Kill Devil Falls

by Brian Klingborg

  Helen aimed at the door, fired. A bullet thudded into the oak.

  Mike scrambled to his feet, ran for the hallway leading to the guard room. Helen squeezed off a round, hit him between his shoulder blades. Mike lurched, fell onto his face.

  Frank popped up, blasted the corner off the desk just above Helen’s head. A slug ripped a deep divot into the floor. He resumed his cover behind the desk. Helen pulled her legs in, squeezed herself into a little ball.

  If Teddy came through the door, she’d be caught between his .357 and Frank’s .12 gauge.

  She inched over, fired a round down the front side of the desk. She heard Frank’s boots scrape as he shifted away. She quickly rolled to the opposite side of the desk.

  Frank was a big man, and although the desk was five feet long, it wasn’t particularly deep from front to back. As she peered around the desk corner, she spied the edge of Frank’s boot poking out. She lined the toe of the boot up in her sights.

  The jailhouse door popped open, admitting a rush of cold air. Helen stayed focused on her target, squeezed the pistol’s trigger. Leather exploded. Frank screamed.

  Helen spun around to cover the door. She saw only an empty rectangle of nighttime sky. No Teddy. But he was there, probably skulking just to one side or the other. She couldn’t stay here. Had to make a move. Take a chance.

  She got to one knee, hand touching the floor, a modified sprinter’s stance. She pushed off, sprinted for the hallway leading to the guard room. Frank, cursing, scrambled to get a shot off. A lead slug cut across the shoulder of Helen’s coat, blew a crater in the wall. She jumped over Mike’s body and turned the corner, out of Frank’s line of fire.

  She pressed herself flat against the hallway wall, took a breath, focused on slowing the runaway freight train in her chest. She looked down at the gun in her hand, seeing it clearly for the first time. It was a Sig Sauer, .380 automatic. A clip capacity of just six bullets. She wasn’t sure how many she’d already fired. Was it four? Five?

  From this vantage point in the hallway, she had a visual of the window, which was directly opposite Lawrence’s cell. Anyone looking through the window could see her, unless she retreated toward the guard room, into the shadows where the halogen lantern’s light didn’t reach.

  “You out there, Teddy?” Frank called. Helen pricked her ears. She heard Teddy’s voice coming from the porch.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “She shot me in the foot.”

  “Coulda been worse.”

  “Fuck you! She shot Mike, too!”

  “Dead?”

  There was a beat, then Frank said, “Looks like. She’s around the corner, by the guard room.”

  Glass shattered and a gun barrel poked through the metal bars of the front window. Helen sprang down the hallway as Teddy fired. A bullet thumped into the wall.

  “You get her?” Frank yelled.

  “Don’t think so. Can’t see, too dark.”

  “Sonofabitch!”

  “She ain’t going nowhere, Frank. We got her trapped.”

  “Why don’t you limpdicks come and get me!” Helen yelled.

  “I ain’t sitting here all night, Teddy!” Frank said. “I’m leaking all over the floor.”

  “I got an idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Walk out the door.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll cover you through the window. She’ll have to show herself to get you. If she does, I’ll shoot her!”

  Helen’s mind raced, seeking a way, no matter how slim, to turn the tables on Frank and Teddy. With one bullet versus whatever arsenal Teddy might bring into play, the odds sucked. But if Frank ran out onto the porch, she might be able to get the door closed and either lock it from the inside or block it with something heavy, like the mahogany desk. The jailhouse was a solid piece of architecture. Short of a sledgehammer or dynamite, once the door was secured she could hold any number of attackers off, indefinitely.

  Unfortunately, she happened to know where Teddy might get his hands on enough dynamite to level the entire structure, but first things first. Survive the next five minutes. There’d be plenty of time later to worry about all the other ways Teddy and Frank could kill her.

  She heard a clatter and an uneven stomp-drag as Frank left the cover of the desk and limped across the wooden floor. She knew Teddy would be gunning for her, but it was hard to hit a moving target with a pistol, especially when it was poking through metal bars with a narrow range of fire.

