by J. M. Hayes
“Get out, Hailey. You can’t help me with this. You’ve got a baby to bring up.”
Hailey didn’t move. Her eyes were locked on Heather’s as if the wolf was trying to communicate somehow.
Heather reached out to grab Hailey by the scruff of her neck. In a flash, Hailey’s teeth closed on Heather’s hand. Gently. Well, not quite gently. The wolf continued to stare as she squeezed Heather’s hand enough to hurt.
“Let go of me, Hailey. You know I have to do this.”
And just like that, Hailey did. The wolf jumped out of the Mini and trotted to the edge of the porch, sat, and looked back at Heather.
“What was that about?” The car’s courtesy light revealed tooth marks on both sides of Heather’s hand. No broken skin, but Hailey had evidently objected to the idea of being removed from the car. So why had she gotten out, then? And why sit there, wagging her tail?
Heather didn’t have time to consider it. She had to get to Reid Park, and she had to figure out whether she wanted those sheriff’s detectives out there to follow her.
No, she decided. The threat to Brad and his sister and Cassie Hyde would be too great if the psycho saw them coming. He’d let everyone go as soon as he finished with Heather. He’d promised and she believed him. So she had to make peace with herself. Get ready to die. That, or psych herself up enough to believe she could actually win this fight. Winning would keep Brad and the girls safe, too. And she’d get to live to enjoy it. Wouldn’t that be great? Too bad she couldn’t convince herself it might happen.
She wanted to go lights-out and fast. But, though the Min was built for speed and cornering, it wasn’t built to blend in. She’d get stopped and hauled in for questioning if she tried something like that. Another argument to cooperate—to tell them where to find the psycho. It might be the best thing that could happen, except she knew the psycho was too good to be taken easily. And there was no time to bring in experts or establish plans. If Brad and Niki and Cassie died, she’d be to blame. So she stayed at a reasonable speed and pretended not to notice as the unmarked units fell in behind her.
On the road into Tucson, she let them close up and box her in. She waved and smiled and rolled down her window at a stop light to tell them she was just going to meet her boyfriend for a movie at a mid-town multiplex. They nodded, and kept her in the box.
Two blocks from the turn to the theaters at El Con Mall, she threw the Mini into a neighborhood. Cut its lights, hit the accelerator, and let the little car straighten out winding streets. She went away from El Con, and away from the park. In ten blocks she couldn’t even see flashing lights anymore.
She took back streets, except for sudden bursts across the corridors. She was close to the park, but the Tucson night screamed with angry sirens. Would he think she’d brought them? Would he cut his losses and eliminate his hostages? Would he even wait for her? She thought he would. She thought he’d take a chance because he wanted her life so badly. She slipped the Mini behind a clump of thick vegetation in the neighborhood just north of Hi Corbett, got out of the car, and ran toward the field.
It was a strange feeling, running to your death. Hoping you wouldn’t be too late for it. Was this what heroes did? Saints? Rush to sacrifice themselves? It didn’t feel like that to her. She wanted to live. She didn’t feel pride in what she was doing. Just terror. And her biggest terror was that she wouldn’t be in time.
***
The sheriff left the pair of bickering cousins in the back seat of Mrs. Kraus’ car. He’d parked in front of his own house, and limped down the street to Mrs. Walker’s home. His bad leg was weakening on him, just as Mrs. Kraus had predicted. Even so, Lottie Walker wasn’t going to outrun him if she tried to get away.
This time, the sheriff refrained from beating on the door. He pushed her doorbell, instead, and waited in the spot from which she’d finger shot him earlier in the afternoon. He could hardly see his house from her front porch. The snow swirled under one of Buffalo Spring’s few working streetlights like sparkling confetti gone mad. Mrs. Kraus’ Chevy appeared as a dusky outline between wind gusts.
Mrs. Walker turned on her porch light and opened her door. She had pulled a knitted shawl around her shoulders and looked like an adorable grandmother on the verge of offering hot chocolate and cookies.
