One rainy night, p.27
One Rainy Night, page 27
Take off your clothes and lie down on the grass, she thought. Forget about Buddy and his friends. Let the rain . . .
Buddy and his friends.
Maureen let the elastic snap back against her belly. She bent over the tailgate, very aware of how the rain now fingered her back, soaked through the seat of her shorts and streamed down her legs, but struggling not to let the exciting feel of it overwhelm her.
I’m gonna get those suckers, she told herself. I’m gonna roll in their blood and that’ll be even better than the rain.
She held her right hand to steady it, and pushed the key into the lock. She twisted the key. She opened the tailgate. She leaned into the darkness, savoring the way her sodden shorts pulled taut against her buttocks but regretting the loss of the rain on her head and back. Soon, she found the jack. She dropped the keys, wrapped her hand around the steel bar of the tire tool, and pulled it out.
Turning away, she swung the bar through the air.
‘Break their heads apart,’ she muttered.
She rushed toward the house. The grass was thick and slippery. She wanted to dive onto it and roll over. But she kept running.
She pressed her way through shrubbery at the front of the big window. Leaves rubbed against her. Limbs poked and scraped her.
Then she was at the window.
She drew the tire iron back and hammered it through the glass.
15
‘I think this is it,’ Trev said.
‘Well, is it or isn’t it?’ Sandy asked.
He’d checked the street sign at the corner. This was Fairmont, all right. Crouching, he looked more closely at the house number painted on the curb. 4538. Back at O’Casey’s, he had memorized Chidi’s address. He was pretty sure it was 4538 Fairmont.
But was that right?
He’d had to struggle so hard to remember the address. As if the rain had submerged it, hidden it at the bottom of a deep and murky pool, forcing him to go down through the dark heat and search.
‘I’m pretty sure,’ he said.
‘Well,’ Sandy said, ‘I reckon we’ll know soon enough.’ She waved his revolver, gesturing him toward the house. ‘Come on along, Rhonda,’ she said to the girl from the trunk.
Trev stepped over the curb, crossed the strip of grass and then the sidewalk. Looking back, he saw Sandy and Rhonda a few strides behind him. Sandy had her left hand on the girl’s good shoulder. As if Rhonda were her kid sister, or something.
Weird how she’d started acting.
She’d been like an animal in heat before the shootout. Then, all at once, she was different. She got serious. Trev didn’t understand. Mostly, it pissed him off. But part of him, far down under the churning new desires, was glad she’d taken command. Down there was the memory of a mission – to stop the rain and somehow save Maureen. He knew the mission was important. He knew that he cared about it. But he also knew that too much was in the way. Hungers to rip flesh, taste blood, tear into throats and breasts and guts.
Sandy’s and Rhonda’s, for starters. Then, anyone else he could find.
But Sandy, gun in hand, kept all that from happening. And got him here to the Chidi house.
Under his dark heat and anger stirred a lost man who was grateful.
Walking backward over the lawn, he watched how Sandy’s skin gleamed black in the light from the porch. He was pretty sure he’d fired four rounds at the man with the rifle. Before that, one into Francine. Which left only one in the revolver. Maybe Sandy would use it on the Chidis. Then he could get her.
He tripped and dropped down hard on the concrete stoop.
Sandy came closer, one hand still on Rhonda’s shoulder. ‘Get up,’ she said.
Trev stood, climbed the two steps, and moved to the front door. There was no screen door, just a panel of dark wood with a handle and peephole.
‘Want me to ring the bell?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be a jerk, Trevor. See if it’s locked.’
He tried the handle, then shook his head.
‘Didn’t reckon they’d make it easy for us,’ Sandy said. ‘OK, go on and kick it in.’
‘They might be waiting and kill us,’ Rhonda said.
Trev was surprised to hear her speak, though he knew she’d been talking with Sandy along the way.
‘I’ll go in first, honey. Trevor, get on with it.’
‘You’d better hang onto me,’ he said. ‘The stoop’s slippery. I’ll end up on my ass.’
