by Rod Reynolds
‘MOVE.’
He threw himself aside as I raised his gun and snapped off a shot.
The face disappeared. The window pane cracked in the top corner – the bullet flying high and wide of where the man had been. I whipped around to check the door, then the back window again. Before I had a chance to act, a shot rang out, punching through the front window. I dived to the floor.
Layfield had crawled behind the dresser against the far wall for shelter. ‘Give me a gun, goddammit. You can’t cover both sides.’
I tipped the table over and crouched behind it, the opposite side of the room from Layfield. Seven bullets. Could be a whole army out there.
The mattress covering the door moved – a slight judder, someone trying the knob tentatively. Then a shattering sound behind me. The back window crumbled in a shower of glass, and a rock the size of a baseball skidded across the carpet.
Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn—
I opened the cylinder of Layfield’s gun and spun it to an empty chamber.
‘Layfield.’ He glanced over and I tossed his gun to him. ‘Take the back.’
He caught it, looking shocked. I stared at him, ready to shoot if he aimed it at me. Instead, he righted it in his hand and trained it on the window.
Three more shots came through the front and slammed into the side wall. Wild shots, a distraction—
The mattress toppled towards Layfield as the front door flew open. Someone stuck a gun around the corner and fired blind into the room. The man cracked off three shots – all high – and whipped his hand away. Layfield got his foot to the door and toed it closed again. The broken lock meant it didn’t stick, finished up hanging ajar. I scurried across to the mattress and shouldered it back in place. I dropped to the floor again as two shots came from behind. Layfield returned fire, his first trigger pull an empty click. I rolled so I was underneath the front window. It left me exposed to fire from the back.
‘Stupid not to trust me, Yates.’
‘Save your bullets, goddammit.’
‘We sitting ducks.’
‘They still have to get in here.’
More shots whizzed above my head. To my right, the mattress moved again – someone outside testing the door. A crazy idea—
I reached out and pushed the mattress over so it tumbled to the carpet. A man kicked the door open, but wasn’t prepared for it to give so easily; his momentum carried him into the room, right in front of me. I had my gun up, but Layfield didn’t hesitate, put a slug in him, point blank. The man fell hard.
‘Jesus Christ—’ I couldn’t move for staring at the corpse.
A shout from outside: ‘Shit, he’s down.’
The gunman was still, his body blocking the door open. I pressed myself to the wall, trapped underneath the front window. Layfield saw the dead man’s face and he glanced at me, shaken. ‘He’s a cop.’
My hope suffocated as the reality of Tindall’s influence sank in.
There was a barrage of shouts from outside. The room was full of smoke and plaster dust, debris showered all over the floor. I inched closer to the doorway, broken glass shredding my skin, to a spot where I could just see out and along the path beyond. The angle meant I could only see one way, but there was no one on that side.
‘YATES—’
Layfield shouted it. He pointed his gun in my direction and fired. I flinched, jammed my eyes shut.
The bullet never came. I opened them again; he was aiming above me. I looked up, saw a shooter had leaned through the shattered window, and now he was slumped over the ledge, motionless, half in the room and half out. His gun arm dangled loose, still clutching his pistol, the barrel inches from my head. A trickle of blood ran down the wall.
My whole body shook. Seeing everything as a blur, I snatched the revolver from the dead man’s hand.
I shot Layfield a look, lost for words, but he’d faced the other way again. He yelled at me over his shoulder, ‘Get back in cover.’
I threw myself behind the upturned table again, mind in tumult, trying to focus it by figuring how many bullets we had. I looked at the two revolvers I was holding; there were two in the dead gunman’s, still three in Barrett’s. ‘How many you have left?’
He glanced over at me, held up one finger to signify he was on his last. I pointed to the corpse of the other dead gunman, face down in the doorway, gesturing to take his gun. Layfield glanced at it and shook his head, as if it was too close to the open door.
I looked at the bathroom, weighed it, figured it was the same as climbing into a casket.
Surrounded. Outgunned. Out of options.
It took a moment for me to register the charged silence that had fallen. I figured they were regrouping outside. My ears were ringing, and my hands were covered in cuts that were clogged and matted with dust. Cold air rushed through the empty window frames, swirling the dust and smoke.
Then a voice called from outside – barely audible, coming from a distance away. ‘Yates, listen to me. Kill him and bring yourself out, and I’ll spare your wife.’
Tindall’s mongrel accent unmistakable.
Layfield closed his eyes. His mouth was ajar, resignation etched in his features.
‘There’s no bloody way out of there; use your head and your old lady can walk.’
I looked at the guns in my lap. My head was scrambled.
‘You know what he’s done to you. To them girls. What’re you thinking protecting him now?’ Tindall’s voice had an almost singsong quality to it that belied the brutal truth of what he was saying.
Layfield opened his eyes and stared at the wall, as though part of him had already departed. Then he started yelling. ‘You son of a bitch, Bill. I always done every goddamn thing you asked.’
If Tindall heard him, he didn’t react, falling silent a moment before he called again. ‘Do as I say, Yates. He’ll only put a bullet in you if you don’t.’
