"Fuck you," Michaels spat.
"Say my name and I'll tell you something you should really know."
"Like what?"
"Say my name," Kelso insisted.
Michaels hesitated. The sirens were close now, too close for comfort. "Okay. John Kelso. Your name is John Kelso. Now tell me."
"You can't save them. You're too late."
"Save who?" The puzzled look returned to Michaels's face.
"Your family. You can't save them."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Josh's blood froze. His body became brittle--he would shatter at the slightest touch. He refused to accept it.
Regardless of what Kelso said, it wasn't too late. He could still do something about it. He kicked off Kelso's grip on his leg.
"What have you done to Kate and Abby?"
The hit man laughed. His eyes darted in all directions, focusing on nothing. "You're too late," he said again.
"Don't say that."
Josh's head swam in the confusion of the screaming sirens and Kelso's boast. The man was laughing at him.
His anger made him want to inflict a lifetime of pain on Kelso. He wanted to make him sorry for the misery he'd caused him, his family, his friend and Bell. The sirens sounded like they were outside the door. There was no more time.
"Are they still alive?"
"They won't be when you get to them."
"What does that mean?"
Kelso shook his head and laughed. Josh knew he wasn't going to get any more from the hit man.
"Time for a taste of your own medicine," Josh said.
Josh put out his arm with his thumb up and gradually turned his arm. When his thumb pointed down, Josh shot Kelso in the face.
John Kelso's laughing stopped.
Josh tore out of the house, the gun still in his hand.
Faces at the windows of the neighboring houses peered through curtained windows. He leapt into the car, throwing the gun into the passenger side foot well. Police cars approached from both ends of the street, still several hundred yards off in the distance. He roared off in his car, not bothering to turn on his lights. He turned left into a small residential street without stopping at the four-way stop. It was a minor diversion that would slow his journey by moments, but he would avoid the cops.
He checked his mirrors and was relieved to find no police cars in pursuit. Josh made a turn onto another street and he saw a speeding squad car tear across the next intersection heading for Bell's house. He was clear of them. The cops wouldn't be knocking at his door; well, for a while, anyway. Neighbors probably had his license plate number and his fingerprints were all over the house. It wouldn't take them too long to track him down.
His journey home was more frantic than the road race to Bell's. Josh drove more recklessly and more dangerously. With what was at stake, he had no choice.
His family's safety was paramount.
What has Kelso done? How has he gotten to Kate and Abby? They were questions he could only guess at with a deep-rooted fear that scared him. He would never forgive himself if they were killed as a result of his mistakes. His fear and loathing tasted sour in his mouth.
Although Josh reached speeds of eighty miles an hour in some places on the residential roads, it was still too slow. The speed of light would have been too slow for him. He didn't know how much time his family had before it was too late, so every second counted.
He turned onto his street. The car slewed across the road, the back end threatening to overtake the front.
Rubber shredded off the tread as the tires squealed in pain. He raced up to his house and stamped on the brakes. The car ground to a halt in his neighbor's front yard after plowing two wild furrows with its wheels.
Kate's minivan was parked outside. It meant they were inside, or so he hoped. If they weren't, he didn't have a clue where they could be or have a hope in hell of finding them. Josh had put a bullet through the face of the only man who knew where his wife and child were. He should have brought the hit man with him.
Josh reached for the gun in the foot well. His reckless driving had tossed it around inside. Blindly, his hand leapt from place to place in the car's darkened interior.
The vapor lights provided poor illumination for the vehicle's cabin. His hand found the bulky steel lump under the front passenger seat and his fingers wrapped around the weapon. He burst out of the car.
"Please be okay. Please be okay," he quietly chanted.
Josh tried opening the door, but it was locked. He fumbled in his pockets for his key and cursed when he realized his keys were still in the car. He tore back to the car and yanked them out of the ignition, almost snapping the ignition key off.
