The Kill Radius

by Nichole Christoff

  “See you two at the hospital,” I said.

  And with Barrett’s protests ringing in my ears, I scrambled over the cattle gate once again.

  Chapter 37

  From behind the stony remnants of a collapsed springhouse, I kept my eyes glued to the smoking char that had once been Eustace Brandon’s home. Nothing moved, except plumes of smoke drifting on the breeze. And nothing I could see resembled human remains.

  A few yards away, a rickety corncrib sagged as if its slotted walls would fall inward at any moment. But in the distance, where the sparse pine, sumac, and the occasional hardwood sapling had colonized a weedy barnyard, a long, low-slung structure stood. Its corrugated metal roof had rusted through in spots, and kudzu and other vines choked its every opening. But mesh metal vents, protruding at regular intervals from its wall like built-in box fans, were the big giveaway. This had been the barn that housed Eustace Brandon’s chickens, and it would be where I’d find Bran and Ray.

  I crossed the yard, finding cover from pillar to post, and at last dropped flat to the ridged wall of the metal barn. No sounds emanated from inside. Only the stench of long-gone chickens and their dung curled around me. Refusing to breathe through my nose didn’t stamp out the smell. But I gritted my teeth and ducked inside.

  Shafts of sunlight fell from filthy skylights and filtered through ancient dust motes that danced on the slight breeze. Rows of long wooden platforms stretched before me, supporting narrow wire cages where the farmer’s birds had spent their entire lives. The cages were caked with excrement and shed feathers and they reached to the roof above, and met the dirt floor below.

  I skirted the first and second aisles that cut down the middle of the barn, made my way to the third, where I could duck for cover behind decaying bales of straw if I had to. Rolling doors at the far end of the building drew me on. I came to the first set and found rat droppings and fermenting burlap bags of feed in a storage room behind them. The space past the second door was much the same. But the third was what nightmares were made of—because it had been the farmer’s slaughter room.

  A chill radiated from its concrete walls, and so did the smell of death. Blood, so old it was black, rimmed the drain in the floor. A grinding wheel, turned on end and ready to roll, stood at my elbow to sharpen hatchets or to dull the beaks of defensive birds. A soapstone chopping block squatted next to it, nicked and grooved. An empty vat balanced on its stand, waiting to boil water for blanching and plucking. And wooden crates, splintering now, were stacked at the end of the line for packing butchered birds since the time political parties promised a chicken in every pot.

  I nearly retreated from the room as quickly as I’d walked into it. But the toe of a boot, protruding from behind the crates, caught my eye. And in a flash, I crossed the concrete.

  Slumped in the hidden corner and close to unconsciousness, he was gagged and bound hand-and-foot like a hostage in a bank robbery. But he wasn’t Ray. He was Bran.

  Bran roused when I knelt beside him. With Barrett’s knife, I slit the rags that tied his feet, knees, elbows, and wrists. Sluggishly, he flexed his limbs, trying to work the circulation back into them. And because he couldn’t free himself from the gag caught between his teeth, I reached for it and tugged it over his head. And as I did, Bran’s eyes flew wide in warning.

  “Damn, kid. You weren’t supposed to get here yet.”

  Slowly, I pivoted on the balls of my feet. And found myself staring up at Bran’s snub-nosed revolver. The gun fit neatly in Ray’s hand and he trained it on my cranium.

  “Drop the knife,” he ordered.

  I did as he said. “Think you can shoot me with that snubby? Most folks can’t hit the side of a barn with a barrel that short.”

  But Ray’s aim didn’t waver. He sighed, rolling his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. And unlike the typical stogies he usually chewed throughout the day, this one burned bright with an orange coal end.

  Ray said, “You dump that military cop like I told you to?”

  “Are you worried the 405th Military Police Company will jump out of the woods at you?”

  “Not at all.”

  Without Ray’s permission, I rose from the floor. His eyes narrowed in a scowl. And his thumb ratcheted the hammer of the revolver.

  “Don’t make me kill you, kid.”

  “You won’t,” I assured him, though I didn’t feel overly confident about it. “What have you been up to, Ray?”

