Deadfall

  “Blood.” She could barely see a trickle of blood coming out of her palm to bead on her wrist. She still needed the pressure of Dillon’s body against the crossbeam to prevent it from wiggling: more now than ever, since she was down to the last bolt and it was wiggling freely. She said, “Sorry, honey. Just a little longer.”

  He covered his head with his hands, as though expecting a brick to fall next.

  Pull and turn.

  25

  Declan stood in the intersection of State and Fife watching smoke pour from the destroyed facades of the bookstore and conservation office. Rafters were on fire, and he believed the entire building would be gutted before too long. He thought they had taken refuge in one of the two stores on the north end of the building or one of the two government offices on the south end. The RCMP substation was the southernmost office, closest to him. If so, either they were already dead, would be soon, or were bolting out a back door. He eyed the monitor and saw no movement behind the building. A strip of shadow along the back edge bothered him. He moved the crosshairs to it and debated where along that band of shadow to let loose. If he were hiding, he would be in the corner far from the explosions and on the opposite side of the building from the man with guns.

  Bad appeared at his side. He pointed the G11 at the ruined storefronts. He was shifting from one foot to another, his head bobbing to music only he could hear. The man was itching to get it on.Waiting like this was worse than the delay of a game console loading the next level of play. “Whatcha think?”

  “I’m gonna shake up the back of the building. You and Kyrill might want to get where you can see back there.”

  Bad grinned. “You ever see them burn trash at the dump?”

  Declan gave him a sideways glance. “No, and neither have you.”

  “Well, I . . . I heard about it. As the rats run from the fire, the garbage dudes pick them off with .22s.”

  Declan caught his eyes. “Fire in the hole,” he said.

  Bad’s grin grew impossibly wide, all teeth. He screamed, high pitched and loud, a siren announcing a level of agony he had never known. Declan saw an arrow jutting from the man’s right thigh. A circle of blood already the size of a hand fanned out from the point of entry.

  Bad, bellowing like an idiot now, dropped to his knees.The machine gun clattered to the ground. Bad fell on his left side. He was holding his leg up and squeezing his thigh, but not right at the wound.

  Declan was fascinated to see a small geyser of blood spray up in the ninety-degree angle between arrow and leg.

  From the first moment of Bad’s scream to that moment, no more than five seconds had passed. In that time, Declan had startled at Bad’s sudden misfortune, watched him fall, marveled at the blood flow, and finally realized that he had better take cover. He leaped over Bad on his way to where the Hummer was parked in the street. He depressed the device’s button.

  Whoosh-crack.

  The far back corner of the building exploded.

  Laura,s blood-soaked fingers slipped off the nut. She lifted her head, listening.

  They were at it again, blowing up things. She hoped those things were not humans. Most likely, they were.

  She pressed her palm into the bolt. She gripped the nut, turned it . . . turned it . . . It came off the bolt, slipped from her fingers, then clattered onto the metal shelf. Excited, she pushed on the bolt. Its threads caught the edge of the hole through which it passed. She wiggled it, but it would not budge. She realized that because it was the last bolt holding the brace to the shelves, she didn’t have to push it through this way.

  “Dillon!” she said excitedly. “I got it, honey. Scoot away.”

  When he did, she took a half step back and yanked on the brace. It popped free of the shelves, and the last bolt fell to the floor.

  She felt Dillon’s hand on her calf. “You did it, Mommy.”

  She smiled. “We did it! We really did.”

  She hefted the metal, pleased to find it weighed more than she had expected. It was sturdy. As tall as she was, it was the weapon she needed. Her fingers and palms did not ache at all now. Like a goldmedal winner, she found that the thrill of the trophy surpassed the pain endured to get it.

  Dillon stood. “Can I hold it?” he asked. She handed it to him. He angled it to inspect it in the dim light coming under the door. He seemed as impressed by it as she was. The light stuttered, dimmed. Someone was at the door.

