The Murder Book

CHAPTER 42

A husky voice from outside the cabin bellowed, "Everyone out, hands up." A second later: "No fucking around or we kill the retard and the old guy."

I crouched closer to the window. "We're coming out. I have to get him in the chair."

"Do it."

I returned to the bedroom, clamped my hands around the grips of Bill's wheelchair. I'd put a bright white stocking cap on his bald head and had covered him with two soft blankets, despite the heat.

Or maybe it wasn't that hot. I was sweat-drenched but, he, the diabetic, remained freakishly dry.

A moment before, he'd prayed silently, lips quivering, hands hooked in the blankets.

He said, "My, my, my" as I wheeled him forward. When we reached the door, the footrests of his chair nudged it open, and we stepped out into an amethyst twilight.

The pair of cowboys holding Aimee and Bert were twenty or so yards up the gravel drive, off center, closer to the western edge of the pathway, where the forest began. The sky was slate, and the foliage had deepened to olive drab. Flesh tones remained vivid; I saw the fear on Bert's face.

The bigger cowboy was positioned slightly in front of his partner. The pickup's driver. Midforties, five-eleven, with a potbelly that strained his ice-blue shirt, thick thighs that turned his blue jeans into sausage casing, a complexion the color of dirty copper, and a bristling, graying mustache. His hat was broad-brimmed, brown felt.

Bored demeanor, but even at this distance I could see the edgy movement around his eyes. He towered over Bert, held the old man by the scruff.

Just behind him, to the right, the smaller intruder maintained a grip on Aimee, clutching her sweatshirt from behind, stretching the fabric over the rolls and bulges of her torso. Younger, five-five, midtwenties, he wore a baggy black T-shirt and saggy black jeans too urban for his straw headpiece. The hat looked cheap, a hurried addition. He had a round face bottomed by wispy goatee. Dull, distracted eyes. A mass of tattoos ran up his arms.

One of the car restorers at Vance Coury's garage.

The sun didn't move, but Bert Harrison's complexion grayed.

Aimee said, "Billy, what's happening?" She made a move toward the chair but the small cowboy cuffed the back of her head. She flapped her arms clumsily. He said, "Cool it, retard."

"Bill-"

Bill said, "Everything's cool, babe, we'll work it out."

"Sure we will," said the big cowboy, in the husky voice that had brought us out. A pack of cigarettes swelled one of the pockets of his shirt. Western shirt, with a contrasting white yoke, pearl buttons, still box-creased. He and his pal had dressed for the occasion. He said, "Get the fuck over here, Willy."

"Over where?" said Bill.

"Over here, Stevie Wonder." Glancing at me: "You- asshole- wheel him over here real slow- take your hands off the fucking chair, and I'll blow your fucking head off."

"Then what?" said Bill.

"Then we take y'all somewhere."

"Where?"

"Shut the fuck up." To the smaller man: "We'll load 'em in back with the shit. Under them tarps, like I showed you."

Small said, "Why don't we just do 'em here?" in a nasal voice.

The big man's chest swelled. Taking a deep breath. "That's the plan, mijo."

"What about the wheelchair?"

Big laughed. "You can have the chair, okay? Give it to that kid of yours to play with." To me: "Wheel him."

"Where's the truck?" I said.

"Shut up and wheel him."

"Is there a truck?" I said. "Or are we just taking a little walk?" Stalling, because that's what you did in situations like that. Because what was there to lose?

The big man yanked Bert's hair, and Bert's face creased with pain.

"I'll just do this old payaso right here, you keep talking. Blow out his eyes and make you fuck the sockets."

I rolled the wheelchair forward. The tires caught in the gravel, kicked up rocks that pinged the spokes. I pretended to be stuck. My hands stayed wrapped around the grips.

Big maintained his hold on Bert and watched me closely. His companion's attention span wasn't as good, and I saw him glance off into the darkening trees.

"Bill?" said Aimee.

"Bill?" mimicked Big. "That's what you call yourself, now, Willie?"

"He's Bill Baker," I said. "Who do you think he is?"

Big's eyes slitted. "Was I talking to you, asshole? Shut the fuck up and get the fuck over here."

"Hey," said Bill, cheerfully. "What do you know? I thought I recognized that voice. Ignacio Vargas. Long time, Nacho. Hey, man."

