Elisha's Bones Part 18

He gets off a single shot, m.u.f.fled by a silencer, before I'm on him. I start beating his face with my closed fist while my other hand fights to keep the gun pointed away. I'm not sure how it happens but I'm suddenly on my back and he has my forearm in a solid grip. He brings the gun around as my free arm flails to grab hold of it. I still can't see his face-just a dark spot hanging a foot away. It's like fighting Death, with his obscuring robe and terrible sickle.

I bring my knee up into his midsection, causing him to break his grip. I pull back and aim a punch that connects with a jaw that feels like iron. The gun's muzzle emits a flash and I smell sulfur, and it takes me a moment to realize that the fact that I'm registering the smell means the bullet missed its mark. I lash out again and twist away, and I hear the sound of something hard striking the floor.

I'm looking for the gun before I've stopped rolling, and it can only be providence that has me land on top of it. I push myself to my knees and scoop it up. I have half a second to find the trigger and pull it before his shoulder hits me in the chest. There's a flash of energy and of unrestrained power, forcing my arm back so that my elbow strikes the floor.

And then I'm beneath two hundred pounds of dead weight.

I don't fully process that he's dead until I have the chance to breathe again. As I lie there, drawing large draughts of air, I realize that life has left him and that what's ended up on top of me is a husk. A very heavy husk. I struggle to push him aside, pressing the handle of the gun into his armpit and placing my other hand on his sternum to shift him enough so I can squirm free. I push myself up to a sitting position. As my eyes cross up and down the length of the body, I feel a numbness come over me. I've never killed anyone before, and my mind, while still in an agitated state, is grappling with the finality of what I've just done.

I stand and it's only then that I notice the large wet spot on my shirt, soaked through to my skin. Even without being able to see it, I know it's his blood on me and not my own. I have to fight the urge to vomit. Forcing myself to stay calm, I start toward the dead man, setting the gun down and rolling him over. In the darkness I can see little of his face, except to determine that he was young. I lean in closer-close enough that when he opens his eyes it's like a scene from a horror movie. I jerk back, a strangled yelp escaping my throat, and it is this distance I've put between us that allows him to reach his hand into his jacket pocket. Before I can stop him, he pulls out something the size and shape of a cell phone, and is pushing a b.u.t.ton before I can grab his wrist. It's over almost before it begins, as his arm goes limp and the phone drops to the floor. My eyes dart to his face, and I see a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth, but I don't release the hand until I feel his neck for a pulse and find none.

After catching my breath, I scoop up the phone. I'm worried that he was trying to signal someone, because my guess is that this was no random event. It was too professional. The thing in my hand, though, isn't a phone but looks more like a pager. Yet if it has a display, it's too dark for me to see it. All that's evident is a single b.u.t.ton on one end, which glows green. With a shrug, I set the thing on the floor and then start running my hands over the dead man's clothes. There's nothing on him that yields a clue as to his ident.i.ty. This tells me he's neither a petty thief nor someone with a grudge. The professional theory looks stronger.

It's that last thought that forces me to move. If this is an operative, he might not be alone. I quickly retrieve the gun and stand on two shaky legs.

I almost resist the necessity of turning on the light in the master bedroom, but my eyes still cannot make out anything beyond a few feet. I shift the gun to my other hand and feel along the wall.

There are moments one wishes he could have back, and touching the light switch will forever be one of mine. After the light's brilliance forces my irises to snap shut and then reopen, I see Meredith caught in a grotesque pose between the bed and floor. Her nightgown is riddled with small, red-rimmed holes, and lines of blood have traced their way to the floor. And I see Jim lying in the bathroom doorway. His body has come to rest facing the opposite direction so that my eyes focus on his thinning white hair. A line of holes has splintered the wood along the wall and punctured the doorjamb.

I think time becomes something else in situations like this. It can either speed up, with everything seeming to occur in rapid-fire, or it can slow down to something approximating the dripping of a faucet. It's the latter that I find myself trudging through as I cross the room and go to Jim's side, where I kneel and put my hand on his shoulder. I turn him around and settle his head gently on the floor.

In the single moment I spare myself, I ponder a list of things with which I could regale an audience at his funeral, and yet it's enough for me that he was a mentor and a friend. I smooth a piece of his hair and then push myself to my feet, and go to move Meredith's body so it's fully on the bed. With the gun clenched in my hand, I exit the room as if the hallway can offer some salvation from what I've witnessed, except that there's another body out here. A flash of anger makes me want to kick the dead man for what he's done, but I resist the impulse.

