Bones to Ashes Part 56

"Right."

I threw myself into the seat back and folded my arms. Unfolded them and started gnawing the cuticle.

"The Merc and the Porsche belong to locals," Ryan said, never taking his eyes from number thirteen.

I didn't bother to comment.

Seconds dragged by. Minutes. Eons.

The Impala seemed suddenly oppressive. I lowered my window. Sickly warm air floated in, bringing the smell of mud and mown gra.s.s. The cawing of gulls.

I jumped when Ryan's cell warbled in his hand.

Ryan listened. Thanked the caller. Disconnected.

"Harry rented the Accord on Monday morning."

My eyes flew down the block. The car was empty. The park was empty.

"I'll call her." I reached for my purse.

Ryan shot a restraining hand to my arm. "No."

"Why not?"

Ryan just looked at me. Like mine, his eyes were full of fatigue.

My mind did a frightening connect. If Harry was on Malo's property or in his house, a ringing phone might compromise her safety.

"Jesus, Ryan, you really think she's gone inside?" Been taken inside? I couldn't say it.

"I don't know."

I knew.

"We need to get her out."

"Not yet."

"What?" Sharp. "We just sit here?"

"For a while, yes. If I I go in, go in, I I will do so with backup. Note the pointed use of the first-person singular." will do so with backup. Note the pointed use of the first-person singular."

The sun was low, bouncing off windows and car hoods, bronzing the river, the park, and the street. Sliding on shades, Ryan draped both arms on the wheel and resumed staring down Rustique.

Planetary movement ground to a stop. Occasionally Ryan glanced at his watch. I checked mine. Each time less than a minute had pa.s.sed.

I switched from working the cuticle to picking at threads in the armrest. Switched back. Despite the heat my fingers felt icy.

We'd been watching ten minutes when a Camaro came hard up Cherrier and turned onto Rustique, running so fast its tires squealed softly. The driver was a murky silhouette behind tinted gla.s.s.

A silhouette I recognized.

"It's Bastarache!"

We watched Bastarache angle to the curb outside number thirteen, jump out, and throw open the Camaro's trunk. Extracting a bolt cutter, he strode to the fence, positioned the blades, and snapped the handles. After boot-kicking the gate, he disappeared from sight.

The first shots sounded like firecrackers, the pops coming so fast they seemed connected. In the park, a cyclone of gulls rose and swooped over the river.

"s.h.i.t!"

Ryan activated and keyed the radio. A dispatcher came on. Identifying himself, Ryan gave our location and requested backup.

"Listen to me, Tempe." Ryan was unholstering the Glock as he spoke. "I am deadly serious. You are to get on the floor and stay put."

Silently, I slid from the seat, keeping my eyes above the dash for a view of the street.

"Do not leave this car."

Using the houses for cover, Ryan worked his way down Rustique, Glock pointed downward at his side. Back to the chain linking, he crept to Malo's gate, peered in, then vanished.

I crouched on the floor of the Impala, terrified, palms slick with sweat. It seemed hours. In actuality, it was less than five minutes.

I was trying to stretch my cramped legs, when my cell phone chirped. I groped it from my purse.

"Where are you?" Harry was using her whisper-shout voice.

"Where are you you?"

"I'm in a park near Malo's house. Feeding the seagulls."

"Jesus Christ, Harry. What were you thinking?" My comment failed to reflect the relief I was feeling.

"I may have heard shots."

"Listen to me." I employed the same tone Ryan had just used with me. "I'm at the corner of Cherrier and Rustique. Ryan has gone onto Malo's property. Backup is en route. I want you to get as far from that house as possible without leaving the park. Can you do that?"

"I see a monument to some dead guy. I can hunker behind that."

"Do it."

By hoisting my b.u.t.t up onto the seat, I was able to see a pink-clad figure scuttle from left to right at the river's edge.

I was returning to my crouch when two m.u.f.fled shots rang out.

My heart stopped.

I listened.

Impossible stillness.

Dear G.o.d, was Ryan in trouble? Harry? Where was backup?

Maybe it was fear for my sister. Or Ryan. What I did next was mad. I did it anyway.

Firing from the Impala, I sprinted across Cherrier and diagonaled the first lawn on the left side of Rustique. Keeping to house shadows, I ran to number thirteen, back-skimmed the fence, and paused, straining to detect any sound of movement.

