All Mortal Flesh

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “I know he’s eighteen. No matter what happens, he’s going to go up against the death penalty. He’s trying to suck you in with him.”

  “Q, for godsakes, can’t you control her?”

  “How?” Quinn’s voice nearly cracked.

  “Belt her the next time she talks.”

  She twisted her head to catch Quinn’s reaction. He gawped at Aaron, then frowned in disapproval. If she hadn’t been so scared, she would have laughed. Pretending you were some sort of secret warrior and killing in a surprise ambush was okay. Hitting a woman was not.

  “What are you going to do when you get caught, Aaron? Do you have a plan for that?”

  She gritted her teeth, expecting a blow. He surprised her by turning his head and regarding her disdainfully. “I always have a plan.”

  “Was that why you took me aside yesterday and told me about Quinn going into the Van Alstynes’ house alone? Was that why you said Quinn told you to lie to cover up for him? Was that part of your plan?”

  She registered his arm drawing back, Elizabeth stumbling forward with a cry, the knife swinging free, and then Aaron’s fist smashed into her jaw and her head snapped sideways in an agony of bone and motion. She reeled, half-blind from the pain pinwheeling through her skull, half-suffocated by the blood and tears and phlegm in her throat.

  “God damn! That hurt!” Aaron’s voice shrilled with outrage. Clare wiped her eyes with the arm of her parka and spat blood onto the cement. She blinked hard. Aaron was cradling his hand, tears of pain and fury in his eyes, the first genuine expression she had ever seen on his face. “That fucking hurt! I think I broke something!”

  The knife.

  On the cement floor.

  Clare lurched toward Aaron. Unsteady, off balance, the best she could do was throw herself at him. He went down on his backside, with Clare sprawled atop him. “Run, Elizabeth, run!” she screamed, and damned if the deacon didn’t finally listen to her.

  Aaron was thrashing, swearing, trying to wrestle Clare off him. She couldn’t see Quinn, but she could hear him, his noise of protest, a cry of, “Hey! Stop!” then the slap of hands on wood as he tried to get the rifle in position.

  “Stop her, you asshole!” Aaron howled. He finally heaved Clare onto the floor and staggered to his feet. She rolled onto her back in time to see Aaron snatch the gun away from Quinn, chamber a round, and fire.

  The report tore through the confined space. The pens erupted in a bedlam of clanking, kicking, and confused bawls.

  “Damn! God damn!” Aaron slugged Quinn in the middle of his chest. “You let her get away, you stupid waste of space!”

  Quinn stared toward the west end of the barn. “Whadda we do now?” he asked in a panicked voice. He rubbed his chest one-handed. “Whadda we do?”

  The two boys stared at each other, one desperate and scared, the other desperate and enraged. Finally, Aaron tipped his head toward Clare. “Get her up,” he snapped. “I’ll take the gun. It doesn’t do you any good if you won’t fire it.”

  This time Quinn used both hands on her, dragging her to her feet. Aaron stepped toward her. Put both barrels of the shotgun under her chin. Pressed hard, so she could feel them bite into the soft flesh, smell the tang of oil and metal.

  “I could blow your head off right here,” he said.

  This time, Clare kept her mouth shut.

  “Get my knife,” Aaron ordered.

  Quinn ducked down and snatched it off the cement. “What are we gonna do? That other one’s gonna go for the cops, you know she will!”

  Suddenly, Clare felt the weight of her car keys like a curling stone in her pocket. Oh, no. Oh, no. Elizabeth wouldn’t be going for the cops. She wouldn’t be going anywhere. The best she could hope for was that the MacEntyre house was unlocked and that Elizabeth would call 911. And then hide.

  “Open it up,” Aaron said, gesturing to the wide door that separated the warm and living cattle from the cold and sterile processing room. “We’ll do her like we did the other one and then we’ll take off.”

  “But . . . but they’ll know! That we did it! They’ll come after us!” Despite his protests, Quinn released his grip on Clare’s coat and started tugging on the handle.

  “Grow some balls, will ya? Jesus, this whole thing has been about proving to ourselves what we can do. If I knew you were going to be such a goddam pussy about it, I would have picked someone else to join me.”