My only thought is Espy, and I'm about to head up the stairs when, from my peripheral vision, I see a red luminance coming from the direction of the front door. It's like the blinking of an alarm clock after a power outage, only I remember no clock in that part of the house. The curious side of me wages war with the part that wants to rush upstairs, wake up Espy and get her to the Mustang, but the blinking light wins out.

I pad down the hallway, giving the dead man as wide a berth as I can, and pa.s.s the living room before flattening myself against the wall and peering around the doorjamb. On the ceramic tile, near the shoes that form a neat row against the wall, is an object the size of a toaster-the large sort that can handle eight slices of bread. I see most of it in shadow, except for the rectangular display that's flashing a series of numbers in a lazy pattern, which alternately casts an eerie glow in the small s.p.a.ce and then s.n.a.t.c.hes the meager light away. I step closer to the thing until I can see the display more clearly. It flashes 1:39 . . . 1:38 . . .

1:37 . . .

I can't remember moving but I'm suddenly at the foot of the stairs, my free hand on the rail propelling me upward. I now understand the purpose of the device thumbed by the dead a.s.sa.s.sin. Frantic, I fumble with the doork.n.o.b to Espy's room, then strike the door with my shoulder and it gives way with a loud crack. I'm at her side as she bolts upright.

"Get up!" I order, pulling hard enough on her arm so that she obeys, even before she sees it's me who is pleading. In my mind I can see the display of the malevolent toaster, and I know it's counting down with a single-mindedness, one that's immune to indecision. I grab her jacket off the chair by the closet as I consider our escape. The front door's no good-not only because we might not make it in time, but also because it might be wired to the bomb. Or it could be that the dead a.s.sa.s.sin has friends waiting out front. I consider for a second the back porch, but I'm not willing to play chicken with the countdown.

"What's going-"

I halt the question by tossing her the jacket. I hurry to the window and have to set the gun down so I can undo the latch. When I get the window open, the cold air rushes in. The ground is maybe fifteen feet below, and I see there are no handholds, no drainpipes, nothing but a free fall to the ground below.

I take hold of Espy's arm and pull her toward the window. Maybe it's the fact that she's still sleepy, or because I'm sending out a definite life-or-death vibe, but she lets herself be walked forward. Until she reaches the window. As her part becomes clear, she pulls back.

"Jack! What's happening?" she demands.

"You have to trust me! Please, I don't have time to explain."

The urgency in my voice causes her to reply with a grim nod. She moves to the window, tosses her jacket to the ground below, and places both legs over the ledge until she's sitting on the sill. She then flips over onto her stomach and shimmies down until her hands are all I can see. There's the briefest of hesitations before she lets go and drops out of sight.

The cold bites into me as I follow, the thin fabric of my borrowed pajamas no match for the elements. Like Espy but with less grace, I shift into a similar position on my stomach and then lower myself so I'm supported solely by my hands on the windowsill. Because I'm holding the gun in my hand, the maneuver is a bit more precarious. In my mind I can see the bomb's timer approaching the critical moment, and it is this, plus the fact that the fingers of my right hand are being crushed between the sill and the gun, that lets me release my grip.

I come down hard on a shrub, and my injured knee screams in pain. Ignoring it, I quickly look around in the dark until I see Espy standing a few feet away, shivering as she slips into her jacket. I stumble out of the landscaping. At this point, the darkness is both friend and foe, and I hold the gun in front of me with the certainty that I'll use it if I have to, that what I've seen this night has ripped civility from me like an old bandage.

I grab Espy's hand and, heedless of direction, start to run. My bare feet kick up the wetness of the gra.s.s, but by now I hardly feel the sensation. In fact, I don't feel much of anything on a physical level. Adrenaline has done its work, creating an insulating capsule of survival.

It seems as if we've traveled only a few yards before a concussive blast of sound and light lifts me from the ground and sends me hurtling into the darkness. And I find that I have only one thought during my flight, and it's that I can no longer feel Esperanza's hand in my own.

