Outside, rain pelted the roof, and thunder shook the world. She curled into a small ball in the middle of the huge bed, and slipped into an uneasy sleep.
37
The Cadillac zigzagged through the Garden District, Mike hunched over the steering wheel, squinting at street signs and house numbers through the downpour.
He drove the streets in a wet, resigned funk. He no longer burned with hate. Even conjuring the image of Keones dead body failed to fuel his revenge. Yes, the hate was still there, but it was cold, without passion. A contract hed signed with fate, a job to be done. Blood must answer for blood. It was all Mike knew. He would do this job, then rest, sleep and sleep and forget.
But no rest yet. Now there was work, and pain in his back, and the leaden feeling in his gut he used to get right before he and Dan went into a gunfight. And he was wet. He wanted only a few cold beers and a hot shower when this was all over.
Mike passed a cop car going in the opposite direction, and half a block later saw the mansion. The number on the gate was right. This was the place. He parked on the street and checked his weapons. The pump shotgun was fully loaded with buckshot. Six rounds in the .38 revolver.
He climbed out of the Caddy and winced. The rain stung cold and hard, flew at him almost sideways. The bandage under the eye patch was soaked. Mike approached the gate, shotgun under the Saints poncho. A lock on the gate. He gave it a weak kick, and pain lanced up his back and neck.
The pain was so bad he had to stop, lean against the gate.
Goddammit.
He stepped back, lifted the shotgun, and blasted the lock. If somebody heard, then screw it. He wanted this over. He was going to go in and get this done. He pumped another shell into the chamber and pushed the gate open. He took the short walkway to the front door, shotgun leading the way.
Mike tried the knob, locked. He aimed the shotgun at the door lock, hesitated. Of course there would be an alarm. At this point, he wasnt concerned about alerting the people inside, but if the alarm were wired to the local precinct, that could end the party real quick.
He hid the shotgun back under his poncho and knocked. He would make something up, say his car had a flat and he needed the phone.
In three seconds, the door swung open. Mike wasnt surprised to see the grim black woman in a maids uniform. It was Mikes understanding from TV and movies that women like her were standard issue in these old Southern mansions.
But the silver revolver in her hand did surprise him a little. He thought about swinging the shotgun around fast and making a play for her, but hed have to twist at the waist and fire from the hip, and if his back seized up, hed be a sitting duck.
Hell.
She motioned him inside with the pistol. Get in.
He went in, hands tight on the shotgun in case he saw an opening.
She shut the door, kept her eyes and the pistol on him the whole time. I heard the shot and saw you through the peephole, mister. Now set that shotgun aside nice and slow.
What shotgun?
I can see the butt sticking out the back of the poncho, she said. Dont make me ask again or Ill shoot that other eye out.
He held the shotgun in one hand, held the other hand up so she could see it. He sidestepped toward the wall slowly, leaned the shotgun up against the doorframe.
Now step away from it.
Mike stepped away.
You just keep still while I call the lady of the house and well see what to do with you. The maid edged toward an intercom on the wall.
The lady of the house. That would probably mean two people pointing guns at Mike, and then he wouldnt have a chance. He had to do something right now or his long drive from Oklahoma would be for nothing. He tensed to grab for the .38 in his belt.
A flash of lightning. Thunder boomed, and the lights went out.
Mike went for the revolver, backpedaled and tripped over his own feet and went down. The maid fired blind, and Mike heard the slugs hit the far wall. She must have thought he was going for the shotgun.
He fanned the .38 in a wide slanting arc, squeezed the trigger five times. Hopefully one of the shots would hit.
Everything went quiet except for the rain and Mikes own heavy breathing. He tried to get up. He couldnt. His back had locked.
Mike dragged himself along the floor, groped, and found the wall. Hed give himself ten seconds to catch his breath, then hed use the wall for support and somehow get to his feet.
The lights flickered back on.
Mike lay three inches from the maids face, her big eyes rolled up and lifeless, mouth open like a cartoon trouts. One of his shots had hit. Mike had gotten lucky.
Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself to his feet. He had one shot left in the .38, stuck it back in his belt. He picked up the shotgun and went looking for the lady of the house.
