“I thought you wanted to kill me, Trent,” Marty said, slamming the glass.
“Same thing,” Jason said.
11:59 a.m.
“Castle to Bird Nest.”
“Nest,” Branch said.
“Rioters are in full retreat,” Annie’s deputy reported as the crowd flailed away from the mountain. “Water cannons and announcements are working. We won’t have to shoot.”
“Roger that, Castle,” Branch said, relieved. He’d rather die himself than have to massacre 20,000 unarmed civilians who weren’t guilty of anything but being scared. “Nest out.”
“All right, Emily,” Jason said. “Unbuckle my brother from that chair.”
“No.”
Jason sawed deeper. The governor whimpered as blood soaked his bespoke shirt. “Do as I say, Detective. I dissect cattle for a living, and you know exactly what I did to those twelve grandkids. With knives I crafted myself. Slicing Wayne-o ear to ear won’t bother me a bit.”
“How about a bullet in your eye?” Emily said, shocked to find herself so calm. Annie’s lessons were really paying off. “Think that would bother you?”
Jason laughed. “You remind me of the cows who try to trample me when they realize I’m going to turn them into minute steaks. Same result, too.” He squeezed Covington’s neck till his face turned purple. “Now slide your gun to me and undo those buckles.”
“Go ahead, Detective,” Cross said. “They aren’t going anywhere.”
She nodded, understanding he still needed time. She put the Glock on the floor, kicked it Jason’s way, and started unbuckling the heavy leather.
* * *
The demo man bomb-puttied the chamber door, from the side the Trents couldn’t see. “I’ll attach every bit of explosive I’ve got, Lou,” he whispered. “But it won’t be enough. This was designed by the folks who built Fort Knox.”
“We’re gonna give you a helping hand,” Annie said. “Rest of you, this way.”
Corey sprang from the chair, sank a fist in Covington’s belly.
“You’ll have to finish that later, brother,” Jason said over Covington’s groan, keeping the polymer blade tight. “Power’s only good till twelve-thirty.” He looked at Emily. “You. In the chair.”
Fear soaked her pants.
“Hey!” Marty roared through the glass. “You said you wanted me. So do it, you coward. Kill me and let her go.”
“You beat my brother half to death,” Jason said. “Broke his arms, gave him that steel tooth. Then put him in this slaughterhouse. Killing you would be too easy a punishment for your vast crimes. Instead, you’re going to watch Emily snap, crackle, and pop in Old Sparky. Just like you’d planned for my brother.”
Corey giggled.
“I knew you’d like the symmetry, bro,” Jason said. “Strap her in.”
“Shoot the bastards, Em,” Marty said, vision swimming. “Both of them. Now. Covington created this mess. Let him take the heat for it.”
“I have to protect the governor,” she said, the back of her knees slippery with sweat. “You know it.”
“Dammit,” Marty said, gritting his teeth and forcing his head to clear.
Corey shoved Emily in the chair. Buckled the straps so hard her hands and feet puffed. Ripped out a lock of chestnut hair. She wanted to yelp but wouldn’t give these two cacklers the satisfaction. Corey locked the skullcap on the bare spot: “Don’t worry, hon, blood improves electrical conductivity,” he said - then he ripped away a trouser leg and locked the exit electrode to her calf.
“Love that bullet scar,” he leered, dry-humping her knee. “Makes me wish we had five minutes. That’s all it’d take, babe. Five minutes with me and you’d forget all about Marty-boy.”
“Five minutes with you,” she snapped, “I’d fall asleep from boredom.”
“That’s good, honey,” Jason said as Corey slapped her. “Go down fighting.”
“Only one going down here,” Emily grunted, cheek on fire, “is you and baby-killer.”
Jason laughed, turned to Covington. “All right, Mr. Governor, this is it. You’ve got one chance to save the damsel in distress. And yourself.”
“We’re ready, Lieutenant,” the National Guard demolitions commander said from the top of the ladder. “There’s enough C-4 on this ceiling to blow it to Pluto.”
“And not collapse the entire building?”
He shrugged.
“Close enough,” Annie said.
“Pardon your brother?” Covington snapped. “Like George Ryan let all those maniacs off the Row? Are you out of your mind?”
