Kill Devil Falls

by Brian Klingborg

  “Lawrence.”

  “My lungs.”

  “I know. But we have to keep moving.”

  “I’m f-freezing.”

  He looked so pitiful, in his flip-flops and sweatpants, covered in dirt and smoky residue.

  “Another five minutes, Lawrence. Come on.”

  She took his hand. He stumbled along in her wake. She heard a dog barking in the distance. She’d only seen one dog in town—in Yates’s yard.

  They were not far from the Trading Post. Another hundred yards and she expected to see the lights coming from Frank and Mike’s trailer. That’s where she planned to cut across Main Street.

  The barking grew louder.

  She halted. “Listen.”

  “What?”

  “Barking.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Getting closer.”

  “Yates’s dog. Hunter. Tracker. Possums. Raccoons.”

  Helen grew up with Labradors and German shepherds. She loved dogs for their romping playfulness, their simple desire to love and be loved, their unquestioning loyalty. But she’d also seen what one could do with its teeth. She didn’t want to find herself fighting some savage backwoods cur with nothing but a brittle tree branch.

  She tightened her grip on Lawrence’s hand, redoubled her pace. The ground was uneven, tough going. After a few minutes, Lawrence collapsed to his knees.

  “I … I can’t … ” he said.

  “You can.”

  He shook his head. “Lungs … ”

  “That dog. He’ll go straight for your throat. And he won’t let go, not until he’s ripped a hole big enough to put a size twelve shoe through. I’m not waiting around to get my ass bit off. Pull yourself together or I’ll leave you behind.”

  Wow, she thought. I sound just like Dad.

  She started walking. After five yards, she stopped, turned. Lawrence struggled to his feet. She went back, grasped his hand, pulled him along.

  The barking grew louder still. Helen realized they’d never make it all the way to Lawrence’s house before the dog caught up.

  “We need cover,” she said.

  She led him out of the forest, across the yard to the Trading Post’s back door. She opened it and helped Lawrence inside, closed the door and locked it. She put her ear against the door, listened. Hopefully the dog would lose their scent, keep going.

  “What’s that smell?” Lawrence said.

  “Rita’s boyfriend. He’s still lying on the stairs.”

  “Ugh!“

  “Shh!”

  She heard nothing from outside, and for a moment thought they were safe. Then Coonie barked furiously and Yates yelled hoarsely.

  “Shit. He must have our scent. My scent, probably. My car’s still right outside the jail.”

  “So he’ll lead them right to this door.”

  “Let’s head out the front.”

  She helped Lawrence through the restaurant and into the market. They stopped at the front door. Helen reached for the knob. Lights flashed through the window. She ducked, yanking Lawrence down beside her. The rumble of a car engine vibrated through the floor. She risked a quick peek.

  “The Explorer.”

  “Teddy,” Lawrence said. “Looking for us.”

  “We can’t go out this way,” she said. “Not while he’s patrolling Main Street.”

  “Now what?”

  “We need weapons.” She bolted the door. “Search the aisles for something we can use.”

  She scouted the leftmost aisle. She found a hammer, decided it was too unwieldy, returned it to the shelf. She was elated when she discovered a nail gun, but then she read the package: Charge battery for two full hours before use.

  She combed through a shelf of Drano products. During her stint in the Navy, Helen had briefly dated an EOD Tech—the EOD stood for “Explosive Ordnance Disposal.” It wasn’t the rosiest of relationships, but it wasn’t a complete waste of time. At least she’d picked up a few interesting tidbits of information, including that Drano had a million and one uses, and not just when it came to unclogging toilets. Add some Drano to a plastic bottle, slip in some wadded balls of aluminum—the foil reacts with the Drano to produce hydrogen gas—and in ten to fifteen minutes: BOOM! A low-grade bomb. Unfortunately, there was no way to time the explosion.

  More useful was the knowledge that mixing ammonia and bleach created a toxic vapor similar to chlorine gas, and just a small amount of that was bad news. As World War I chemical warfare had proved, it had a devastating effect on the membranes of the eyes, nose, and throat.

