by Chris Stout
Chapter 12
Miranda returned to Wainwright’s lodge that night and tried to remember its interior layout. The first floor had a large kitchen, a sitting room and a den with amenities such as a pool table and satellite television. Upstairs were four bedrooms and a bathroom. A half-bath was attached to the den on the first floor. The décor was rustic and somewhat quaint: a contribution, perhaps, courtesy of the Chief’s wife. As far as Miranda knew, Mrs. Wainwright was oblivious to the goings-on of the militia; she just knew the members as friends of her husband who liked to shoot and hunt. Nothing about that was abnormal in this part of the state. But she couldn’t take anything for granted.
Miranda drove past the driveway about a half-mile and left her car hidden off the road. She took stock of herself before setting off on foot. She was dressed in shades of black and gray, with a knit hat covering her brunette hair. She removed her jacket. Strapped to her back was one of the MAC-11 machine pistols Damon had stolen from Beaumont’s store. It was fitted with a threaded barrel and silencer, as was the Glock strapped to her right thigh. On the inside of her left thigh was a long, thin stiletto blade. She made sure all the weapons were locked and loaded. Satisfied, she pulled a ski mask down over her face and headed off into the woods.
#
Wainwright and Shane sat in the den, drinking beer and watching the television. “How much longer do you think it will be before Damon shows up?” Shane asked.
Wainwright consulted his watch. “Supposed to be here midnight. He’ll probably want to scout out things a bit, so maybe he’ll be early, maybe he’ll be late.”
“You think he’ll have the guns with him?”
“I hope so. I’ve been keeping an ear out; none of the agencies after him have a clue where he is. And no one’s mentioned any guns except for a few pieces stolen from Beaumont’s store. If he was smart he ditched those somewhere.”
“Why’d he take ‘em in the first place?”
“Cover his tracks, I guess.”
“Didn’t do a good job, then. Ev’rbody’s after him anyway.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s found him. He’s sharp, he is. He’s the one that picked up Justin Leider before he could talk.”
“So I take it that kid didn’t up and shoot hisself after all?”
“Don’t ask, ‘cause I ain’t telling.”
Shane nodded grimly. “Guess we’d better sober up and be ready, then.”
“Don’t sweat it. This is NA beer.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Honest. Some Canadian stuff I picked up. Take it with me when I go hunting. Guns and alcohol are a bad mix.” Wainwright started to say more, leaning forward to continue his explanation, but was cut off by the sound of glass shattering. “What the hell was that?”
Shane was out of his seat, a pistol in his hand. “Came from out front.”
They took cover behind their chairs, their backs to the window. Wainwright pulled out his own weapon, an old .45 automatic, and crouched. “Head for the doorway, I’ll cover you from here, then we’ll go in together.”
Shane nodded and rose. He made it about three steps before the window behind them shattered as well. The burly bearded man cried out as a stream of bullets stitched across his back, knocking him to the floor. Wainwright rolled to the other side of his recliner just before the stream tore into the leather where his head had been. He kept moving, staying low, waiting for the angry buzzing to cease. When he reached the far end of the couch he pointed his pistol over the arm and fired a pair of shots at the window. He fired three more into the wall below it, hoping they would penetrate the wood. They didn’t, so he fired two more through the window. No bullets answered him.
While the ringing in his ears died down, Wainwright changed magazines in his gun. Then he risked a look around the couch. Shane lay sprawled on the floor face down. A puddle of red spread out and away from his body. His pistol had skittered across the floor and was only a few feet away from Wainwright. The Chief waited several more seconds and then lunged out to grab it. The Smith and Wesson more than doubled his firepower. He decided that no more shots were going to come through the window, and turned to move to the front of the house.
#
Miranda emptied the machine pistol through the window and was gone before Wainwright ever fired a shot in reply. She had seen a big man fall and Wainwright diving for cover. Assuming no one else was in there, that left only the Chief to be dealt with. She made her way around to the front of the house. The sound of Wainwright’s .45 firing masked her entry through the window she had shattered in the kitchen. Once inside she let the MAC hang from its sling and drew her Glock. No footsteps or shouts sounded from upstairs, so she decided to deal with Wainwright first and then clear the second floor. She moved soundlessly through the doorway and knelt at the two stairs leading into the den, just in time to see Wainwright pick up the pistol lying on the floor. She waited for him to turn around.
“Drop them.”
Wainwright’s eyes widened in surprise, not only to find that he was staring down the barrel of a pistol, but also that it was a woman’s voice and figure behind the trigger. He weighed his options. She had the drop on him and his pistols weren’t pointing anywhere near her. He was fast, and might be able to pull down on her, but she was obviously good as well. And she had already drawn a bead on him. Shane’s dead body testified to the fact that she could shoot straight. Wainwright’s shoulders slumped, and he let his guns drop to the floor. Maybe she wouldn’t find his hideout piece.
“Lay down, spread eagle,” she commanded.