Recognition didn't trouble the big man. He smirked. "Long time no see, nigger."

"Real long time, Nacho. Doc, I used to sell this vaquero product. He was smart, never tasted, just distributed to his homeboys. Hey, Nacho, didn't you go off somewhere for a vacation- Lompoc? Or did you make it to Quentin."

"Nigger," said Vargas, "before I went away I tried to party with you and the retard over at that house in Niggertown, but you got away. Now, here we are, after all those years. One a those… reunions. Who said you don't get a second chance?"

His mouth opened, displaying rows of broken, brown teeth.

Two decades of sanctuary, and I'd brought the enemy to the gates.

"You know what they say, amigo," said Bill. "If you don't succeed at first- but, hey, let the old guy go. He's just a doctor happens to treat me, got a bad heart, gonna kick soon, anyway, why bother?"

Bert had been staring at the gravel. Now his eyes climbed very gradually. Came to rest on me. Dispirited.

Bill said, "Let her go, too. She can't hurt anybody."

Bert shifted his weight and Nacho Vargas cuffed him again. "No squirming around, Grampa. Yeah, I think I heard that one, before. If you don't succeed at first, make sure you kill the fucker dead the second time, then go out for a good meal. Come on, Whitebread, keep moving, then when I tell you to stop, let go the wheel and slowly put your hands up then get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head and eat dirt."

I edged the chair another foot forward. Got stuck again. Freed the wheels.

Bill said, "Nacho was intelligent-o, selling but never using. I could've learned from you, Nacho."

"You couldn'ta learned nothing. You were stupid."

I closed the space between us and Vargas to ten yards.

"I don't see any truck," I said.

"There's a fucking truck," said Small.

Vargas shot a disgusted look intended for his partner, but kept his eyes on me. He began tapping his boot impatiently. Shiny, needle-toed black boots that had never known stirrups; the jeans looked fresh, too. Big shopping spree.

A one-day costume, because you could never really wash out the blood.

Bill said, "Nacho, my man, be smart: I got nothing to look forward to, put me out of my misery, but leave the old guy and Aimee and everyone else alone. Take me off in that truck of yours and do what you want with-"

"Like I need your fucking permission," said Vargas.

Bill's head rolled. "No you don't, no one's saying you do, it's just why not be smart, like I said he's got a heart condition-"

"Maybe I should have him run around in circles till he drops dead. Save on bullets." Vargas laughed, kept his gun hand behind Bert, lifted the other arm and jacked Bert up effortlessly. The old man's toes barely grazed the gravel. He'd gone deathly pale. A rag doll.

Vargas said, "Hey, this is like playing puppet." His gun hand shifted upward, too. Just an inch or so.

"Nacho, man-"

"Yeah, sure, we'll let everyone go. Maybe we'll let you go, too. Hey, that's a good idea- let's all go out and have a beer." He snorted. "She ain't the only retard." The boot tapped faster. "C'mon, c'mon, move it."

I closed the gap to twenty feet, fifteen, exerted downward pressure that tipped the chair slightly, got stuck again.

"What the fu- you playing with me, Whitebread?"

"Sorry," I said, in tremulous voice. "You told me to keep my hands- just a sec."

Before Vargas could reply, Bert sagged in his grip, cried out in pain, clutched his chest. Vargas laughed, too clever to be taken in by an obvious ruse, but Bert kept thrashing, gave his head a hard shake, and the sudden movement tugged Vargas's arm down and Bert struggled to twist away. As Vargas tried to contain him, his gun hand rose and the weapon was visible. Sleek, black automatic. Aimed at the sky. Behind him, Small was cursing, his attention directed at the struggle. Aimee stared, too, not resisting.

The moment Bert had shown distress, I'd pushed the chair faster, got within five feet of Vargas. Stopped. Vargas continued to grope for Bert. I gave a low grunt.

Bill groped under the folds of the top blanket and pulled out the shotgun.

Old but clean Mossberg Mariner Eight-Shot Mini Combo with pistol grip and speed-feed. Extreme saw-off, barely any barrel left. I'd found it under the bed, where he'd said it would be, stored in a black canvas case coated with dust bunnies. Lying next to two rifles in similar housing and half a dozen boxes of ammo.

"Use the big shells," he said. I'd loaded the weapon.

Then handed it over to a stiff-fingered blind man.

