Owen was silent, gazing miserably into the dark woods toward where the van had disappeared.
“Or,” Andy continued, “let’s say Lizzy’s not down there at all. Maybe she went to the grocery store to pick up some supplies to greet the arrival of her favorite godfather-once-removed and these guys stole the van. Now the cops are pissed—and have a whole lot of awkward questions for us—because they rolled the big iron thinking they had a kidnapping on their hands and all they got for it was a car thief.”
“That seems like an unlikely scenario,” said Owen.
“This whole situation is an unlikely scenario. In fact, Lizzy’s got the unlikeliest defense of all—the ability to squeeze anyone who tries to hurt her.”
“Maybe they knocked her out—maybe she’s unconscious.”
“If she’s unconscious, maybe it means we have a couple of minutes to figure out what to do. And if she regains consciousness before we get there, heaven help the people who grabbed her.”
Owen prepared to mount a counterargument, but then deflated. “Okay, fine. But please let me know what’s up as soon as you can.”
“Will do.” Andy stepped over the guardrail that marked the edge of the turnout and disappeared into the woods.
Lizzy heard the approaching rumble of an engine and the crunch of tires on gravel. Then the engine died, and she heard the thump of a door and footsteps outside.
She heard Tobe moving away from her.
“Clem, take a swing through the woods,” he called. “Make sure we don’t have any midnight hikers exploring the canyon.”
“Goddammit, Tobe,” a whiney voice from outside called in reply. “I just ran all the way from here to town, and it’s cold as hell out here. Can’t I come in for a minute and warm up?”
“What do you think, we’re running a heater in here? It’s just as cold in here as it is out there, you moron.”
Lizzy heard a grumbled response, then steps receding from the shack.
Casal better haul ass if he wants to see her in one piece.
59
Philip pulled off the highway onto the dirt and gravel road leading deeper into the canyon, to the trailer park and Oak Creek. He was alone in the car now, having dropped Wayne Watchman off just outside of Sedona.
Eventually his headlights picked out the dilapidated wooden structure that had once housed the trailer park’s office. A nondescript tan sedan and a white van were parked next to it. He coasted to a stop and got out of the car.
“Turn the engine off,” came Hanrick’s voice from the dark hole of the shack’s doorway. “But leave the lights on.”
Philip reached into the car and turned off the ignition.
“Step to the front of the car.”
He stepped to the front, the headlights throwing his shadow across the broken concrete of the parking area and into the trees beyond the shack.
“Got a gun?” asked Hanrick.
“Yes.”
“Drop it.”
Philip pulled his gun out of the shoulder holster and put it on the ground.
“Kick it away.”
Philip kicked it in the direction of the shack.
“Strip.”
“Why?”
Hanrick’s horrible laugh came from the shack. “Don’t get your hopes up—probably not for the reasons you think. Probably,” he added, a grin in his voice. “But just because you dropped one gun doesn’t mean you’re not carrying another one.”
Philip shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt as slowly as he dared, his mind racing to try to accommodate the developing situation. He pulled his T-shirt over his head.
“Got yourself in a little trouble, did you, Casal?”
It took Philip a moment to realize that Hanrick was referring to the bullet wound on his shoulder, the skin still discolored and puckered around the stitches.
“You should see the other guy,” replied Philip.
Hanrick laughed again. “Philip Casal, always the joker.”
Philip pulled his boots off, angling his body to keep the knife protruding from the left boot out of Hanrick’s line of sight, and dropped the boot knife-side down.
No comment from Hanrick.
He pulled off his socks, then unzipped and dropped his jeans, revealing the ankle holster.
He heard another laugh from the shadows. “Nice try.”
He unfastened the ankle holster and tossed it toward the shack.
“Quite an arsenal you’ve got there.”
Philip hooked his fingers into the waistband of his briefs, his heart hammering.
Hanrick stepped out of the shack, a gun in his hand. “That’s enough. I can see you don’t have anything in there.”