CHAPTER 20

I was sitting in the stands at Fenway Park, Section 86, right field, when suddenly the ball hit me in the temple. I was taking a bite from my chili dog, distracted, when I heard the crack of the bat like a gunshot. By the time I looked up, the ball was close enough that I could see each individual st.i.tch. Now I'm facedown on the concrete, and people step over me as they head for the bathroom, or a concession stand, or back to their seats laden with nachos, dogs, and beer. A few of the careless ones slosh their cups as they step over my p.r.o.ne form, and beer drips down on my face. I hear the crowd roar as the batter crosses home plate. The Sox win . . . was sitting in the stands at Fenway Park, Section 86, right field, when suddenly the ball hit me in the temple. I was taking a bite from my chili dog, distracted, when I heard the crack of the bat like a gunshot. By the time I looked up, the ball was close enough that I could see each individual st.i.tch. Now I'm facedown on the concrete, and people step over me as they head for the bathroom, or a concession stand, or back to their seats laden with nachos, dogs, and beer. A few of the careless ones slosh their cups as they step over my p.r.o.ne form, and beer drips down on my face. I hear the crowd roar as the batter crosses home plate. The Sox win . . .

I force my eyes open, blinking until I can see past the bright lights that dance over my retinas, the scent of ballpark hot dogs lingering. A sharp pain runs the length of my skull as I lift my head. I run a searching hand over the focal point of the pain and my fingers come away wet. With a groan, I roll onto my side and force myself up to something resembling a sitting position. A light rain has started, and it falls like a cold mist between the tree line and me. Somewhere on the tip of one of my brain's lobes-the one responsible for handling the fulfillment of immediate needs-is a sense that I should be concerned, that I'm in a situation where urgency is required, and this doesn't look at all like Fenway.

From behind, I hear a soft moan. And when I turn and find Esperanza lying next to me like a discarded rag doll, the cobwebs vanish. Instantly I remember where I am, and I see the leveled structure in my periphery as I rush to help Espy. The residual smell of hot dogs gives way to that of charred wood as flames engulf the ruins.

I put my hand on Espy's shoulder and give her as thorough an exam as one can give in the light provided by a structural fire, and in the rain, and when the other person's lying facedown and wearing a jacket. There are no obvious broken bones, but I have no way of knowing about internal injuries.

"Esperanza, you have to get up." I give her shoulder a little shake and feel her stir.

After another groan, she pushes herself off the ground on unsteady arms. I slip next to her and let her lean on me, brushing the dark hair from her face. Her eyes are clear, if rimmed by pain, and I can't see anything to indicate a concussion.

"Can you move?"

"If I have to."

"You have to."

While steadying her, I remember the gun. When she can stand upright without my help, I go back to where the blast threw me and start to feel in the gra.s.s, making an expanding circle from that spot until I find it nearly ten meters away. I hesitate for only a second before picking it up and, in a crouching run, returning to Espy. Our escape took us out a window on the side of the house away from the front entrance, and though it would seem we're alone here, I can't a.s.sume anything. While the explosion gutted the house, it remains an obstacle that's keeping me from seeing the driveway. Another thing I can't gauge is how long we were unconscious. My gut tells me I was out for less than a minute, but I have no way to know for certain.

I take Esperanza's hand and, in a move that catches my companion by surprise, start toward the fire. She tugs at me, but I strengthen my grip and pull her along. I take us as close to the burning house as I can, stopping just before the heat causes pain.

"What are you doing?" Espy asks.

With the hand holding the gun, I motion to the empty expanse surrounding us. "Look. We're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest neighbor is four miles away, and Laverton is almost ten. Neither of us have shoes. I don't have a coat. We'll either freeze to death or one of us will get bit by a snake before we can get help."

That seems to satisfy her. I begin walking toward the right because the fire seems less intense there. When I reach the corner-or what would have been a corner if the bomb hadn't done its job-I peek around.

"What-"

I cut Espy off with a quick squeeze of her hand. Three vehicles are parked in the driveway. Jim's Dakota lies under a coat of rubble, broken two-by-fours and roof shingles, and the windshield has a long crack on the driver's side. It's probably drivable. Which is more than I can say about the Mustang. Being nearer to the house, the car took more of the brunt of the explosion. The windows are gone and the interior is ablaze. But it's the third vehicle that grabs my attention. It's a high-end SUV, although I can't determine the make and model from where I am. The pa.s.senger door is open and a solitary figure in dark clothing stands next to it. He's watching the house and, if I can make some sense out of the expression on his face, I'd say he looks worried, indecisive. And no wonder; his buddy was supposed to be out of the house before it went up.