“Probably,” Jason said. “But if you put it in writing and declare it was done freely and without coercion, I’ll let Emily and you go.”
“No way.”
“Is that your final offer?”
“I said no.”
Jason smiled. “I didn’t think you would. Your obsession with avenging your brother precludes all common sense. On the other hand, I can relate to that.” Jason looked at the clock over the viewing window. “You’ve got ten seconds to say yes, or Corey pushes those buttons.”
“Take the deal, Wayne,” Cross said. “If you don’t, she’s dead, and so are you.”
“Corey Trent cannot go free,” Covington said.
“Even if means killing an innocent like Emily?”
“Even if.”
“You son of a bitch,” Marty raged. “Sign the goddamn paper before I kill you myself.”
“And that’s ten,” Jason said. “Corey, head on in.”
Corey hustled to the anteroom. Ordered the frightened executioners out at gunpoint. Went inside, locked the door, laid a mop handle from the janitor closet across the three red buttons.
“All set,” he hollered. “Just give the word.”
Jason turned to Covington. “Last chance, Governor. Let my people go.”
Covington’s eyes were huge, his breathing shallow. He stared at Jason, then the anteroom, then Emily, whose eyes were equally wide. “I . . . I . . . just . . . all right, I’ll-”
“Don’t, Governor,” Emily said quietly. “You can’t give in to terrorists. It’s not like they’d let us go anyway.”
Jason beamed. “Well, aren’t you the little Sherlock Holmes?”
Then, to Marty.
“She’s right, of course. I would have let her go if you didn’t love her. Unfortunately for her, you do. Which is why I set all this in motion - the twelve murders, the Riverwalk stabbing, stealing the fuel truck, blowing up her house.”
“To get me,” Marty said.
Jason nodded. “You had every intention of watching my brother die. So instead you’ll watch your beloved woman die. Then we’ll all watch your governor die.”
“How? You barbecuing him? Or slitting his throat?” Marty said, stretching hard to keep Jason talking. Cross’s voice tone said he needed every second he could get to launch his rescue.
“The latter,” Jason said. “He’s the last witness from 1966, so he has to die. Besides, he killed an innocent man in Earl Monroe. Covington’s press releases say those who kill innocents must pay for it in blood. This is his chance for the justice he so freely dispenses to others.”
“Like you give a damn about justice.”
“Correct. I don’t. I care only about my brother. We were so close growing up we were practically one person. That never changed, even when we forged our separate ways in the world. Then you arrested him.”
“I’d do it again in a second,” Marty said. “Your brother isn’t fit to live in decent society. No wonder you disowned him.”
Jason glared. “Corey understood why I did that. He knew I needed distance in order to create Leonard Hill and carry out this plan. He understood I’d be back.”
“The Trent boys,” Corey shouted. “Together forever.”
Jason beamed. “Now we’ll take care of the man who threatened all that. You. By electrocuting Emily, then dispatching Wayne through my terrible swift sword. Right, Corey?”
“Right, Bowie.”
“That’s the first thing my brother ever called me,” Jason said with immense fondness. “Bowie. He had trouble pronouncing Jason when he first learned to talk. He saw some TV actor talk about using a Bowie knife, and that’s what he started calling me. I adopted it as my middle name.”
He looked through the anteroom window. “I’ll count down from ten. You push the mop handle at zero. As soon as Emily’s fingernails poke through her palms, I’ll slit Covington’s throat. So we can watch them die together. Every execution needs its witnesses.”
“Plenty of us to watch yours, freak,” Marty said. “Aren’t you afraid of dying?”
“Everyone dies,” Jason said. “It’s the grandeur of a man’s accomplishment that counts. Mine is the grandest of all - saving my brother’s life. Isn’t that right, Governor?”
No answer.
“Very well,” Jason said. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
Annie clicked her radio twice. Guardsmen detonated the high explosives on the basement’s ceiling, which was also the floor of the witness room and execution chamber. Concrete clapped like thunder in a bottle. Dust boiled. Chairs upended. Witnesses screamed. The floor cracked in six places, dropped eight inches. The door frame squealed out of shape.
