The Deepest Wound

by Rick Reed

  “I’m thinking I’m hungry and you’re buying.”

  “Besides that, I mean. Do you think these two ex-military types are carrying out contract killings for someone in the prosecutor’s office? I can’t put it all together. Help me out.”

  “I think you’re on to something,” Jack said. “Trent and Eric are the killers. They beat Liddell up and robbed the pharmacy in New Harmony, and they tried to kill us last night. Marcie shot one of them, probably Trent. Good job, Moira.”

  Moira twisted in her seat and gave him an incredulous look. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. The flash drive is the clue. Who had a reason to obtain it? And Nina’s journal. How do you explain that?”

  She was silent and pouting, and Jack was sorry he couldn’t discuss the case with her. But it was for her own good, and besides, who would believe that the two top guys in the prosecutor’s office were involved in all of these murders?

  They drove on in silence.

  “Are we going to Two Jakes?” Moira asked.

  “Not anymore. I’ve got a better place in mind,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  “Perfect,” Jack said.

  Moira had insisted on cooking, so he had let her put the frozen pizza in the oven. They sat at the kitchen table, where he could keep an eye on the front and back doors. Cinderella had stationed herself near the table, one ear up, the other down, keeping a close eye on the pizza and licking her chops with anticipation.

  “Katie told me you had a dog,” Moira said around a mouthful of crust.

  “That’s going a bit far, calling the mutt a dog,” Jack said, and tossed a small bit of pizza toward the dog. Cinderella snapped it up midair and inhaled it.

  “Poor baby,” Moira said, making sad eyes at Cinderella. The dog responded by coming to Moira, sitting up on her haunches, and putting a paw up to shake.

  “Oh, please!” Jack said, but he was smiling. He had never seen her do that trick before. In fact, he had never seen her do any trick, unless he considered peeing in his shoes a trick.

  “You’re a good dog, aren’t you, Cinderella?” Moira said in baby talk.

  “Don’t encourage her, Moira. She already thinks she’s a princess. Did I tell you what she does to my . . . ?”

  “C’mon, Jack. I’m eating,” Moira said, cutting him off.

  She tore a big chunk of pizza off for her new friend, and continued the cooing baby talk.

  Jack’s mind disengaged from the bonding between ex-sister-in-law and dog, and went to work on their present situation. Police cruisers with two officers were stationed at Katie’s and Liddell’s. He was guarding Moira, and no one knew where they had gone. He’d lied to Eric about his intention to take Moira somewhere very public for dinner. Unless these guys were clairvoyant, it was all good.

  But just in case, his Mossberg riot shotgun leaned against the side of the table near the wall. He had cut the barrel down to an illegal length, and cut the stock off to a pistol grip. Then he took the wooden pin out of the ammunition feeder tube so it would hold six magnum loads instead of three. The magnum shells were loaded with extra powder and double-aught buck, and would take a door off its hinges at a distance of six feet. He hoped it would stop the man mountain, Trafford Book.

  The other one, Clint Hallard, was also huge. If he was right in his assessment of the evidence, Clint was injured bad enough that he might be out of the fight. But Jack never underestimated an enemy.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Moira said.

  Jack saw Cinderella cleaning pizza sauce from her fingers and licking her arms and face.

  Jack cocked an eyebrow, and said, “Do you know where that tongue has been?”

  When Moira looked at her hands, he laughed, and said, “I’m fresh out of holy water.”

  “No wonder she doesn’t like you,” Moira said, and went to the sink to wash. Cinderella followed her, but suddenly the dog’s head jerked up and she ran to the front door. She muzzled the door, sniffing, and then backed away, head down, body tensed, and began growling menacingly.

  Moira looked out the kitchen window. “Your neighbors are coming.”

  Jack jumped up, knocking the table out of the way, and lunged for the kitchen light switch. He grabbed the shotgun and yelled at Moira, “Get over here!”

  Moira seemed to be frozen in indecision. Jack grabbed her around the waist and began dragging her to the back door.