Wainwright obeyed. Miranda didn’t bother to frisk him, and he began to hope, but that died away when she jerked his arms behind his back and restrained them with plastic cuffs. “Anyone else in the house?” He shook his head in the negative. “I don’t believe you.” She delivered a swift kick to his ribs.
Wainwright shouted in pain. “Jesus! There’s no one else here! I swear!”
“Good. You wait here while I check.”
Miranda left him facedown on the floor and quickly moved through the house. While she was searching, Wainwright struggled against the restraints. They were the same kind used by his department to temporarily restrain suspects. Usually they were cut off after the person had been restrained with metal cuffs. He tried to worm his way into the kitchen, hoping to get to a knife there.
“Naughty boy,” Miranda chided as she walked into the den again. “I told you to wait here for me.” Her foot connected with his ribs again, eliciting another sharp cry. “I guess I can’t blame you for trying, though. After all, you are going to die.”
Wainwright froze at that comment. He decided to try defiance. “Then get on with it.”
Miranda gave a low chuckle as she searched him for weapons, finding the snub-nosed revolver strapped to his ankle. “Oh no, Chief, you and I are going to have a little chat first.” When she was finished, she pulled him roughly to his feet. “Move out to the kitchen.” She pushed him in the back with the butt of her pistol for emphasis.
Wainwright stumbled at the steps, but made it into the kitchen. Miranda pushed him down into one of the chairs at the table. She rifled through the drawers and found some duct tape, which she used to secure his feet to the chair legs. Then she pulled a second chair out and straddled it, facing her prisoner. She lifted the ski mask over her face.
Wainwright stared at her for a moment as recognition dawned on him. His jaw dropped open. “Miranda? What is this about? Where’s -” He cut himself off.
Miranda smiled. “Thought you were meeting Damon tonight, huh? Text messaging is such a wonderful thing. Communicate without voice, all at the push of a button. He’s the same place as my brother, now, but was kind enough to give me his phone first.”
Wainwright swallowed hard and shuddered.
Miranda gave a short laugh. “Tell me, did you at least kill Justin quickly, or did you torture him for fun first?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking
about. You saw his body. He killed himself. Even the coroner said that.”
“Damon had other things to say. And at the time, he wasn’t really in a position to lie.”
“Look,” Wainwright said, “if you killed him that’s okay by me. He stole some things of mine and killed Henry. My friend. You knew him too. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Miranda was up in a flash and sent a kick into Wainwright’s gut. “Neither did my brother,” she hissed.
Wainwright gagged, but made a valiant effort to recover. He blew at a drop of sweat that tickled the end of his nose and spoke fervently. “You killing Damon’s done me a favor. If you’ve got the goods he stole, we can work something out! Why don’t you and I talk like civilized folks, see if we can make a deal?”
“My brother’s dead, Chief. There isn’t anything you can offer that will bring him back.” She rose and went into the den. When she returned she had the poker from the fireplace in her hand. Wainwright watched her with wary eyes. She stared at him coolly, then walked behind him. He craned his head to see her. Then his world went dark as she tied a napkin around his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked with just a hint of a tremor in his voice.
“I’m settling, Chief. Consider this my consolation prize. I get to make your last minutes on earth a living hell.” Miranda lifted the poker and brought it down sharply on his bound hands. Several of his fingers broke with a satisfying crunch. Wainwright screamed and jerked forward, tumbling over with the chair. Miranda left him on the floor.
Her next blow landed on his left shin. It didn’t break the bone, but it tore through his jeans and left a deep gash. Wainwright screamed again. Miranda knelt down close to his face. He was pale now and covered in sweat.
“You’re right about the weapons. I have them. And I have some names too. If you want, you can give me any others I might need. If you don’t, I’ll find them anyway. This will just be a much longer night for you.” She stood again and delivered another blow to Wainwright’s leg. This time she heard the shin crack.
Wainwright retched from the pain and briefly drifted unconscious. Miranda toed him roughly in the ribs until he stirred awake. “For God’s sake,” he gasped. “Please stop!”
“Did Justin plead the same way with you? Did you listen to him?”
Wainwright swallowed before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered. He flinched, waiting for the next blow.
Miranda considered her next form of punishment. “You know,” she said lowly, “Damon wasn’t the first person I killed for my brother. The first person was some punk who raped him when he was a kid in a camp bathroom. I crushed that bastard’s skull with a rock and dropped his body off a cliff.” She paused to let the fact sink in. “He never knew what hit him. One minute he was hiking, the next he was gone.” She stood and paced around Wainwright’s crumpled form, slapping her palm with the poker. “Remember what I told you earlier?”
He didn’t answer.
“I told you that you are going to die. And you are, Chief. Tonight. I can shoot you in the back of the head, and all your pain will go away, or I can look for other tools and tear you apart piece by piece. How you die is totally up to you. If you want to make a deal, those are the only options you have.” She smacked him hard in the shoulder with the poker. “Why’d you kill my brother?”
