by Vivien Sparx
“If this is a network run by Dodd and the sheriff, it’s unlikely the deputies from the diner are involved. This is the sort of thing they would keep to themselves,” Stone said. “So my guess is the two deputies are clean.”
More silence. Lilley and Stone frowning. Lilley seemed lost in her own thoughts. Stone’s mind was working on a plan.
“I need to take a look at the driveway alongside the police station,” he said at last. “I need to see whose cars are there. ‘What kind of car does Dodd drive? Do you know?”
“Sure,” Lilley said, seeming to be drawn back to the conversation from a long way away. “A white Taurus.”
Stone was surprised. He hadn’t figured Dodd for a Taurus owner. “And the sheriff?”
Lilley shrugged again. She had changed into jeans and t-shirt. Shrugging the way she did kept drawing Stone’s attention to her breasts. “He drives a Crown Vic police car,” she said. “It has a black nudge bar on the front.”
Stone nodded. The cars the deputies had arrived at the diner in were Crown Vic’s too – but Stone hadn’t remembered seeing nudge bars on the front of either car.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to the police station to take a look around. “If Dodd and the sheriff are the only ones there – as I suspect they are – then I’m going to need to separate them. I can’t take them both at once. I need Dodd isolated, and then I need to deal with the sheriff.”
“How, Jack? How will you do that?”
Stone shrugged. “One thing at a time,” he said elusively. “The first step is to see who is at the station. The second is to take Hank Dodd down. The third step is to confront the sheriff.”
Lilley sat back in the darkness and her voice was small and almost fragile in the night.
“What do you want me to do?”
Stone tuned to her. He smiled.
“Get your cell phone,” he said. “I need you to phone someone for me.”
Twenty-Seven.
Stone walked back to the station, leaving Lilley parked up on the roadside, and out of danger. As he walked, Stone sensed a looming change in the world around him. He glanced up at the sky. The slice of moon was blanketed in dark cloud, making the night heavy and black, and there was a kind of charge in the air – a kind of electricity. Stone kept walking, eyes on the ground in front of his feet, but his senses heightened.
He heard a distant rumble of thunder that seemed to roll across the sky and shake the air. The world seemed fraught with the fury that was gathering. The cloud front was boiling overhead, racing across the night sky from the west and dragging a skirt of cold damp air beneath it. It swept past Stone, and the sudden plunge in temperature made him shiver. Then, with a wild shriek, the wind was upon him, flattening his shirt against his chest, and turning the air into a driving spray of sand and loose gravel.
Stone lowered his head, walked on into the night. In the distance, veiled by the dust-filled wind he could see the glow of a light at the police station. He walked faster. A bolt of lightning ripped the clouds apart in a wicked jagged flash of blue. Stone counted. Three seconds later came the shuddering bass rumble of a thunderclap, seeming to sound directly overhead in an avalanche of sound that numbed his eardrums.
The entrance to the police station was lit by a single fluorescent strip light. Stone edged off the road, cutting into the soft sand and scrub. He approached the building from the side and saw a dense, solid mass of black as he grew closer.
The property line was marked by a solid red brick wall, maybe six feet high towards the rear of the police station, and gradually stepping down towards the front. He approached with no real concern for stealth; the howling wind and the looming storm clouds covered the sight and sound of him.
He approached the wall and went slowly towards the front of the property until the bricks stepped down two rows and suddenly he could see over – and into the grounds of the police station. Just a few feet away, parked on a concrete driveway were three vehicles; a Crown Vic police car, the white Taurus of Hank Dodd, and finally the old Dodge flatbed he had seen less than an hour earlier parked across West Street. The Dodge was the last vehicle to have arrived. That meant the sheriff and Hank Dodd had been there for some time.
Stone looked beyond the vehicles to the side wall of the station house. He could see a light in a window. A dull glow behind closed blinds. The window was near the front of the building, maybe the sheriff’s office. There was an awning over the window.