  “Me? I’ve been taking care of Corinne and I’ve been taking care of my son. Didn’t Corinne tell you? It’s going to be a boy. We’ve got a baby boy on the way.”

  “Congratulations.”

  At my feet, Bran sat a little straighter. He eyed the crates, slid his palm a little closer. If he forced an escape, I’d be ready.

  Ray said, “I never understood what Corinne saw in an old geezer like me. And when the baby comes along, well…That kid will need a future, even if my insides won’t let me live long enough to see it.”

  “Ray—”

  “She’ll come back to me, kid, don’t you worry. Nevis hasn’t got her. It’s like you said. He’d trade her if he could.”

  “What do you owe Nevis?”

  “A lot,” Ray replied.

  And his cigar bobbed at the corner of his mouth when he smiled.

  That’s when I knew Ray had lost his shirt. He wasn’t just into Nevis for a penny. He was in for a pound.

  And he’d do anything to shield his growing family from Nevis’s retribution.

  He said, “There’s nothing wrong with trying to grow your stake for the sake of those you love. Just never bet against the house.”

  I shook my head. “Nevis eats debtors for breakfast, Ray.”

  “He won’t bite me if I pay him off. It’s like I said: Your cop’s a good fellow. He’ll do what’s right. He won’t do what’s needed. But that’s what guys like me and your DEA agent are all about. I’ve been doing what’s needed.”

  “Like blackmailing Monique Wells?” It made sense to me now. “Bran wasn’t shaking her down. You sent him as your errand boy. And he didn’t want to get his hands on Nevis’s gotcha list to save her skin. He wanted it because you wanted it. Because you’re on it.”

  Bran picked that moment to surge to his feet. “You said going after that girl was debt collection! Like I’d done in the French Quarter!”

  Ray swung his pistol toward Bran, stopped him in his tracks.

  “I always liked you, boy. You’re one of the good fellows. You do what’s right. You’d be sure to take good care of Corinne when I’m gone. But you can’t have her.”

  “Ray.” I stepped in front of Bran, shielding him from Ray’s gun. “You can’t shoot your business partner in cold blood.”

  The .38 wobbled as Ray’s arm grew tired. Now, he was dangerous. He could put a bullet in my chest without meaning to.

  “You’re right,” he said, agreeing with me at last. “I can’t shoot him. That’s why I’m going to blow him up. Step outside, kid.”

  “No.”

  “Step. Outside.”

  Bran’s fingers closed over my shoulders. “It’s all right, Jamie girl. You go with Ray, now.”

  He gave me a gentle push toward the rolling door.

  I stepped through it, out of the slaughter room and into the barn, just to buy some time. But Ray stepped out after me. He dragged the door shut, sealing Bran in, and slammed the sliding bolt into its hasp.

  “You should’ve been my business partner, kid. You’ve got the brains and you’ve got the heart. I knew that before you pinched my old casebooks from the attic. And I knew it before I got an eyeful of you and your soldier in your hotel room the other night.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure I like your idea of a retirement plan.”

  Ray had been busy while I’d cut Bran loose from his bonds. A bundle of red sticks protruded from the mesh cages in the barn’s center aisle. More bundles dotted the racks on either side. Several of them featured l
ittle black blasting caps. And black wires ran from the caps, through the barn, and out the door.

  “Where’d you get all this dynamite, Ray?”

  “Bran’s dead uncle had it lying around in the storeroom here.” He waved the .38 at me, invited me to start marching. “Stupid teenagers could’ve found it anytime.”

  “Teenagers,” I said, “or Eddie Jepson.”

  “Eddie was a shit-rat. Could’ve killed himself carrying that dirty bomb Nevis came up with.”

  “Would’ve saved you the trouble.”

  Because Monique had known Ray was behind Bran’s money demands. So Eddie, with his soft spot for the girl, had confronted Ray about blackmailing her—and Ray had killed Eddie the moment he was released from the hospital. He’d stolen Bran’s gun to incriminate him in the murder, even swiped Bran’s things and left his lockbox open so I’d jump to that conclusion. To top it all off, Ray pointed the finger at Hunch Nevis by dumping Eddie in a Daisy Mae’s can. After all, when it came to Ray’s gambling debts, Nevis wouldn’t be shy about turning to Corinne for payback. And Ray would do anything for her.