I looked over to Layfield. He was already watching me, and he started shaking his head in silent denial. But we both knew it was bullshit; even if some miracle got us out of there, he’d have no other choice.
I rubbed my eyes, the dirt making them tear. It should’ve been so easy. Layfield had never shown any mercy, and he deserved none now. But it wasn’t. The idea of doing Tindall’s bidding appalled me – but it was more than that. For all the certainties I’d abandoned since I first set foot in Texarkana, there was still one I clung to: that killing in cold blood was a surrender to the darkness in a man’s soul. A line you crossed and couldn’t come back from. I remembered something Lizzie said to me once, words from her pastor that comforted her in the wake of Alice’s death: ‘You can’t do good by doing evil.’ The memory of her saying it was vivid, and it made my heart bleed. I called out to Tindall. ‘Where’s my wife?’
‘Still in California. She’s safe enough for now. She can be tucked up in her own bed within the hour – it’s for you to decide.’
He was too sincere, and my eyes spilled over at the creeping realisation he could never let her live. That no bargaining or pleading was going to secure her safety, and I was deluding myself to believe otherwise. Frustration ate me up, and I slammed my head against the table, knowing it was my own intransigence that had put her in harm’s way.
I raised the revolver I’d taken from the dead gunman, aimed it at the wall along from Layfield and fired. He jerked, gaping at me at first. The single shot ripped through the silence, reverberating around the walls and out into the night beyond them.
‘It’s done,’ I shouted. ‘Let her go.’
No response came.
No spoken response—
There was the sound of a bottle smashing, and then flames leapt in all directions around me.
I shielded my face with my arm. By luck alone, the firebomb had landed on the other side of the upturned table I was sheltering behind. I looked over, saw Layfield batting at his left arm, the sleeve of his jacket alight. There were pockets of fire all around the room, the carpet, the
drapes, the bedstead ablaze.
Layfield wrestled himself free of his coat and threw it across the floor, his face contorted with pain. The heat was increasing as the flames spread. There was black smoke all around the room and it triggered a bout of choking coughs in both of us. I covered my mouth with my jacket tail, but it made little difference. Layfield had slumped against the wall, holding his arm gingerly across his chest, his eyes screwed shut. I thought about Jimmy, damning myself for recognising I was on the same path as him and following it anyway. Right into the flames.
I rolled to the front window and got to my feet, sucking in fresh air. I peeped from behind the man’s body that hung there like a dead fish on a scale.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
I ignored Layfield. I bobbed up and down to look, but no pot-shots came – Tindall’s men content to wait us out now. I could make out a car on the far side of the parking lot, maybe twenty yards distant, and behind it, Tindall’s newsboy cap outlined in the moonlight.
I crouched again and held my breath, choking inside, thinking their complacency was my only out. The flames were spreading across the carpet and along the skirting boards, and through the smoke I could see the roof starting to blacken. Layfield edged himself along the wall, caught between the blazing dresser and the exposure of the open doorway. His face was red and covered in sweat.
To hell with waiting to die.
‘I’m going after Tindall.’ I shouted it, the words barely audible over the fire. Layfield turned his eyes to me, but I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me.
I burst out of the doorway and dived over the path, landing between Layfield’s Chrysler and the LaSalle. After the heat of the room, the night air was like cold hands clamped to my skin. A shot rang out, dinging off the bodywork. I pressed my cheek into the dirt to look under the chassis of Layfield’s car and saw there was a man behind a pillar outside room three, covering the doorway from the blindside. His face was jagged as lava rock. I couldn’t get an angle to fire on him. He was aiming in my direction but holding his position, waiting on me.
I ran numbers. Two of Tindall’s men were dead, one more on the path covering the doorway. Made four including Tindall. At least one more around back. If they’d only brought one car, chances were that was all of them – but no way to be certain there wasn’t another somewhere in the darkness.
The thought of taking Tindall spurred me. He may never have intended negotiating for Lizzie, but everything changed if I could put a gun to his head.
The man on the path was calling for me to show myself. It was a twenty-some yard dash to where Tindall stood, across open ground. A clear field of fire for the shooter. Tindall too. I didn’t like my chances, but didn’t see any other way to save Lizzie. I got my feet under me.
Then all hell broke loose. Layfield came flying out of the room, sprinting across the lot towards Tindall, his revolver held out in front of him. I shouted to him, but my words were lost in the sound of gunshots.
The shooter on the path had spun to track him and opened fire. Layfield stumbled as if he’d been hit, but kept going, legs pumping like a madman. I lifted my head and brought Barrett’s gun up to aim at the gunman. Hand shaking, I pulled the trigger.
I saw blood spatter the pillar. Before the shooter even hit the ground, I was stumbling to my feet chasing Layfield. ‘DON’T KILL HIM.’
He didn’t look back.
His head start was too great. I ran after him, shouting. ‘I NEED TINDALL ALIVE—’
Tindall had his gun out, a look of stunned terror on his face. He hesitated before he took his shot, and Layfield fired first. Tindall dropped out of sight behind his car.
‘NO, NO, NO—’
Layfield dived across the hood of Tindall’s car, to where Tindall had gone down. I ran harder.