Philip took a deep breath, trying not let his overwhelming relief that he didn’t have to face Tobe Hanrick naked show, trying not to shiver in the near-freezing air.
Hanrick picked up the two guns and, keeping his own gun trained on Philip, went to the tan sedan, popped the trunk, dropped them in, and slammed the trunk closed.
“What’s with this Castillo shit?” asked Hanrick. “Building castles in the air?”
“Where’s Lizzy?” asked Philip.
“The driver’s license is good,” said Hanrick. “Kamy?”
Philip remained silent.
Hanrick shrugged. “It looks like a Kamy product. I’m guessing you called in a favor to get your girlfriend a fake ID.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s a client. Where is she?”
Hanrick ignored his question. “You’re going to an awful lot of trouble for a client.”
“She’s in the trouble she’s in because of me.”
“Not just a joker, but a man of honor. I always detested that about you.”
“Where is she?” Philip said again.
Hanrick gestured with his gun toward the derelict office. “She’s in there. Take a look.”
Philip glanced toward the building. “Can I put my boots on?” The debris-littered ground between where he stood and the building made the request a reasonable one.
Hanrick snorted. “I’m surprised that the Philip Casal I knew turned into such a delicate snowflake after getting out of the joint. Sure, why not. Plus, the opportunity to see you in your skivvies and your fancy boots is something I can’t pass up.”
Philip pulled his boots on and walked toward the building. Hanrick was standing to the right of the door, so it was easy to keep the knife out of his sight. A flicker of hope lit in Philip’s gut.
He stepped through the door of the office, Hanrick a judicious distance behind him. The inside was lit faintly by the Sunbird’s headlights. The room was largely empty, save for a wooden desk pushed into a corner and a metal filing cabinet lying on its side on top of it.
Then a flashlight, trained on Lizzy, lit the interior. She sat in the center of the room, her wrists and ankles duct taped to the arms and legs of a decrepit desk chair, a dirty bandana covering her eyes. Above the collar of her shirt, he could see an angry welt on her neck, and red patches on either side of her mouth where tape had no doubt been roughly pulled off. Her shoulders were hunched up to her ears, in either a defensive reflex or an attempt to keep warm. It was, if anything, colder in the building than it was outside.
“Jesus. Lizzy.”
“Hi, Philip,” she said, her voice unsteady.
He took a step toward her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said Hanrick.
“I need to see if she’s okay.”
“Forget it, Florence Nightingale. If I’d done anything to her yet, you’d be able to tell from where you’re standing.”
Philip turned from Hanrick back to Lizzy. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. So far.”
He was wondering how Hanrick could have grabbed her without ending up with a brain riddled with bleeds when she said, “I don’t think I’ve been causing Mr. Hanrick any headaches.”
He was confused for a moment, then remembered what she had told h
im—the mind-reading ability that the crush drug had triggered in her.
“She’s been a good girl,” interjected Hanrick.
Could Lizzy read Hanrick’s mind?
“I have a pretty good idea what he’s thinking,” said Lizzy a moment later, her voice breaking on the last word.
“I’ll bet she has a pretty good idea,” said Hanrick.
“So, what now?” asked Philip.
“You and I get ourselves straightened out,” said Hanrick, “and then I drop little Miss Lizzy off behind some tourist shop in Sedona none the worse for wear, and I disappear again. Actually, though,” Hanrick continued, “I might give Uncle Owen a call before that. Uncle Owen calls little Lizzy a lot. Once I’m done with you, I might see if Uncle Owen would be willing to give me some cash in exchange for Liz.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt her.”
“I did. But he doesn’t know that.”
At that moment, a muffled gunshot cracked out from the woods, followed by a shrieked “Goddammit!”
Hanrick’s head turned toward the door of the office, and Philip pulled the knife from his boot and lunged.
Hanrick turned back and brought the gun up. Philip, frantic to avoid a replay of his encounter with George Millard, spun to the side. He expected to hear a gunshot, but then realized with self-loathing that he was so far from Hanrick that Hanrick hadn’t even bothered to fire.