Sandy studied his eyes for a moment, then nodded. She pressed herself against his back and wrapped her left arm across his chest. Her right hand shoved the gun muzzle against his ribs.
Do it so we both fall, he thought.
Hell, it would probably happen anyway. Kicking open doors wasn’t as easy as it looked on TV. His foot was likely to bounce right back at him and knock them both flat.
Of course, Sandy might pull the trigger.
But maybe she wouldn’t. With a little luck, he could get the gun away from her once they hit the concrete.
‘What’re you waiting for?’
‘Be careful with that gun,’ he said. Then he raised his right leg, drew his knee in toward his chest, and drove his foot at the door. The heel of his shoe struck beside the handle.
Pain didn’t streak up his leg. The door didn’t throw his foot back at him.
Instead, he felt an instant of hard resistance and the door burst open and slammed the wall behind it.
He was still off balance when Sandy hurled him forward. He tripped on the threshold, staggered across some carpet, and fell to his hands and knees. Sandy rushed past him. She was crouched low, head turned away, sweeping the revolver from side to side.
Trev crawled toward her. She swung around and jabbed the muzzle against his forehead. ‘Mind your manners, pal,’ she said. Taking a step backward, she straightened up and looked toward the doorway. ‘Come on in, Rhonda. Nothing in here’s gonna hurt you.’
The girl stepped inside and shut the door. She gazed into the living room. ‘Are they dead?’ she asked.
Perplexed, Trev got to his feet. He looked past Sandy. A teenaged girl lay sprawled on the sofa. One arm hung toward the floor. Trev saw no blood on her tan corduroys or white blouse. She looked as if she might be asleep. But if she’d been sleeping, the clamor of their break-in should’ve shocked her wide awake.
An adult male was slumped in a reclining chair in a corner of the room. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, a pale blue sport shirt, dark slacks and black socks. A book lay open on his chest as if he’d dropped asleep while reading.
Nobody else was in the room.
‘I reckon we got the right house,’ Sandy said, her voice low.
‘Yeah,’ Trev said.
He’d never seen any of the Chidi family except Maxwell, the boy dead and charred, bound to the goalpost. But these two were probably his sister and father. It wasn’t likely that Trev had gotten the address wrong. And there were only a few black families in town.
Not really black, he thought as he stared at the girl.
We’re black.
Her hair was black, all right, but her skin was a deep, rich brown.
Sandy went to the sofa and bent over the girl. In the bright lamplight, she didn’t look nearly as good as before. Her wet skin gleamed, but it was streaky and Trev liked the soft brown of the girl’s skin better than the dirty black of Sandy’s.
‘This gal’s breathing,’ Sandy said.
Trev moved closer. Sandy, keeping an eye on him, stepped over to the man.
He watched the girl’s chest rise slowly and sink. He could see her white bra through the blouse, pale against her dark skin. He glanced over at Sandy. She was bending over the man.
‘They musta been drugged or something,’ she said.
He ripped the girl’s blouse open and heard the sudden click-clack of a cocking gun.
‘Just leave her be.’ Sandy had the revolver pointed at his face.
‘Hey, come on,’ he said. ‘Let me have her. You take him.’
‘That’s just the rain talking.’
‘So what? You’re wet, too. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I got it reined in, buster.’ A half smile tipped a corner of her mouth. ‘You’d best rein it in, same as me. We gotta find gramps and put a stop to all this. Now I can do it by myself, or you can help me.’ She straightened her arm, closed her left eye, and seemed to be sighting in on him down the entire length of her arm.
‘I’m on your side,’ Trev said.
With her thumb, she eased the hammer down. She lowered her arm. ‘Let’s have a look around,’ she said, and nodded toward the dining room.
Trev went first. He glanced back at the girl on the sofa.
Get back to you, he thought.
Just need to wait for Sandy to use that last bullet.
Nobody in the dining room.