  She jumped from the hallway, shot at the window, sprinted for the open door. Teddy’s return fire whizzed through the air a few feet behind her. She reached the door, slammed it shut, felt a body thump against it from the outside. She frantically searched the back of the door, discovered a sturdy slide bolt and rammed it home.

  The door vibrated violently as Frank pounded on it. Helen sank to the ground, sucked in a lungful of air, choked as a stray particle of pepper spray found its way into her lungs. Even if Frank and Teddy still had the skeleton key, it would be useless now. She was safe. For the moment.

  The pounding stopped. Outside, Teddy and Frank talked, their voices a low rumble.

  “Lawrence,” she whispered.

  A muffled “Marshal?”

  “Are you hit?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How can you not know? Either you are or you’re not.”

  “I’m not hit.”

  “Okay. I’m going to open the cell door and get you out of there.”

  She slithered along the wall behind the desk. She quickly stood up and lifted the key ring from its hook, sank back down again.

  “Lawrence, I’m going to kill the lights so they can’t see through the window.”

  Helen crawled to the desk, snatched the lantern off its surface, switched it off. She blinked in the sudden darkness.

  More talking and stomping from outside. A flash of light and the roar of Teddy’s revolver through the window. Three rounds. Helen buried her face in the floor. This was followed by the sound of Teddy and Frank laughing like a couple of teenagers blowing up mailboxes with cherry bombs.

  “Lawrence!” she hissed.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming.”

  She crept across the floor to Lawrence’s cell. She reached up, felt blindly for the door lock, found it. She slipped the key into the hole, slowly turned. She pulled the door open.

  “Hurry!”

  She felt Lawrence’s hand reach out. She grabbed him, pulled him from the cell. They took cover behind the desk. He reeked of booze.

  “For God’s sake. Are you drunk?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Great timing, Lawrence.”

  He belched. She nearly gagged.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Needed to take the edge off. What do we do now?”

  “No clue.”

  “Great. You have a gun, right?”

  “Yes.” She ran her fingers across the pistol, felt the open slide. She ejected the mag, inspected it with her fingers. She dropped the pistol and mag on the floor. “Unfortunately, it’s empty.”

  “Brilliant. What if they break down the door?”

  “It won’t be easy. It’s reinforced with steel. An axe or a sledgehammer aren’t enough. It’d have to be something … stronger.”

  “Are we going to sit here all night waiting for them to find a way in?”

  “There are no other exits, right?”

  “How should I know?” Lawrence whined. “I’ve never been in here before tonight and since then I’ve spent the entire time in that shitty cell.”

  Helen already knew there was no back door, no back window. But Lawrence was right—they couldn’t just sit idly, waiting for the inevitable.

  “Let’s go to the room in back,” she said. “Bring the lantern. Maybe we’ll find something useful.”

  “Like a SWAT team?”

  “I’m glad you still have a sense of humor.”

  �
��I want to get the fuck out of here, Marshal. And not in a body bag.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Me too. And call me Helen. No need to be so formal. Not when we’re locked in an old jail with two psychos out front who are determined to kill us.”

  “If that’s your attempt to reassure me, don’t bother, because you suck at it.”

  “Sorry,” Helen said. “Let’s do this. Ready?”

  She patted the floor around the desk, located the lantern. She gripped Lawrence’s hand. “Quickly now.”

  They started for the hallway. When they were halfway across the main room, the beam of a flashlight stabbed through the window. Helen ran, pulling Lawrence behind her. Frank’s .12 gauge nosed between the window bars. Frank fired. Lawrence stumbled over Mike’s body. Helen dragged him around the corner. She pulled him through the door to the guard room, swung it shut. She switched on the lantern.

  Lawrence huddled in a ball on the floor.

  “Lawrence!”

  He looked up at her, cringing in fear. She took him by the collar of his jean jacket. “Did he get you?”

