by Mallory Kane
Chapter Twelve
Earl Slattery's armpits and back stung with sweat. He wiped his face and stared at the answering machine, the ominous words ringing in his ears.
This couldn't be happening. Not now. He was running out of time as it was. With a finger that shook he pressed the play button again.
"Hey Earl, it's Dave. Where are you? You'd better be sick and not playing hooky from work. Got some weird news for you. I just got through talking to a damn police detective. He's questioning everybody about some woman being attacked. You and Bronson were the only ones not here today. So I gave him your names. You'll probably be hearing from him."
"Oh man—oh man—oh man—oh man—oh man." The sweat ran cold and clammy down his torso. He paced back and forth across his small living room, trying to think. Trying to plan.
He doubled his fists and pounded his temples. Dave's words kept repeating in his head. He couldn't stop his brain from racing too fast to make sense. He squeezed his head between his hands.
Why was everything suddenly falling apart? He'd been so careful. "I've never taken risks, Mom. It's always worked before. Why's everything going wrong now?"
His wife and kids would be back tomorrow. The police were closing in. And Theresa Wade was still out there under Archer's protection.
Well, not for long. Earl rushed into the kitchen and pulled his coverall and hooded jacket out of the clothes dryer.
It was down to the wire. He had to take care of her tonight.
He shook out the coverall and rolled it up, then rolled the jacket around it. He stuffed them inside the duffel bag along with his gloves and the small set of tools that got him past any locks or security systems.
Then he took the bag upstairs. He knelt down and pulled the box out of the back of his closet. He lifted the lid.
There it was. The closet light reflected blue off the little .22. It wasn't much of a gun, but when he'd spotted it on his latest victim's bedside table, he'd grabbed it. Now he was glad he had.
He knew how to use it, thanks to the couple of years he'd worked as a night guard before he'd gotten married. He stuck the gun in the duffel bag and set it on the landing.
He looked at his watch. It was hours until dark. Hours to wait, wondering when the police were going to show up to question him about his whereabouts.
He didn't have an alibi, but that was probably better than a false one. He didn't like to depend on other people. Too much risk. He was better off claiming he was home alone. That was much harder for the cops to disprove.
Earl wiped his clammy hands down the front of his pants. He went across the hall to the kids' bedroom. The bunk beds and the trundle underneath were unmade.
He straightened the sheet on the top bunk and tucked it in.
Earl, Junior. His oldest son. He adored him. He loved all three of his children—more than anything. They proved he was capable of good—didn't they?
What was he going to do after tonight?
He walked around the small room, touching a baseball, securing a loose pushpin in a pop-star poster, picking up a pair of sneakers and setting them inside the closet. Finally he sat down on the bottom bunk and buried his face in his hands, his whole body quivering.
After tonight he'd no longer have a family. He'd have to disappear—get as far away from Nashville as he could. There was no way he would allow his compulsion to taint his children's young lives. He'd never see them again. But they'd be better off without him. They'd have their mother.
He'd had to grow up without his mother. That's why he'd always worked so hard to protect theirs.
He couldn't stop, couldn't change what he was. The inferno that grew inside him was too greedy. It would never let him alone.
But he could assure that his children had their mother. He longed to curl up into a fetal position on his youngest's narrow bed. But he had to go. The police could be here at any second.
He touched each pillow one last time, then grabbed his duffel bag and rushed out to his car.
The blue flash of light nearly blinded him. He cried out and dived forward as the gun's report echoed in his ears. Twenty-five yards downrange, the target swayed as the bullet struck it. Then, slowly, it crawled forward on the pulley. As it got closer, he realized the silhouette had a face—a pretty oval face with wide green eyes and brown hair that shimmered in the harsh firing-range lights. Then he saw the hole. It was tiny, hardly visible. And it was right in the middle of her chest.
He reached out to cover the hole with his hand, to mend it. Then another gunshot split the air.
Archer vaulted out of bed, reaching for his weapon before he was totally awake. His pulse hammered in his throat as he shook off the haze of sleep and got his bearings.
The silhouette with Resa's face had been a dream. But the gunshots—they were real. He stepped into his jeans and tugged them up over his buttocks and fastened them, then slid his feet into loafers.
He eased open the door to the hall about the same time as Resa's door opened. She peered out, her face pale and her eyes wide and frightened.
"Were those gunshots?" she whispered.
"Get back inside. Have you got your weapon?"
She nodded apprehensively. "In my purse."
"Get it and wait there. Lock the door. Don't turn on any lights and stay away from the window. I'll be right back."
"Can I—"
"No!" He waited until she closed the door and he heard the latch turn, then he slipped down the stairs and into the kitchen, avoiding the window over the sink. He'd had the impression the two shots had come from the back of the house, from the area of the outdoor shooting range.
But now everything was silent. Too silent.
He sidled along the far wall to the back door and looked out through the glass. Dark, wispy clouds drifted across the moon, playing hide and seek with the shadows on the ground.
The cast-iron targets scattered over the firing range appeared to dance like stiff-necked ghosts in the wavering moonlight. The berms banking the sides and back of the range sucked up the light like black holes.
