by L C Hayden
He took out his gun, cocked it, and pointed it at Bronson.
* * * * *
Linda tried to follow Bronson’s instructions. As soon as the giant focused his attention on Bronson, she’d sneak out, head down the road—no, the side of the road, away from everyone’s view. She’d find the main road and get help—provided someone would stop. After several days without bathing, she probably smelled like a skunk and looked like a scarecrow.
She watched through the barn slats. Bronson’s idea seemed to be working. He staggered out and then fell. The giant rushed to his side—but then stopped and pointed a gun at Bronson.
Linda bit her fist to keep from screaming.
* * * * *
Through slitted eyes, Bronson could barely make out Ranger’s movements, but he saw enough to drench his hopes. Ranger had stopped, still too far away for Bronson to attack him. He had to narrow the distance. What had gone wrong? His insides tightened, waiting. Anticipating.
Linda threw the barn door open, stepped out screaming, and threw her knife at the giant. Ranger instinctively turned away. The knife fell several yards from its target.
Bronson sprang to his feet, bent down, and rammed him like a charging bull. The mighty shove sent the gun flying through the air and the giant hurtling backward. His head hit the pavement with a loud thud.
Ranger’s eyes were glazed over, but still he managed to half sit up. He spotted the fallen gun and lunged for it. Bronson pulled the knife from the back of his belt and aimed at Ranger’s body.
The knife found its target in Ranger’s side, and he screamed. Bronson pulled out the knife and swept the gun toward himself, then grabbed it and pointed it at the giant. “On your feet.”
“I’m wounded.” Ranger held his side much as Bronson had when he’d staggered out of the barn. Blood leaked from the cut.
“Tough. Get up and head back to the barn.”
Ranger glared at Bronson but struggled to his feet. Bronson frisked him. Once satisfied he had no other concealed weapons, he said, “Empty your pockets and drop everything on the ground. Back pockets, too.”
“All I have is my wallet, a handkerchief, and a watch.”
“Good. Drop them.”
“The watch might break.”
“No big thing. Where you’re going, you won’t be needin’ one.”
When he finished, Bronson shoved him toward the barn. As the giant limped past Linda, Bronson said, “Linda, pick up everythin’ and bring it to the barn. Get his I.D. and put it in your pocket.”
Linda nodded and headed toward the items scattered on the ground.
Bronson followed the giant into the barn, opened the trap door, and shoved him down the stairs. Ranger stumbled but regained his balance. Bronson kept well out of striking range as he herded the giant into the prison room.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Jack said as soon as he saw his partner.
Bronson and the giant ignored him.
“Ranger, you’ve got to believe me. Ask him!” Jack persisted.
Bronson forced Ranger to strip down to his shorts before locking him in the cell. Then he headed back to the stairs, where he could see Linda at the top. “Please bring everything down here,” he said.
“I-I c-can’t.” She shook her head. “I c-can’t g-go b-back there.”
Bronson went up, relieved her of the things, went back down, and placed them on the steel table next to Jack’s clothes. Then he went back up the stairs and closed the trap door behind him.
“I’m s-sorry,” Linda quavered. “I tried to do what you said.” She began to sob uncontrollably.
Bronson walked up to her, hesitated a moment, and drew her into his arms. Vaguely he wondered if any hidden surveillance video might find its way to Marshall’s desk.
A shuddering spasm racked Linda’s body and Bronson held her tighter. “Everythin’ is going to be all right.” He stroked her hair. “It’s almost over.”
She raised her head, eyes wet with tears. “You mean it’s not over yet?”
Bronson shook his head. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Why? Why can’t we stay here until the police arrive?”
“Carrier is headin’ this way.”
Linda gasped and crossed her hands over her chest like a heroine in a silent movie.
Bronson considered his choices. They could go to the house, where there might be a telephone. They could wait there for the police, but if Carrier arrived first, they’d hide and Bronson could take Carrier by surprise. Or they could follow the road, but not knowing where they were or which direction to turn or even how far they’d have to travel, this option appealed less to Bronson.
As he reached for the barn door, he heard tires crunching on gravel. He opened the door a crack and saw Carrier pull in.
fifty-four
Bronson closed the door, took his hand off the handle, and signaled for Linda to remain extra quiet. He walked to the crack in the barn slats and looked out. He saw the garage door go up and Carrier pull the car inside. He got out, walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and retrieved something bulky that he swung over his shoulder.
Horror settled in Bronson’s gut as he realized that Carrier’s burden was a young woman’s body. She looked either drugged or dead. The garage door closed, swallowing Carrier, the body, and the car.
“What’s going on?” Linda whispered.
Bronson turned to face her. “We can’t leave. Carrier has another victim. I’m going to the house. You wait here. If you see Carrier coming, hide. If anythin’ happens to me, you know what to do. Down the road, stay hidden.”
She nodded. “Please be careful.”
“Hey, I’ve got a gun this time.” He gave her a reassuring smile and double-checked the weapon.
She smiled back, but her lips trembled.