  “No!” The door rumbled open on its tracks. Quinn dashed to one side and snapped on the lights. “I can do it.”

  Without moving the rifle barrel from Clare’s neck, Aaron leaned forward. The intensity in his eyes seemed to suck Quinn toward him. “I chose you, man. We’re brothers in arms.” Aaron’s voice was low, persuasive. “Don’t let me down. All we gotta do is get through this part. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “We can do what other people only dream of,” Aaron whispered. “We’re fucking masters of the universe.”

  “Yeah,” breathed Quinn. Face shining, he reached out and tugged Clare across the lintel into the abattoir. “Where do you want her?”

  “Right over there.” Aaron followed, the rifle never wavering from Clare’s head. “This time, you’re going to get to do it. The killing cut.”

  The expression on Quinn’s face wavered. “Uh,” he said.

  Aaron’s eyes gleamed. “It’s amazing, man. You’ll never know what power is until you do it.”

  Quinn looked down at the knife in his hand. Clare looked at it, too. It came to her that despite her professed belief in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come, she really really really didn’t want to die.

  O God, she prayed, a little help here.

  “Hey,” came a voice from the barn. They all looked. Russ Van Alstyne stood in the doorway, relaxed and unhurried, hands open and unthreatening. “What say we talk about this?”

  FIFTY

  He had already been heading across the road toward the barn, after a fruitless search through the house, when he heard the rifle shot. He reached for his service weapon, which, of course, wasn’t there.

  Cursing under his breath, he waded through the snow that was drifting deeper and deeper into the leeward side of the road. He was struggling up the ramp when a body hurtled out of the barn straight toward him.

  He could feel, as soon as he caught her, that it wasn’t Clare. She screamed. He clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. A terrified woman looked up at him. Tears were freezing along her cheeks.

  “I’m Chief Van Alstyne of the Millers Kill Police Department,” he said. “What’s going on? Where’s Clare?”

  “Downstairs. With the cows. Hurry, please hurry! They have a gun and a knife!”

  “How many?”

  Her brow knitted up into confusion.

  “How many bad guys?” he clarified.

  “Two. Um . . . Quinn Tracey and his friend.”

  “How do you get there?”

  “There’s a . . . there’s a ladder through the floor at the end of the barn.” She pointed.

  “Clare?”

  “She’s . . .” The woman started weeping again. “I don’t know. He hit her so hard he knocked her over. That’s when I ran.”

  Like a buzz bomb, her words exploded along his forebrain, whiting out every thought for a split second. He hitched in his breath. Focused on the woman. “You drive a standard?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He slapped his keys into her hand. “Get into my truck. It’s at the end of the drive. Head toward town. Go slow. If it gets bad, pull over and wait. Got it?”

  She nodded jerkily. “She’s crazy, you know. What kind of woman jumps a man with a knife? She’s crazy.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He pushed her in the right direction and thrashed his way up the remainder of the ramp into the barn. He pulled his cell phone out. Flash-dialed Harlene’s direct number.

  “Harlene here.”

  “Van Alstyne here at 64
5 Old Route 100. We’ve got a hostage situation with gunfire. I need backup.”

  “You got it,” she said, her voice even. Then, before he could sign off, “Chief?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t you unarmed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then wait for the backup. That’s the smart thing to do.”

  “I can’t. I”—Clare—“can’t. Van Alstyne out.” He clicked off the phone.

  He padded between the haymows, his good sense reining in the part of him that wanted to charge, berserker-like, to Clare’s defense. His parka rubbed, arms against body, creating a papery noise. He frowned, took the coat off, and laid it on the floor next to the trapdoor opening to the lower level. He laid down on his belly and elbow-walked to the edge. Heard agitated cows and faraway voices from what sounded like the other side of the building. Took a chance and hung his head and shoulders down.

  It was the other side of the building. He waited until the figures disappeared into the fluorescent-lit room, then dropped down the ladder. He hurried down the walkway between the stalls, conscious that at every moment he was framed and lit like a shooting-gallery target. Approaching the door, he slowed. Took a deep breath. Heard one of the boys say, “It’s amazing, man. You’ll never know what power is until you do it.”

  He felt sick to his stomach. “Hey,” he said, stepping forward. “What say we talk about this?”