He headed for the kitchen, and suddenly grinned. There was no need to wait for Sandy to use the last bullet. The fool had cocked the revolver and let the hammer down on its only live round. She’d have to go through five spent shells before the cylinder would bring the good cartridge back into firing position.
I’ve got her!
I’ve got them all!
Should be a knife in the kitchen, he thought. A good sharp knife would come in handy.
He entered the kitchen. The faucet was running. On the floor in front of the sink was a shattered plate. A woman sat at the table, arms folded beneath her face.
The mother, Trev thought.
She wore white jeans and a green blouse. The hair draping her face was glossy brown with red highlights. The look of it stirred something deep inside Trev.
Can’t be her natural color, he thought.
Might be.
He frowned at the thick auburn tresses.
Hair just like Maureen’s, he realized.
‘I spect gramps must’ve doped their food,’ Sandy said.
Hair just like Maureen’s.
Maureen.
Trev tried to focus his mind on her. He remembered her smile and the soft, amused challenge in her eyes.
Hold onto it.
He stepped to the counter and drew a long knife from its wooden holder.
‘Drop it, Trev.’
He turned to Sandy. She aimed the useless revolver at his chest. ‘Pull back the hammer and let it go five times,’ he said. ‘That’ll put a live round into position.’
One of her eyes narrowed, its lid twitching slightly.
‘Try to save it for grandpa,’ he said.
16
With Lynn and Cassy close beside him, John ran into the midst of the carnage. It was worse than he’d imagined. The air was dense with screams and shouts and growls, rippling with horrible giggles. It stank of excrement and urine. Everywhere he looked, people were being slashed and hacked and bludgeoned. The dead were being killed again. Clothes had been torn from bloody victims. He saw people being eaten, raped, sodomized. One man had his head completely buried inside the split torso of another like a dog searching for a hidden treat: even as he delved, a drenched woman chopped an axe into his spine and let out a wild laugh.
Shouldn’t have come out here, John thought.
No, this is best. This is how we blend in.
He nudged Lynn toward a waitress scurrying nearby. The woman still wore the bodice of her costume, but her skirt was gone. The handle of a knife protruded from her shoulder blade. ‘Get her,’ John yelled. Lynn caught on and hurled herself onto the woman’s back. Cassy, with a quick nod to John, leaped onto the two.
None of the real crazies joined in.
They were all too busy.
John scanned the crowd quickly, seeking a restaurant patron to attack.
He saw the cop.
Reloading.
The man was several strides away, standing motionless in the swamp of gore and thrashing bodies, his head down as he stuffed cartridges into the cylinder of his revolver.
John didn’t want to go for him. He wanted to blend in, damn it, join in the fighting and be invisible.
I’m not a damn hero, he thought.
He just wanted to survive and make sure Lynn survived so they could get home to Kara.
He didn’t want to go for the cop even as he leaped over someone squirming atop a body, elbowed a man aside, and saw the cop snap the loaded cylinder into place. He knocked the gun aside with one hand and smashed the heel of his other hand up against the underside of the cop’s nose. The nose crunched, went soft and flat as John’s blow drove its ridge bone up into the brain. The head flew back. The cop staggered away, stiff and twitching, and dropped to the floor.
Took him out of the picture, John thought.
That was all he’d intended – to stop the man from running amok with a loaded gun.
He suddenly felt like an idiot.
He could use the gun.
He saw a hand reaching for it. The bloody hand of a man on his knees, whose sweater was wet and black. John stomped down, popping the man’s elbow. He ducked and snatched up the revolver, shot the man in the head, then looked at the cop.
He glimpsed a plastic name plate on the chest of the uniform. HANSON.
Hanson hadn’t snapped his cartridge case after reloading. A dozen rounds had fallen out when he hit the floor. John dropped to his knees, scooped up a handful, and dropped the ammunition into his shirt pocket as he got to his feet.
He spotted Lynn and Cassy, still on top of the waitress. Cassy had tugged the knife out of the woman’s shoulder. She held it in her teeth while she pinned the waitress down and Lynn pretended to chew on the nape of the gal’s neck.
