CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Taft called Nolan Redfield and asked if Mackenzie was still at their house. He got Stephanie on the phone, who immediately sounded worried. “No! She was here, but I texted her that she didn’t need to come back because Nolan was back. Isn’t she with you?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s been over an hour ago! Longer!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find her.”
He clicked off. He’d tried to clamp down his worries, telling himself he was being paranoid. But he knew something was wrong. Could feel it in his bones. He’d lost his Glock to the police after the bust today and wouldn’t likely get it back for a while. He had another handgun, a .38, in his wall safe. He went to it now, unlocked it, and pulled the gun and some ammo out. He loaded the gun and headed for his Rubicon. His whole side felt like it was on fire.
Stay ahead of the pain.
He was glad he hadn’t.
* * *
Dong, dong, dong, dong. The metallic clanging must have been from the front door, Mac determined. It made her own head ring. Thad/Chas had been taking his time, and she’d been wondering just how long she could put up with this before she would break, when the clanging started.
Dong, dong, dong, dong. It went on some more until Thad/Chas was infuriated. He threw Mackenzie away from him, nearly setting her swinging, and roared his fury. She stopped herself with her foot as he raced back to the stairs.
Immediately she tried to swing herself forward again. Reach the box cutter. Two tries and she hooked her right foot around one corner. Her wrists felt like they were being cut off. She could hardly see, her head hurt so badly. With the toes on her left foot she edged the box cutter toward her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, concentrating on moving it ever so carefully.
“What the fuck!” she heard Thad/Chas exclaim.
There was a high, keening feminine cry.
Mac shivered and the box cutter fell onto the floor with a clatter, sliding toward her.
But not far enough.
Shit.
She stood on her feet, releasing the pulsing pressure on her bound wrists. Her ears were tuned to what was going on upstairs, while her eyes were glued to the box cutter, tantalizingly just out of reach.
* * *
Thad ran upstairs and saw Lorena working her way across the floor, almost swimming toward the front door. Through the side light Thad saw the retard. He jumped over Lorena and threw open the door, grabbing Emma by the shoulders.
He didn’t see the dog until it leapt up and bit off half his ear.
Thad screamed in shock and fury. He tossed Emma aside and grabbed for his ear. The dog was on him, its jaws snapping onto his arm. He kicked and thrashed and tried to run but the dog held him fast.
And then a man’s voice. “Emma, call off the dog.”
“Duchess, down,” she said in her monotone voice.
The dog released him but kept up a soft, hair-raising growl. Thad glanced back and there was Mackenzie’s lover, a gun in his hand, trained on him. He thought of charging him, pushing him aside, and running out the door. He could get away. Race away. Get in the truck and leave.
“Do it,” Jesse Taft told him.
Lorena was crying on the floor and the dog’s lips were back showing its teeth, snarling and snapping, but it stayed by Emma’s side.
Emma asked, “Where is Mrs. Throckmorton?”
“Upstairs,” Lorena cried. “Thad will kill her. He will kill her!”
Thad looked from one to the other of them. The precipice yawned. A Grand Canyon waiting to swallow him up. He couldn’t go with them. He couldn’t.
Bang!
The sudden shot rang through the room.
Bang! Bang!
In his peripheral vision Thad saw Taft throw Emma down to keep her safe. Who was shooting?
The dog was barking its head off. Barking and snarling. Lorena was crying. A cacophony of noise.
Thad realized vaguely that he’d been shot. The shock had covered the pain. He looked down to see he was bleeding from his stomach.
And Lorena was gazing up at him through the rivulets of blood that ran down her face from the series of blows he’d leveled at her head when she’d run to her bedroom and he’d grabbed up the cut-glass vase with its fake red roses on her side table. Her smile was that of a madwoman.
As he met her gaze, the handgun dropped from her hand and she laid her head on the marble floor. “I got you,” she said, and went limp.
* * *
Mackenzie was still trying to get her toe close enough to the box cutter when a barrage of footsteps clattered down the stairs. She braced herself for what, she didn’t know.
And then Taft was there . . . and a woman she didn’t recognize—Emma?—and a medium-sized scruffy dog whose eyes darted back and forth and had a bloody mouth.
“Mackenzie,” Taft expelled. He held his cell phone to his ear with his left hand. A gun was in his right hand, a .38, held down at his injured side.
“You need some clothes,” Emma observed.
“Your coat,” Taft said to her, then was on the phone with 911, tersely giving directions.
Emma looked down at her full-length coat and slowly undid the belt.