  He choked out a sob. She let go of his jacket, waved the lantern up and down his torso. She didn’t see any blood.

  “You’re okay,” Helen assured him. “No gunshot wounds.”

  “I’m not okay!” He wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his jean jacket. “I’m very fucking far from okay!” He shivered. She saw that his toes, exposed in the flip-flops, were purple with cold.

  She glanced over at Jesse Patterson’s corpse. “Do you want to borrow Jesse’s socks and shoes?”

  “Hell, no! I don’t want a dead man’s clothes!”

  Helen touched the fabric of her shirt. A dead woman’s shirt. Given to her by Teddy. Preserved in his room like a holy relic for sixteen years. He’d probably sniffed it, rubbed himself on it. Don’t think about that!

  She raised the lantern, scouted out the room. Rita’s body lay on the bed, crusted with blood, exposed teeth and sightless eyes, Jesse’s corpse on the floor beside it. Meanwhile, the round table with its pewter place settings and the pot-bellied stove in the corner lent a homey touch. The juxtaposition of the two was jarring.

  Lawrence got to his feet, sniffled.

  “God,” he whispered. “Look at them.”

  “Yeah.” She silently counted. Rita, Lee Larimer, Jesse, Big Ed, Mike. Five dead. Five dead in the space of what? Seven hours? That was less than a standard work shift at the local Starbucks. She pulled out one of the dining room chairs, sat down.

  “You all right?” Lawrence asked.

  “Not really, no.” She set the lantern on the table.

  Lawrence touched her shoulder. His finger felt like a hot poker.

  “Ow!”

  “You’re bleeding. Take that coat off and let me see.”

  Lawrence helped her off with her coat, examined her shoulder. “It’s not bad,” he concluded. “A little groove in the skin along the top.”

  Helen remembered Frank shooting at her from behind the desk as she ran for the hallway. The slug must have just creased her shoulder. In all the excitement, she hadn’t even noticed.

  “How deep?”

  “Oh … not very. If I had some gauze or even a big Band-Aid, I could fix you up.”

  She slipped her coat back on. “Never mind. We need to get our shit together. Check the ceiling and floor. Maybe there’s an attic or a cellar in this place. Look around for anything we can use to defend ourselves.”

  A quick search revealed that, aside from a set of pewter forks and spoons, there was nothing remotely weapon-like in the room.

  The ceiling, floor, and walls were constructed of flat pine boards. Some were cracked and warped, but Helen did not see any large gaps or holes that could be used to pry them loose. There was no door in the ceiling leading to an attic, no human-sized vent in the floor.

  “The only way out is through the front door,” Lawrence said. “So basically … we’re stuck in here. All they have to do is wait for us to come out.”

  “We’re safe inside.”

  “We’re as dead as them.” He nodded at Rita and Jesse. “Only our bodies don’t know it yet.”

  Helen’s eyes unexpectedly welled with tears. “Shut up.”

  “It’s true.”

  She turned away, embarrassed.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m … I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” She wiped her eyes with a coat sleeve. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Lawrence laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well … if the situation we’re in isn’t enough to make someone cry, I sure as hell don’t know what is.”

  Helen smiled. “True.”

  She was frightened. Terrified. But that wasn’t what brought on the tears. Having her back against the wall had forced her to confront a fundamental fact regarding her life. One she habitually suppressed whenever it threatened to show its ugly face.

  Aside from her father, who was hardly a warm, loving presence in her life, she had no one. No boyfriend or husband waiting at home for her return, panicked she hadn’t checked in, frantically calling her colleagues in a bid to track her down. Not even a close friend to share tawdry gossip and embarrassing revelations with over too many bottles of Merlot. No one loved her deeply enough to be suitably devastated when she turned up dead. She was pretty much alone in life, and would be similarly alone in death.

  Helen didn’t like feeling sad. Anger was better. Sadness was a downer. Anger was a kick in the ass. She slapped a palm on the dining table.

  “I’m not getting killed by these shitheads.”

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Fight. If we can. Take one or both of them with us.”