Vargas got a firm grip on Bert, but Bert saw the shotgun, turned, and bit down on Vargas's arm, and when Vargas bellowed and let go of him, he dropped to the ground and rolled away.

I muttered, "Now," and Bill yanked the trigger.

The explosion boxed my ears, and the recoil shoved the wheelchair into my groin as Bill's head snapped backward and connected with my midriff.

Nacho Vargas was blown away as if caught in a personalized tornado. The bottom half of his face turned to smoky, bloody dust, and a giant, ruby pink orchid blossomed where his gullet and chest had once been. As he fell, white-flecked, red broth shot out through his back, spattering Aimee and the small cowboy, who looked stunned. I threw myself at him, swung one fist upward, connected under his nose, got hold of his groin with my other hand and twisted hard.

The whole thing had taken five seconds.

The small man went down, landed on his back, cried out in pain. His black T-shirt was grimed with what looked like steak tartare and bone bits and gobbets of something gray-pink and spongy I knew to be lung tissue. His gun- shiny and silver- remained entwined in his fingers, and I stomped his hand and kicked the weapon loose. The gun rolled away and I dived for it, slid into gore and skidded and went facedown into the gravel, feeling the buzz of impact, then searing pain along one half of my face, both elbows and knees.

I'd fallen atop the weapon, felt it biting into my chest. Now the damned thing would go off and blow a hole through me, what a dignified demise.

I rolled away, grabbed the gun, sprang to my feet, hurried back to the small man. He lay there, immobile, and I felt under his filth-encrusted jaw, got a slow steady pulse. The hand I'd stomped looked like a dead crab, and when I lifted his eyelids all I saw was white.

A few feet away, what had once been Nacho Vargas was an exhibit for the forensic pathology texts.

Aimee said, "Careful." Talking to Bill, not me. She was behind the chair, now, had removed his watch cap, was stroking his head.

Bert was on his feet, tottering, holding Vargas's weapon with two hands. Staring at it with revulsion. His color made me unsure if the chest pains had been a total ruse.

I kept the silver gun trained on the unconscious man, heartbeat racing way beyond optimal, muscles pumped, head boiling.

Up close, he looked barely twenty.

Give it to that kid of yours to play with.

A young man with one kid, maybe a new father. Would he have helped Vargas dispatch all of us, then gone home and played with Junior?

He moaned, and my fingers tightened around the trigger. Another moan, but he didn't move. I trained the gun on him, had to work at releasing the pressure in my fingers. Slowing my breathing, struggling to think clearly, sort things out.

The clearing around the house deepened to a sickening, syrupy gray. Bill sat there in the chair, the shotgun across his lap. Aimee and Bert stood by, silently. The small man didn't move. Silence settled around us. From somewhere off in the forest, a bird peeped.

A plan: I'd tie up the unconscious man, put him and the wheelchair in the trunk of the Seville, drive us all to some safe place- I'd figure out where along the way- no, first I'd call Milo from the house- I had to get them all in the house- the bloody gravel, the corpse with its yield of shredded body parts, would be dealt with later.

"Do you have any rope?" I asked Bill.

His mirrored glasses were off, and Aimee was dabbing at the gray hollows with a corner of the top blanket. Unmindful of the porridge that splotched her clothing and her face.

He said, "No. Sorry."

"Nothing to tie him with?"

"Sorry… the other one's alive?"

"Out cold but alive. I thought with that arsenal-"

"The arsenal was my… baggage… never really thought I'd use it…"

The shotgun had been clean, freshly oiled.

He must've read my mind, said, "I taught my Aimee how to take care of it."

Aimee recited: "Ream the barrel, wipe it down, oil it up."

"But no rope," said Bill. "Ain't that a hoot. Maybe we can shred some clothing." Tired. One hand caressed the truncated shotgun.

Aimee mumbled.

"What's that, sugar?"

"There is rope. Kind of."

"There is?" he said.

"Twine. I use it for my rolled roast."

"Not strong enough, baby."

"Oh," she said. "It holds in the roast."

"Bert, come here and keep a close aim on him," I said, pocketing the silver gun and pulling the small man to his feet. He was 130 pounds tops, but deadweight and the noradrenaline cool-down made dragging him to the house an ordeal.

I got him to the door, looked back. No one had followed. Nighttime turned the others to statuary.

"Inside," I said. "Let's take a look at that twine."