I rounded the car and saw Layfield on top of Tindall, his fingers in Tindall’s mouth to pin him down, using his other hand to hammer at his skull with the pistol butt. I hooked Layfield around the throat and pulled him away. I wrestled him backwards, his heels dragging and kicking in the gravel. Tindall wasn’t moving.
Layfield threw his head back, catching me on the cheekbone. The pain made my grip falter and he spun free, then followed in with a straight right that put me down. I smashed my head on the stony ground as I landed.
I looked up at Layfield, head pounding, my vision blurred and fading. His shirt was covered with blood, as though he’d been shot, and in his eyes I saw only hate. He pointed his gun at me and fired.
There was a click. No bullets left.
He whipped back to Tindall. Before he could resume his attack, a gunshot rang out, and then another. Blood sprayed from the side of Layfield’s face, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his cheek. Then he pitched over onto his face.
A red light danced around the parking lot, and I heard a screaming noise. I thought it was coming from Layfield. The shooter on the pathway outside the room staggered past a little distance from where I lay, his eyes on something across the lot. He was dragging his left leg, the barrel of his gun still smoking from the shot that felled Layfield. He opened the back door of Tindall’s car and started to heft him to it. Tindall’s face was a mess of blood, his eyes shining out from it like wet stones. His gaze was empty, but as the heavy dragged him to the car, Tindall reached out his hand and his fingertips brushed against Layfield’s head.
Through my daze, I realised the screaming was a siren, and the red lights were everywhere now, encircling me. Tindall’s man slammed the rear door shut and dived behind the steering wheel. I battled to get to my feet and threw myself against the car. I clawed at the door handle as the driver gunned the engine. It came open, but the man stamped on the accelerator and took off, the door swinging on its hinges.
I chased after them, yelling for Lizzie.
I heard cars skidding to a halt and doors being thrown open. I kept going, tripping and lurching, my brittle legs failing me, the back lights of Tindall’s car all I could see. I sensed someone on my tail – their footfalls, hard breathing. Then I was tackled from behind, brought down in a tangle of arms and legs. A voice shouted at me to be still, but I lifted my head in time to see two police cruisers pull up in front of Tindall’s car, penning it in. The driver jumped out and was felled with the crack of a shotgun.
I felt a hand on the back of my neck, forcing my face into the ground. I turned my head to ease the pressure, saw the night awash with red. The edge of my vision went dark. Before I blacked out, I heard Sam Masters somewhere near me, breathless, barking an order: ‘Go easy on him.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
I came round in a hospital bed and immediately thought I was back in Lennox Hill, the hospital where I’d spent six months after the car wreck that’d shattered my legs. Strange how that place that held only bad memories now served as the closest thing to a safe haven my brain could dredge up. It was only when the fog lifted some that I realised the surroundings were foreign to me.
I was alone in an empty ward, three beds made up with stiff white sheets along the wall opposite, and one either side of me. I could smell starch and sweat, and my head was splitting.
Then it all came back. Lizzie—
I went to get up, but as I moved, a handcuff chained to the bed rail bit into my wrist. I rattled it and tried to call out, but my voice was hoarse and weak.
A police officer in a uniform I didn’t recognise appeared at the end of the room and made his way towards me, but a nurse overtook him. She rushed to my bedside and put her hand on my arm. ‘Try to be calm, Mr Yates. You’re quite unwell.’
‘My wife— I need to get to a telephone . . .’
The cop stationed himself at the end of my bed, hands on hips. I saw the badge on his shirt, made him as Arkansas State Police. ‘I’ll notify the prosecuting attorney that you’re awake.’
‘Please. I need to make a call . . .’
‘Mr Masters will be along in good time.’ He marched back the way he’d come.
‘Twelve hours or so. They brought you in last night. Doctor says you’ve suffered the effects of smoke inhalation, and he suspects you suffered a serious concussion. Does your head hurt?’
I mouthed an affirmative.
‘It’s to be expected. Doctor may be able to give you something for the pain. Are you experiencing shortness of breath?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded as if she assumed as much. ‘Can you tell me what year this is?’
‘Nineteen forty-six.’
‘And the name of the president?’
‘Truman.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I need a telephone. Please, my wife—’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have the authority for that.’ She turned to go. ‘I’ll be back with the doctor. Try to rest.’
I yanked at the cuffs again, rattling them, barely the strength to do it. The effort left me gassed, and I slumped against the bed, wondering if Lizzie was already dead.
Chapter Thirty-eight
When I opened my eyes again, Samuel Masters was standing over me, calling my name. The state trooper was next to him.
‘I need to get to a telephone—’
‘Your wife is safe.’
The words sounded sinister coming from his mouth – a matter he should have no knowledge of. A terror gripped me, the thought that he was involved in taking her somehow. Misplaced trust—
‘Your boss contacted me – Mr Acheson. Your wife’s with him.’
I searched his face, muddled, not sure whether to believe him.
‘Did you hear what I said? I said your wife is safe and—’
‘I heard you.’ The explanation came back to me then – telling Acheson to leave word with Masters if he had news on Lizzie. I closed my eyes and relief flooded through me. ‘I heard you. What happened to her?’