  “We have to go.” He hoped the killers wouldn’t expect them to abandon the cabin.

  “Stay down and stay with me,” Jack said. When he cracked the back door open to see if there was someone covering the back, Cinderella pushed through and rushed outside. He could hear her barking. She was going toward the front of the cabin.

  “Stay right behind me,” he said, and put Moira’s hand against his belt. She grabbed on and he dragged her through the door, off the steps, and toward his Jeep. He heard a gunshot, a yelp, and the barking ceased. There was nothing they could do but run. He pulled Moira past the Crown Vic and then between it and his Jeep.

  It was the fourth night of the full moon. Clouds blocked most of the light, and Jack was glad for the darkness. He whispered in Moira’s ear. “When I open the door, you to jump across to the passenger side and pull your legs in. I’ll be right behind you. Okay?”

  He yanked the door hard and she dove across the seats. Jack jumped in and he had started the Jeep when the roof and hood popped, and the driver’s side window exploded inward. He felt a dozen bee stings on the side of his face and neck. He yanked the transmission into drive, and the passenger side window exploded. Gravel plumed behind the Jeep as it shot forward. The sudden acceleration slammed his door shut with a bang. The front wheels hit something and as the Jeep bounced in the air, the back windshield imploded peppering them both with glass shrapnel.

  He shifted into four-wheel drive. The tires found purchase and Jack’s teeth cracked together as the rear tires bounded over something. Another hail of bullets struck the Jeep. This time they tore through the cab, and struck the dash and steering wheel.

  “Get my phone,” he yelled, but Moira didn’t react. “My phone. In my pocket,” he yelled. She still didn’t move. He risked a glance at her and saw her left hand against her face, with blood seeping between her fingers in a steady stream.

  The Jeep slewed off the gravel road and tore across the farm field, blinding him with cornstalks battering the windshield. He yanked the wheel hard to the left and bounced up onto the gravel again, fishtailing down the drive, all the while bullets were striking the back of the Jeep and the gravel around them, flying up in mini-explosions of rock. He switched on his headlights and spied the blacktop of the main road up ahead. He slid around a curve and onto the blacktop heading west. The firing stopped.

  Jack shifted the Jeep out of four-wheel drive, and slowed to check Moira’s condition. She was dazed and cradling the left side of her jaw with a bloody hand. He pulled her hand away from her face and saw that something had cut a trench across her jawline. The bone wasn’t exposed, and she didn’t appear to be hit anywhere else. It was nasty, but she’d live.

  “Keep pressure on it,” he said, speeding up to negotiate a sharp turn. Moira wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t moving. She sat up straight and stared ahead. He had to get her to a hospital before she went completely into shock.

  He hit Lynn Road too fast and bounced up the small incline, the front end of the Jeep came down hard, knocking them around. He cut the wheel sharply to the left, and headed toward Highway 41. Another mile and there would be traffic, maybe even a state trooper patrolling the highway. He began to regret his decision to bring Moira with him, knowing he could have easily left her someplace surrounded by policemen, but he had promised Katie that he would see to her.

  He began to think they would make it to Highway 41 and safety when he was slammed back against the seat by a vicious impact. The Jeep listed to the right and almost veered off the narrow roa
d. He corrected the wheel and the Jeep swayed left and right, and before he could straighten out, they were struck again and went airborne.

  Book twisted the steering wheel hard to the right, bringing the pickup truck’s bumper into contact with the back left-side bumper of the Jeep. It was his version of the “pit maneuver” police used to force a vehicle over, or off the road. It had worked perfectly. Murphy’s Jeep slewed to the right and would have flipped, but Murphy corrected the skid. Book stomped the gas pedal and struck the Jeep again. It veered off the right side of the road, but Book hadn’t slowed fast enough after hitting the Jeep and his headlights shot past them. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.

  “Where are they?” he yelled at Clint.