  A dark-haired kid turned with the fast-twitch reflexes of the young, and Russ was staring down the barrel of a .308 Remington. Behind him, Quinn Tracey brandished a wicked long butcher’s knife toward Clare’s throat.

  Clare. Russ felt his gut tighten around an urge to hurt whoever had touched her. She’d been banged around hard—her parka torn and smeared with manure, her jaw and cheek purpling, blood coating the inside of her lips and threading down to her chin.

  The Tracey kid recognized him. His mouth sagged open. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

  “Hey, Quinn,” Russ said. “Good to see you’re okay. Your folks are worried about you, taking off in the middle of a storm like that.” He shifted his attention to the other one. “You must be Aaron MacEntyre. I’m Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police.”

  Something flashed in the young man’s eyes. Panic? Anger? Russ couldn’t tell. “I’ve already called in a hostage situation,” he went on, using the same easy voice. “This place is going to be swarming with cops soon.”

  The corner of MacEntyre’s mouth curved up. “In this weather? I doubt it.”

  “You can’t get away, Aaron. Your best bet is putting the weapons down and cooperating.” Russ turned to Tracey. “I’m here to talk. The guys following me will be here to shoot. Let’s not let it get to that.”

  Tracey looked terrified. “Aaron?” he asked.

  “Finish securing her to the wall ring, Q,” MacEntyre said.

  Tracey awkwardly grabbed a length of chain and slipped it around Clare’s badly bound wrists. The kid had to juggle the knife he was holding as well as keep the chain from slipping and reach for a D-clip. Clare looked at him, then at Russ. He could see the question in her eyes.

  Should I take him?

  Russ glanced at MacEntyre. His aim hadn’t wavered. He was still perfectly lined up to gut-shoot Russ. “Don’t be afraid, Reverend Fergusson,” Russ said. “We’ll have you out of there soon enough.”

  “Is she secure?” MacEntyre asked without turning his head.

  Tracey rattled the chain. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Come here, then.”

  Tracey hurried to MacEntyre’s side. Behind them, Clare immediately began twisting and rotating her hands. MacEntyre dug into his jeans and fished out a rag. He carefully wiped down the barrel, bolt, trigger mechanism, and stock of the Remington. “Hold this,” he told Tracey when he was done. “Keep your finger on the trigger. If he moves, shoot him.”

  Tracey frowned but took the gun. Everything about his stance and his handling of the gun proclaimed his inexperience. Russ considered rushing him, but he could see a round chambered and the safety off. Five-year-olds had been known to kill people under those conditions.

  MacEntyre crossed to the rear of the tiled chamber. He opened a battered locker and rummaged around inside for a moment. When he turned back toward Russ, he had on translucent latex gloves, the kind worn by cops handling evidence. And by butchers handling raw meat.

  He strode back toward Tracey and retook the Remington.

  “Why’d you wipe the gun down?” Tracey asked.

  “It prevents a positive gunpowder test,” MacEntyre said. “The cops won’t be able to tell this rifle was recently fired.”

  What the hell? That was the screwiest thing Russ had ever—

  “He’s lying,” Clare said.

  “Put the knife to her,” MacEntyre said. “If she talks, use it.”

  Tracey walked toward Clare. He brought the knife up.

  “He wiped the gun down so you’ll be the only person whose fingerprints are on it. He has a plan.” She raised her voice. “You said you always have a plan, didn’t you?” She dropped her voice and looked directly at Tracey. “Actually, he’s had two plans. The one he told you was that the two of you were going to go away together and, what, rob banks?”

  Tracey shook his head. “Join up with mercenaries,” he said, his voice sounding younger than his years.

  “Shut up, Q. You don’t tell the enemy your plans.”

  Clare stared into Tracey’s eyes. “The second plan’s the one he hasn’t told you about. That’s the one where he kills you, makes it look like a suicide, and blames it all on you.”

  Tracey recoiled. “That’s a lie!”

  “Feel in my coat pocket,” Clare said. “I took something out of your truck upstairs. Take it out of my pocket and read it.”

