Death & the Redheaded Woman

by Loretta Ross

  Tyrone Blount shook his head in disbelief. Rope? The guy thought he could catch him with rope? Really?

  “It didn’t work, dumbass!” he yelled into the surrounding woods. “You hear me? Your lame-ass trap didn’t work!”

  Pulling a knife from his pocket, he leaned down and cut the rope. The loose end shot up, there was a rustling, rushing sound, and before he could even straighten up, the weight of a falling cargo net dropped him face-first into the loam.

  _____

  Wren pulled up and parked in the Campbell house driveway. She looked around, but there was no sign of Death. Getting ready for the big auction had been hot, dirty work. She considered going home to shower and change, but she didn’t want to keep Death waiting. There was a pack of antibacterial wipes in the glove compartment, so she settled for wiping off her face and arms and the back of her neck. She shook her long, red hair out and re-braided it neatly into the trademark plait she wore down her back. Dusting off her blouse and jeans, she decided she’d do.

  The Campbell house really was a beautiful old building. Spring sunlight shone down. The clapboard siding was very white in the light, the slate roof tiles very dark in comparison. Sunshine reflected off dusty stained glass in the oriel windows that circled the tower, contrasting the brightness of the day without and the shadows of the house within. A flag pole was set in brackets from the pillar that braced the roof of the verandah to the left of the main steps. An American flag flew from it now, hanging limp in the late-afternoon stillness.

  Once, she knew, that same flagpole had held the Confederate banner.

  Wren climbed the steps and stopped. There was a single purple iris taped to the door, a piece of paper wrapped around the stem. She took down the flower and smelled it appreciatively. She loved the scent of irises, not so much a perfume, really, but a light, earthy scent that she associated with spring and green and growing things.

  She unrolled the paper and found it covered with a sloppy scrawl.

  Wren,

  Come look in the secret entrance.

  Love, Death.

  With a bright smile and a spring of anticipation in her step, she unlocked the door and went in. Her footsteps rang on the wooden floor as she crossed to the morning room. The window seat looked just as it had the last time she’d seen it. Clutching her flower and already grinning, she released the catch that Death had installed and lifted the lid.

  Declan Fairchild sat up and pointed a gun in her face.

  She stumbled back, dropped the flower and turned to run. If someone pulls a gun on you, run, Death had told her. If you run, he might not shoot. If he shoots, he might not hit you. If he hits you, it might not be serious. If you just give in, you’re dead.

  She almost made it to the hall, but Martin Ten Oeck stepped into view, blocking the doorway. His nose was still swollen and red from his fight with Death, and twin black eyes, fading now to mustard yellow, gave him the look of a deranged raccoon. He was smiling brightly and toying with a knife. She heard Fairchild approaching from behind, heard the scuffle of soft shoes on parquet and felt a presence. Then something struck her on the back of the head and she fell into darkness.

  _____

  Death drove around Blount’s house and eased his Jeep off the dirt driveway and into the grassy field to the east. He knew from experience that Blount would resist, and he wasn’t dragging the little twerp any farther than he absolutely had to. He parked where the line of trees began and strolled casually down the hill. There was no need to hurry. If his trap had worked, Blount wasn’t going anywhere. If it hadn’t, he’d have to start over again anyway.

  He heard his quarry cussing before he topped the rise that overlooked the creek and grinned in satisfaction.

  Blount was stretched face-down under the heavy cargo net. He had a small pocket knife, but the weight of the net pinned him in such a way that he couldn’t move more than the tips of his fingers. He was sawing away at one of the strands, but couldn’t get enough force behind the blade to make a dent. It would take him hours, at the least, to cut his way out of this predicament.

  Figuring that his prisoner would be easier to handle if he exhausted himself, Death had come prepared to wait. Seating himself on the grassy bank, he swung a backpack off his shoulder and pulled out a sub sandwich and a bottle of water. This really was a lovely place for a picnic. Tiny violets dotted the grass like stars, dappled shadows moved over his skin as the trees tossed in a light breeze and the shallow creek burbled and sang across the rocks.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to come quietly,” he said. “There’s no hurry. I brought lunch.” He took a healthy bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a drink of water. When his mouth was empty he addressed Blount casually. “So, you secured your bail with a stolen truck. Were you really expecting that to work out for you, or are you just trying to get on one of those stupid criminal shows?”

  Blount cursed colorfully. “You just wait, you dirty sonofabitch! I’m gonna knock your goddamn head off. I’m gonna cut your balls off and shove ’em down your throat. I’m gonna kill you!”

  Death took his phone out. He had no reception out here, down in this hollow, but phones can be used for other things. “Sorry, could you repeat that?” he asked Blount.

  Blount obliged.

  Death clicked the phone off and tucked it back in his pocket. “Thanks. You do realize I’m going to give this to the DA?”

  “You can’t do that! You ain’t read me my rights!”

  “Um, yeah. Not a cop, remember? As far as I’m concerned, you don’t have any rights. I suppose I could make some up for you.” He thought about it while he ate. “You have the right to be a moron.”

  “What are you, some kind of comedian?”