“Take care of yourself,” Bronson said. He looked out the crack again but detected no movement around the house. He imagined Carrier would be busy with the poor woman he had kidnapped or killed. If so, Bronson could approach the house without alerting Carrier. He wished there were trees to block the view between the house and the barn and to provide some safety, but no such luck.
He took a deep breath, retrieved his gun, held it at the ready, and opened the door. He kept low, out of a direct line of sight from the house’s windows. When he got to the side of the house, he plastered his back against the brick wall next to the window and struggled to catch his breath. He looked down and noticed that the window was open.
He stuck his head around just far enough to catch a glimpse of the living room. A worn-out couch and a plain wooden coffee table occupied most of the area. A bookcase with a TV on top faced the couch. Rectangular, square, oval, and round grills lay scattered in several parts of the room.
Bronson moved down to the next open window. A kitchen, its countertops piled with dirty dishes and uneaten scraps of food. He looked down the hallway as far as he could see. Again, no sign of Carrier.
He ducked down and went to the next window. Even before he reached it, he heard Carrier’s chilling voice. “There you are, all set to go.”
He held his breath, then released it when he realized Carrier wasn’t talking to him. He moved his head slightly to the right so he could see in. Carrier was tying the unconscious woman to the bed, her arms above her, her legs spread apart. Bronson lowered the gun, ready to shoot Carrier, then stopped. On top of the dresser he saw several butane tanks of various sizes and shapes. Some more rested on the armoire, even more by the door. One misfired round would blow the house apart. If he meant to shoot Carrier, he’d have to do it at close range. Firing through a partially opened window was suicidal.
Carrier continued to talk to his victim as though she were awake. “After I’m through with you here, I’m going to take you to the basement, where I’ll introduce you to Bronson. He’s going to watch every single thing I do to you. I probably won’t start on him until tomorrow so he’ll have plenty of time to think about what’s
going to happen to him. So, what do you say? Come on, wake up. I’m anxious to get started.”
Realizing Carrier probably wouldn’t be looking out the window anytime soon, Bronson dashed for the barn. He reached it in record time and was careful not to make any noise when he opened the barn door.
“What’s happening?” Linda’s anxiety showed in her eyes.
“The woman Carrier’s got in there is in trouble. I’m going to have to go inside. Once you see me get in, count slowly to sixty, then scream as loud as you can and keep screamin’. If everything is okay, I’ll wave at you from the bedroom window. If three, four minutes elapse and you haven’t seen me, get out. Hide. Can you do that?”
Linda’s eyes widened with fear, but she nodded. “What do you plan to do?”
“He’ll hear you scream and rush out to see what’s going on. I’ll be waiting for him.” Bronson walked over to the woodpile and moved the wood around. He settled for a piece that resembled a baseball bat. He swung it. “This will do.”
fifty-five
Bronson entered the house, headed toward the bedroom, and readied himself.
The first scream he heard didn’t come from Linda. It came from behind the closed bedroom door. Bronson prayed the woman was only frightened and not hurt. He wished he could rush in and surprise Carrier, but he knew Carrier wouldn’t hesitate to shoot one of the tanks and blow everyone up. Bronson hoped the woman’s screams wouldn’t muffle Linda’s.
“Keep screaming,” he heard Carrier say. “I love it.”
The woman moaned.
Carrier continued, “Tell me, have you ever had rough sex? You haven’t, huh? Then you’re in for a real treat. You’re about to have some.” A small pause followed. Then, “These scissors are very sharp and I’m going to use them to cut your clothes off. You won’t be needing them anymore.”
Bronson wet his lips as anxiety and anticipation engulfed him. Come on, Linda, scream. What’s taking you so long? Don’t let me down. He decided to wait one more minute, and if Linda didn’t come through, he’d barge into the room. He knew he’d be taking a risk doing this. Carrier had scissors in his hands and could kill the woman before Bronson had the chance to shoot him. Come on, Linda, scream. He didn’t want to be forced to rush Carrier.
“If I were you,” Carrier continued from the other side of the door, “I’d stay real still. Wouldn’t want to cut you up before I have to.”
The woman let out a stifled cry, reminding Bronson of the sound of a trapped animal.
From a distance, he finally heard Linda scream. Relief flowed through his veins as he positioned the wood like a baseball player ready to hit a home run.
Linda screamed again.
“What the—” Carrier said. Bronson imagined him standing by the window, looking out.
The scream came again.
“Damn it! I’ll be back for you,” Carrier told his hostage.
Bronson heard him rushing toward the door and braced himself.
The door opened and Bronson swung. The impact of wood against flesh and bone sounded like smashing a watermelon.
A grunt of pain escaped Carrier’s lips as he fell backward. The scissors dropped from his hand. For a second, he held Bronson’s glare, then seemingly pain came with sharp, striking suddenness. His eyes bulged and he spat out blood. “You still . . . lose.” He closed his eyes.
Only firm willpower prevented Bronson from striking again.
“Kill him!” the woman on the bed shouted. “Kill him.”
Bronson felt for a pulse. He found one and silently cursed. He checked Carrier for a weapon, but found none. He looked around, retrieved the scissors, and set them and the wood down on top of the dresser. Then he turned to the woman.