Archer watched for a few moments, but nothing moved except the shadows. His pulse returned to normal and his neck and shoulders relaxed a bit. Those shots had sounded close, but maybe it was just his neighbor shooing away stray dogs.
He sucked in his breath and slid his SIG into the waistband of his jeans and turned to head back upstairs.
A shot rang out, followed immediately by the clang of metal.
Archer whirled and whipped out his gun. That was one of his targets.
"Son of a—" he muttered as he searched the range with his gaze. He still didn't see anything. Rather than go out the kitchen door and display himself like a sitting duck against the whitewashed porch, he double-checked the dead bolt and the chain on the door, then backed out of the kitchen into the living room.
He exited silently through the front door and turned on the alarm. Resa wouldn't trip it unless for some reason she came downstairs and tried to open the outside doors.
He circled around the hidden side of the house, moving in its shadow. As he circled around shrubs and avoided twigs and brush, he squeezed the handle of his gun with his left hand and fingered the trigger, trying to convince himself it felt right and comfortable.
At the far corner of the house he stopped. Another few feet and he'd be able to see the outdoor firing range stretching into the field. Of course, by the time he was able to see the range, whoever was out there would be able to see him.
Crouching over, he moved as quickly as he could to the near edge of the back porch, keeping the pillars between himself and the range.
He had a sinking feeling he knew who it was. Those shots weren't accidents. They were deliberate. In fact, they were damned cocky, especially the one aimed at the target. Whoever was out there was trying to draw him out.
Flattened against one of the porch pillars, he patted his pockets. Damn. He didn't have his cell phone.
He looked upwar
d, toward Resa's bedroom. "Call Clint, Resa. Dial 911," he mouthed silently.
She was smart. When he didn't come back within a few minutes, she'd call the police.
Suddenly another shot rang out. The bullet zinged off the pillar near his head. He ducked, then angled out and got off a quick shot.
His shot went wild. He knew it as soon as he squeezed the trigger. He shifted the SIG to his right hand, but those already tense muscles spasmed when he tried to grip the handle. He switched it back to his left, cursing silently. What kind of damn protector was he if he couldn't even shoot a blasted gun?
He heard Resa's voice in his head, as if she was standing next to him. Come on, Archer. How long are you going to bury yourself in that basement, wallowing in your own pity?
"It stops now." As near as he could tell, the shot aimed at him had come from the other side of the lean-to that marked the firing line.
He peered around the edge of the pillar until he could see the lean-to, but nothing was moving. Taking a deep breath, he dived onto the painted wooden floor of the porch. He crawled across the floor, staying behind the pillars as much as he could, until he got to the far side of the house. He didn't hear anything. So far so good.
Then a twig snapped. He leaned his back against the last pillar and pushed himself upright. Then he angled around, leading with his weapon, prepared to fire. He saw movement—a dark shape darting across the open area downrange, about twenty yards away from the edge of the porch.
The shadow wound through the targets. The black slabs of iron had been cut into the shapes of predators—both human and animal. If the shadow were to stop dead-still, Archer would have a hard time picking him out among the other shapes.
He kept the man in his sights as he braced his left hand and carefully began to squeeze the trigger.
A cloud covered the moon. Suddenly the whole range was cloaked in darkness. It left him at a disadvantage for more than one reason.
Each time he moved or raised his head, he was silhouetted against the white house, whereas the shooter was backed by darkness, even in the open, unless the moon's light happened to hit him just right.
Archer heard the shooter moving closer. Just to keep the guy from closing in, he fired off three shots blindly. His volley stopped the other man's advance for a moment, but then Archer heard his stealthy footsteps again, coming closer to the house.
He darted from one pillar to another, back to the other side of the porch, away from the range. He slid off the edge to the ground as quietly as he could and headed around the house toward the front.
If he were very lucky and very quiet, he could get the shooter between him and the house. Then he would have the advantage.
Trying to move without a sound, and straining to hear any move the shooter made, Archer circled the front of the house and came up on the north side, hiding behind the old pickup he kept to drive around his place.
He crouched, listening.
Nothing.
Cautiously he raised his head, his left hand braced in his right, aiming the gun at the pillars that lined the back porch. He couldn't see anything. The moon was still obscured by clouds.
He didn't want to take a blind shot now. It would give away his position.
Then the moon appeared and Archer got a glimpse of the shooter—much closer than he'd anticipated.
He fired, and saw a puff of white where he hit the corner of a pillar. He squinted and aimed again, steadying his hand against the cool metal of the truck's hood. The shooter stepped out from behind the pillar.
Archer squeezed the trigger. But as soon as he did, something slammed into his hand and his gun went flying into the air. A fraction of a second later, he heard the gunshot, then the thud as his weapon landed somewhere behind him.
He whirled and dived toward the sound.
Running footsteps crunched across gravel.
He crawled rapidly, feeling around him, searching for his weapon.
Then the footsteps stopped. A loud crack echoed in his ears and a sharp pain pierced his temple.
Suddenly blood was in his eyes, his left hand was useless, and his body felt like lead.
