Kill Devil Falls

by Brian Klingborg

  Clomp-jingle. Clomp-jingle.

  She lifted her torso upward until the tip of her head touched wood. She thrust her right arm deeper, scrabbled for a handhold through the opening. Her fingers touched something cold, metallic. She gripped it, pulled her head sidewise through the trap door.

  Fingers snatched at her pants.

  Helen screamed, kicked, felt impact. She wrenched herself upward, squeezed her shoulders, waist, legs through the trap door, rolled into the space above.

  “Wait!” Teddy shouted.

  She turned, wrapped her hands around the head of the pickaxe, still wedged beneath the trap door, and tugged it up and out. The door shut with a sharp THWACK!

  She collapsed on the cement, gasping for breath, her shoulders aflame.

  A sharp rapping came from below. The trap door popped up and down. Helen scooted away, panicked Teddy would crawl up from below like a gigantic malevolent spider.

  The door continued to jiggle violently and she heard Teddy grunt with effort. But after a few moments, the jiggling stopped. Teddy was taller than her by five or six inches. But she guessed he was too heavy, and lacked the upper-body strength to lift himself through the door as she had done.

  Helen reached into her coat pocket for her flashlight, quickly scanned her surroundings. A large room, cement walls, wooden support beams across the ceiling. Stairs leading up in one corner. Spools of electrical wire, woodworking tools, and machinery she could not immediately identify was shoved into corners. A basement. Probably beneath one of the empty houses on Main Street.

  The trap door opened a few inches, a yellow glow from Teddy’s flashlight bleeding through the crack. Helen saw the long barrel of his .357 snake under the door.

  She dropped the flashlight, snatched up the pickaxe, swung it across the gun. Teddy yelped in pain. The gun disappeared below and the trap door slammed down.

  Helen retrieved the flashlight. She needed something heavy to block the door. An aluminum ladder rested against the wall. Not weighty enough. She rejected the tools and machinery as too unwieldy. But there—the object she’d used as a handhold to pull herself into the cellar—a portable generator, on wheels.

  She attempted to move the generator, but it wouldn’t budge. She kneeled down, inspected its wheels, saw that the front two wheels were fitted with friction locks. Helen disengaged the locks, rolled the generator on top of the trap door. She engaged the right wheel lock.

  Teddy banged anew on the door, rattling it on its hinges. Helen reached for the left wheel lock. A hole exploded in the wood, ten inches from her fingers. She reared back, flattened herself on the cement.

  There were no more shots from below. After a cautious wait, Helen crawled back to the generator, engaged the wheel lock, then scrambled away.

  No telling what Teddy was doing down there. Grabbing one of those crates to boost himself up? Running for the mine exit? Whichever, Helen assumed it wouldn’t be long before he was topside again.

  She collected the pickaxe and climbed the basement stairs, encountering a closed door. She turned the knob, pushed the door open.

  Beyond was a short hallway. The house was silent, dark. It smelled like stale tobacco, sour milk, burned coffee, and old carpets.

  Helen crept down the hall and found herself in a small foyer. Behind her, stairs rose to the second floor. Directly ahead was a door leading outside, with a pair of old leather boots on the floor in front of it and a coat dangling from a precariously tilted coat rack to one side. On the left was a doorway—Helen shined her flashlight inside, saw that it was a kitchen. Empty cereal boxes, milk cartons, and dozens of beer cans littered the counter.

  The old guy, Yates, must live here.

  Helen was surprised Teddy’s gunshot hadn’t woken Yates up, but he’d seemed old and doddering in the restaurant—perhaps half deaf. She considered running upstairs, rousing him from bed, asking for his help. But she quickly discarded the idea. He was probably too infirm to be of much assistance. And she didn’t want him getting caught in the crossfire between her and Teddy.

  She thought about searching the house for a firearm but decided not to waste time. Teddy might, this instant, be coming through the trap door, or nearing the mine exit. She needed to hurry—get to the jail, free Lawrence. Maybe warn Frank and Mike. Get her hands on a loaded gun.

  As she grasped the knob to the front door, it occurred to her why no one had seen Yates enter the mine for the past few years. The old nut had built himself a secret shaft, leading to the mine, right in his own basement. Bless you, Yates, she thought. If you weren’t such a lunatic, I’d be dead now.