  Helen chose a bottle of bleach, unscrewed the cap, and poured half the contents onto the floor. She located a liquid glass cleaner, popped the lid, and tipped it into the spray bottle. She replaced the cap on the bleach bottle and shook it. She’d never tried this before, really had no idea what to expect. She was hoping for something really impressive.

  Rowr-rowr-rowr! Coonie’s rapid-fire barking startled her. It sounded like the dog was already at the back door. She snatched up two bottles of rubbing alcohol.

  “Lawrence, come on!”

  They raced through the restaurant and crouched by the entrance to the vestibule.

  “Find anything good?” Helen whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  Helen held up her flashlight to see. Lawrence showed her a pair of socks and rubber boots.

  “Jesus, Lawrence, you can’t stop a man from killing you with rubber boots.”

  “I have this, too.” He showed her a six-inch knife.

  “That’s more like it, but still not much use against guns,” Helen said.

  “Maybe Mr. Patterson has a shotgun upstairs. Around here, everyone has a shotgun.”

  “Go look. I’ll see if I can hold them off down here.”

  “Okay.” He headed into the vestibule.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t trip over the dead guy.”

  Rowr-rowr! Coonie scratched on the back door.

  “Coonie, down!” Yates yelled.

  The doorknob jiggled.

  “Go!” Helen said. Lawrence hurried up the stairs.

  Boots kicked against the door. Frank cursed.

  Helen twisted the caps off the bottles of rubbing alcohol, tossed them away, splashed the liquid along the floor of the vestibule. She hurried back to the kitchen counter, rifled frantically through drawers until she found a book of matches.

  Wood splintered and cracked. Frank and Yates were giving the door everything they had.

  Helen put her flashlight into her pocket, ripped a match from the book, held it ready.

  The assault on the door suddenly ceased. Helen’s hand shook as she touched the tip of the match to the striking surface. She held her breath.

  A shotgun roared. The doorknob and fragments of the brass doorplate skittered across the floor of the vestibule. Coonie barked and growled. The door banged open.

  Helen lit the match. It fizzled. She heard Coonie’s paws scrabbling on the slick floor. She desperately ripped out another match and struck it. It caught fire. She tossed it into the hallway. The rubbing alcohol ignited. Coonie yelped.

  She heard a thud as Coonie, going out, collided with Yates, coming in. Yates hollered. Helen risked a quick look.

  Coonie was already through the door and into the back yard. Yates stood in the open doorway, a shotgun in his arms. Flames sizzled along the floor, too low to do much more than cause an annoyance. Helen didn’t see Frank but assumed he was right behind Yates.

  She opened the bleach bottle, tossed it into the vestibule. A shotgun blast smashed a chunk out of the wall. She heard gagging, then the sound of Yates’s boots as he clomped toward her.

  So much for chemical warfare.

  She scrambled to her feet, ran for the market. Yates came through the back doorway, fired. The shot buzzed over Helen’s head. She cut left, slid across a table top, pulled it onto its side as cover.

  A
nother shot shattered a section of the picture window in the side wall. Helen heard the click-click of a shell being ejected.

  “I’m a federal agent!” she yelled.

  “You’re a goddamn murderer!”

  “I don’t know what they told you, but it’s not true.”

  A roar from the shotgun, and a corner of the Melamine table exploded. Plastic shards sliced her cheek.

  “You killed Big Ed!” Yates yelled.

  “Stop shooting! I’m unarmed. And I didn’t kill Big Ed!”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It’s true, Mr. Yates. You have to listen to me.”

  “You feds are all the same. Think you can just take whatever you want. If you can’t do it legal, you do it by force.”

  “Mr. Yates, please. Let me explain, while there’s still a chance. You’re in as much danger as me. Frank and Teddy, they’re after the money. They’ll kill us both to get it.”

  “What money?”

  “Lower your weapon and I’ll tell you.”

  “You come outta there.”

  “Don’t shoot!”

  “Real slow. And keep your hands up!”

  Helen raised her arms, slowly stepped out from behind the table.

  “I am not armed,” she repeated.