A buzzing sound filled his ears.
"Resa—" he muttered. Then everything went black.
Earl watched Archer's crumpled form from a few yards away. The detective had cried out twice, but now he lay unmoving on the ground. Earl had seen his left hand jerk, seen his weapon fly in a tumbling arc behind him.
It had been a great shot—a world-class shot. Earl's chest swelled with pride. He'd outgunned a policeman.
He looked with fiendish satisfaction at the blood streaming down Archer's face.
Two world-class shots. He'd grazed Archer's temple with his second shot. He'd crippled the arrogant detective. Now let him try to catch the Lock Rapist.
Part of him wanted to finish Archer off, to stand above him and put a bullet point-blank into his head. But he had a better plan than killing him. He was going to enjoy every second of this.
But meanwhile, the inferno within him was flaming. He glanced toward the house. He had to find Theresa Wade.
He spotted the sensors on the back door immediately. It was a decent security system. Nothing top of the line, though. Obviously Archer thought he didn't need help keeping his home safe.
Earl ran around to the front of the house, retrieved his wire snips from his tool kit and disabled the alarm on the front door in twelve seconds flat. It took only a few seconds longer to pick the dead bolt.
As he entered the house silently, giggles bubbled up from his chest at the thought of dragging Theresa out into the yard. He'd wait for the moon to come out from behind the clouds, then he'd force Archer to watch.
He shut the front door behind him and locked it. If Archer managed to get up, even if he managed to find his gun in the darkness, he'd have a hell of a time unlocking the door with two useless hands.
Earl stepped into the foyer. He took note of the stairs leading to the basement firing range, then turned to the opposite door.
After a brief examination to be sure there wasn't a second security system guarding Archer's living quarters, he picked that lock and stepped inside.
There to his left were the stairs to the second floor, where Theresa's bedroom was. He licked his lips as he imagined her cowering in her room, door locked, waiting for Archer to rescue her.
Earl looked at his watch, feeling the time pressure. He had to hurry. He'd fired the first shot eleven minutes ago. Archer hadn't called the cops before coming downstairs to investigate the noise. He wasn't the type. He'd check things out himself first.
Even if he or Theresa had called after he came outside, Earl probably still had about nine minutes before sirens announced the police's arrival.
Plenty of time.
Resa stood at the top of the stairs, her weapon clutched in her hands. She'd heard something. Just a slight rattling. It could have been caused by the wind, or the house settling. But she didn't think so.
Archer had been gone too long. And she'd heard more gunshots—a lot more. Each crack had torn through her as if they'd been aimed at her.
As soon as the shots had started, she'd called 911, but she had no sense of how long ago that was. She only knew that the gunshots had stopped.
Her heart banged against her chest wall. The silence was more ominous than the gunshots had been.
What if Archer were wounded, or—
Somewhere below her a board creaked. Resa stifled a scream. Her hand tensed around her little Glock. It wasn't Archer. He'd already be up the stairs calling for her.
It had to be the Lock Rapist. He was in the house.
Panic closed her throat. Archer. Where was he? He'd promised she'd be safe as long as he was alive. But the Lock Rapist was here, and Archer wasn't.
Oh, please, God, don't let him be dead. Her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears that it was all she could hear. She glanced toward her room, toward Archer's room, her thoughts swirling like a tornado
.
She could hide in one of the bathrooms, or use a bed as a bunker. But what if she hid and waited until he had her cornered—and then she couldn't take the shot? She'd gotten pretty good with the targets, but facing a real person was a totally different story.
Could she shoot someone if it meant her life? Could she face the man who'd ruined the lives of the two people who meant more to her than anything else in the world, and kill him?
She didn't know, but if it came to it, she'd have to try. Right now she needed to get downstairs and check on Archer.
But she'd never be able to get past the Lock Rapist. And the only way she could do that was to sneak past him. She could hide in the linen closet opposite the head of the stairs. If he came upstairs, he'd head for the bedrooms, wouldn't he?
Once he went into one of the rooms, she could run downstairs and out of the house. Surely the police would be there by then.
She slipped into the closet, leaving the door cracked slightly, and gripped the Glock the way Archer had taught her. She waited, hyperaware of each small sound. She heard nothing except her own labored breathing.
She concentrated on breathing evenly, silently, but she didn't have that much control.
She heard the stairs creak again, and then the heavy footsteps came closer. Stiff with apprehension, Resa waited.
Then the sound of the footsteps changed. The Lock Rapist was there—on the second floor. Only the wooden closet door separated them.
Holding her breath, she waited for him to walk away from the closet toward a bedroom. But he didn't.
Silence enveloped her.
"Come on out, Theresa."
The calm words sliced through her like a chef's knife. She jerked. Blood pumped through her head, her limbs, every inch of her body. It felt like boiling water in her veins. She didn't—couldn't move.
The door swung open and there he was. The Lock Rapist. He looked... normal. For some reason that frightened her more than anything else she knew about him.
She gripped her weapon in hands that were numb with fear.
"I promised you, didn't I, Theresa? I told you one of us would have fun. Tell me, are you having fun yet?"