  “Here, here,” she whispered, taking the upright from Dillon. She tugged at him as she backed to the wall beside the door. She pushed him toward the corner and raised the upright like a bat.

  The lock rattled and clicked. The door swung open. Light flooded in, blinding her—she had not thought of that! She blinked and squinted, catching movement at the door. She swung, aiming high for the head. Two-thirds around she realized that the head coming through the door was lower than she had expected. She adjusted in midswing. The upright made contact with a forehead and continued striking the doorjamb.The vibrating energy that shot up the metal to Laura’s hands shocked them, and she released her grip. As the upright came down, so did a tray with plastic cups and paper plates of food. They landed on the midsection of the body that had collapsed in the doorway. Brown liquid from the cups jumped out, spraying the wall, pooling on the floor, spotting the blue jeans of the downed person like blood.

  Something flesh-colored plopped onto the floor.A severed hand or piece of head, Laura thought with a suddenly lurching stomach.Then she recognized the thing as a burrito. Another one hit the person’s leg and rolled off. Laura scooped up the upright and pulled back to swing at the next person, but no one came. No one shouted. She waited a few moments. The sounds of the blow, dropping body, and spilled dinner had seemed as loud as a gong to her. When no one else appeared, she stepped away from the wall and looked at her victim.

  It was the young boy. Julian. Despite herself, she felt a pang of sorrow. The boy had been nice to them. He had smiled and talked for a few minutes to Dillon. She listened for approaching footsteps or voices, then bent to one knee beside the boy. A welt the size and shape of her thumb had already blossomed on his forehead. It was turning blue, and at its crest was a laceration. Blood poured over one temple. She pushed her fingers to his neck and felt a strong pulse in his carotid artery. She leaned closer to examine the wound, and he moaned.

  She looked up at Dillon, standing at the boy’s feet. “He’ll be okay,” she said.

  She scanned the office and faced the open doorway to the rest of the building. She realized her posture and thought there was something Amazonian about it: on one knee, shoulders square, brace/spear held vertically in one fist.That seemed right. Strong. Fierce. Ready for battle. She took a deep breath, came off her knee, and strode to the door.

  Dillon appeared to have noticed something different about her as well. He gazed at her, lips slightly parted, eyes big and amazed. He smiled.

  “Ready?” she said.

  He nodded, walked carefully past the boy, and joined his mother.

  “Stay with me,” she said. “But if anything happens, I’ll meet you at the cabin.”

  They moved into the corridor and then through an archway into the building’s vestibule. Double doors that opened into the gymnasium where the townsfolk were imprisoned were chained and padlocked. Several loops of chain wound from the push bar of one door through the push bar of the adjoining one. A heavy padlock connected the ends of the chain. She moved quickly to the doors. She slipped the steel beam between the loops of chain and levered it sideways, twisting the chain tightly against the handles. When the beam was nearly horizontal, it stopped. She thought that putting her weight on one end to force the farther rotation of the chain would either break the chain or pry the push bars loose.

  “Mom!” Dillon screamed, just as the thunderous roar of a firearm echoed in the vestibule. A fist-sized hole appeared in the wall above the doors. She spun to see the girl in the archway on the other side of the vestibule. A big pistol
in her hand.

  “Now wait—” Laura started.

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut and fired again. The bullet ripped into the linoleum tile ten feet in front of Laura.

  “Wait!” Laura screamed.

  Opening her eyes to assess the damage she’d caused, the girl appeared surprised that Laura was still standing. She adjusted her aim and squeezed her eyes closed again.

  Laura grabbed Dillon’s hand and returned to the corridor that led back to Buck’s office, the storage room/prison cell, and the unconscious boy. Past a break room, the corridor terminated at a steel fire door.Visitors to the building often left this way to reach the rear parking lot, despite a warning on the door that opening it would set off an alarm. It never did. And even if it did this time, Laura could not care less. Half an ear listened for the squeaking footfalls of the girl’s sneakers behind them. Somehow she was certain the long shooting rangelike corridor would make a sharpshooter out of the girl. If she got off a shot, they would die, plain and simple.

