Dire

by Jeff Carson

  “No, no. Please let me see her now.”

  Lauren’s head jerked forward as the barrel of Bristol’s gun thudded against her skull.

  “Now!”

  She staggered forward into Wolf’s arms.

  “Move,” Bristol said. “Into the big room at the end of the hallway.”

  Wolf turned his back and walked forward with Lauren.

  The space was large with an enormous vaulted ceiling, furnished with expensive, heavy furniture made of iron, wood, and leather.

  Wolf took a circuitous route to the center of the room, past a leather chair, around a chest, through two couches. His fingers ran across the smooth wood of a circular table. On top of it sat a marble cube sculpture—heavy, with sharp corners and edges. On another table stood a black iron candleholder with a slim white candle sticking up out of it. He made his way toward the weapon along the back of a leather couch.

  “That’s enough,” Bristol said. “Stop there.”

  They did as they were told.

  Low furniture stood between them and Bristol, who had held his position at the mouth of the room.

  Lauren’s eyes were newly wet with tears, but her face was hard, her jaw clenched and her teeth grinding.

  Wolf put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it away.

  “Bring her out here, you sick asshole,” she said.

  A door clicked open behind Bristol and shuffling footsteps moved down the hallway.

  “Ella?”

  A man coughed, his rattling lungs echoing into the great room.

  It was not Ella.

  Chapter 44

  Patterson leaned into Rachette’s arms and felt herself being pulled out of the car. For agonizing seconds she became twisted, the pressure on her baby too much until she arched her back and the pain lifted.

  Now she was looking upward at a single contrail bisecting a brilliant blue sky. Rachette held her under her shoulders while Hernandez took her legs. They were going up steps, and then under the covered porch of the house and into the warm interior.

  She heard crunching glass on the floor with their footsteps. The view above her became a vaulted ceiling with log beams in geometric patterns. It was warm, so warm.

  “Over there. On that fluffy rug. I’m gonna call,” Rachette said to Hernandez. “Get your ass down there. You have to help Wolf.”

  Patterson was between contractions now, feeling relatively normal, save the sideways sagging of her belly.

  Thumping footsteps stamped out the front door and it slammed shut. Suddenly there was no sound but Rachette’s heaving breath as he laid a blanket over her.

  “Tammy, I need an ambulance right now.” Rachette relayed the address into the phone while he stared at Patterson’s legs. “Patterson’s bleeding. She’s in labor. I think something’s wrong, totally wrong.” He paused. “What? Are you kidding me?”

  He lowered the phone and his mouth dropped open.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Tammy says I have to take off your pants.”

  Patterson nodded. “Okay.”

  He dropped the phone, moved the blanket aside, and gripped the top of her pants. “There’re no buttons.”

  “They’re maternity pants. Just pull.” She helped him get started, but it hurt to bend forward so she lifted her butt and let him finish the deed.

  “Shit.” His eyes widened as he put the phone back to his ear. “There’s blood … I don’t know, I guess … enough to be running all the way down her leg … what?” He closed his eyes and put his fingertips to his forehead. “What?”

  He swallowed and opened his eyes. “I have to take off your underwear. Tammy’s telling me to.” He held out the phone to her. “Tell her, Tammy.”

  “Just do it,” Patterson said, pulling the underwear off her hips. She felt the blood stick and pull on the skin between her legs.

  Rachette pulled the underwear down and looked, transfixed by her crotch. As if an afterthought, he put the phone to his ear. “Okay … no … no there’s not …” He leaned closer toward her crotch.

  Screw it. She allowed her legs to fall open.

  “No, there’s nothing. I’m not seeing anything at all. It looks like the blood’s stopped. Fluid? I don’t know … it’s bloody. Not fluidy. But … there might be some …”

  Rachette pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. “I need to take this other call. It’s Hernandez.” He poked the screen and put it back to his ear. “What’s going on?”