“Hello, asshole,” she said. It spoiled the image. “Well, come in if you’re going to. I don’t plan to leave the door open and heat the whole county.”
The sheriff went in, leaning heavily on his shotgun.
“Oh, big man, big phallic symbol,” she said. “You must be proud.”
The foyer contained a hall tree on which hung her winter coat and flowered hat. A framed God Bless This Home needlepoint occupied the opposite wall.
“I’m not that steady anymore,” Mrs. Walker said. “You want to talk to me, I’ll be in the living room in my rocker. You want to shoot me like you did my car, you’ll have time. I don’t move fast.”
The sheriff wondered how he’d let her take control of the situation. Whatever, he admired the way she’d done it. He propped his phallic symbol against the hall tree and followed her into a room with a cheery fire, beautiful antique furniture covered with antimacassars, and a modern leather rocker-recliner facing one of those high-definition televisions that covered most of a wall. He kept one hand on the butt of his pistol, though. Mrs. Walker plumped the sheepskin atop her recliner and eased into it, looked at him, and smiled sweetly.
“So, Mr. Bumfuck County Sheriff, spit it out. You’ve already ruined enough of my Christmas.”
“I’ve got several of your nephews in custody,” the sheriff said. “I know what you’ve been up to since I sent you home this morning.”
“What, you mean trying to get you killed? You shouldn’t be surprised. Do you have any idea what my life will be like if I lose my driver’s license?”
“That’s a pretty self-centered view. You proved you have no business behind the wheel of a car this morning. We’re just lucky you couldn’t get enough traction to kill someone.”
“I am an old woman, Sheriff. I have no one to take care of me. Do you really want to condemn me to an old-folks home because I panicked for a few seconds this morning?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Walker. I might have considered those arguments and given you another chance. But three people died because you decided the most convenient way to keep your license was to stir up an even bigger panic and get me killed. At this point, I don’t think you need to worry about an old-folks home. I think you’ll finish your days in prison.”
“That’s what I think, too. If you live through the day.” Her hand came out from under her shawl with a long-barreled pistol. Chrome-plated, and with a muzzle size big enough to do serious damage.
“Sheriff. My husband killed a grizzly bear with one shot from this .357 magnum back in 1952. Since then, I’ve done the same with a couple of Mexican illegals who had the nerve to think I would give them a ride from Las Cruces to Albuquerque. Unbuckle your gun belt and drop it on the floor.”
The pistol would kick like a son of a bitch. As frail as she was, the recoil would probably knock it right out of her hand. Her hand might be frail, but it wasn’t unsteady. He’d be dead by the time she lost her grip—no advantage there. He let his police special fall.
“Zekey. Come out of the kitchen and take the sheriff off my hands. I don’t want his blood spoiling my carpet.”
Zekey tuned out to be Zeke Evans, whose brother Mrs. Kraus had kneecapped at the courthouse.
“Another nephew?”
“My sisters were a fertile lot, and their children have been attentive. Mostly because I’ll leave one or more of them a substantial inheritance. Zekey, it seems, under the circumstances.”
“What do you want me to do with him Aunt Lottie?” From the look in Zeke’s eyes, the sheriff thought the man
would have preferred staying hidden in the kitchen, but his hands were equally steady and pointing an Uzi at the sheriff’s midsection.
“Take him out in the back yard and send him to hell,” Mrs. Walker said. “Then go over to the courthouse and see that Mrs. Kraus follows him. And Doc Jones. When you’re through eliminating witnesses, bring your cousins over here to show me it’s done. I’ll sign a new will in your favor the minute you get back, and advance you the funds to get current on all your debts.”
“But there’s highway patrol over there.” Zeke didn’t seem concerned about the unarmed folks, just the ones who might shoot back.
“There are extra loaded clips in the sewing room for your little Jew gun, dear. Take as many as you like.”
Zeke patted a bulging jacket pocket. “Nah. I guess I got enough already.” He flipped his thumb toward the back of the house. “Come along, sheriff, let’s get this over with.”