"Kate, Abby," he bellowed. "Are you okay? Answer me, it's important."
Running back to the door, he searched for the door key, finger dexterity impaired by the cumbersome
pistol in one hand. Finding the key, Josh jammed it into the lock, twisted it and threw himself against the door.
The explosion tore the house apart. The blast blew windows outward, scattering glass far and wide. Flaming wood shake was projected high into the air, imprinting the sky with comet-like heavenly bodies.
Lengths of siding snaked across the neighborhood like balloons inflated, then released. The concussion spat the house contents into the street. The garage door shoved Kate's minivan aside and embedded itself in an SUV three houses down the street.
The sound, although deafening, was impressive-- orchestral in nature. The blast's thunderclap was interlaced with shattering glass. Glass fragments tinkled on the road surface like waves crashing on shingle. Burning shakes thudded into lawns like the hooves of Derby runners approaching the first furlong. Crackling house materials rounded out the symphony.
Neighbors already awakened by Josh Michaels's dramatic arrival had time to witness his house be torn asunder in a spectacle of color and sound. The price of admission was expensive. Neighboring homes had their windows blown in and debris burned on their lawns.
Josh was flung into the air, protected from projectiles, the blast, and the heat by the door ripped off by the explosion.
He landed in the front yard with the door on top of him. He kicked off the door and got to his feet. He ignored the ringing in his head and the aching in his bones.
Hearing and feeling the blast was no preparation for what he saw. His home was a burning skeleton--every single part was aflame. Nothing and no one could have survived that. It struck him. His family was dead. He dropped to his knees, his hands to his head, the gun in his right hand pressed up against his ear.
"They're dead. I've killed them," he screamed above the roar of the fire.
For several moments, Josh was alone in the street. None of his neighbors ventured from the confines of their homes. The event was too astounding. Exploding houses didn't happen here. Eventually people appeared and gathered into groups discussing the occurrence. No one approached Josh. Everyone kept a healthy distance from the blaze and the homeowner with the gun. Even from the other side of the street the flames dried the skin on their shocked faces. God alone knew what perils lay ahead for any person who went near the catastrophe.
Josh knelt on his scorched lawn unable to come to terms with the meaning of the disaster. The people he cared most about, Kate and Abby, were dead because of him. It didn't matter what he did to improve his plight. He had now suffered the worst kind of punishment.
If he had let it happen, let Kelso kill him, maybe his family would be alive--maybe a lot of people would be alive. But there wasn't much point to if; there wasn't much point to anything anymore. Everything he held most dear was gone. Josh raised the pistol to his temple.
The blaze-watching crowd gasped as their neighbor put the gun to his head. What were things coming to-- was their neighborhood going to hell?
A car screeched to a halt behind Josh.
"Josh! Put the gun down." Bob Deuce flew out of the car.
Josh ignored the shouts and clo
sed his eyes. The flames were so strong that even through his eyelids, red and yellow images danced before him. He took a deep breath and held it. He tightened his finger around the trigger.
Bob threw himself on top of Josh and slapped the gun away from his head. The gun roared and the slug kicked up a chunk of lawn. Sprawling, both men fell closer to the burning house, the heat intense on their bodies. Their clothes, heated by the flames, felt hot enough to combust. Bob wrenched the gun from Josh's grasp, then yanked his friend to his feet. He shoved Josh toward his neighbors.
The crowd parted at the sight of the weapon.
"I've got to get you out of here."
Grabbing on to anything he could grasp--an arm, a shirt collar--Bob dragged Josh forward. The man had no will and was as malleable as a puppet, but he was a living dead weight. Using his bulk, Bob managed to move his friend away from the blaze.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Josh stared into the burning wreckage of his home.
Bob looked at the gun, then at Josh. He jammed the gun in the waistband of his pants against the small of his back and said, "You don't need this, you don't need this at all."
"They're dead, Bob," Josh said.