* * *
Nikki sat up in bed, rigid and alert. Shed heard something. Gunfire.
She rolled over and checked her laptop. The computer was connected to the house system. She tapped a few keys, scanned the display, but the system didnt show a breach, no forced entry. Nikki knew the difference between shots and thunder. Something bad was happening.
The digital clock blinked 12:00 at her. A brief power outage, but that wouldnt affect the security system, which was wired to a separate power source.
She pulled the .380 from under her mattress and jumped down from the canopied bed. She quickly peeled off her socks and tossed them aside. Too much hardwood flooring in this house, and she couldnt afford to slip and slide. Better traction with bare feet.
Out in the hall. She looked both ways. Nothing. She cocked her head, listened, but heard only the storm. She headed for the stairs.
At the bottom, she spun a full circle, both hands tight on the .380. She looked into every corner. Nothing. She crept silently down the hall and gasped when she got to the front foyer and saw Althea, blood spreading in a pool from beneath the maids corpse.
Grief for her longtime servant flared only briefly, then turned to cold calculation. Nikkis eyes kept moving. She needed information. How many? How had they gotten inside? Would the single magazine in the .380 automatic be enough?
Another level of thought contemplated bigger questions. Who was here to kill her and why? The man with the voice. It could be no other. She had botched the job, sent her sisters to do what she should have taken care of personally.
With shocking clarity, Nikki realized she had been slowly removing herself from the business, backing off and bowing out a little at a time. She had come too close to getting killed too many times, and she knew now shed lost the stomach for it. Killing had been her fathers business. She could not now think of a single reason she should continue. She wanted her life back, wanted off the leash.
The man with the voice wouldnt like that.
She set her jaw, headed back down the hall toward the library. The man with the voice would be made to understand. He did not own Nikki Enders. She would send his killers back in a box.
Maybe then hed get the picture.
* * *
Sprat made a wide circle and finally arrived back at the mansion. He looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of the squad car. Good. He looked at his watch. He hadnt lost much time. He regretted having to break surveillance, but really, what could possibly have happened during the ten short minutes hed been gone?
38
Andrew rolled over in the dark, put his hand on Lizzys bare stomach. She sighed, half-sleepy, half-content. Outside, the crickets sang. The moon hung low and huge in the wide Okie sky, washing them in pale light. It made Lizzys white skin glow. Again, Andrew thought she was beautiful. He wondered at the circumstances that brought them together, ached at the thought they might part.
He tried not to look very far into the future. They were here, now, in Lindas big, four-poster bed. That was enough. Wasnt it?
Lind
a had said they could use the bed, use the house, stay as long as they wanted. She didnt care anymore. She was going back to Chicago to stay with an aunt and figure things out. Her life the last few days had been turned into a horrible nightmare of violence and fear. Adding insult to injury, Linda felt shed betrayed her husbands memory by not calling the sheriff like a good citizen. She needed to go away and figure things out. Andrew thought the woman might be a nervous wreck the rest of her life.
He rubbed Lizzys stomach again, whispered, Hey.
She stirred. Hmmmmm.
I think I love you. It was sudden and ridiculous, but Andrew wasnt interested in pretending it wasnt true.
Go to sleep, Lizzy whispered.
You dont love me?
A pause. Maybe I do. I dont know. Ive never loved anyone before.
Lets run away together.
She rolled into him, buried her face in her pillow. Well talk about it in the morning.
Im wide-awake.
Leave me alone. Im sleeping.
Come on. Talk to me. He reached, grabbed her shoulder to turn her back over.
She rose up suddenly, turned, and jerked away from his grasp. Get your hands off me!
She swung, her little fist connecting with his chin.
Bells went off, Andrews head flying back. He bit his tongue, tasted blood, and tumbled backward off the bed. He landed flat on his back, stared up at the ceiling in shock, stuck out his tongue, and touched it. Not too bad, he hadnt bitten that deeply. He lay dismayed at the sudden violence.
Lizzys hair appeared over the side of the bed she looked down at him. Sorry.
What was that for? He rubbed his chin.
You should know something about me, she said. Im a little touchy.
Andrew refrained from commenting that suddenly smashing him in the face qualified as more than touchy in his book.