When he regained his balance, Hanrick had the gun pointed at Lizzy.
“I wouldn’t do that again if I were you,” said Hanrick, his eyes dead.
“Okay.”
“Take the boots off.”
Philip was still holding the knife, but had no intention of throwing it away before he was forced to. He pulled the boots off and tossed them away.
“Sit on the ground.”
Philip sat.
Hanrick circled Philip, careful to stay out of the range of another lunge. Philip followed him with his eyes and, as Hanrick passed directly behind him, Philip turned his head to keep him in view.
“Philip, he’s going to—” Lizzy screamed.
Philip felt an explosion of pain burst from his back, and barely heard Lizzy’s “—kick you!”
Philip fell to his side, then rolled to the other side, trying to avoid another kick and sending a scream of protest up from his shoulder. Hanrick followed him. Philip tried to grab Hanrick’s legs, but Hanrick jumped back again.
“Your head!” yelled Lizzy.
Philip managed to twist his head to avoid the full force of Hanrick’s next kick, but even the glancing blow lit his vision with bright white. He tried to stand and Hanrick landed another kick, dropping him to the ground.
“Your wrist!” yelled Lizzy.
Before Philip could snatch his hand back, Hanrick’s boot came down on his wrist and the knife was ripped from his hand.
Another shot cracked out from the woods, and another scream, then two more shots.
Then silence.
Philip lay on his side, gasping.
Hanrick stepped to the door of the office and peered out, eyes and gun scanning the woods. A minute ticked by, then two, Philip trying to control the shivers that wracked his body as the cold concrete floor sucked away his body’s warmth. The only sounds were his own and Lizzy’s ragged breathing.
Finally, Hanrick said, “I expected you to bring a knife, knowing your history. I see you brought along a friend as well.”
“So did you,” replied Philip hoarsely.
“Yes, but if you wanted to save your client, you should have played by my rules, and I told you to come alone.”
“The shot will bring the cops.”
“There’s no one to hear it, way down here in the canyon.”
Hanrick strode to Lizzy and shone the flashlight on her face.
“Can you see through that thing?” He grabbed her chin and jerked her head to one side and then the other, evidently looking for a gap in the blindfold’s coverage.
“No,” she sobbed.
“Little Miss Lizzy is quite an expert at street fighting,” he said. “I might need to keep her around just for that.”
“Or maybe you’re just predictable,” said Philip, trying to distract Hanrick’s attention from Lizzy.
Hanrick stepped behind Lizzy and jerked the blindfold tighter.
Just then, they heard a cry from outside. “Tobe? Tobe!”
Hanrick grabbed Philip’s arm and jerked him to his feet, twisting his arm behind his back and shoving him toward the door. Philip felt the sutures binding the gunshot wound tear. They stepped outside, Hanrick holding Philip in front of him as a shield.
There was a crashing from the trees and Hanrick swung Philip and his gun toward it. A tall, thin man appeared at the edge of the clearing, his hands clamped to his neck, blood running from between his fingers and down his arm. It wasn’t Wayne.
“What the hell, Clemson,” growled Hanrick.
Clemson staggered toward them. “I thought you said Casal was coming alone,” he said, his voice almost a shriek. “He brought Wayne Watchman with him!”
“Where’s Watchman now?” asked Hanrick.
“Lying back there,” said Clemson, gesturing toward the woods with an elbow. “Dead,” he added.
Hanrick stepped away from the door, still scanning the woods. “I thought you said you could make sure Casal didn’t bring any uninvited guests.”
“I can’t watch the whole goddamned trailer park while you play with him and the girl,” whined Clemson. “I need a doc, Tobe. He shot me in the neck, for God’s sake.”
Hanrick hooked his foot around Philip’s ankle and shoved him hard. Philip sprawled on the ground and rolled just in time to see Hanrick raise his gun toward Clemson. Another silencer-muffled shot thumped out, and Clemson dropped to the ground. “No excuse for sloppy workmanship,” said Hanrick gaily.