Screaming gulls. The hammering of my own heart.

Barely breathing, I peered through Malo's gate.

A gravel drive led to a dark brick house with garish pink mortar. To its right stood a similarly constructed three-car garage. To its left stretched a lawn latticed by shadows of the dead elm.

I went stiff, fighting the adrenaline that was stirring me to action. A form was seated at the base of the tree. Had I been spotted?

Five seconds dragged by. Ten.

The form didn't move.

After waiting a full minute, I rechecked my surroundings, then crept down the drive. Each crunch of gravel sounded like an explosion. Still the form remained lifeless, a life-sized rag doll rippled by spider-thread shadows.

Closer to the tree, I could tell that the form was a man. I'd never seen him before. A long, dark tentacle scrawled the front of his shirt. The man's eyes were closed but he appeared to be breathing.

Half crouching I scuttled across the lawn.

And stopped cold.

Two dogs strained on chains attached to bolts set in concrete. Each was huge, with a sleek brown and black coat, small ears, and a short tail that suggested Doberman. Each growled viciously.

I raised a cautioning hand. The dogs grew frenzied, snarling and slathering, eyes savage in their desire to attack.

In the distance I heard the faint wail of sirens.

I backstepped cautiously. The dogs continued lunging and snapping, each body thrust threatening to wrench the bolts free from their moorings.

On rubber legs I scrambled back to the front of the house. To the right of the door I could see a partially open window. Crawling through a square-cut cedar hedge, I stretched on tiptoes and peered in. Though a chair back obstructed my view of the room, I could clearly see three men.

One word hammered home.

Endgame.

Ryan was holding a Winchester twelve-gauge while pointing his Glock at Bastarache. Bastarache had a Sig Sauer 9mm pointed at a man I a.s.sumed to be Malo.

Malo's back was to the window. Like Bastarache, he was big and heavily muscled.

The sirens were growing louder. I guessed backup units were now crossing the bridge.

"You miserable sonovab.i.t.c.h," Bastarache was yelling at Malo. "I knew your demented perversions would screw us all sooner or later."

"You're what, Dudley f.u.c.king Do-Right? You went in with eyes wide, Davey-boy."

"Not kids. I never agreed to kids."

"They want to be stars. I give them their dream."

"You promised me you cut that s.h.i.t out. I believed you. Now I learn you been lying all along." Sweat dampened Bastarache's hair. His shirt was plastered to his chest.

"Easy." Ryan tried to defuse Bastarache's anger.

Bastarache jerked the Sig Sauer toward Ryan. "From the questions this guy's asking, I'm guessing you killed some kids."

"That's ridiculous." Malo gave a nervous laugh.

"Look at me, a.s.s wipe." Bastarache leveled the Sig Sauer on Malo's face. "You've brought a murder investigation down on me. I've had cops up my a.s.s for days."

Raising both palms, Malo reoriented toward Bastarache.

My mouth went dry with shock.

Though older, artificially tanned, and more fit, Malo bore a striking resemblance to Bastarache. A resemblance that could only be explained by genes.

Bastarache continued his harangue.

"You killed those girls. Admit you did it."

"That's-"

"No! More! Lies!" Bastarache's face was raspberry.

"They were s.l.u.ts. I caught one stealing from me. The other was a junkie." Malo swallowed. "You're my brother, Davey. Take this guy out." Malo made a nervous gesture toward Ryan. "Take him out and we're home free. We find another place-"

"You draw attention to me. To my business. To people I care about. You've lost every bit of your brain. Cops been tailing me since Quebec. Something happens to this one and they'll know who to look for."

"She's fine."

"Your deviant s.h.i.t threatens everything. You polluted my father's house. That's why I drop-kicked you the first chance I had."

Bastarache was moving the gun with sharp, jerky motions. "You're just like your wh.o.r.e mother."

"Lay your gun on the floor, Dave." Ryan, the negotiator. "You don't want to hurt anyone."

Bastarache ignored him.

"You care about nothing but money and your own sick p.e.c.k.e.r. But now you threaten my my house. People house. People I I care about. Because of you they're gonna find her and lock her away." care about. Because of you they're gonna find her and lock her away."

"You're a head case," Malo scoffed. "You live in the dark ages."

"Head case?" The gun was trembling in his hand. "I'll show you a head case. Your head all over that wall."