  Anything at all.

  “Give me the gun, Ray. We’ll set Bran free. And I’ll take you to see Corinne.”

  We’d reached the barn’s gaping exit and the great outdoors. I stepped over the drag wires that ran to the blasting caps, noting with concern that Ray had hooked them into a box-like shot exploder already, and crossed into the blazing mid-morning sunshine. I turned to squint at Ray. His cardiac incident hadn’t been a full-on attack, but he was pasty from all this physical effort. Still, the gun in his hand shone like a star and the burning tip of his cigar rivaled the sun.

  He said, “I scared her, didn’t I, kid?”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “Well, she’ll have fewer worries when I’m through.”

  Ray kept his distance, kept the snubby on me, and circled wide to the shot exploder. The T-bar stood at attention, its internal battery ready to send a charge to the dynamite’s blasting caps when Ray plunged the bar toward the box. In the blink of an eye, the barn would blow sky high—and Bran would be blown along with it.

  “Come on, Ray. You can’t kill Bran. How would you explain it to Corinne?”

  “Don’t you see?” Ray demanded. He wrapped his fingers around the T-bar. The muscles in his shoulder tensed. “Blackmail, murder…he looks guilty as hell. I set him up to be the fall guy. The cops will never know otherwise and neither will Corinne.”

  “Yes, she will,” I said. “Because I’ll tell her the truth.”

  Ray scowled at me, his face changing from white to red to purple. The snubby vibrated in his hand. And his grip tightened on the blaster’s bar.

  I advanced on him, holding out a hand like a peace offering and closing the distance in an instant.

  “If you want to keep me quiet,” I said, “you’ll have to kill me, too.”

  Ray relinquished the T-bar. He nodded slowly. And aimed the gun at my heart with both hands.

  “Sorry, kid. Looks like that’s what I need to do.”

  Terror turned my will to iron. With a shout, I charged. I grabbed Ray’s wrists, shoved them skyward. The .38 fired once, twice, three times. My ears rang with the noise.

  Ray hooked my ankle with his heel, swept my leg from under me. I went down, dragging him with me. He landed on top of me, the gun still in his outstretched arms. His bulk threatened to crush me and I kicked out, connecting with the shot exploder instead of him.

  The machine toppled on its side, but, miraculously, the barn didn’t blow. Ray ripped a hand from my grasp. He had the gun in his grip.

  I snatched the glowing cigar from his lips.

  I stabbed its coal end in his eye.

  Ray shrieked like a banshee. He convulsed without will. The snubby discharged three more times.

  I jumped to my feet, kicked the weapon from his fist. Ray curled in on himself, screaming from his soul. The sound pierced my heart and chilled me to the bone.

  Men in gray descended on us. One slapped handcuffs on Ray’s wrists. Someone grabbed me as well, embraced me in a fierce hug.

  I knew the arms that held me. They belonged to Barrett. I clung to him, peered past his strong shoulder in wonder. He’d come back to the chicken farm for me. And he’d brought more sheriff’s deputies, state troopers, and SWAT team members than I could count.

  Chapter 38

  “Stay,” Barrett said to me, “for just a few more days.”

  But I didn’t think that was the best idea.

  After I’d given my statement to every investigator worked up about the explosion at Eustace Brandon’s chicken farm, the killing of bomber Eddie Jepson, and the blackmailing of Martha Wellesley, also known as Monique Wells, I’d tried to visit Ray. He’d been transported under guard for treatment at the nearest ER. But I didn’t reach him in time.

  The authorities had hauled him away.

  Ray had lost an eye because of me, but he’d lost his respectability on his own. All the signs of its slipping away had been there. But Ray had meant so much to me, maybe I hadn’t wanted to see them.