  She went outside. She found herself on a moonlit porch bordering a small front yard choked with scrub and weeds, and beyond it, a low wooden fence. She heard the distant rattle of the generator powering Frank and Mike’s trailer. Otherwise, Kill Devil Falls was dark and still.

  Helen walked down the porch steps, carrying the pickaxe over her shoulder. Woof-woof-woof-woof! A dog lunged around the side of the house, mouth wide, teeth snapping.

  Helen dropped the axe, sprawled on the grass. The dog sprang forward, in kill mode. But his snout jerked to a sudden halt, just inches from her throat. She scrambled away. The dog strained to reach her, his front legs furiously peddling in midair. Helen saw the leather collar around his neck, the sturdy chain holding him back.

  She retrieved the pickaxe, ran for the fence gate, pushed it open, ran down the sidewalk.

  The dog didn’t quit barking until she was well past the Trading Post. Exhausted, she slowed to a walk. Her head was beginning to throb again, but the cold night air was bracing after the stuffy, underoxygenated air of the mines.

  She passed vacant storefronts, derelict houses, Big Ed and Teddy’s red farmhouse. The jail was straight ahead, its single window dully glowing with lamplight, her Charger and Big Ed’s Explorer parked in front.

  When she reached the porch of the jailhouse, she leaned the axe against it and took a moment to catch her breath. Then she limped over to the Explorer, tried the door. It didn’t open. Of course it didn’t. She’d watched, earlier, as Big Ed locked it.

  She assumed both Big Ed and Teddy had a set of keys. Teddy’s were probably snapped into that loop on his gun belt. And Big Ed’s were with his body down in the mine.

  Helen shined her flashlight through the window of the Explorer. She spied the shotgun Big Ed had been toting around earlier, set upright into a stand between the two front seats. She considered smashing the window with the pickaxe, but even if she managed to get the door open, she’d still need keys to start the engine.

  Maybe there was spare key in the red farmhouse. But it would take time to find it, and she didn’t want Lawrence sitting in a cell, helpless if Teddy arrived. One such murder in a single evening was enough. She decided to free Lawrence, then search the house.

  She plodded back to the porch, hefted the pickaxe, climbed the steps. Now, facing the jail door with its thick strips of reinforcing metal, she remembered that Teddy had locked this one, too. And that key was also on his gun belt, too. Suck it!

  She heard the low murmur of a voice from inside. A male voice. Lawrence? Or was there someone in there with him? Couldn’t be Teddy. She slipped her flashlight into her pocket, put her hand on the wrought-iron thumb latch, pressed down. The latch clicked. The door wasn’t locked after all. She entered.

  The halogen lantern had been shifted from the floor in front of Lawrence’s cell to the mahogany desk. Both cell doors were closed, and she could see nothing of their interiors through the crisscrossed iron slats. It occurred to her that Lawrence might be dead drunk by now. Another complication she didn’t need. Perhaps providing him with that bottle hadn’t been the best idea, after all.

  She sniffed. Smelled skunk weed.

  The front door swung shut behind her. Frank emerged from the shadows.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” he said.

  Mike rose from where he’d been sitting on the floor beneath the front window. He touch
ed the brim of his cowboy hat.

  “Marshal,” he said. “You partners with old Yates now?” He nodded at the pickaxe in her hand.

  Helen never expected she’d be glad to see these two, but she was. Overjoyed.

  “Oh, thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said. “Teddy … he’s … he just killed Big Ed. And he tried to kill me!”

  Frank laughed and shook his head. He took a seat on the corner of the desk. Helen noticed a .12 gauge shotgun lying beside the lantern.

  “You don’t believe me?” she said.

  “Oh, I believe you. Where is he now?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know. In the mine. But he’ll be above ground soon. We need to get the hell away from here.”

  Lawrence whispered hoarsely from the darkness of the rightmost cell. “Don’t trust them.”

  “Pay him no mind,” Frank said. He held a fat joint between his fingers. “He’s wasted on that bottle of booze you give ’im.”

  “They’re part of it,” Lawrence said. “They’re in it together, with the deputy.”