“Box cutter,” Mackenzie said, as soon as Taft had clicked off. She was so glad to see him she could feel emotion swelling in a wave of heat inside her, burning her nose and eyes.
Taft spied the tool and snatched it up. The dog growled as he started to cut her loose, responding to the urgency, but Emma shushed her and kept her by her side.
As Mackenzie fell into Taft’s arms, Emma solemnly handed over her coat and Taft reluctantly released Mackenzie long enough to help her on with it.
“Your wound,” she said, shivering within the woolen folds. He pulled her close again.
“Need to rub your wrists,” he said. “Make sure the blood’s flowing.”
Mackenzie held her arms out of the sleeves. Taft grabbed first one, then the other, rubbing vigorously.
“I was supposed to be taking care of you,” she said, despising the quaver in her voice, unable to stop it.
“We’re both okay,” he said softly, his breath in her hair.
Mackenzie’s eyes were closed but she heard Emma say, “Thad kicked Duchess, but Duchess wouldn’t let go.”
Taft lifted his head and said, “Duchess is a very good dog.”
“Yes, she is,” Emma agreed soberly.
“You know him? Thaddeus Jenkins?” he asked her.
A long time passed. Mackenzie opened her eyes to see Emma frowning hard.
“He’s Mrs. Throckmorton’s grandson. It’s very confusing, but he’s not the boy who was kissing Rayne. That was Old Darla’s grandson, but Mrs. Throckmorton mixed it up. Old Darla died from a stroke and I feel bad. I don’t know her grandson’s name but somebody said he got arrested today. He has long hair and tattoos and even though Jewell didn’t like his long hair, I did. But then Jewell’s a gossip and says things she shouldn’t. If you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all, which is why I’m not going to talk about Thad anymore.” She turned her gaze toward the whiteboard and said, “My name is on that list.”
Taft and Mackenzie both looked to the damning indictment of Thad’s murderous crimes and his plans for the future.
“He can’t hurt you now,” said Taft.
“He is too deeply injured,” Emma said after a moment of thought.
The sirens approaching in the distance were a welcome sound. Taft helped Mackenzie up the stairs and they met the cavalry. Cooper and Verbena and even her old partner, Ricky, who actually looked worried and chastened when he glanced at Mac, giving her an idea of what she must look like. There were others as well, along with an ambulance. One look around and the EMTs called for a second one.
Thaddeus Jenkins aka Chas was dead on the scene and his mother, Lorena, had lapsed into unconsciousness from her head injuries. Cooper looked a bit dumbfounded to find Emma and Duchess on scene, and he put Emma on his cell phone to talk to her sister, Jamie, just as Emma’s niece, Harley, arrived at the house, out of breath and white-faced. Relief flooded her expression and she gave Emma a high five, as did Cooper.
Detective Verbena asked Mac some questions, but quickly realized she was in no condition to be interrogated. They urged her toward an ambulance but she left with Taft, who took her to Glen Gen to be checked out. “I never thought I’d be back at the hospital so soon,” she muttered as they went inside.
They saw some of the same hospital staff members from yesterday and this morning. One of the ER docs concluded that Mackenzie had a concussion and he also insisted on rechecking Taft as well. By the time they were released Stephanie and Nolan were waiting for them.
“I can’t trust either of you,” Stephanie said, her eyes noticeably wet. “You’ve both got to come home with us.”
“I’ve got pugs waiting for me at my place,” Taft told her with a faint smile.
“Mackenzie, you definitely need to come back with me,” Stephanie said firmly. “You need to rest.”
“But there are pugs at Taft’s.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She tossed up her hands and shook her head. Her husband came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “I’ve been thinking about it, you know,” she said. “Thaddeus Jenkins. He was that nerd kid in grade school. He was . . . my God, he turned out to be one of those guys,” she exclaimed. “Those sick and twisted terrible predators! Rayne used to make fun of him and Brenda did, too, and I laughed with them.” Tears filled her eyes anew. “I laughed with them and I felt bad but not bad enough. Do you think it’s my fault?”
“You can’t say that,” Mackenzie told her.
“There’s no predicting,” Nolan agreed.
“I should’ve stuck up for him. I should’ve never been a part of it.”
“Let it go,” Taft said gently.
“Steph, I’m going to stay with Taft tonight. Don’t worry. Don’t blame yourself,” urged Mackenzie.
“Was he coming after me, too?” she asked in a small voice.
Taft told her, “Whatever he was or wasn’t planning to do, he won’t be able to any longer.” Then he tucked his good arm around Mackenzie and they walked to his Rubicon.