He turned back to Philip and switched his gun to his left hand and pulled Philip’s knife out from where he had slipped it into his own belt. The blade glittered in the headlights of Philip’s car. Hanrick walked to him, put his foot on Philip’s injured shoulder, and shoved, rolling Philip onto his back.
Philip bit back a scream.
Hanrick put his foot on Philip’s other shoulder and shoved again, so that Philip was now lying on his injured shoulder.
Then he bent over and put the tip of the knife gently on Philip’s left shoulder. “That’s quite a tat you’ve got there, Casal.” He traced the tattoo—an elaborate castle that stretched the length of Philip’s bicep, with letters worked into the ornately rendered doors—with the tip of the knife. “O-R. That wouldn’t be Oscar Riva, would it?”
“Yes,” croaked Philip.
“That’s so sweet that you got a tattoo in his memory. Or maybe you got it before he died?”
“After.”
“How touching. And I recall you became quite good friends with old Oscar’s granddaughter—what was her name?”
“None of your goddamned business,” said Philip, and he tried not to cry out as the tip of the knife sank into his arm.
“Don’t be difficult, Casal,” said Hanrick conversationally. “Because when I send that tattoo to Riva’s granddaughter, I want to make sure I address the package right.”
“Stop it!” came a scream from the shack. “Stop hurting him!”
60
“Jesus,” sighed Hanrick. He pushed himself off Philip and straightened.
Philip had turned toward the shack, and so he didn’t see the kick coming. The air whooshed out of his lungs and he heard what he thought might be the snap of a rib. He drew his knees up, frantic for a lungful of air, trying to protect his ribs from another kick.
“Don’t go anywhere,” said Hanrick. He stepped away from Philip and toward the shack.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt her,” Philip gasped.
“Sure, but I didn’t bank on her being such a goddamned pain in the ass,” said Hanrick. “I’m having second thoughts.”
&nb
sp; “Leave him alone!” Lizzy yelled.
“Lizzy, be quiet!” Philip yelled back as loud as his breathless lungs would allow.
“I won’t be quiet!” Over the rush of the creek, he could hear thumping noises, as if she were rocking the chair she was tied to. “Let me go!”
Hanrick crossed his arms and smiled. “Little hellcat, ain’t she? Are you really telling me that she was just a client? Maybe she’s the one who gave you that boo-boo on your shoulder.”
“You’re a bully! You’re a bastard!” she yelled. “You’re a miserable excuse for a human being!”
Hanrick shook his head. “That’s it. All bets are off. You expect me to just ignore such insults?” He turned back to Philip. “But don’t worry, Casal—I’ll take care of you first, so you don’t have to be around to see what happens to Miss Lizzy.” He bent over Philip. “Now hold still, I want it to be a nice clean cut for Riva’s granddaughter.”
He had failed. He hadn’t saved Lizzy—he had condemned her to the same horrible fate that he himself was about to suffer. And gotten Wayne killed in the process.
He tried to roll away, hoping that he could at least do some damage to Hanrick before Hanrick started in with the knife, but Hanrick jerked him back and pinned him to the ground with his knees.
He couldn’t get away, but he was damned if he was going to give Hanrick the pleasure of seeing him shut his eyes.
“Now!” Lizzy screamed from the shack. “He’s going to hurt Philip! Do it now!”
From the corner of his eye, behind Hanrick’s back, Philip saw a form barrel out from behind the corner of the shack and crash into Hanrick.
His first thought was that Wayne must have survived the encounter with Clemson after all, but the person wrestling with Hanrick looked too tall. And too red-haired. It looked, in fact, like Andy McNally.
Philip tried to extricate himself from the pile of humanity on top of him, triggering another bolt of pain from his shoulder. He tried to figure out where the knife was, to see if he could grab it, but as far as he could tell, it was trapped between Hanrick and McNally. He tried to see where Hanrick’s gun was, but he couldn’t see it in his waistband.
The Iron Ring Page 25