Stone could picture the scene inside the station; the sheriff leaning back in his big office chair, behind a wide desk while Dodd hunched forward, urgent and angry. He could imagine the two guys from the flatbed truck standing back in the corner, waiting for instructions. Or maybe the guy with the leg wound stretched out on a bench somewhere with the big guy trying to stem the flow of blood. He pictured the sheriff jangling keys and unlocking the weapons locker, handing out shotguns and giving orders to hunt Jack Stone down and kill him.
Only they didn’t know Jack Stone was hunting them.
Stone turned his attention back to the scene in front of him. The Dodge in the driveway meant that one or both of the gunmen were probably inside. He didn’t know how badly Lilley had wounded the guy with the pistol. He was either inside with his partner, or he was on his way to the hospital at Rapture. So that meant three, or maybe four men.
He needed to separate them. He needed a diversion.
He wanted Dodd out of the way.
And then he wanted the sheriff alone.
He watched and waited for several minutes with the absolute patience of the predator, then he followed the wall towards the road until it had finally stepped down in height to waist level. He went over it. Landed quietly in a crouch. Crept back down the driveway and looked inside the shattered passenger window of the flatbed.
There was broken glass everywhere. It was littered across the torn upholstery of the bench seat, and he could see glittering pieces like tiny diamonds down in the foot well. The truck was old. It smelled of greasy oil and stale tobacco – and fresh blood. He eased the door handle up and pulled the door open slowly. The old door groaned wide on rusted squeaking hinges. Stone grimaced. Froze. Waited for the count of twenty. Saw no sign of movement from inside the building. Saw no new lights coming on, and heard no sudden sounds of alarm.
He stepped up onto the running board and then hoisted himself across the seat until he was in behind the wheel. There was a crumpled packet of Camels on the dashboard next to a pocket-book of matches. Stone smiled and stuffed the matches into his pocket. Why do half a job when I can do it properly?
The key was still in the ignition. It was sticky with blood.
Stone counted slowly to three – enough time to rehearse in his mind the next few minutes of action.
Outside the storm was finally breaking. It began to rain. Fat heavy drops splashed against the windshield, and the wind gave one long last shriek of warning – and then rain filled the sky. Not just a shower – a downpour.
Stone turned the key. The Dodge wheezed, coughed, and then came alive. The whole cabin shuddered. Stone revved the engine then threw the truck into reverse. It juddered back out through the driveway, the rear tires spinning and bouncing as they fought for traction on the smooth wet concrete.
The truck came out onto Main Street backwards like it had been shot from a cannon. It careered across both lanes, and Stone slammed on the brakes. Stomped down on the clutch, crunched the truck into gear. Bounced back over the footpath in front of the police station in a big looping turn, and then aimed the truck at the window of ‘Stan’s Bar’ directly across the road.
“This is gonna hurt,” he said.
He floored the accelerator and the old truck leaped forward, gathering momentum quickly. Stone held the wheel, braced his arms, tensed his body. Gritted his teeth and prepared for the impact.
The truck mounted the curb, the engine howling. Stone was hurled forward. The steering wheel dug into his ribs, but he held on, kept h
is foot planted to the floor and the truck kept on going. It surged across the sidewalk, clipped a park bench, tearing off one of the fenders, and then hammered into the front of the bar in a suicidal explosion of glass and brick and timber and engine block.
Stone felt his body thrown forward and heaved up at the same instant. He felt the top of his head crack against the roof of the cabin, and then he was being hurled back into the seat. The windshield folded in on him, and the steering wheel kicked out of his hands, twisting savagely. He could taste the warm coppery tang of blood in his mouth and the air was thick with dust and fumes.
He groaned.
The truck had crashed through the low brick wall and brought the shop-front window shattering down on top of it. The timber door had been smashed to pieces as the truck impaled itself three feet into the building.
Stone shook his head, ignored the fierce pain, and lay down across the bench seat. He tucked his legs until his knees touched his chin, and then kicked out at the driver-side of the truck. The door flew open, smashed back against its hinges and then sagged. Stone heaved himself upright and clambered out of the wrecked cabin.