  “If you could choose to give up the right to be a moron, we both wouldn’t be here. If you decide to exercise your right to be a moron, you can and will get your ass kicked.”

  Death finished his lunch and his bottle of water, tucked his trash carefully back into his backpack and looked at his watch. He stood and stretched. “Right,” he said. “I think that’s enough now. I want to get you back to town in time to get paid tonight.”

  He went over to the trapped man, set his foot on Blount’s fingers, and took the knife from him. Working through the spaces in the net, he handcuffed the man’s wrists together behind his back and tied a short length of rope around his ankles, hobbling him so that he could not run away. This was going to be the tricky part. He couldn’t get the Jeep any closer and he knew that he wasn’t physically capable of dragging Blount up the hill. He needed to get him on his feet and keep him on his feet and moving forward.

  He hunted around the underbrush until he came up with a couple of long, sturdy sticks. Then he carefully rolled back the netting, exposing only Blount’s left leg. He shoved one of the sticks up his jeans leg where it reached about halfway up his thigh. Then he tied it down at the top and the bottom, so that it kept Blount from bending his knee. He repeated the process with the other leg, then folded the net back the rest of the way and used more of the rope to fashion a harness around his chest.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Blount demanded.

  “Controlling you.”

  The sticks fastened to his legs like splints would keep him from folding up and sitting down, forcing Death to carry or drag him. The harness would allow Death to keep him from falling forward with minimal effort and Death would walk behind him, so he couldn’t fall backwards.

  Getting behind Blount, Death levered him to a standing position, then just stood a minute until he got his breath back under control. “Okay, now. March!”

  “Make me.”

  Death stooped and picked up another stick. He was developing a real fondness for sticks. Without a word, he poked it into the back of Blount’s right knee. Blount jerked reflexively and staggered forward, kept upright only by the rope harness Death held.

  “You can walk without getting poked or you can walk because of getting p
oked. It’s entirely up to you.”

  The trip up the hill was tedious and awkward, but uneventful. You couldn’t even really count Blount’s cursing, Death thought. He had a foul mouth, to be sure, but he lacked the range and inventiveness that Death, as a Marine, had come to expect from a good cussing out.

  Getting him into the Jeep was tricky. He put a folded tarp on the passenger seat before levering Blount up and in, remembering Ethan in Hagarson’s office. He made him sit sideways while he quickly removed the splints from his legs, then spun him around and fastened the seat belt across his torso, leaving his hands cuffed behind his back this time.

  Death’s cargo net was still back in the woods, but he would come back for that later. Circling the vehicle, he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the nose up the hill, in high spirits.

  “You don’t have to be so cheerful,” Blount snapped peevishly.

  “I’ve got every reason to be cheerful,” he said. “I’ve got a job well-done, a paycheck waiting and a pretty girl to spend it on.”

  _____

  Wren awoke slowly. At first the only thing she was aware of was that she was uncomfortable. She blinked slowly and her head pounded, starbursts of light exploding behind her eyes. When she tried to reach a hand up to her aching forehead she couldn’t move it. Thin stripes of pain closed across the back of her wrists, like too-tight bracelets. Her stomach roiled, but there was an uncomfortable force across her face and she couldn’t open her mouth.

  Breathing through the nausea, she took her time, sitting quietly with her eyes closed until her stomach steadied and the headache subsided. Cautiously, she cracked her eyelids open again, waited while her pupils adjusted to the light level, and then blinked the room into focus.

  She was still in the Campbell house, in the Naked Dead Guy Parlor, but the chair she was sitting in had come from the dining room. It was one of the straight-backed upright dining chairs—one of the ones with arms that had stood at the head and foot of the table. Her wrists were strapped to the arms with plastic zip ties. She could feel similar restraints around her ankles, though she couldn’t see how they were tied. Something was looped around her waist, tying her to the chair back, and there was a strip of duct tape across her mouth.

  Footsteps approached and she turned her head frantically, trying to see who was coming and from where. It took her addled brain several seconds to realize that the sound came not from behind her, but from in front of her and overhead. Two sets of footfalls were descending the circular staircase.

  “So this is where my little friend Flow bought it,” Declan Fairchild observed, casually. “Why on earth did you involve him, anyway?”

  “He was a fence. I figured he’d know how to sell the jewels if we found them. And I thought maybe you’d told him where you hid them.” Ten Oeck followed him.

  Fairchild snorted. “Obviously you don’t know me very well.”

  Ten Oeck was still playing with a knife, a butcher knife this time, its edge gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. “Just so long as you know me,” he said meaningfully.

  Fairchild had reached the bottom of the stairs and now he turned his attention to Wren. “Oh, look! Our little bird’s awake.” He came over to her, openly studying her face, letting his eyes roam over her body. He reached out and flipped loose the top three buttons on her blouse, baring the upper part of her bra, and leaned in to look down her shirt.

  She shuddered and gagged behind the duct tape.

  Fairchild loomed over her, straddled her suggestively. “You know, I was in prison for a long, long time.”

  She leaned back, trying to put space between them.

  He bent down and whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything to you. Yet. I want to wait until I have an audience.”