“I honestly don’t know now,” Wainwright rasped. “I told the boys to make sure he wouldn’t be captured again. He knew too much, and too many people were looking for him. I don’t know where they took him.”
“Who took him?”
“Jesse McClintock and Tim Butcher, I think.”
“You think?”
“They were the ones there at the time,” he answered hurriedly. “They’re probably the ones who left with your brother. They’re a bit rough, but they ain’t animals. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, just like Damon.”
Miranda winced, and fought to hold back a sob. So Justin’s death was a murder, as she had suspected. Betrayed by a friend, shunned by his leader, and executed by two cronies. She shuddered. “I’m sorry, Justin,” she whispered.
“What’d you say?”
Miranda turned to the form on the floor. She cleared her mind of her brother’s image. “You shouldn’t have worried so much about Justin talking. You should have worried more about Damon.”
“You can’t prove anything,” Wainwright stammered.
“Tell me, is The Reverend still coming into town? I did my homework on him after my talk with Damon. Even watched one of his evangelist shows on TV. You know, he doesn’t preach much about love and acceptance. Or forgiveness.” She struck the Chief again with the poker, cracking several of his ribs. “And unfortunately for you, I listened to every word he said.” She raised the poker again, ignoring his cries for mercy.
Chapter 13
Sam Connor returned to the station after visiting his aunt. Gutierrez was not there; presumably he was out on a call. Wainwright had not returned his messages, and Miranda was apparently at home for the evening. With no further leads, and no one to discuss the case with, he bade the duty officer a good night and went to his house. He listened to his home voice mail, hoping that Wainwright had perhaps called him there, but the only message was from Tracy.
“Sam, it’s me,” she said. “I think we should talk. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should give things another chance. I saw you getting coffee today, and I just really missed you. So give me a call when you get the chance, and let’s go on a date or something, ‘kay? Bye.”
Sam laughed out loud for a long time, enough that tears formed in the corners of his eyes. What was Tracy doing, spying on him? He remembered wishing briefly that she would see him with Miranda, but he never thought that would actually happen. It was just too rich. He hit erased the message and went to his fridge to get a beer, shaking his head.
#
His phone rang shortly after midnight, blasting him out of sleep, which for once was in his own bed. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his mind. The phone rang again. He wondered if it might be Tracy. More likely it was Barry, calling about Loretta again. He considered briefly leaving them to their own devices, but decided that would be unethical. As the third ring died away, he picked up the phone and answered with a groggy “H’lo?”
“Sam? It’s Sergeant Peterson, at the station. You might want to come in. Something’s happened. It’s pretty bad.”
Sam was immediately on his feet. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said hurriedly, switching off his cordless phone and tossing it on the bed. He pulled his Glock 22 off of the nightstand and reached for his shoulder holster.
#
Sam expected to station to be a flurry of activity, but it was strangely empty, with even the desk clerk missing. Puzzled, Sam walked into his office. No voice-mails or memos greeted him. He shook his head and walked back out into the hall. The desk clerk emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Sam!” he called.
“Frank. What the hell’s going on? You sounded like World War Three just started.”
“Everybody’s out at the Beaumont place. It’s pretty bad.”
“What happened?”
“It’s Hector, Sam. He was attacked. Beaten and shot.”
“Jesus!”
The duty officer nodded grimly. “They don’t think he’s going to make it. I phoned all the guys off duty, told them to head out there and see what they could find. I figured you should be there, too, since it’s your case and all.”
“Wait a second. No offense, Frank, but why are you calling those shots? Where’s Wainwright?”
Frank shook his head. “No idea. He’s not answering his cell, his wife doesn’t know where his is, nada.”
“Shit.” Sam drew a breath, heaved a sigh. “Okay. Who called this in?”
“Hector must have tried. His radio was transmitting, but nothing was comin
g through, so one of the guys went out to check on him. Found him by his car. Sounds really bad.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not in the vicinity. But they’re looking. They just need someone to coordinate everything.”
“Okay. I’m on my way out there. Keep trying Wainwright; he was out there earlier today – er, yesterday, and might be able to clue us in as to who all showed up. Call me when you get him. If things are quiet, send some of the patrolmen on duty out my way. I want the day-shift fresh tomorrow, since we’ll have a better chance of finding tracks in the daylight.”
Sam flew out the door, back to his car. It hadn’t sunk in that Hector was gone. Well, he wasn’t yet, but apparently would be soon. And Sam realized first that it was his fault, second that it could have been himself that was on his way to die in an emergency room.
Damon. It had to be him. Sam was sure of it. Whatever Damon had wanted from the store must instead have been at the house. Either Damon or Gutierrez had surprised the other, and the result was an officer gunned down. Sam slammed his breaks at a stoplight and pounded his steering wheel, letting off a flurry of expletives. “Gonna get that motherfucker,” he snarled as he peeled off before the light turned green.
#
The scene at Beaumont’s house was at best organized chaos. Sam counted two cruisers, an unmarked car and a pair of personal vehicles outside of the property. Several men were milling about as he pulled up to the driveway.