  “She’s trying to trick you,” Aaron said. “Who are you going to believe? Her or me?” He couldn’t turn and confront Tracey directly without taking his eyes off Russ, but he backed up until his hip checked against a stainless steel table. His eyes flickered toward his friend. “You and me, man. We took a sacred vow.” His voice was almost seductive. “We’re not going to be drones like the rest of them. We are going to be kings of the earth.”

  “I thought it was masters of the universe,” Clare said.

  “Shut up, bitch! Before I blow your head off.”

  It was probably the first time in his life Russ wanted a gun pointed at him, if only to prevent MacEntyre from making good on his threat. “Were you in it with Dennis Shambaugh?” he asked quickly.

  “Who the hell is Dennis Shambaugh?” MacEntyre said.

  “The guy whose girlfriend you killed.”

  MacEntyre gave him a look of withering scorn that was so typically teenaged it was almost a put-on. “You don’t get it, do you. Who the target is is irrelevant. What matters is taking the power. Getting the blood on your hands. Being a wolf instead of a sheep.”

  Russ blinked. “You didn’t go to my house to kill Audrey Keane?”

  “We went to a house with a woman alone without a dog or neighbors nearby. We didn’t give a flying fuck if we offed somebody named Keane or Mrs. Santa Claus. Right, Q?”

  Tracey seemed frozen in place.

  “Just take the paper out of my pocket,” Clare said. “That’s all.”

  The kid peeked over his shoulder at MacEntyre, then reached into Clare’s pocket. He came up with a crumpled sheet of paper. He shook it out, one-handed. As he read it, the knife in his other hand started to shake. He lowered the paper. Stared at MacEntyre. “This is a suicide note. With my signature!”

  MacEntyre sighed. “She must have written it.”

  Tracey stalked toward his friend. “Why the hell would she have written a suicide note for me? Why the hell would this be in my truck?” He snapped it in MacEntyre’s face. “It says I’m responsible for everything!”

  “When it comes down to it,” Russ said, “there’s only room for one king of the earth. Everybody else is support staff.” />
  “Shut up,” Tracey snapped. “Aaron? I’m waiting.”

  MacEntyre sighed again, a deep, defeated sound. “C’mere,” he said, sliding around to the front of the table, the rifle steady on Russ. “Smooth it out here and let’s take a look at it.”

  Tracey stomped over to where MacEntyre stood.

  “Get in front of me so you’re not in my line of fire.”

  Tracey glared at his friend but did as he said. He bent forward and laid the paper on the scratchy surface of the butchering table, putting down his knife and smoothing the sheet with both hands.

  MacEntyre seized the knife and plunged it into Tracey’s back.

  Clare screamed. Russ surged forward, but MacEntyre swung the Remington straight into his abdomen. Russ skidded to a stop, the rifle barrel digging into his gut. “Walk,” MacEntyre said, and pushed the barrel in. Russ backed away. MacEntyre followed, indicating with his head where he wanted Russ to go. The young man backed him against the white tile half-wall that divided the room into two parts. From the other side of the wall, Russ could hear Tracey’s high, skittering moan and gasping breaths. Over MacEntyre’s shoulder, he could see Clare, tears spilling down her cheeks, silently working her wrists back and forth, loosening her bonds.

  “You’ve really pissed me off, Reverend Fergusson.” MacEntyre stared at Russ while he spoke. Something glinted in his dark eyes, but it wasn’t anger. It was excitement.

  Russ’s stomach lurched with nausea.

  “In fact, I may even bring you with me instead of taking care of you right here. So I can show you just how much you piss me off.”

  Unseen by MacEntyre, Clare yanked her hands free.

  “You got any money in there?” MacEntyre nodded toward Russ’s jeans. His practicality was even more gruesome laid over the sound track of his friend’s slow and rattling death.

  “In my parka,” Russ said. “Up next to the haymow.”

  Over MacEntyre’s shoulder, he watched as Clare took one step. Then two. “You’re not going to get away with this,” he said loudly, letting the fear show in his voice.

  “Oh, please. Q kills you, kills the lady, and in a fit of remorse puts the end of the rifle against his heart and pulls the trigger. Conveniently obliterating any signs of being stabbed. I go back to school on Monday. Probably score with the girls because I’m all broken-hearted and shit.”