He could hear shrill alarms sounding in the background. Probably the security systems of surrounding shops that had been triggered by the crunching collision. He scrambled down into the wreckage and went to the bar. Broken glass and shattered shards of brick and timber crunched underfoot.
He found a bottle of brandy on a glass shelf behind the bar. He smashed the bottle against the edge of the counter-top and spilled the contents over the timber. Fumbled with the pocket book of matches and set the whole thing alight.
The bar went up in flames with a ‘whoomp!’
Stone knew he only had seconds. He smashed more bottles open and emptied the contents on the carpet, then threw a bottle of tequila against the far wall. It shattered.
The fire spread quickly, leaping flickering fingers of flame that glowed bright orange in the dark blackness of the night. The timber burned quickly. Fire leaped up the walls, finding the seams between the paneled boarding and climbing up them. When the flames reached the sagged structure of the ceiling they paused, and then arced hungrily outwards. Night air was sucked into the building, feeding the fire, fanning the flames. Stone stood and watched, wasting precious time, but he wanted to be sure. He waited until the flames had spread across the carpet, and the whole building was engulfed.
He pushed and heaved his way through the tangled wreckage until he was back outside, standing on the footpath, in the cool of the night, leaning heavily against the flatbed truck.
Twenty seconds, he guessed.
Stone glanced the length of Main Street. Saw no signs of activity. Turned and stared at the police station. Saw the front door coming open and shadows under the porch light. He turned away quickly. Stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders. He walked back along Main Street towards the narrow alley where he had waited patiently for the out-of-towners just hours before.
It was raining hard.
Stone was limping.
And he was smiling a cold vengeful smile.
Twenty-Eight.
Stone counted slowly to one hundred and then stepped back out of the alley. The bar was an inferno; fire licking up through the roof of the building and smoke billowing into the dark sky. It was still raining, but the fire was too intense and fed by too much fuel to ever be doused.
Stone walked out into the middle of the road. A crowd of people had gathered, all standing in the rain, all just staring at ‘Stan’s Bar’ burning to the ground.
Maybe twenty, maybe twenty-five people just standing around, helpless to do anything but watch. There were others on the far side of Main Street, sheltering under awnings. The fire reflected everyone’s face to flickering shades of yellow.
Stone didn’t look at the blaze. Stone looked at the crowd. Closest to the flames, and edging closer in a rage of impotent frustration, was Hank Dodd. Back from him, mixed amongst the other bystanders, Stone recognized the big guy who had been at the bar, and who had been driving the Dodge – and who had been firing the shotgun.
Stone stared into the crowd of people for long seconds. He couldn’t see the other man.
He joined the fringe of the group, crabbed sideways. Worked his way closer and closer to the big guy until he was standing behind him. Stone ripped Lilley Pond’s pistol out of his jeans and shoved the cold hard barrel into the man’s back.
The man froze.
“If you make a sound, if you do anything to raise the alarm, I will blow your spine clean through your body. Understand?”
The guy nodded. Started putting his hands up in the air. Stone jabbed the barrel of the pistol harder into his back.
“Put your hands down,” Stone hissed. “Start walking backwards. Do it slowly – or it will be the last thing you do.”
The guy began to edge away from the bystanders, walking backwards. Stone kept the gun in the man’s back. When they were clear of the group, Stone steered him down along the dark side of Main Street until they were standing alone and out of view.
“Turn around.”
The guy turned. He was a big man, but all gut. He had a grey scraggly beard and long grey hair in a ponytail. Looked like the fat kind of middle-aged guy who wears leathers and rides a Harley on the weekends. He was wearing a sleeveless denim vest covered in sewn-on badges over a black t-shirt. Stone could see tattoos up the side of the man’s neck. Stone stood three steps back, giving himself enough room. He was far enough to dissuade the guy from making a lunge for the gun, close enough to strike before the guy could react.