If he were going to hell on short notice, the sheriff thought he’d rather soil Lottie Walker’s living room along the way. But he felt sure she’d shoot him. Maybe he could reason with Zeke. A slim chance was better than none.
“Lead the way,” the sheriff said.
“Very funny,” Mrs. Walker said. “Step back, Zekey, so the sheriff can’t grab your weapon. Kitchen’s on the right, Sheriff. You’ll see the back door. Just go on through. It’s not locked. Hell’s just beyond.”
***
Heather reached the entrance. Hi Corbett—field of dreams, nightmares in her case. Home to the Cleveland Indians for decades back when major league baseball’s spring training was about getting ready for the season instead of selling still more tickets. The Colorado Rockies moved in when the Indians left and the stadium went through several renovations. Current capacity, 9500—none in attendance tonight. Earlier this year, big league baseball abandoned Tucson for a better deal elsewhere. Just as, one day, it would abandon those fans.
Heather wished the psycho would suddenly decide to abandon Tucson. And right now. But she found the gate that led into the baseball complex unlocked, as she’d been told. A small cluster of figures huddled on the infield grass. Another, familiar now, stood closer to a second gate, one that allowed her access to the playing field.
“You only brought an audience of three?” Heather said.
“Easier to handle, and just the ones you might risk your life for. Your lover, of course. His sister, because she means so much to Brad. And Cassie Hyde, because she’s a child, and because you won’t want her to suffer more than she already has.”
Heather’s current trainer had been trying to break her of sticking to the formal patterns of the martial arts she’d learned. He argued those patterns made your every move more predictable. And so, though Heather was trying to center herself, she nodded at Brad, reassured Cassie, and told Niki she was glad to meet her, though she’d have preferred different circumstances.
“I noticed you’ve strapped something on each of them,” Heather said. “Explosive devices, I assume.”
“Yes, voice activated, perfect for hands-free demolition. And complicated harnesses that take a few minutes to remove. No one can run or interfere.”
“The usual rules?” Heather had begun pacing, stretching, getting a feel for the grass and the soil underneath. One foot hit something hard in the first-base-line dirt between foul territory and fair. Something metal, where the base might attach. She didn’t let herself react to it. It was knowledge—something he may or may not know. Something she might be able to use to her advantage. She didn’t let herself dwell on how desperately she needed things like that.
“Yes,” he said. “The usual rules. No rules.”
“Since in a few minutes it won’t matter, will you tell me who you’re killing for and why?”
“Oh, Heather. Nothing is real. It’s all for show. Entertainment for the masses so they don’t notice what’s really happening. So the public continues to bicker over silly gut-issues and ignore important ones while the rich get richer. Fools and their democracy, Heather.”
Heather didn’t know whether he was telling the truth or spreading bullshit. “So you won’t tell me.”
He lowered his voice. Only she could hear. “Okay. Todd Boursin.”
Todd Boursin was the loudest voice in America’s hate media. But just a windbag. Only a few crazies actually took him seriously.
“The man who bills himself as the Founding Fathers’ Gift to the First Amendment planned this and arranged the financing because Hyde was actually going to try to close the border. This is theater, Heather. Boursin cries out for a closed border, but he and his friends make billions off the drug trade and illegal immigration, and even more from the anger he generates over both. But you’d never be able to prove it because there are a host of bag men and Nixon-like plumbers between Boursin and your locals. Besides, you won’t survive the night.”
She sighed. He was probably right. “You promise you’ll let them go when it’s over?” She shouldn’t have put it that way. Or should she? He expected to win. If he thought she was resigned, it might make him overconfident.
“They can take the devices off as soon as we’re finished. Leave as fast as they want.”
“What if I don’t trust you?”
He laughed because there was only one answer to that. The one he gave her and the one she wanted to set in her mind. “Then win.”
Her pacing had brought her close. Close enough to score a hit.