  Rachette stood up and paced, putting his hand on his face, oblivious to the streak of blood he was smearing on his cheek. “Shit. I can’t. Patterson’s bleeding, the ambulance—”

  “Go!” She felt another contraction coming on, another wave of pain about to crash into her. “Get down there and save them. You’ve done all you can do here!”

  Rachette shook his head.

  “Fucking go!”

  Rachette looked at her crotch one last time, knelt and put the blanket back on her, and then stood back up. “Okay.”

  The pain hit her and her forehead instantly beaded with sweat. In that moment, she had a terrible premonition that nearby people’s lives were being extinguished just as her son’s was beginning.

  “Get out,” she said. “Go!”

  Rachette stutter-stepped and then sprinted out the door.

  The door swung shut and clicked. An arctic wind flowed in through the broken window on the other side of the room, and the heater vent howled next to her, a comforting sirocco that was now her only companion.

  She clenched her teeth. Half of her brain was telling her to push, the other half insisting she resist. And she was clueless as to which half was right.

  Chapter 45

  “What’s going on?” a voice echoed into the great room.

  Wolf grabbed Lauren by the arm and pulled her behind him as a greasy-haired man came out of the hall.

  He was the embodiment of a strung-out drug addict. His eyes were sunken and red rimmed, his skin shiny and white. A line of blood oozed from one of his arms, a hideous appendage worthy of a zombie-movie makeup artist.

  Zeke Jacoway.

  Bristol looked at the druggie and waved him over with the gun.

  Zeke obeyed the unspoken command without hesitation.

  “I want you to shoot these two in the head,” Bristol said.

  Zeke raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked at Wolf and Lauren. “Why?”

  “Because that’s why you’re here. Because if you want what’s coming to you, that’s what you have to do.” Bristol produced another gun from his waistband so he held two, then aimed one at Zeke and handed the other over to him.

  Zeke seemed oblivious to the clear distrust, grabbing the pistol and marching toward Wolf and Lauren. He was sulking, his eyes on the ground, mumbling like he was angry for having to carry out a chore, like he’d been told to take out the trash by his father.

  There was zero hesitation in Zeke’s movements. As he stepped forward on his dirty socks, swerving between the furniture, he racked the slide back on the handgun, checking the chamber.

  Wolf grabbed Lauren and pushed her violently, sending her over the back of the couch. He turned back and ran at Zeke, grabbing the heavy iron candleholder from the table on his way. The candle snapped off as Wolf reared it back, just as a report from Bristol’s gun popped. A bullet burned past Wolf’s head.

  Zeke raised his weapon, his bloodshot eyes wide open in shock.

  Wolf came down with the candleholder as Zeke’s gun fired, but Wolf saw the angle and leaned at the last moment.

  The bullet missed him, but he caught a face full of white-hot residue from the muzzle as he continued his downward blow with the makeshift weapon.

  Wolf’s hearing was gone from the close-range blast—otherwise, he would have heard a metallic thud as he buried the candleholder five inches into Zeke’s skull.

  He let go of the object and caught Zeke’s light, lifeless body and held him up in a headlock.
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  Bristol’s gun popped again from the hallway and Zeke’s body convulsed as a bullet hit him in the chest.

  Wolf grabbed Zeke’s hand, which still held the gun, raised it, aimed it at Bristol, and pulled on Zeke’s trigger finger.

  Bristol was already moving, diving back into the hallway as the mahogany splintered where he’d previously stood.

  “No!” Lauren’s scream tore the air, penetrating through the ringing in Wolf’s ears.

  He let Zeke fall, yanking the gun from his dead hand, and sprinted, knocking over the table, ignoring the ungodly pain in his ankle.

  He entered the hallway at full speed and fired at Bristol. He missed again as Bristol dove into the bedroom where Ella Coulter watched cartoons.

  “No!” Lauren was behind him.

  Wolf’s lungs wheezed as he ran. His vision bounced. The hallway was unimaginably long.

  A gunshot flashed inside the bedroom, and Wolf knew his life was over.

  He’d failed Ella Coulter.

  He’d failed Lauren Coulter.