  The feeble fire licking the floor of the vestibule lit Yates eerily from behind. He was dressed in baggy pants, boots, a thick coat, a flappy-eared tweed cap. Add the shotgun in his hands and he was an Elmer Fudd with very bad intentions.

  “Closer,” Yates said.

  17

  HELEN STEPPED AROUND THE side of the table, approached Yates.

  “Stop right there,” he said.

  “I did NOT shoot the sheriff.”

  “Who did?”

  “Teddy.”

  “I look stupid to you?”

  Helen glanced at the vestibule. The fire was nearly out. Where was Frank? And where the hell was Lawrence?

  “No, you don’t, Mr. Yates. Let me explain.” Her hands were shaking. She had to make this old moron understand quickly. Before Frank burst in. “Rita Scroggins came up here to hide all that money she’d stolen. In the mine.”

  “Now why in the hell would she hide money in the mine?”

  “Mr. Yates,” Helen said. “Frank’s going to come in that back door any second.”

  “He went around front,” Yates said. “Don’t worry about him.” He lifted the barrel of the shotgun. “Worry about me. Talk.”

  Helen spat the words out. “Rita planned to hide the money, turn herself in, do her time, and then come back to get it. She needed somewhere quiet, remote, safe. The mine was the best place she could think of. But she got caught before she could leave town. Teddy, Frank, Mike—one of them—figured this all out. They decided to kill her so they could keep the cash without anyone knowing it had ever been up here.”

  She heard a rattling noise coming from the market. Frank at the front door. She had only seconds left to convince Yates.

  “The sheriff, he guessed about the money. Teddy and I found him down in the mine, looking for it. Teddy shot him, right there, in cold blood. Then he tried to kill me. I escaped. When I got back to the jail, Frank and Mike were waiting. They tried to kill me, too.”

  As the fire fizzled, the room slowly grew darker. She couldn’t read Yates’s face or see his features, only his outline and the shotgun pointed at her chest.

  “I’ve known Teddy all his life,” Yates said. “He wouldn’t never hurt a fly. And Big Ed was his own dad, fer chrissakes.”

  “I know. It’s shocking. But he wants that money. He tried to kill me. And now that you know the truth, he’ll kill you, too.”

  In the backyard, Coonie howled.

  “We don’t have much time,” Helen said. “Help me, please, or we’re both dead.”

  She reached out to him. He retreated into the vestibule doorway.

  “Stay right there,” he said.

  “Why would I lie about this, Mr. Yates? Why would I come up here, a place I’ve never been before, and kill a sheriff I’ve never met?”

  Yates didn’t respond. The rattling noise from the market stopped. This worried Helen.

  Yates cleared his throat. “How much money are we talking about?”

  Ah-ha. A crack to work a finger into.

  “I don’t know. At least a few hundred thousand.”

  The barrel of Yates’s shotgun suddenly jerked up toward Helen’s face. She crouched instinctively, covered her head with her hands. But instead of shooting her, Yates dropped the gun and collapsed on the floor.

  Helen saw a dark figure looming over his limp body. The figure didn’t make a move toward her. Just stood there. She tugged out her flashlight, switched it on.

  “Lawrence?”

  “I … I … ” He looked down at Yates.

  Helen lowered the beam of the flashlight. The handle of a knife protruded from between Yates’s shoulder blades.

  “My God, Lawrence.”

  The sound of splintering wood and breaking glass signaled Frank’s successful entry to the market. Helen stuffed the flashlight in her pocket, reached down, yanked Yates’s shotgun out from under his body, grabbed Lawrence by the arm.

  “Hurry!” she said.

  “Yates?” Frank yelled, through the front door. “It’s me, Frank. Don’t shoot me, goddammit!”

  Helen pulled Lawrence up the stairs, squeezed past Lee Larimer’s body. Lawrence tripped on Larimer’s leg and sprawled on the landing.

  “Yates?” Frank called out, closer now.

  Helen hauled Lawrence upright and around the bannister. She lay down at the top of the stairs. Lawrence thumped onto the floor beside her.

  “Yates?” Frank said.

  Helen aimed the shotgun at the doorway leading into the restaurant. She could just make out the spread-eagled shape of Yates’s body lying across the threshold.