Bob grabbed Josh, digging his fingers into Josh's T-shirt, handfuls of material in his fists. "Yes, but you're alive and that's what matters now. Pinnacle Investments will sell you your life back."
"None of that matters anymore. It's not important."
Josh was dead inside; his words lacked emotion.
"God damn you, Josh. This isn't going to be for nothing. Kate and Abby aren't going to die in vain."
Taking the lead, Bob took Josh sternly, one hand on his arm and the other on his back, and ushered him into his Toyota. Bob ran around to the other side of the car, removed the pistol from his waistband and climbed in.
The onlookers' flickering faces watched the sedan roar off into the night.
Bob raced through the suburban streets just as Josh had twice that night. Jumping red lights and running stop signals, he only heeded the rules of the road when three fire engines raced across a four-way stop bound for Josh's burning house.
Inside the car the mood was tense. Except for the whine of the thrashing engine and Bob's mumbled curses to other road users, silence filled the car. Josh's silence disturbed Bob. He snatched glances at his friend's catatonic state.
Bob snapped his fingers in front of Josh's face.
"Come on, Josh. I need you with me."
Josh acknowledged Bob's presence and looked at his anxious friend.
"Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you," Bob said.
"I got home and Kate wouldn't let me in. She'd found out about Bell."
"How?"
"Bell told her in the mall."
"What a bitch," Bob said.
"I had it out with Bell and someone slugged me.
When I came around, she had a knife in her chest. This is her blood." Josh held out his hands for Bob to see.
"Is she dead?"
"Yes. John Kelso killed her."
"Who?"
"James Mitchell--it's his real name. He was going to kill me and make it look like a revenge killing."
"Jesus Christ." Bob struggled to comprehend the facts. These weren't the happenings of the average Joe living his life. Everyday life, if they ever got back to it, would never be the same. "So all the shit that's been stirred up with Bell was an act to get you two linked up for a murder-suicide?"
"Not at the beginning. She came back for me, but Kelso saw an opportunity and twisted her to his will.
She was just his puppet."
"Where's Kelso?"
"He's dead. I shot him. You've got his gun."
The more Josh spoke of recent traumatic events, the more he became himself. His despair evaporated and life returned to his voice. It couldn't be said that he was back to normal. Normal was a lifetime ago.
Josh was silent again. Lost in his thoughts, he relived his escapes from death and the losses that night. He'd survived again, but those close to him hadn't. It was hard to accept his survival. A tear ran down his cheek.
"Bell had AIDS," Josh said matter-of-factly.
Bob teetered on the brink of saying something, but didn't. Josh's life was too much for him to comment on.
Untidily, Bob swung the Toyota into a parking space.
The parking lot was relatively empty, with only a few cars in the spaces. There would be no one to complain about Bob's bad parking for a while.
Josh stared at the illuminated sign belonging to Sacramento Executive Airport. "What are we doing here?"
"There's a plane waiting for us, my friend. It's about time we straightened this out."
The men crossed the parking lot and entered the lobby. The small airport was busy. Josh always heard light and small commercial aircraft flying over his home at all hours of the day. He knew the airport's layout well, having landed there on several occasions.
After a short flight of stairs, a bored looking man in a pilot's uniform sitting in the airport's lounge greeted Josh and Bob. He was younger than Josh, no more than thirty, a young pilot earning his hours in order to be picked up by one of the big commercial airlines. He got up and approached them.
"Josh Michaels and Bob Deuce?" the man asked.
"Yeah," Bob said.
The pilot's gaze fell on Josh. The younger man stared in amazement at Josh's condition. His appearance could be best described as disturbing. Blood stained the knees of his jeans and continued down his shins. Cuts and bruises paraded themselves across his face and arms. The smell of smoke permeated the air like Josh had spent a weekend next to a campfire.
"Are you from Pinnacle Investments?" Bob asked to distract the pilot.