  She glanced fearfully at Ten Oeck and Fairchild laughed derisively and stood up. “Oh, him. He wouldn’t be any fun. He’s not interested in anything but cutting things. Though, he really does like cutting things. Don’t you Marty?”

  Ten Oeck smiled a creepy smile and walked around behind her, out of her line of sight. He laid one hand on her shoulder and his knife appeared in the corner of her vision.

  “Oh, yeah. I like cutting things. I like cutting things a lot.”

  _____

  Death swung down out of his Jeep and headed for Wren’s door with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. He paused to speak to Lucy and Thomas, but didn’t try to pet either of them, laden as he was. It took some fumbling to get out the key she’d given him and let himself in. When he did, he was surprised all over again by the sudden, welcome feeling of “home” that surrounded him.

  It sent a bittersweet pang through him, to the roots of his soul. He wanted this. He’d been so lonely for so long and this, a welcoming home and a warm woman to share it with, was everything he’d been dreaming of. He wanted it, but, for so many reasons, he didn’t dare reach for it.

  He wanted to talk to Randy. In all the months since his brother had died, he’d never yet missed him with such a powerful longing. Randy had been his sounding board. Death could share anything with him, and Randy would put it into perspective, give him whatever he needed, be it a pat on the shoulder or a kick in the ass.

  Without mentioning it to anyone, Death had swallowed his pride earlier and called the VA to ask for psychiatric counseling. The woman had put his name on a waiting list. He hadn’t asked, but he had a feeling it was a long list. He wondered how long Wren would let him hold her at arm’s length before she gave up on him and walked away.

  Wren’s truck was not out front and he figured she was probably still out at the auction site with the Keystones. He put her flowers in a vase with water, set a tub of gourmet ice cream in the freezer, and put a bottle of wine in the refrigerator to chill. He had just mixed up a marinade and put the two steaks he bought in it when Lucy set off on a sudden fit of angry barking.

  Frowning, he put the steaks in the refrigerator, wiped his hands on a towel and went to the front door.

  Lying on the top porch step was a clear plastic bag containing a sheet of paper and what looked, at first, like a coiled snake. He leaned down to look closer, then picked up the bag, his heart pounding in his chest and his blood running cold.

  It was Wren’s long, red braid, hacked off with a knife.

  With shaking hands he opened the bag and pulled out the paper and read the words printed there.

  The old Campbell house. Come alone. Come unarmed. No cops. You have twenty minutes and then we start finding other things to cut off.

  Tick. Tock.

  nineteen

  The last time Death saw his grandmother was the day he left for his last deployment.

  Death sped down the narrow back street, taking the most direct route he knew, completely ignoring speed limits. A small kitten was sunning itself in the middle of the street. It started when it saw his Jeep bearing down on it and dashed for the sidewalk, barely avoiding his rushing wheels. He was glad that it got out of the way. If he’d hit it, he would have felt bad, but he wouldn’t have stopped.

  He knew how Wren had felt, driving like a bat out of hell.

  He pulled the Jeep into the park next to the Campbell house, turned it off and practically fell out of it in his haste. A tall wooden fence ran around the perimeter of the park. Unless Wren’s captors (the note had said “we”) were watching from the second floor, he should be hidden from them. Keeping a low profile and ignoring the strange looks he was getting from a couple of young mothers over by the playground equipment, he crossed the park at a run and circled the fence to come at the Campbell house from the back, at an angle overlooked by only the tiny window in the pantry.

  The last care package he’d gotten from his parents had arrived in the mail the same morning they were killed.

  His heart was pounding, his head spinning and he found himself gasping for air. Only force of will and the knowledge that Wren was counting on him allowed him to slow down
for two precious minutes and just breathe. When he could see again and the gasping had subsided, he dropped down and belly-crawled across the lawn to come out under the verandah.

  He paused to look at his watch. He had eleven minutes, if they were true to their word.

  The ground under the verandah was dry and dusty. It hadn’t seen direct rain in well over a century and a half. He had to crawl clear around the house, keeping his head down so he didn’t knock against the floorboards and alert them that he was under here. On his left side, wooden lattice supported the lower branches of climbing roses and sweet pea and morning glory. The house was on his right. The foundation was made of big, rough-cut stones, a mixture of limestone and sandstone by the look of it. They were joined by thick strips of discolored mortar.

  On the east side, under the morning room, he found the sliding panel that led to the secret entrance. He looked at his watch. He had eight minutes to go.

  Crawling under the house, Death held his breath. He listened for any sound that would tell him anything, but everything was silent as a tomb. He found the place where the end of the window seat opened and pushed it in carefully. Gently, ever so gently, desperate to not be heard, he took his gun from his belt, made sure the safety was off, and slid it into the window seat. His phone followed. Then he closed the secret door and backed away.

  He Skyped with Randy last thing before he left on his final mission, never dreaming that within 48 hours his brother would be dead.

  He backed out from under the house, back out to the run beneath the verandah, and headed for the nearest opening. According to his watch, he had five minutes.

  Death left the cover of the verandah and ran for the nearest bushes in the Campbell house’s old, overgrown flower garden. He circled and came at the place from the front, not trying to hide now and not trying to disguise that he was sweating and out of breath.