  When I got a call from April Callahan, I knew Ray might’ve lost Corinne as well. The shock of Ray’s arrest sent her into premature labor. And by the time Barrett and I rushed to her hospital room, Bran was at her bedside, holding her hand and her beautiful baby boy.

  When I fell asleep on the chair in Corinne’s room, Barrett insisted I call it a day. Alone in my room, I showered with the evening news rambling in the background and reveled when I learned the feds’ computer gurus had come up with enough evidence against Hunch Nevis and his bomb-maker to charge them with their crimes. This time, the judge they drew did not grant bail.

  I slept like the dead and woke the next afternoon thinking at least some things were right with the world—even if one of them wasn’t me. I couldn’t forget what I’d almost done with Marc after shutting Barrett down with a single sentence. Both of them deserved better than me.

  But I didn’t point that out to Barrett when he insisted on driving me to the airport as well as escorting me to my gate. The authorities allowed him through security without a boarding pass, out of deference to his uniform. And he sure looked good in uniform.

  “I need to go,” I told him, “for a lot of reasons.”

  Still, I couldn’t help but touch the maple leaf embroidered in the middle of his chest.

  “Will you come back for Ray’s trial?”

  I shrugged. It would take a subpoena to bring me back. Because Ray was guilty as hell, and with his kidneys and his heart making him as sick as he was, any sentence he received would be a death sentence.

  “I’ll call you,” I promised, “when I get home.”

  Barrett nodded.

  And despite army regulations against public displays of affection while in uniform, he kissed me slowly one last time.

  The final boarding call blared through the terminal, and without really wanting to, I left him where he stood. I made my way to the aircraft. I refused to let myself look back.

  The flight attendant who met me on the plane’s deck wasn’t the same one who’d welcomed me to Mississippi, but she was just as perky as her counterpart.

  “There’s been a change,” she said, glancing at my boarding pass, “in your seat assignment.”

  These things happen all the time, so I didn’t think twice about it—until she said, “You’ve been upgraded to first class. May I take your luggage?”

  She pulled the handle of my carry-on from my grasp and pointed me toward my new seat. Sure enough, it was on the expensive side of the magic curtain that separated folks willing to fork over extra money for their seats on the same plane as their counterparts. A gaggle of pretty flight attendants clustered around the spot, and when my smiling attendant led me there, I found out why.

  Marc Sandoval held court against the window, his swollen leg, bandaged from the knee down and tucked into a walking splint, resting comfortably on some
kind of hassock the cabin crew had found for him.

  A buxom blond flight attendant was scribbling something on the cocktail napkin on his fold-out tray.

  “Ah,” Marc proclaimed when he caught sight of me. “Here’s the lovely lady I’ve been telling you about. Say hello to Miss Sinclair.”

  “Hello, Miss Sinclair,” the flight attendants chorused.

  With wide smiles, they dispersed so I could slide into my seat, but I stood resolutely in the aisle.

  “There’s been a mistake,” I told Marc. “I’m not supposed to be in first class.”

  “You, babe, are first class all the way. You always have been.”

  “Yeah, well, I booked business class.”

  “So did I.” Marc reached for the plastic tumbler on his tray. The liquid in it gave off the peaty aroma of good liquor from the Scottish Highlands. Marc polished off the beverage in one smooth sip. “The kind souls who work this flight, however, couldn’t bear to see an injured public servant, such as myself, struggle to the back of this cramped sardine can and suffer all the way to the nation’s capital.”

  Marc had sustained that injury looking out for me. And it wasn’t the first time he’d put his life on the line for my sake, either. The truth of it made me uncomfortable, and frustrated, I dropped into the seat beside him.

  “What’s this?” I asked, tapping the inked digits the attendant had scribbled down for him.

  “This crew is based in DC. Tiffany lives in Ballston. She digs guys with guns and so do her roommates.”

  “Sounds like the basis for a meaningful life together.”

  “Or at least a sweaty weekend.”

  For some reason, the notion of Marc cavorting with an apartment full of stacked flight attendants irritated the hell out of me. Not that I was about to say so. I snatched the airline safety card from the pocket in front of me and turned my full attention to studying the diagrams.