It’s working, John thought.
They looked like the real article, and nobody was bothering them. Not yet.
John made his way toward them. Just get to them, he thought. Stay there, shoot anyone who tries to take them. But even with the extra bullets in his pocket, he knew he didn’t have enough ammo to kill all the crazies.
He glimpsed someone rushing at him from the side. He whirled. A man with a steak knife. Black face grinning.
He swung the revolver up.
Steve Winter?
‘No!’ he yelled.
As the knife flashed down at his chest, John sidestepped and chopped Steve’s wrist. The knife flipped away. He slammed the gun barrel against Steve’s head. The man started to drop. John grabbed the front of his shirt and hurled him sideways, watched as he toppled over the back of a woman hunched over bloody remains, watched him roll and come to a stop near Lynn’s feet.
Where’s Carol?
John spotted Steve’s wife near the open doors. She was on her knees, biting the face of a screaming man while a guy with a pocket knife split open the man’s leg from hip to knee.
John rushed to get her. Somebody grabbed his ankle. He pulled free, leaped over a couple of struggling women, and saw the gal with the axe prance in from the right. She had the axe overhead. Maybe she wasn’t going for Carol. John decided he didn’t care who she was going for.
He aimed and fired.
She wore a sleeveless gown. The slug punched through her skin just under the armpit. Its impact nudged her sideways. She jogged along, knees pumping up the front of her dress, axe still raised. She angled toward the doors like a sleepwalker in a big hurry. The door jamb at the far side stopped her. She struck it with her face, bounced off and fell back.
Rushing forward, John grabbed Carol’s wet hair. He yanked, jerking her head up.
The man with the pocket knife glared up at him.
Dr Goodman.
‘She’s with me,’ Goodman said, as if this was some kind of a damn prom and John was trying to put moves on his date.
The same knife he’d used to cut the laces of Cassy’s bodice was now deep in the thigh of the man who was gasping and writhing on the floor.
Goodman tore the knife out and waved it at John. ‘She stays with me!’
‘No she doesn’t,’ John said, and shot him in the forehead.
He looked around quickly. Nobody rushing them. He jammed the revolver into a rear pocket of his slacks, chopped the edge of his hand against Carol’s neck hard enough to black her out but not kill her, then hoisted her onto his shoulder and carried her toward the corner of the foyer – toward Lynn and Cassy and the waitress and Steve – where he would make his stand.
17
After searching the rambling house, Maureen returned to the living room. She saw bright red footprints on the gray carpet.
Someone had followed her into the house!
A chill spread goosebumps over her skin. She turned, watching the bloody tracks wind their way through the room toward the kitchen.
One set of tracks. One intruder.
She clamped the tire iron between her knees, rubbed her sweaty right hand on the side of her sodden shorts, then gripped the bar again.
She gazed at the tracks.
Whoever made them had been damn sneaky. She hadn’t heard a sound while searching the house. She hadn’t felt the presence of anyone.
From the feel of the house when she first came in through the window, she’d been sure it was deserted. Somehow, she’d known that nobody was here. But the Harleys had been left out front, so she’d gone ahead and searched and found nobody.
But damn it, someone had come in after her.
Someone awfully stealthy.
Stalking her.
That can work both ways, Maureen thought. She started to follow the bloody footprints. Her heart raced. Her stomach felt fluttery. Her skin crawled as if a basketful of spiders had been dumped on her head. With her left hand, she reached up to where her T-shirt was still bunched above her breasts. She tugged it down.
What if he’s creeping up behind me!
She whirled around.
Saw two sets of red footprints coming toward her across the carpet.
The second set ended at her own bare feet.
She stared at them.
She sighed.
‘A Woozle,’ she muttered.
Winnie and Piglet go hunting and almost catch a Woozle.
She remembered that long ago she’d been a writer of children’s books. Long ago, this morning.
‘And now I’m reduced to Woozle hunting,’ she said.