  The stolen truck wasn’t equipped with seat belts, and the impact had shot Clint forward into the dash and windshield. He was rattled and squinted into the darkness, but couldn’t see any other lights in the field. There was nothing. Either Murphy had cut the headlights, or the Jeep had dropped into a ditch.

  “I don’t see anything, Book. Back up.”

  Book backed up a hundred feet, with Clint leaning out of the passenger window searching for tire marks where the Jeep left the road.

  Book backed slowly.

  “Shit, Book,” Clint said. “There’s dozens of skid marks along here. Just stop and I’ll walk it.”

  Clint got out and rubbed his forehead. It felt like someone had put him in a duffel bag and beat him with a stick.

  The Jeep was airborne. The front slammed into the farm field like it had been dropped from a bridge. Jack and Moira were thrown around inside like rag dolls, but the Jeep held together.

  The impact of hitting the ground jarred Moira out of her stupor and she scrabbled at Jack’s pocket and dug his cell phone out.

  Jack cut the headlights while the Jeep created a path through the brush. They rolled forward, unable to see, making their way over the rough ground and heading north. Jack prayed there were no ditches or sinkholes in their path.

  “Find the shotgun,” Jack said. He hadn’t believed the killers could catch up with them so quickly when they’d fled the cabin. He’d never been up against a military-trained force. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Moira felt something under her feet. “Here it is.”

  “Call 911 and then give me the phone,” Jack said, but she was already punching in the numbers.

  He heard Moira say, “No, I don’t know where we are. I’ve been shot and some guys are trying to kill us.” After a beat she said, “Look, lady, I’m with Detective Murphy . . . yeah, Murphy . . . listen, we’re in a field—east of Highway 41, I think.”

  Jack spoke to her, “Tell them we’re headed for Interstate 164.”

  Before Moira could repeat the information, the engine made a loud rattling sound, and a cloud of steam rose from the hood.

  Moira shouted Jack’s instructions into the cell. Then he heard her saying, “Hello. Hello!”

  She punched some buttons and then looked helplessly at Jack. “The phone’s not working.”

  “Do you have your phone?” he asked.

  “Back at the cabin,” she said.

  “We’ve got to move,” Jack said as the Jeep rolled to a stop. “We’re going to head west.”

  He jacked a round into the shotgun’s breech. “I think we’re close to the interstate. We can flag someone down. Use their phone.”

  Jack could barely make out Moira’s face in the dark. He was worried whether Moira was up for this—both physically and mentally.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been shot in the face,” she said, “that’s how I feel. What do you think?”

  Anger was good.

  Moira pulled the handle but her door wouldn’t open. Jack pulled her out his side.

  “Don’t let go of my hand,” he whispered.

  She gripped his hand and they headed west. He looked back. The full moon was behind clouds and it was pitch-black. The killers could be five feet away and he wouldn’t see them. It was at least a mile to the interstate. All of the land around them was in the flood plain, but it was a dry summer and the ground was hard beneath their feet, which was good and bad. Good because it made walking faster, bad because everything was dry and each step made a crackling, crunching noise.

  They set off north. The going was slower than he wanted. Blackberry-bush thorns tore at their clothing and skin as they waded across the uneven terrain and after a short time he could tell Moira was beginning to tire. With each step he could feel her grip lessening on his hand. He would have to get her somewhere safe soon.

  He tried to remember the topography of the area. He had driven through here a zillion times, but had never paid much attention to things outside the car. The blackberry bushes on their left were probably growing along the edge of a drainage ditch. Checking the stars for direction were no good with the heavy cloud cover, but he spotted a faint light on the horizon ahead of them and to their left. If that was Evansville, that meant they were going in the right direction. He was about to point it out to Moira, to give her some hope, but before he could she spotted the top of a gabled roof not far ahead.

  “A house,” she said excitedly. “Maybe they have a phone.”

  Jack didn’t think anyone lived out here, but they headed in that direction. As they moved toward the structure, the clouds broke up and the moon peeked through enough to dash Moira’s hope. What she thought was a house turned into a broken-down farmer’s shed.