“Where’s your friend?” Stone asked. “The guy with a slug in his thigh?”
“Rapture,” the big guy said, his face a sneer. “The hospital.”
Stone nodded.
The guy bristled with defiance and attitude. He was a big-old boy who had probably become accustomed to being one of the local enforcers around town. His size was intimidating. Stone figured he was two-ninety, maybe three hundred pounds. He had massive meaty fists, but no condition. That had gone long ago when the muscle in his chest and shoulders had begun to go soft and slide down to become the huge swell of gut that now strained against his t-shirt. But he probably still figured he was a hard man. Stone was about to show him otherwise.
“You know a man named Harper?” Stone asked.
The big guy shook his head.
“Know anything about the girls who were kidnapped?”
The big guy’s face twisted into a hostile growl. “Fuck you, boy!” He took half a step forward, expecting Stone to lift the gun up into his face and force him to backtrack. But Stone didn’t. Stone lowered the gun and smiled.
The big guy balked in surprise – just for a second.
Stone stepped in and hit the man hard with a straight punch that crashed into his face.
The big guy recoiled. His legs went wobbly. But he was massive, and he had a lot of weight behind him. Too much weight to be put down by a single punch. He dragged the back of his hand across his face, looked down at the blood that was there and glared in outrage.
Stone didn’t have long. He really wanted to take this guy apart. He had shot at him – and he had shot at Lilley. Stone wanted to disassemble him piece by piece, but he knew there was still Hank Dodd to deal with, and he knew he didn’t have long before the fire brigade arrived from Rapture, and the crowds around the burning bar began to drift away, taking away his cover.
Stone feinted a punch by rolling his left shoulder. Waited for the guy to react. He did. He shifted his weight back, like he was swaying out of reach of the blow that was never swung. Instantly, Stone went forward, kicking out hard with his foot, just like he had to Hank Dodd’s front door. The kick landed flush against the guy’s left knee. The man screamed in pain and went down like a felled tree.
The guy groaned in agony. He was lying on the ground, writhing and gasping. Stone kicked the man again, sinking his boot into unprotected ribs. The man je
rked away. His upper body was on the sidewalk, his legs in the gutter. Stone didn’t hesitate. He stomped on the guy’s knee, breaking the kneecap so his leg folded backwards, and smashing everything inside that a man needed to walk.
The man screamed out in pain and then went suddenly very quiet, whimpering and sobbing, his face screwed up into a mask of terrible torture.
Stone crouched over the man. Clamped his hand over the guy’s mouth. Hard.
“Shut up,” Stone warned him. “If I hear another sound out of you I’ll come back and do the same to the other knee. Got it?”
The guy’s eyes went wide. He nodded.
Stone stood up. Headed back to the crowd in the middle of Main Street. Just left the guy there to bleed in the rain and never once looked back.
Twenty-Nine.
If anything the fire was more intense, and yet when Stone returned to the bystanders gathered in the rain in the middle of the street, they had curiously edged closer to the blaze.
Stone looked for Dodd. Couldn’t see him. He frowned. He cast a glance over his shoulder. The strip light above the entrance to the police station was still on, but he saw no movement.
He turned back to the fire. The truck was burning, the whole building’s structure was charred or ablaze.
“Where’s Hank Dodd?” he asked from the back of the group, anonymous.
“In there,” an old man standing next to Stone answered. Pointed at the burning bar.
“In the bar?”
The old guy nodded. He had a leathery brown face, creased and wrinkled like a road map from too many summers in the burning sun. The pouring rain had soaked the few remaining strands of grey hair to the old guy’s head so he looked almost bald. “Crazy,” he said. He eyed Stone up and down, frowning like maybe he was trying to place him in his memory and coming up blank. “But he wouldn’t listen to reason. Went in to try to recover the money in the safe.”
“In the bar?” Stone asked again. His voice sounded incredulous, because that’s just how he wanted it to sound. But he wasn’t. He just wanted to make sure.