Annie’s demo man swept the door clear with the second ignition.
“Go, go, go,” Annie barked, bounding into the chamber and putting six bullets in Jason. His eyes rolled up, and he flopped like a rag doll.
Opening Covington’s neck as he went.
“Medic,” she said, pointing. Two jumped on the governor as blood stained his white-blond hair.
Marty raced to the electric chair.
“I’m gonna get you out,” he said, unbuckling the first leather strap. The process was too slow. He pulled Emily’s combat knife from her pocket and began sawing.
“Hurry,” she begged, clamping hard on her emotions to keep from freaking.
SWATs converged on the anteroom.
The second strap split open.
Corey Trent spit blood and teeth as he pulled himself to hands and knees. The earthquake knocked him to the back of the anteroom and almost unconscious. Almost.
Ram teams battered the anteroom door. The steel dented but the locks didn’t yield.
“Blow it,” Annie ordered.
They unwound detonation cord and slapped on shaped charges.
Fourth strap flew apart. Fifth. Sixth.
“Too late!” Corey howled, nearly back to the mop handle. “The scarred bitch dies now!”
Sweat poured off Marty’s face as he sawed. SWATs joined in. Seven and eight parted, then nine and ten. Just one more, around her chest.
Corey pushed the mop handle with his fingers. Not enough leverage to trigger the kill shot. He inched forward to use his bloody palms. He tensed his abdomen and pushed.
“Fire in the hole!” the demo man shouted, twisting away.
Eight tiny, precise blasts sheared the door like a can opener. SWATs dashed inside, machine guns roaring. All three red buttons clicked as burning lead flayed Corey’s chest, legs, and head.
The battery spit lightning.
The last strap parted.
“Ahhhhhgh!” Emily howled as the dragon lit her up.
She slammed the viewing window like a slapshot. Bounced sideways, hit the floor upside-down, skidded back toward the chair. Her head clanged. Her tongue tasted like burnt sirloin. Her brain became a funhouse mirror of faces, hands, feet, knives, and electric chair.
She passed out.
Jason Trent’s eyelids fluttered. With the .45-caliber stitching, no one figured him alive.
But he was.
Still clutching the plastic knife, he sucked up his final particles of energy for a killing thrust.
“Come on, Emily, breathe!” Marty yelled, blowing life into his mirror image. “You’re tougher than the Trents! Tougher than the chair! Kick their ass and come on home!”
Emily was drowning in dragon’s blood. It was sweeter than she thought. Very thick. Not hot like its breath. Didn’t hurt a bit. Not so bad dying this way, she thought. She relaxed, let the dragon coo in her ear, tuck her under its wing.
An air pump blasted into her lungs as a jackhammer pummeled her ribs. The dragon clawed and screeched.
It startled her enough to change her mind about dying. She spotted a hole at the top of the dragon’s head. Swam toward it. Every stroke was agony.
“Wayne will be all right,” Cross said as paramedics hustled the governor down the mountain. “Knife missed the jugular.” He grabbed Emily’s hand. “Come on, Detective,” he whispered into her left ear. “I won’t let you go out like this. You were lead detective. Remember? From the spa? The case is over now. You’ve got to do the paperwork.” He squeezed so hard his own hand trembled. “You need to come back and finish your paperwork . . .”
Annie pushed, and Marty blew cadence as paramedics readied paddles and drugs.
Dragon’s blood transmogrified into Maypo. She loved that hot, chocolate cereal. Daddy and Mama made it Sundays after church, and she ate it even today. It reminded her of home.
“I got a heartbeat,” Annie panted, pulling back.
Maypo became cream soda, everyone’s favorite at her Sweet Sixteen. Light, bubbly, fun. Then cream became Chardonnay. Her first drink on her first date with Jack. Chardonnay became omelettes. Her first meal with Marty.
“She’s breathing!” Marty said, fighting his emotions as Emily sputtered and hacked.
Emily laughed and laughed. She and Marty got silly one night, filled their bathtub with whipped cream. Jumped in with a bottle of Champagne, fooled around for hours, sang themselves to sleep. She loved whipped cream. It reminded her of home . . .