  She hit the fire door with all her strength. It arced out of her way. One foot hit a small concrete stoop, and she tumbled into the dirt beyond. Dillon crashed down with her. She rolled and rose, stopping only when the barrel of a gun pressed into her head.

  26

  The moment Declan turned away from his fallen comrade, Hutch rose from his position and sprinted across a dirt road toward a big brick building. He was pretty sure that it was from here Declan and his gang had emerged. He angled away from Provincial Street toward the rear of the building. An explosion ripped at the world behind him, not near enough to be a strike on the position he had just left. Either Declan had aimed at a place from which he thought Hutch had shot or had aimed randomly, hoping to get lucky. Hutch took this to mean Declan had not seen him bolt for the other building. He figured he had only seconds to take cover in the shadows before Declan felt safe enough to search for him again.

  He still didn’t know what Declan was using to find his prey and shoot at it, but he was pretty sure Terry’s suspicions were close: something was in the sky. The slapping feet of Terry and Phil pursued him. He hit the corner of the building, spun, and slammed his back against the rear wall. Terry tumbled into the dirt, scrambled into the shadow at the edge of the building, and stood. Hutch waited for Phil . . . and waited.

  “Where’s Phil?”

  “I thought he was right behind me.”

  Hutch peered around the corner, back toward where he had been. The explosion he had heard had taken out the opposite rear corner; Declan had guessed wrong. He could barely make out Phil standing out of the moonlight behind the building.

  “He’s back at the other building,” Hutch informed Terry.

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Just standing in the shadow. I think he hesitated to run until it was too late.”

  “It is,” Terry agreed. “We’ve used all the time your distraction bought us.”

  Terry leaned around the corner and patted the air in front of him, hoping Phil understood to stay. He thought he saw the man nod his head.

  “So, one down?” he asked.

  “Not really. I got him in the leg.”

  “All that screaming for a leg shot?” They could still hear Bad moaning in the street.

  Hutch pulled an arrow from the quiver, held the broadhead up to Terry. Unlike the simple aluminum-tipped arrows kids shoot at day camp, this thing was like four triangles of razors designed to come together a half inch from a chiseled tip. Hutch indicated the smaller two of the triangular razors.

  “These are called bleeders,” he said. “The more he moves, the more they’re slicing. By the length of the shaft sticking out of his leg, I’d say it didn’t go all the way through, and the only thing that would have stopped it was his bone.The power of the arrow probably snapped his femur. If an artery is cut, he could bleed out.”

  “Let’s hope for small favors,”Terry said.

  “There’s at least one other gunman,” Hutch said, “but I didn’t see him.”

  “Should we keep our eyes on the guy writhing in the street? Get his buddies when they come for him?”

  “I don’t think anybody’s coming for him. At least not until we’re gone.”

  Terry scowled. “What do you mean, gone?”

  Hutch shrugged. “Dead, caught, out of the area.”

  Bad yelled in agony. It might have been a word.

  “Why wouldn’t they rescue him?”Terry asked. “He might bleed out.”

  “These guys don’t strike me as all that altruistic. And I’m guessing that extends to one another.” He thought a moment. “Except maybe the young boy I told you about.”

  Hutch looked along the rear of the building.Two bare bulbs under metal shades, set about nine feet high, cast weak yellow light on concrete pads below them. Because of the acute angle of Hutch’s inspection, he could not see what he suspected: these lamps marked rear exits.They were situated near the ends of the long building, one only thirty feet from Hutch and Terry.

  “Let’s try to get inside.”

  “’Bout time. But why this building?”

  “I think this is where they’re holed up. This is their headquarters. If we’re going to find anything to help us, it’ll be here.”