  “I’m not a fighter, Marshal. I’m a … ” He shrugged. “I’m an artist.”

  “Ever hear of Caravaggio? Renaissance guy? As famous for his brawls as he was for his paintings. Even killed a guy or two.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Uh … never mind.” If she recalled correctly, Caravaggio had died an outcast, penniless, at a young age. “I’m going out there to get the pickaxe. Then maybe I’ll open the door and whack whoever comes in first.”

  “That’s a … if you don’t mind me saying … a ridiculous plan.”

  “Better than sitting around.”

  “And what should I do while you’re whacking people?”

  “Keep looking around for something we can use.”

  “But there isn’t anything.”

  “Maybe you want to stand by the door with the pickaxe?”

  “No.”

  “Stay in here and keep searching for a weapon, a tool, anything that might come in handy.”

  Lawrence nodded at the corpses. “Did you already check to see if they had anything?”

  “Yeah. They don’t. Unless you want those shoes.”

  Lawrence grimaced. “No thanks.”

  Helen put her hand on the door. “Kill the lantern.”

  Lawrence switched the lantern off. Helen opened the door, slipped through, closed it behind her. She edged her way along the hallway. She heard voices, footsteps, saw flashes of light through the window. She got down on her hands and knees and crawled along the floor, searching for the pickaxe.

  A beam from a flashlight flickered through the window. Helen froze. The beam swept left, right, then winked out. Helen resumed searching. Her hand brushed rapidly cooling flesh—Mike—then the wooden axe handle. She lifted it, went to the front door, crouched to one side.

  Now that she considered it more carefully, her plan was pretty stupid.

  So she waited. For what, she couldn’t say. The tattoo of boots on the wooden porch came and went. Eventually, Helen heard the sound of water splashing. Renewed laughter from Teddy and Frank.

  She hoped for a miraculous rescue, a convoy of police vehicles rolling down Main Street. Instead, there was a metallic rattle, and footsteps on the roof. What the
hell were they up to?

  More splashing. Followed by liquid sloshing through the front window onto the floor of the main room.

  Now she smelled it. Gasoline.

  They were going to light the jailhouse on fire.

  16

  A TWIST OF FLAMING paper flew through the window. A whoosh of flame erupted along the floor.

  “Hey, Marshal, got any marshmallows?” Frank yelled.

  Helen skirted the flames, raced down the hall and through the door into the guard room. She closed it behind her.

  Lawrence was kneeling over Rita’s dead body. Her sweater was pulled up to her chest.

  “They’re lighting up the—what are you doing?”

  He sprang up. “Searching. For something useful.”

  “Like her tits?”

  “No … a cell phone … uh … ”

  Helen waved a hand. Bigger fish to fry. “They’ve set the building on fire. The floor, the roof. We need to get out.”

  “But that’s probably exactly what they want us to do. They’re standing right outside the door waiting to shoot us.”

  Already, white tendrils were beginning to snake across the ceiling. Helen coughed as a wisp of smoke tickled the back of her throat.

  Lawrence was right. But it was either go out the front door or burn. Unless they could find another exit.

  She eyed the pot-bellied stove. It sat on squat, claw-footed legs like a barrel-chested Dachshund. A metal stove pipe extended from its back, ran straight up the wall, then made a 90 degree turn and disappeared through a small round hole leading outside the building. Helen considered yanking the stovepipe out and squeezing through the hole, but it was much, much too small.

  Lawrence covered his mouth with his hand.

  “This place must be dry as old newspaper,” he said. “It’ll go up like a Christmas tree in July.”

  Helen opened the door leading to the hall to get some air circulating. Bad idea. The floor of the main room was burning brightly. She shut the door.

  “Going out through the front is no longer an option, even if we wanted to.”

  She kicked one of the walls. Constructed of logs, it might as well have been solid brick. Even with a chain saw, it would take an hour to cut through it, and they didn’t have a chain saw, or an hour. More like fifteen minutes before the smoke alone killed them.