“Where are you?” Emily groaned, eyelids fluttering open. “Marty? Marty?”
“I’m right here, baby,” Marty said, reaching for her. “Right here.”
Jason Trent twisted, lifted, and plunged.
Emily caught the blur from the corner of her bloodshot eye. She smashed her boot into the murderer’s jack-hammering arm. The razor-edge blade skidded off Marty’s back and into the broken floor. She snatched it from Jason’s hand and thrust it into his throat, picador to bull.
It pierced his jugular.
Jason croaked once, froglike. Blood gushed. The knife vibrated like a tuning fork. Jason’s eyes bugged, then blanked. His mouth opened and closed without sound. His bowels released.
Then his life.
Emily melted back to the floor as Annie shot him twice in the head.
“Baby,” she whispered as SWAT dragged the body away.
“Right here,” Marty said.
She clutched his hands. “I made a decision. It’s hard, but I have to do it because I just can’t take it anymore. I’m leaving.”
Marty’s eyes went wide. “Me?”
“No. The house. I’m selling the property and not looking back. It’s time to clear away the past. We’re going to use the money to pay for Troy’s surgery. Then we’re getting on with our lives.”
“Troy? Who’s Troy?” he asked.
“Your son,” she said. “That’s the name I came up with, Troy. What do you think?”
A slow smile broke across Marty’s face.
“I think,” he said, “we should talk about our son in whatever home - and life - we’re going to build ourselves next.”
She brushed her fingers across his lips. “Promise?”
“Hope to die,” Marty said.
Five years earlier
Aboard the Deepwater Horizon
Gulf of Mexico
9:44 p.m.
April 10
The rig began trembling like caffeine withdrawal.
Kemper, panicked, spun to warn his crewmates but saw them stampeding for the lifeboats, having felt the deadly vibrations too. Relief washed his sunburned body, and he broke into a run. Then remembered his best friend was perched in the superstructure, fixing antennas.
“Blowout!” he screamed at the blue-black sky. “Blowout! Hit the line, Pie!”
Pieton jerked around, wild-eyed at the dooming word. He leapt for the “Geronimo line,” the emergency escape cable that would zip-line him to the sleek orange lifeboats squatting in their launchers, ready to spit desperate men into the sea.
Instead, he caught the leading edge of the shock wave as the first cloud of methane gas exploded, turning 100 million pounds of oil rig into a fiery chainsaw of shrapnel.
“Help me!” Pieton’s head bleated as his body detached from his neck.
Kemper froze as rivets, brains, and elbows rained down on the drilling deck, which the BP recruiter had bragged was bigger than an NFL football field. The superheated deck made his boot soles smoke, jerking him back into action. He picked up a wailing, blinded toolpusher and staggered toward the nearest lifeboat, the abandon-ship Klaxon driving needles through his ears.
“Thirty . . . feet . . . to go,” Kemper wheezed, coughing lung and burnt petroleum onto the blind man’s face. The man writhed frantically. Kemper gripped tighter, shoved one boot forward and then the next, slipping on flesh and seaweed. “Down to twenty . . . now ten . . . and guess what, man, there’s plenty of seats!” He cackled like a lifer set free. “We made it! We’re gonna sail off this hell-beast as soon as I pull the ripcord-”
He was knocked off his feet as methane and crude oil roared out of the well-hole in the bottom of the Gulf, past the ruined blowout preventers, up a vertical mile of pipe, and into the oceangoing behemoth, belching like too much Schlitz, catching a spark and going supernova, the fireball disemboweling riggers, roasting crane operators, gobbling wrenches and life rings and blueprints and overalls and cell phones and gimme-hats, Cat and Bud and Deere. The blind man exploded into pink confetti. I-beams flew like drinking-straw wrappers. Fuel barrels lit off, bashing the superstructure like cannonballs. “Oof!” Kemper blatted as Pie’s scorched torso pile-drove him into the deck. He faded to black.
Came back.
He blinked a dozen times at the stadium roar in his ears, then frantically patted himself tip to toe. Nothing broken, no parts missing. His survival was a miracle, plain and simple . . .
At once remembered where he was.
Cut to the Bone Page 26