She struggled against her bonds, fear in her eyes. Bronson caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His unruly hair and unshaven face gave him a threatening appearance. He probably didn’t smell too good, either. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m here to help.” He opened his hands and inched toward her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to cut you loose.”
The woman relaxed. “Whoever you are, thank you.”
He gave her a small smile. “My name’s Harry Bronson and I’m a retired detective from the Dallas Police Department. Excuse my appearance, but I’ve also been his hostage. Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
It took her a few seconds to answer. “I think I’m okay. I’m just so afraid.”
Linda screamed again. Bronson went to the window, opened it the rest of the way, and waved at her.
From behind him, he heard the woman say, “I’m Margaret Susans. He offered to buy me a drink, then the next thing I know, I’m tied up in bed. Who is he?”
Bronson reached for the scissors and began to cut her bindings. “His name is Benjamin Carrier. He’s a notorious criminal who derives pleasure from killin’ people.”
Margaret gasped and her eyes filled with tears. “I came so close.”
“I know, but it’s over now. Soon as I cut you loose, I’m going to restrain him. When he comes to, he probably won’t be in any shape to do anything, but I don’t like any surprises.” He took out his gun and set it on the bed close to his hands.
Margaret gasped.
Bronson ignored her and continued to cut the ropes, but even with the sharp scissors, the process moved slowly. Carrier had done a perfect job tying her up.
* * * * *
Carrier opened his eyes. Every inch in his body screamed with pain, but death would soon end his misery. He meant to take Bronson with him.
He had placed a gun under the bed and planned to use it to scare the bitch. Rapes were always so much more fun when the bitches were petrified beyond reason. He could see the gun tantalizingly close to him. Pain shot up his body as he inched across the floor toward it. He bit his lip to keep back a gasp as he eyed Bronson. The dumb cop hadn’t noticed him. He was too busy freeing the bitch.
Carrier inched forward some more. Still Bronson wasn’t paying attention to him. That fool.
He stretched his arm, wrapped his fingers around the gun, and pulled it out from under the bed.
fifty-six
A shot rang out, immediately followed by another.
Linda’s head snapped up as panic tightened her chest. What had gone wrong? She had seen Bronson signaling that everything was all right, but that was before the gunshots shattered the silence. She thought about running toward the house. Maybe Bronson needed help. But what could she do? He had told her to run away. She looked down the road and then back at the house.
She bit her lip.
* * * * *
Bronson continued to cut Margaret’s bindings, but kept constant watch on Carrier in his peripheral vision. He saw him creeping along like a snake, then stopping to assess his situation. When Carrier reached for the weapon, Bronson grabbed his gun. With the speed of a jaguar, he turned and fired at Carrier’s head, twice. “Thanks for going for it, sucker.”
He turned to Margaret. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
Wide-eyed, Margaret nodded.
He pocketed the gun in Carrier’s hand before checking for a pulse. This time he found none. Just to make sure, he put his index finger on top of Carrier’s upper lip. No flow of air. He found that reassuring.
He went back to the window, hoping Linda would see him before she had too much of a chance to panic. Seconds later, she stepped out of the barn. Bronson signaled for her to come inside the house.
His glance drifted from the barn and up toward the sky. God, he had just killed a man. Not much of a man, but Bronson had set him up and killed him. At this moment, Bronson hated guns and all aspects of police work. He even hated himself. He closed his eyes. Forgive me.
He took a deep breath, turned to Margaret, and continued cutting her bonds.
* * * * *
Bronson found his cell on top of the living room end table. He tried turning it on, but the battery was dead. He walked around the house and found a portable phone attached
to the kitchen wall. He picked up the receiver and welcomed the dial tone. The first call went to Mike.
“Hoover speaking.”
What a great sound. Bronson smiled. “Hey, buddy.”
“Bronson! Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Long story. The short of it is, I just killed Carrier.”
“Whaat?”
“I’ll explain, but first, does Carol know?” The pause that followed answered Bronson’s question. “Shiiit.”
“Ellen’s been staying with her. Carol is a remarkably strong woman. Little Carol is petrified and I think her mother has been trying to stay strong for her sake.”
“I want to see them.”
“I figured as much. Where are you?”
“I have no idea. On an isolated farm somewhere maybe two or three hours from Custer. There’s a separate structure with the sign Custom Designed Barbeques. Can’t be too many of them. Maybe that will give you a clue.” Bronson walked around opening drawers, looking for a bill or a piece of mail that would tell him where he was. He found a phone charger that might fit his cell. “Am I still wanted by the police?”
“No way. I called the FBI. Pissed off Marshall and Gorman something fierce, but the FBI has full jurisdiction. Carrier crossed at least one state line.”
“And speaking of Marshall, I suspect he’s dirty.” Bronson picked up his cell and plugged in the charger. It fit.
“I know he is. At first, I wasn’t sure. He told me he was working undercover.”
“And you believed him?”
“I considered the possibility, but when Carrier’s body went missing, I started to have suspicions. That’s when I called the FBI. They found out that Marshall arranged for medical care.”
Bronson set the cell down. “I don’t understand why Marshall would willingly help a monster like Carrier.”
“He didn’t have a choice.”
“Everybody has choices.”