  The rotted building faced east. The doors were gone along with most of the roof and slats that made up the sides. What they had mistaken for a gabled roof were the bare trusses.

  Moira let go of his hand and slumped to the ground against an inside wall. As quietly as he could, Jack eased the slide back to eject a shell to check that it hadn’t been damaged in the wreck. Satisfied, he loaded the shell back in the feeder tube.

  “We’ll rest inside,” Jack said.

  “Do you think the police dispatcher heard me?” Moira asked.

  “You did good back there,” Jack said. He didn’t want to lie to her about their chances, but he didn’t want her to give up. The initial adrenaline rush had worn off and for her a mental and muscular fatigue had taken its place. He didn’t fool himself that he and Moira had been able to move as fast as two trained infantry soldiers. He wasn’t sure they were still being pursued, but if they didn’t keep moving, they would find out the hard way.

  Moira was sluggish and she could barely hold her head up. He didn’t want to leave her behind, but she would have a better chance if he did. He looked around the inside of the shed. Most of the wall slats were missing. The place looked like it would fall down at any moment. He had to make a choice.

  “Moira, I want you to stay here,” he said, and then heard a noise coming toward them.

  “Okay, change of plan. Let’s go,” he said. He tightened his grip on the shotgun. He pulled her to the back of the shed, and they squeezed between some slats and ran.

  Behind them, the roar of a heavy submachine gun fire was deafening and it pushed them harder. In just a few minutes they were stepping over the steel guardrails of the interstate.

  “Shut the hell up!” Book hissed.

  “But I don’t think they came this way,” Clint complained. He was feeling feverish again. His head was bleeding where he’d struck the windshield. Murphy was probably armed, and Book might have been wrong about Murphy and the girl heading this direction.

  They came to a wooden structure, and Book signaled for Clint to get down.

  “There’s something in there,” Book said, and brought his weapon up. He didn’t waste any time. He rushed the shed, chopping it to shreds with automatic rifle fire, while Clint stood back, prepared to engage any targets that emerged.

  Nothing moved. They advanced carefully, Book from the left, Clint from the right. Risking the flashlight, they saw it was empty.

  “Let’s get back to the truck. Murphy might h
ave called for help,” Book said.

  Clint would be glad to get back in the truck and not put any more weight on his injured leg.

  On the way back they encountered Murphy’s abandoned Jeep, and Book lost his temper.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He emptied a full drum of ammo, spraying the Jeep from front to back with his MP5 carbine. When the hammer clicked on empty, he started kicking the door.

  “We better go,” Clint said, and Book screamed in a rage that made Clint groan inwardly. They weren’t in the middle of haji land, where they could do anything they liked. They were operating in a world where people might be cowards, but they had cell phones.

  Two cars drove past without slowing as Jack stood dangerously out in the lane. He held his badge out in one hand, the shotgun in the other. As their headlights washed over him, the cars put on more speed.

  Moira sat on the guardrail, one hand to her face, the front of her clothes a bloody mess.

  “One of them is on their cell phone calling in about a crazy man with shotgun and a bloody woman,” she said.

  The way she said it made him laugh. And that brought a halfhearted chuckle from Moira.

  “Most likely,” he said. But the cynic in him said it was just as possible that the drivers were rushing home to put their experience on their Facebook page. The world had changed.

  A car’s headlights dawned in the west, and Jack could hear the engine slowing.

  The killers had somehow gotten back to their vehicle and guessed where Jack and Moira were headed. He lifted Moira from the guardrail, knowing there was no chance of escaping. He shoved her into a crouched position behind the rail and then stepped out in the open, the shotgun’s barrel lined up with the approaching car’s windshield.

  “Come on, you bastards!” he screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  As the car got closer Jack recognized it and lowered the shotgun.

  “Get in. I’m taking you two to the hospital,” Brooke insisted.