  Slowing at the doorway, he felt his face twist, his teeth bare, and he grunted so hard he felt his throat rip—a hideous noise that came from the dark, suicidal part of his soul that demanded revenge at any cost.

  Walking into the room, he raised the gun and marched forward.

  “Mommy!”

  With a gasp, Wolf froze, taking in the scene through tear-filled eyes.

  Bristol had Ella Coulter, shielding himself with her squirming body.

  “Mommy, Mommy!” She kicked her feet back and forth.

  The room was ice cold, the window wide open. Two men lay on the ground. One was Hernandez, writhing on the carpet beneath the window, blood seeping from a wound on his shoulder. The second man, whom Wolf recognized as Michael Coulter, was stirring underneath a pile of blankets against the wall.

  “Drop it.” Bristol had his gun to Ella’s head.

  Wolf’s body was shaking with adrenaline, his hands unfeeling bricks. He eased the tension off his trigger and lowered his weapon “Bristol, wait.”

  Bristol sidestepped toward the window, keeping his gun against Ella’s temple.

  “Mommy!”

  “Ella!” Lauren stood behind Wolf.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Michael Coulter sat up and leaned against the wall.

  “Shut up,” Bristol said. Tears streamed down his face. He darted his eyes down to Hernandez, over to Wolf, across to the window, then back at Wolf.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Wolf said. “That’s why you had Zeke. You can’t do this. This kind of thing isn’t you.”

  “You on the ground! Throw your weapon out! Do it or I shoot this girl!”

  “Okay,” Hernandez grunted. “Just a second. He fished around underneath him and produced his gun, then tossed it toward Bristol.

  “Who is this?” Bristol asked.

  “That’s the cops,” Wolf said. “You can’t go out that window. You can’t escape. You can’t kill everyone now.”

  Bristol stood contemplating. “Change of plans. Back out the door and into the garage.”

  Wolf hesitated. “Why?”

  “We’re going to Fort Collins.” He pointed his pistol at Wolf and took a step forward.

  A pop came from outside and Bristol jerked sideways. A spit of blood shot from his side as his mouth opened in a silent scream, and then he crumpled over Ella, both of them crashing to the floor.

  Wolf dove head first, grabbing the gun with his left hand and prying Bristol’s arm from Ella with the other.

  “Give me my daughter!” Lauren appeared and tore Ella away from Bristol.

  “Get out of the room,” Wolf said, doubting she needed much convincing.

  Wolf’s grip on the gun was tentative at best, but he had the leverage, and pinned it to the carpet with his full weight.

  A meaty fist came up and connected squarely with his nose.

  His vision blurred. Pain shot up into his skull between his eyes as blood gushed out of both nostrils. Keeping his palm pressed on the gun, Wolf lunged down and punched Bristol in the cheek, and then followed with a hard elbow to the side of his face. At the same time, the gun went off.

  Another close-range shot snuffed out Wolf’s hearing and this time there was searing fire against his left hand.

  Wolf slammed his right elbow onto Bristol’s forearm and the bone snapped under the skin. Finally, Wolf felt the gun release from Bristol’s grasp.

  “Ungh!” Michael Coulter writhed on his side, clutching his stomach.

  Another blow hit Wolf in the side of the head, this time weaker.

  “Freeze!” Rachette aimed his gun point-blank at Bristol’s face.

  Bristol rolled to his back and put a hand to his forehead, chest heaving.

  “Hands up!”

  Bristol stayed still. One arm was broken and worthless. The wound on the side of his ribcage flowed steadily, his lungs rattling as they filled with blood.

  Wolf got to his knees. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He wiped his broken nose with his sleeve, painting it solid red.

  “Oh shit, oh shhhhhh …” Michael Coulter curled into a tight ball. He’d clearly been hit by Bristol’s shot.

  “Call an ambulance,” Wolf said.

  Wolf gave his left hand a double take and raised it. His left pinky was gone, only a flap of skin near the bottom knuckle remaining. His ring finger was blackened and bent at an unnatural angle.

  “You okay?” Rachette asked.

