He was not bloodthirsty, but he defended his people vehemently, even to the shedding of blood. I wasn’t bloodthirsty either, which was probably why I had never made it big as a professional fighter, which was fine by me. The fewer people who knew my name, the better. I was not a recluse or a hermit, not entirely dysfunctional or crazy; I just liked my privacy.
Mary navigated her way to the police station. We didn’t stop at any of the intersections—couldn’t, really—just slid along as if pulled by an invisible string.
We pulled up in front of the station, all of us swiveling our heads back and forth for any signs of life. Or death.
My Buick was there. French’s vehicle was there.
I told them both to wait there, just until I had checked it out.
“No way,” they said in unison.
I sighed. I couldn’t argue with them. “Just stay behind me.”
Climbing out, we bunched up and moved toward the double doors, still scanning and searching for danger. Once inside, we stopped. There was no fire in the pit, and night was coming on fast. The station felt like a long-abandoned building, eerily dark and oppressively silent.
We formed a tight triangle, with me at the head. I kept my arms spread out like the wings of an airplane, partly to shield Mary and Agnes from any attack and partly to keep them from wandering ahead of me.
That is when I noticed the blood, plenty of it, but not as much as I would have expected from gunshot wounds and certainly not as much as I had seen on the agent’s car seat. There were patches of little round drops in nice, linear trails, and long splattered lines along the walls, shaped like the paisley patterns you see on ties. A forensic scientist could have figured out a lot based on the trajectories of the blood drops.
We moved behind Lang’s desk. The door leading to the inner offices was smashed off its hinges. There were two schools of thought when going through a doorway like that. One was to hold it up by the handle and slowly, gently glide it open. The other was to just put it out of its misery. I split the difference, nudging it as far as it would go of its own accord, which wasn’t much, and followed that with a tremendous push kick that sent it crashing inward.
Nothing.
Agnes and Mary were as tightly wound as cello strings. I could almost feel their vibrations and tremors next to me. The desks were mostly overturned, and the computer monitors and phones had fallen in tangles of wire. We all turned as one at a sound from behind a desk. It was a burbling, gurgling groan. Mary found a light switch and lit up the overhead fixtures. Peering around, we found French moving a mangled hand through the air, like a slow-motion wave. He was beaten badly; his eyes were swollen shut under a mask of blood. His hands and arms had signs of defensive injuries. I dove down next to him, careful not to touch the raw wounds.
“Hey, man, it’s us. We’re here. You’re gonna be okay, brother.”
He mumbled and groaned.
I looked at Mary and Agnes. They were aghast. I don’t think they had ever seen such horrific injuries. “Call the doctor,” I said.
Mary was already grabbing a console from the floor.
Blood and spittle dribbled out of French’s mouth as he managed to say, “Lang.”
“Lang did this to you?”
He tried to nod his head but just slumped. After a minute he managed to mouth, “Yes.” Mary and Agnes crowded in to help tend to him, which impressed me. People unaccustomed to blood tend to shrink from the sight of it. Mary was saying the doctor was on his way, and Agnes kept asking where Amy was. French was fading in and out.
I straightened at a noise from behind. That is, to a handful of noises. The rustle of clothing, a groan, a stifled cough, crunching and sliding of grit on the floor as a shoe shifted position.
I turned, and there he was, still wearing my coat. Patton, the man who had hit me over the head and stolen my car. The man who had saved Amy. He was in pretty much the same shape as French, beaten to a pulp. His lips were puffy and split over bloodstained teeth. He was clutching his side as though he was afraid it was going to split. Busted ribs, I figured; his breathing was shallow, like he didn’t want to stretch them too far. I stood and moved slowly over to him. One leg was partially pinned by a fallen desk. I lifted it off him, and he opened his eyes. They were bleary and filled with surprise and relief.
I squatted down next to him. “Where’s Amy?”
He shook his head and moved his hand off his ribs, slowly, holding it up in a placatory sign of contrition.
I felt Agnes move behind me.
Laboriously, Patton said, “I panicked when we crashed. I’m sorry, really. I had to get Amy out, I had laid her in the trunk; I thought it would be safer.”
“How did you end up at her house in time to save her?” I asked.
“I was hunting a wolf—you know, the four-legged kind,”
he said.
“And what about outside Agnes’s house?” I asked.
He exhaled through clenched teeth, combating the throbs and shots of pain that must have racked his body. “Amy and I were coming to warn Agnes about Lang, but we saw you there. I knew you and the cops had talked, since I called them anonymously after I knocked you out. I told them where you were. I didn’t want you to freeze to death, but I didn’t know whose side the cops were on. We came back late that night to Agnes’s house to try again, but you were still there and came out after us.”
I looked at Agnes; she appeared focused and ready for action, intent on Patton’s every word.
“Where is Amy now?” I repeated.
“He’s got her,” he said, coughing.
Agnes growled. “Come on, Sawyer; let’s go get her.”
I nodded at her. “You did good, Patton. It couldn’t have been easy, doing what you did.” I felt a wave of compassion for Patton, even if he had ruined my coat. The sleeves were torn, and the front was bloodstained. “The doctor’s on his way. I’ll handle Strawn and Lang. I’ll find Amy; they can’t have gone far.”
Patton, who was struggling to stay coherent, looked at me sharply. “No, no. It’s just Lang.”