  Mike walked over and planted himself in front of the door. Helen saw a pistol sticking out of his pants.

  Helen read it in their faces. What Lawrence said was true.

  Frank exhaled smoke, tossed the joint on the floor, went for the .12 gauge.

  Teddy quickly realized he wasn’t getting through the trap door. Not without a stepladder. And shooting the crap out of it wasn’t going to accomplish a darn thing.

  Okay, no big deal. The marshal wasn’t going anywhere. He and his dad had the only keys to the Explorer. Her Dodge Charger was out of commission, as was every other vehicle in Kill Devil Falls apart from Lawrence’s car. And he’d already snatched Lawrence’s keys when he and the marshal were searching the grandmother’s house earlier.

  That left Rita and Lee Larimer’s cars. Probably hidden in the brush off the access road. Hard to find in the light of day, let alone the dark of night. If the marshal was going to leave town, it would be on foot. Plenty of time to deal with her later.

  He retraced his steps down the tunnel to the ventilated chamber.

  If the Lord Jesus had appeared in his dreams, green laser lights shooting from his eyes, and said “GET READY” because “A CHANGE IS A-COMING,” well … Teddy would’ve woken up laughing into his pillow.

  And yet … here he was. Rita dead. His dad dead. With a bag of cash. In the span of less than twelve hours, his whole world turned upside down.

  He dropped the duffel bag on the floor of the chamber, took a seat on it, rested his legs. A bottle of water would be nice. Even better, a cold Coors Light straight from the fridge, condensation beading on the can. His dad always had a six-pack or two chilling at home. He’d grab a few when he got back to the red farmhouse.

  It didn’t seem real yet. All the years of yes sir, no sir, the comments about his weight and intelligence, the disrespect, the jeers, from his own father. Big Ed had it coming, nobody could argue that.

  Teddy wiped his hands on his pants, pushed himself to his feet. He marched over to the stack of dynamite crates. The Coors Light would have to wait. There was lots of work to do.

  Helen dropped her pickaxe and drew the Taurus. “Don’t move!”

  Frank’s fingers halted inches from the shotgun.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “They were talking about what they wanted to do to you,” Lawrence said.

  “I told you, he’s drunk,” Frank said.

  “They said they were going to rape you, both of them at once,” Lawrence hissed. “They argued over who was going to take which end.”

  “Shut your trap,” Frank snarled.

  Mike slid his hand closer to the pistol in his waistband. Helen tracked left with the Taurus.

  “Hands on your head. Both of you. Right now.”

  Frank slowly complied. Mike put his fingers on top of his cowboy hat, as if to keep it from blowing off on a windy day.

  “You killed Rita,” Helen said.

  “How could we?” Frank said. “We was all in the restaurant. With you.”

  True. Teddy, Frank, Mike—they’d all been at the restaurant. Still—they were after the money. And somehow or another, they had a hand in Rita’s murder. She was sure of it.

  “How did you get in here?” Helen asked.

  Obviously, they had a key. Perhaps the one that had gone missing from the cabinet in the red farmhouse?

  “Just put down that gun,” Frank said. “Before you do something you’re gonna regret.”

  “Marshal, my arms is getting tired,” Mike said.

  “On your knees,” she said.

  “Is that how you like it?” Frank said. “A man on his knees? You’re a real ball-buster, ain’t you? You one of those man-hating bull dykes? What do you think, Mike?”

  “Don’t know, Frank. Sounds about right.”

  “Down!” she yelled in her best cop-voice. “Right fucking now!”

  “Or what?” Frank said.

  “Or I’ll shoot.”

  “I’ll tell you something funny, pretty lady,” Frank said. “Before, when Teddy and you stopped by the trailer? He told us you was putting it all together. About Rita, the money. And because of that, we was gonna have to make sure you didn’t leave town. You know. Ever.”

  Mike took his fingertips off his hat, started to drop his arms.

  “He told us something else, too,” Frank said. “Want to know what it was?”

  “No,” Helen said.

  “He said you ain’t got no rounds in that gun.”

  15

  HELEN HURLED THE TAURUS at Frank. He raised a meaty forearm, a split-second too late. The gun bounced off his forehead.