"Er, sorry. Yes. I'm here to fly you to Seattle. My name is Martin Trent and I am your copilot. We're all ready for you. So if you're ready, we can take off immediately."
Josh nodded in agreement.
Trent led the way out of the foyer and onto the apron, where a number of aircraft were parked. Aircraft noise replaced the echoing hollowness of the airport lounge. A Navajo touched down on the asphalt.
"I was expecting you earlier," Trent said over the din of a turboprop carrying out its checks at the holding point.
"I know, but my friend had an accident," Bob said.
Josh became conscious of his physical condition and apparel. He looked distinctly conspicuous in his soiled clothes, and his muscles reported their discomfort. "I was wondering, do you have any spare clothes on board that I could borrow?"
Relief at the plausible explanation was obvious on Trent's face. "I've probably got something in an overnight bag you could use."
"Thanks."
Trent led Josh and Bob to a waiting Lear jet. The three climbed into the cramped confinement of the executive plane. All three hunched instinctively upon embarking.
The young copilot closed and secured the door.
"Okay, gentlemen, if you can buckle yourselves in, we'll be taking off very soon. And Mr. Michaels, once we're at cruising altitude I'll get you those clothes. Oh, and there is a bathroom if you want to clean up."
Trent flashed an airline smile and disappeared into the cockpit.
Josh and Bob took seats toward the rear of the aircraft in one of the twelve first-class seats. Normally this level of luxury would have excited Josh, but the knowledge he was onboard a jet taking him to Pinnacle Investments filled him with disgust.
"Why are we going to Pinnacle Investments, Bob?"
"That's why I've been looking for you. I've gotten them to sell you your policy back. It's over, Josh." Bob placed a heavy hand on Josh's shoulder.
Slowly building in speed, the engines whined.
"Fuck you, Bob. My family is dead. Four other people are dead because of this insurance policy. It's not going to put things right. It's not going to bring Kate and Abby back." Josh seethed. It had gone far beyond just getting the hit man off his back. He wasn't abou
t to let Pinnacle Investments off the hook. He needed someone to pay for killing his family.
"Trust me, Josh. We have nothing on these people.
We go to the cops once more and we're screwed.
They've probably got enough on you to put you away for life. You have the blood of a murdered woman on your clothes and your fingerprints on the gun that killed a man. No, I can't bring your wife and child back, but I can stop the killing. It's the best I can do."
Trent's professional voice broke in through the intercom.
Josh and Bob both stared at the closed door of the cockpit.
"Gentlemen, we've started engines and should be departing in approximately ten minutes. Flight time should be one hour and forty-five minutes. As I said, I'll return to you once we are airborne. Thank you for listening,"
he said.
"What am I meant to do afterward, Bob? Once I've bought my life back."
Bob frowned. "Start again. Disappear somewhere.
Get away from all this shit."
Josh looked away, out of the aircraft window into the darkness.
The engines rose in pitch and the aircraft trundled forward. The Lear jet rolled to the holding point, paused and finally taxied onto the runway. The plane roared down the runway and lifted into the night.
Once the plane reached cruising altitude, Martin Trent came back to the passenger area as promised. He grabbed a duffle from a storage locker and removed a pair of jeans and a shirt for Josh. He showed both men where refreshments were kept.
Josh excused himself and squeezed into the bathroom.
He removed his T-shirt and washed himself in the small stainless steel sink. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked at the puffy bruising on his face and his singed hair. Lipstick colored bruises covered his chest and soot streaked his face. He looked like he'd been engaged in combat. Had it all been worth it? Was his survival worth the lives of his friends and family? It would be, if he lived their lives as well.
He finished washing by dunking his head into the soapy, clouded water, soaking it for a moment, trying to wash the bad images from his mind. Water slopped out of the sink, splashing his jeans and feet. A watery, bloody pool formed on the rubber matted floor. He dried his hair with a towel and combed it into position with his fingers. He wasn't pretty, but presentable.
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