  He stepped around Terry, then jogged into the anemic light. He jabbed his bow at the bulb and shattered it. The door was metal, dinged and scuffed—and utterly devoid of entry hardware. No handle, no deadbolt housing. He noted an illuminated doorbell on the wall beside it, and a peephole at a low eye level in the center of the door. If the administrators desired visitors through this door, they’d have to respond to the chime and let them in. Or, he thought, remembering the rec center in Morrison, Colorado, the small town of his childhood, they’d leave the door propped open during events, maybe as a matter of habit during the day, just to save people the trouble of walking around and to get a cross breeze.To satisfy himself, he tried to open the door with the tips of his fingers. No go. He trotted to the next pad, broke the light. Same security door. The killers had chosen well.

  Terry came up beside him. “What now?” he asked.

  “Gotta be a window somewhere,” Hutch said, but he knew there didn’t “gotta be” anything. From what he saw on his short visit to the town’s main street, the river was a few blocks from here. That meant this building was centrally located. It was also set farther back from the street than the businesses. Hutch hadn’t been able to view its facade from the sidewalk or even the street, when he checked out the booted foot and leg. He’d bet that in the space between building and street, there’d be a flagpole or two, perhaps a bike rack, and a flight of wide steps leading to the front doors. He’d seen enough town halls to believe this was the one for Fiddler Falls, and since the community was too small to warrant this much floor space—even if it hosted the administrative offices, fire station, police station, and jail—it was mostly likely their rec center as well. Designers of multiuse buildings like this often avoided limiting potential uses by making them big boxes without windows—or at most, with windows high up near the ceilings.

  Checking for accessible windows meant only peering around the corner, so that’s the direction they headed. Gunfire rang out, and they ducked. It had been muffled, maybe far off. They heard it again and realized it was coming from inside the building.Terry reached behind him and pulled out his pistol.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Hutch asked.

  “Better than pointing my finger at someone.”

  Hutch said, “That’s not—”

  The fire door beside them burst open, and two people spilled out. They tripped off the pad and into the dirt. A woman and child.Terry darted out, holding the pistol in two hands. As the woman clambered to rise, he pressed the barrel into the side of her head.

  “Hold it,” he said.

  The fire door banged violently against the outside wall and swung shut, too fast for Hutch to grab it.

  Keeping his eyes on the
woman, Terry asked Hutch, “Is this the girl you said?”

  “No. I don’t—”

  The moonlight made the whites of her eyes seem radiant. They were wild eyes, rolling to take in everything at once—take it in and measure it against options, possibilities, actions. She had worked fear and panic into a rope of determination, but it was fraying.

  Panting like a swimmer saved from certain drowning, the woman said, “Don’t shoot. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The boy’s okay. Please . . .”

  “Please,” the child echoed.

  Terry gazed at Hutch, confused. Hutch swept forward and picked up the boy.

  The boy let out a scared, frustrated whine.

  “Shhh,” Hutch soothed. He stepped back into the shadows.

  “No . . . please . . .” the woman said, reaching out for the child.

  “Get her out of the moonlight,” Hutch said. “Hurry.”To the boy, he whispered, “It’s okay. My name’s Hutch.What’s yours?”

  The child searched Hutch’s eyes, then said meekly, “Dillon.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dillon. Is that your mom?”

  Dillon nodded.

  Terry had shoved the gun into the back of his pants and was helping the woman to her feet.

  As he did, Hutch said, “Ma’am, we’re not going to hurt you.We’re here to help.”

  Her open expression of hope, of not wanting to hope in vain, plucked a chord of sympathy in him.

  “Are there people here trying to hurt you?”

  She nodded. Her hair hung in dirty strings over her face. She pushed it back, hooking it behind her ear. “They kept us in a storage room.They killed . . .” Her eyes found her son. She changed direction. “I thought they were going to . . . they have others . . . the whole town . . .”

  Terry guided her into the strip of shadows.

  Two more shots rang out, louder than the ones before. Holes appeared in the exit door.

  “They’re after us,” she said to Hutch’s shocked expression. “A girl. They held us hostage.We got out. I . . . I hit a boy. Knocked him cold. I think they’re the only ones left in there.”