  She leaped at Mike. He fumbled for the pistol in his pants. Helen hit him with a right cross, jarring her wrist. Mike fell back against the jailhouse door. Blood poured from his nose.

  Helen pressed her shoulder into him, trapping his right hand, the one grasping the pistol, between their two bodies, preventing him from pulling it free of his pants. She aimed a fist between his legs but he shifted, so her fist bounced off his thigh.

  Frank attacked from behind, wrapping a forearm around Helen’s neck, pulling her away from Mike. She fought Frank’s wrist to prevent him from locking on a choke, but he was much too strong. She struggled, feeling Frank’s breath on her wounded ear, the scratch of his stubbly chin on the nape of her neck.

  Mike wiped his nose, looked at the blood on his fingers.

  “You fucking bitch.”

  His hat was on the floor. He bent down to pick it up. Helen kicked him in the face. Frank hauled her two steps backward, squeezed her neck more tightly. He didn’t know how to properly apply a blood choke, but the edge of his forearm dug painfully into her windpipe. She flailed.

  “Mike don’t like to bleed,” Frank hissed. “Now, you’re gonna get it.”

  Mike, crimson with rage, cocked a fist. Helen kicked him in the stomach as he stepped forward. Her windpipe was on fire. She needed a weapon to free herself from Frank’s grasp. She dropped her right hand to her waist, reached under her coat. Her fingers touched a cylinder on her belt. She tugged it out.

  Mike spat blood on the floor, drew his pistol, leveled it at her face. His knuckle was white on the trigger.

  Frank’s head was directly behind Helen’s, in the line of fire.

  “Don’t shoot, dumbass!” Frank yelled. He leaned to the side, away from the gun muzzle, forcing Helen to lean with him.

  Mike’s mouth and nose were a red wet mess. His eyes bugged from their sockets. He was beyond reason. He continued to track Helen with the pistol. She sensed he would pull the trigger, Frank be damned.

  She lifted the cylinder, shot a burst of pepper spray into Mike’s face. He immediately clapped both hands over his eyes. Helen turned the nozzle, directed it over her shoulder, shut her eyes tightly, fired off another burst. The canister was nearly empty and produced only a small puff of spray, but it was enough. Frank released her, roare
d.

  Helen coughed as pepper particles irritated her throat.

  Mike was on all fours, gun dropped and forgotten. Helen picked it up, whirled.

  Frank raised the shotgun, one-handed. His left eye was swollen, gluey tears leaking down his cheek. His right eye sighted down the barrel.

  Helen jumped. The shotgun roared, blowing a chunk of wood from the jailhouse door. Helen took cover behind the huge mahogany desk. Mike continued to sputter on the floor.

  Helen raised the gun blindly over the top of the desk, pulled the trigger. She heard metal shriek as the bullet hit the iron slats of one of the cell doors. Lawrence screamed. Frank dived behind opposite side of the desk.

  Helen huddled there, watching Mike retch.

  “Well, this is one hell of a pickle!” Frank yelled.

  She and Frank were separated by five feet of solid wood, but she was on the side facing the front door, through which she expected Teddy to enter at any moment.

  “Throw out that gun,” Frank said. “And I’ll let you run for it.”

  Helen didn’t reply. She examined the bottom of the desk, hoping it was raised off the floor on legs so she could aim a bullet underneath it. No such luck.

  Mike coughed and spat, wiped at his swollen eyes with a sleeve. Helen aimed the pistol at him.

  “Frank, toss the shotgun or I’ll shoot Mike.”

  Mike glowered at her through puffy lids, resembling a boxer after a twelve-round ass-kicking.

  “Can’t do that, Marshal,” Frank said.

  “I’m not bluffing, Frank.”

  “I believe you. Go ahead and shoot, but you ain’t getting my gun.”

  “Frank!” Mike croaked.

  “Sorry, buddy. If I toss her the gun, we’re done for. If I don’t, only you are done for.”

  Helen heard the clomp-clomp-clomp of boots on the porch.

  “Mike,” she said. “Get up and bolt the door.”

  Mike dabbed at his eyes. “Fuck you.”

  “Now,” she said. “Or you’re dead. This gun is loaded.”

  Heavy footsteps stopped outside the doorway. Mike flipped Helen the bird.