  “Fuck!” Frank exclaimed. Now he’d seen the body, too.

  She waited. She felt Lawrence tremble at her elbow.

  Coonie barked and snarled.

  “Shut up!” Frank said. “Fucking mutt!”

  Helen remained perfectly still, apart from the violent pounding of her heart.

  Finally: “You kill Yates, you heartless bitch?”

  Helen concentrated on taking calm, even breaths.

  “Your boyfriend with you? I’m gonna hurt you both, real bad.”

  Coonie whined.

  “Fucking get in here and rip their hearts out, goddamn stupid dog!” Frank yelled.

  A rivulet of sweat ran from Helen’s hairline, across her temple and cheek, down her neck, into her collar. She kept her finger on the trigger of the shotgun.

  Frank burst into the vestibule. Helen’s shotgun roared, muzzle flash filling her eyes with hundreds of dancing white spots. Frank fired back. The top of the banister exploded. Helen pumped the shotgun to chamber a fresh round, squeezed the trigger. The butt of the shotgun kicked against her shoulder.

  She worked the pump again, pulled the trigger, but it clicked on an empty chamber. Out of ammo.

  She kept her head low, listened. Her ears throbbed. She blinked the spots away, waited for her vision to clear.

  “I think you got him,” Lawrence whispered. His voice sounded like it was coming from under water.

  Helen raised her head for a look. There appeared to be two bodies now, lying in the gloom. She heard labored breathing.

  “Wait here,” she told Lawrence. She descended the stairs, took out her flashlight.

  Frank lay half on top of Yates, curled into a ball, his sides heaving. He looked up at her in pain and fear, a sheen of sweat on his face. She saw his hands clutching his midsection, blood streaming between his fingers.

  She dropped Yates’s shotgun, reached down, picked up Frank’s.

  He tried to speak. Helen leaned closer. “What?”

  “Help me,” he whispered.

  Helen stood up, retreated into the vestibule.

  Rowr-rowr-rowr!


  She nearly dropped the shotgun as Coonie lunged through the back doorway. She leaped for the stairs, turned halfway, extended the shotgun, and fired one-handed. The recoil jerked her wrist painfully. She raced up the stairs, treading across the top of Larimer’s thighs. Coonie yelped and ran back into the yard.

  Helen reached the second floor, fell to her knees.

  “Helen!” Lawrence said. “Are you okay?”

  Gasping for air, she nodded. Lawrence reached for her. She squeezed his hand. “I’m okay.”

  “Frank?”

  “He’s hit. Bad, I think. Dead soon.”

  “So … we’re safe?”

  “Teddy’s still out there somewhere on Main Street, in the Explorer.”

  “Right. Shit.”

  Helen waited until she regained her breath, then pushed herself to her feet.

  “Where’s Mrs. Patterson?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

  “What? How is that possible?” Helen handed Lawrence Frank’s shotgun. “Stay here. If Teddy makes an appearance, shoot him.”

  “I … uh … ”

  “Just do it, Lawrence.”

  “Okay.”

  Helen turned the knob for the bedroom door, opened it, poked her head inside.

  “Mrs. Patterson? It’s me. Deputy Marshal Morrissey.”

  She entered. The candles were still lit but the bed was empty, a wrinkled depression in the sheets indicating where Alice had been lying before.

  “Mrs. Patterson?”

  She checked the closet. Empty. She kneeled on the floor beside the bed. Lifted the coverlet, shined her flashlight into the darkness.

  Alice lay squeezed into the narrow space between the floor and the bed frame, enormous breasts nearly touching the mattress slats, hands covering her eyes.

  “Mrs. Patterson, it’s me. Helen Morrissey. Come out of there.”

  After a bit of cajoling, Alice laboriously scooted out of her hiding spot. Helen sat her on the edge of the bed.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  Alice sniffled, her mascara running down her cheeks in black streaks. “I’m so scared, Marshal. First Jesse, and then all the yelling and shooting—”

  “I know,” Helen said. “It’s been a long, horrible night. And it’s not over yet. But I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay?”

  Alice smiled, her lips quivering. “Okay.”