Kick. Kick. Hand strike. All blocked. Leg sweep. Same, and he smiled because she had been audacious but he’d been ready. And then, because it broke the pattern, just a plain old-fashioned football-style kick to his shin. He spun away from it but it caught him in the calf and he stumbled.
She went after him with everything, then. A chop to his face, a twisting blow to his throat. Kicks, again. And all blocked, though closer. And then he came for her. An open hand strike that would have driven her nasal cartilage into her brain if she hadn’t thrown herself into a backwards summersault, grabbing his hand and pulling him after her. She tried to put a knee in his crotch, and he tried to put his other hand’s fingers in her eyes. What she expected. What he expected. She hit the ground, at the edge of the base path. He would roll over her. His head would strike somewhere near that bit of metal she’d found. On it, if she were very, very lucky.
Midway through their roll, his hand not quite in her eyes, another break in form occurred to her. She snapped her head forward, opened her mouth. Bit his fingers, just as Hailey had suggested. And she held on as her head hit the ground harder than it should. The bounce added to the force of her bite.
Normally, they would both have rolled back to their feet and pivoted, each trying to go in an unexpected direction, get there first, gain some advantage. Instead, their rolls couldn’t be completed. Not until he tore his fingers from her mouth. He left flesh. Blood. She spat it into the grass and spun aside to keep from rolling on top of him where he could end it with a crippling strike.
Heather’s recovery was awkward. It took a tiny moment too long to locate him. Another moment to understand what she saw. The kind of lost time that should have killed her.
Cassie Hyde had pounced on him. She pounded his face with a little fist. Once, twice, before she took a strike that threw her violently aside. But the psycho didn’t recover his feet. His hands didn’t move to defend himself. They clawed at his right eye. His face was dark with flowing blood. More than could be accounted for by the damage Heather had done to his hand.
Heather jumped. Came down on his face. Not a move she’d learned in any dojo. Both feet. Landed hard. Heard him scream. Felt an ankle turn and one of his hands grasp the other. Fell, and kicked again. Hard. In his face again. Felt him let go.
She scrambled back to her feet. His legs kicked, but not at her. His feet pounded the ground. His hands raked his eye. A tr
ick? She didn’t think so. Her ankle started to buckle. Pain. Enough to make her scream as well. But there were lots of screams. And her ankle held. She kicked him in the chin. Punted his head hard enough to clear an outfield wall. Did it again. Again. Again.
His body moved with the force of each kick. Didn’t move to defend itself. And when she stopped, simply didn’t move at all.
Heather remembered Cassie.
Niki held the girl. Brad held Niki. But the child spoke to Heather.
“Tell Mad Dog I found another use for my safety pin.” It was all Cassie managed before the light went out behind her eyes.
***
The sheriff opened Mrs. Walker’s back door. There was a little porch out there, accumulating snow. Nothing else. No trees. No bushes. No place to hide.
“Zeke, are you willing to kill people just so a senile old lady can stay in her home and drive a car?”
“Shut up, Sheriff,” Zeke said. “We both know it’s more than that now. According to the law I’m already guilty of felony murder.”
The sheriff had hoped Zeke didn’t know. English had also hoped his posse might have reformed to meet Zeke at Mrs. Walker’s back door with their weapons cocked and ready. Instead, there was just a big empty yard filled with snow deep enough to make a dash for freedom extra difficult. His legs weren’t likely to cooperate in a dash, anyway. On his right, some rusty gardening tools hung against the back wall. A shovel was in reach, maybe, and the sheriff was short on options. He lunged for it. Got the handle. Pivoted and swung. The shovel’s head came off and flew into the back yard. Its handle missed Zeke by enough of a margin that the missing head wouldn’t have made a difference.
“What did you do that for?” Zeke let off a burst and the sheriff went over backwards, stumbling down the stairs. He landed hard. Sharp pains. It took a moment for him to realize he hadn’t been shot. He’d just landed on the woodpile.
Zeke Evans stepped to the edge of the porch. “One more,” he said. “For the coup de grâce she taught us we should use.”