Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 72

They’d wandered nearly a mile when they came upon an abandoned stone farmhouse. From its derelict appearance, the house had been vacated long years before, there being more than a few missing panes of window glass.

“Now what?” Edie asked, glancing around the ramshackle farmyard and seeing only a jumble of weeds and tall grass.

Caedmon surveyed the area. “Search the house for weapons. Knives, scissors, an old hunting rifle, anything you can lay your hands on. I’ll search the outbuildings for some sort of conveyance.”

“You actually know how to hot-wire a car?”

“In theory. Assuming I can find a serviceable vehicle.”

Rising up on her tiptoes, Edie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Here’s hoping the practical application comes off without a hitch.”

Having been issued her orders, she rushed toward the front stoop. The door sat crooked in the jamb; it took some jostling of the knob and a very determined shoulder shove to coerce it open. Ignoring the dust mites, cobwebs, and heavy odor of mildew, she scanned the foyer, her gaze finally alighting on a solitary golf club protruding from a tall metal milk jug. Thinking it as good a weapon as any, she grabbed the eight iron.

She then felt her way down the dark hallway, the light switch producing nothing but a dull click, and soon found herself in a primitive kitchen. The grimy window above the dry sink produced enough light for her see that vermin had had the run of the place. More than one cupboard door was ajar, and containers of boxed food had been ripped open. In an apparent feeding frenzy, a bag of sugar and a box of salt had been torn asunder; a small white pile of each sat on the kitchen counter.

She hurriedly began opening drawers, hoping to find a kitchen knife that had been left behind.

To her dismay, the search turned up nothing more deadly than an ice cream scoop and a rusty can opener.

Seeing an old-fashioned telephone mounted on the wall, she rushed over and grabbed the heavy handset.

Damn. Dead air.

As she hung up the phone, the wood planks near the doorway softly creaked.

“You didn’t really think that someone would abandon the house but leave the phone connected?”

At hearing that slightly accented voice, Edie spun on her heel, the golf club slipping through her fingers and clattering onto the wood floor.

Her heart caught in her throat.

Standing across from her, holding a gun that was aimed at her chest, was Sanchez. Not only were his face and clothes blackened with soot, but blood freely poured from a jagged wound on his upper cheek, the skin having been flayed in the car blast.

Edie stood unmoving. Like a frog in a warming cauldron.

“Hope springs eternal,” she told the unsmiling gunman, striving for a calm she didn’t feel. To keep her hands from noticeably shaking, she reached behind her, gripping the edge of the countertop.

“Where’s your redheaded lover boy?”

“We got separated after the blast,” Edie lied, knowing Sanchez would be out for vengeance, the old “eye for an eye” taking on a whole new level of meaning.

The sound of a car door being slammed echoed across the farmyard.

Sanchez cocked his head, then shrugged. “Can’t start a car with a dead battery. What a bitch, huh?”

As he spoke, Edie inched her hand toward the salt pile that she’d earlier seen on the counter. “Yeah, what a bitch,” she retorted, tossing a handful of salt at the gaping wound on his face.

Rearing his head back, a thunderbolt in reverse, Sanchez loudly bellowed.

Pushing herself away from the counter, Edie charged down the hall toward the open front door.

No sooner did she clear the doorway than she ran headlong into Caedmon. In his right hand he held a small ax; in his left he had what looked to be a long-handled garden hoe.

“Sanchez is in the kitchen!” she breathlessly exclaimed. “And he’s got a gun!”

She saw the muscles in Caedmon’s jaw clench and unclench, saw the feral gleam in his eyes. This was the man who had mercilessly taken out his foe by jamming a nail file into his skull.

Wordlessly, he shoved the ax into his pocket. Then he wrapped his free hand around her upper arm and took off running; Edie could barely keep pace with his long-legged stride.

They’d gone no more than a hundred yards when shots rang out, a half dozen of them in rapid succession. Caedmon dodged toward a large stone outbuilding. Kicking open a wood-planked door, he shoved her inside.

Edie squinted, surprised to see a huge chain with an ominous hook at the end of it dangling from a ceiling beam.

“It looks like some kind of torture chamber.”

“Close enough,” Caedmon muttered, dragging her across the dimly lit room. “It’s an old abattoir.”

“What’s an abattoir?”

“A slaughterhouse.”