You cant pressure me, Lizzy said. And I dont like to be touched suddenly. And dont sneak up on me.
Anything else?
I do like you, she said. A lot. But lets just play it by ear, okay?
Right. No sudden grabs. Play it by ear.
She put her head back on the pillow, and her breathing became steady and deep.
Andrew stood up, watched her a moment. He wished he could sleep like that. He did love her, even if she did beat him up a little.
After a few minutes he went downstairs, still naked. He stared awhile into the refrigerator. Nothing grabbed his interest. He found his mandolin and took it out to the back deck.
There was a light breeze, just enough to raise goose bumps on his exposed flesh. He strummed random chords for a while, just sitting and looking at the enormous moon. He plucked strings and soon found his way into a song: Knocking on Heavens Door.
His thoughts drifted back to the Indians loading their dead son into the back of a pickup truck. Would there be any answers for them? Would it help or hurt them to know their boys death was the result of events set into motion by people they didnt know for reasons they wouldnt understand? It wasnt fair. It was bullshit. Somebody should do something.
Maybe somebody would.
39
The library impressed Mike. Leather-bound books, deep Persian rugs, and highly polished antique furniture all whispered old money. He paused in front of the portrait of the man with the eye patch. Involuntarily, Mikes hand went to his own eye patch. Mike didnt like the guy in the portrait. The look in the mans eye seemed to say I know all about you. You are beneath me.
Mike discarded the Saints poncho, checked the load on his shotgun. He wished he had more rounds for the .38. Lightning filled the windows, thunder, and the lights went out again. He backed into a desk, tripped through the room, knocked over a lamp with his elbow.
He heard something. Was that him, something hed knocked over? No. Somebody was here, in the room with him. He spun around, the shotgun in front of him. He strained to see, a shadow, movement, a glint of something in the darkness. Had he heard something? A wisp of air, the whisper of feet across the floor.
There! Right in front of him, was that a shape? Another flash of lightning in the window illuminated the room for a split second. A shape to his right. He lifted the shotgun, took three steps forward.
The lights came back on, stunningly bright and sudden. Mike was blinded for an instant. He blinked, saw the woman in front of him the exact second she saw him. He pointed the shotgun at her. She trained a pistol on him.
Drop it, Mike said.
Dont make me laugh, she said. I can put five rounds into you before youve pumped a second shell into the chamber.
Mike took a deep breath. Little girl, at this range it would take only one blast of buckshot to turn that pretty face into hamburger.
Well, I guess weve determined we can gun each other into oblivion, she said.
They stood like that for a second, sighting each other, hands sweating on grips, fingers itchy on the trigger.
That shotgun looks heavy, old man. You cant stand like that forever.
She was right. The familiar ache was already creeping into his back and neck. Beads of sweat on his forehead. I can stand like this all night.
They circled each other, both waiting for the other to flinch, slip up, look away. Mike wasnt going to last much longer. His lower back was on the brink of a spasm. But he didnt know what to do. If he pulled the trigger, shed fire too.
Another long second ground past.
Finally, Mike said, How about I count to three and we both pull the trigger? Unless you got any other bright ideas.
* * *
Sprat squatted in the driving rain outside the mansions big French doors. He cupped his hand over his wristwatch, pressed the button to light up the display. Mavis had said she would cut the electricity and the alarm simultaneously. Thunder cracked so loud it made him flinch. Son of a bitch! The storm was right on top of the Garden District. The brace of knives were slick and wet in the leather harness. He wished hed brought a towel to dry them once he was inside. Hell, hed use the curtains. Hed find something, but he didnt want the knives slipping out of his hands at an awkward moment.
He checked his watch again.
Soon.
* * *
Nikki didnt know if she could talk this situation away, but she had to try. She wouldnt feel guilty for one second about shooting the old man. The problem was she was afraid he might shoot back. There could be no clearer sign that her career as a killer was over. You couldnt be afraid in this business. Too much concern for saving your own skin made you hesitate, and hesitation was an invitation for death. So fear wasnt an option, but when she looked down the gigantic dark barrel of the old mans twelve-gauge, Nikki felt afraid.
Listen, Nikki said. Ill let you live if you
Youll let me live? The old man raised an eyebrow. I dont think you know who youre
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