  “Yeah.” Wolf turned to Hernandez. “You okay?”

  “I’m hit.” Hernandez was on his side, clutching his right shoulder. “I’m okay though. I think.”

  Bristol stirred and grunted. He rolled onto his side and tried to sit up.

  “Get back down!” Rachette squared off and aimed his gun.

  “My stomach. Ah … my stomach,” Michael whimpered.

  The sound of sirens floated in through the open window.

  “Ambulance is on its way,” Wolf said to Michael Coulter.

  “Shit.” Rachette stood frozen, bouncing glances from Hernandez to Bristol. “Patterson’s in labor up there. She’s bleeding. I called that for her. I gotta get back up there.”

  Wolf picked up Hernandez’s Glock from the floor. “Go.”

  “Okay. I’ll call for more help.” Rachette disappeared out the window.

  Bristol looked at the ceiling with vacant eyes, like he was on his tenth hour of staring at the television. With gurgling lungs, he convulsed and coughed.

  Wolf watched him die, thinking about the Mackennas and the dead nanny. He thought about the look of terror on Ella’s face moments ago, and the memories she would be fighting for life because of this man.

  With bared teeth, Bristol got to one elbow. His lungs rattled worse now, and there was blood coming from his mouth.

  “My stomach,” Michael said.

  Bristol slid his gaze toward Wolf. He teetered forward, his arm spasming. Inch by inch, he clawed his way up to sitting position. Then, with the final reserves in his dying body, he came at Wolf.

  Wolf aimed for his chest and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 46

  Two days later …

  “You look like … hmmm, what’s another way of saying you look like shit?” Special Agent Kristen Luke sat in the bolted chair with crossed legs, a facetious smile curling her lips. “Ass? Nah. Way worse than that.”

  Wolf went back to staring at the gray security door at the other end of the room. He had to admit, he was a little self-conscious about his nose. It looked like somebody had inflated the skin between his eyes and painted it different shades of purple. His left elbow sat on the armrest of a plastic chair, hand wrapped in a ball of bandages and sticking straight up to ease the throbbing. And while the analgesics made him more affable, they did little to mask the pain from the aftermath of having his pinky shot off.

  “How does it feel?” Kristen asked.
r />   “Like ass.”

  The topical pain-relieving ointment under the ball of bandages needed reapplying, and that wouldn’t happen for at least another five hours, because he’d left it on his kitchen table up in Rocky Points.

  “Here he comes,” she said in a low voice.

  They could see Ryan Rome through the square window being lectured by the security guard. He was nodding, rolling his eyes, like visitation hours were old hat to him.

  Wolf knew it was an act because the warden had told them Rome received exactly one visitor in the past six years of his incarceration, and that had been his lawyer.

  The door clacked, the opening lock sounding like someone had hit it with a hammer, and then a guard pushed through the door, a big beefy black guy with a bored expression.

  Rome’s legs were chained together so he shuffled in for his entrance. When he saw them, one side of his mouth curled and he raised both handcuffed wrists, waving with his fingers.

  The guard grabbed his belly chain and led him over, and then waited until Rome had sat in the chair. Locking the restraints into the eyelet on the bottom of the concrete table, he nodded at Luke and said, “All yours.”

  The guard walked to the wall, leaned up against it, and folded his arms.

  Rome’s eyes lit up and he bent over to look under the table at Special Agent Luke. “I’m all yours? Damn, my lucky day. Why don’t you say we lose this freak here and grab a conjugal suite?”

  “I’m Special Agent Kristen Luke with the FBI,” Luke said in a bored tone. “This is Detective David Wolf with the Sluice–Byron County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Rome’s eyes never left Luke. “My goodness, look at those tits. Are you sure you don’t want to … you know … ?” He bounced his eyebrows.

  “They took my gun at the door, so I don’t have anything with me to jam up your ass. I assume that’s the way you like it now.”

  Wolf cleared his throat. “Can we please get on with our questions?”

  Rome looked at Wolf as if he’d just appeared out of thin air. “What happened to you?”