Despite the heat from the fire, I'm shivering in my wet pajamas, and my feet are hurting. Too, my knee throbs with some urgency, a warning that it will not put up with much more. I'm trying to think through my options, and the ugly truth seems to be that I have no enviable choices, only a slew of mystery doors to open, and the knowledge that behind each lurks something dangerous. The trick is in figuring out which risk is the most manageable.

"Stay here," I say, then release Espy's hand and take a step before she tries to stop me.

"What are you going to do?"

Rather than give her an answer, I gesture for her to remain where she is and walk out into plain view of the man by the SUV, the gun held tight in my hand. I move fast, closing half the distance before he realizes I'm there. When I see him begin to reach for something, I point the gun upward and fire a shot.

"Don't do it!" I shout, still striding toward him. The rain's coming down harder now, plastering my hair to my head and stinging the raw spot on my temple. The man hesitates, possibly because I must look like something out of a horror film. When his hand makes a sudden move, I shout again and pull the trigger.

His hand comes up just as he's. .h.i.t. The force of the impact staggers him. For a moment that might seem comical were it not for the terrified look on his face as he glances down at the small hole in his chest. He reaches up and touches the place with his finger. He raises his eyes, looking at me. Bile rises up in my throat before the man falls to the ground. I'm retching before I can even be sure he's dead. It sickens me how easy it is to kill someone.

Once my stomach is empty, I call for Esperanza and head for the SUV where, for the second time in ten minutes, I go through the pockets of a dead man. Like the other, this one is carrying nothing of any value. But as I do a quick search of the SUV, I see one shiny piece of good fortune in the ignition.

Just seconds later, Espy joins me. Her expression as she takes in the scene is hard to watch, especially when her eyes come to rest on the gun that I hold with an ease born of necessity, and of years of hunting with larger guns with my father.

"Let's go," I say, sliding behind the wheel of the SUV. I fire the engine as she, after one final look at the dead man, climbs in and shuts her door. She's silent while I turn us around and start down the driveway, headlights kept off, our way guided only by the dim yellow of the running lights.

It's a Lexus. The odometer reads 234 kilometers. It's 220 from here to Melbourne, which means it's a rental, probably paid for with a pilfered credit card. Nestled in the dash is a satellite navigation system. On it are a few thin road markers and a single large dot in the center of the screen, the word destination destination along the bottom edge, and an address. Jim's house. The sick feeling returns as I become fully aware of the terrible fact that Jim and Meredith are dead because of me-because I showed up on their doorstep. along the bottom edge, and an address. Jim's house. The sick feeling returns as I become fully aware of the terrible fact that Jim and Meredith are dead because of me-because I showed up on their doorstep.

I guide the truck along the narrow driveway until we reach the main road. There I hesitate as I consider our options. Laverton is to the east, and there's a whole lot of nothing for a considerable distance to the west. I glance at the gas gauge and am relieved to see that it's nearly full. The engine sounds loud as we idle, but that has to be normal, considering the precision engineering that went into the vehicle.

I look over at Espy. She's watching out the pa.s.senger window, and she's much quieter than I'm comfortable with. I'm not sure what to make of it, and I find myself wishing for the more combative Espy to resurface. Her silence speaks volumes about the gravity of our circ.u.mstances. She must sense that I'm watching her, or maybe she just wonders why we're not moving, because she turns from the window and meets my gaze.

"You're bleeding," she says.

"I was was bleeding. Now I think I'm clotting." bleeding. Now I think I'm clotting."

That earns a small, tired smile. She leans closer to examine my head, frowns, and raises a hand toward me but then draws back.

"You have a small stone in your head," she says.

"What?"

"There's a stone in your head. About the size of a marble."

She casts her eyes around the truck, taking in the dash and console and the seat behind us. She pops open the glove box and, atop a slim plastic folder that probably holds information from the rental agency, she spies a box of tissue.

"Hold still," she says as she pulls several tissues from the box. In the dim light she studies my head and begins moving the hair away from the wound. I exercise every adult muscle in my body to hold still, to keep from pulling away and screaming like a three-year-old.

There is a sensation of digging, and soon the ordeal is over and she's holding up something for my viewing pleasure. A jagged stone, covered in my blood. I feel a fresh line of blood running down my face, but quickly Espy applies a tissue to the reopened gash.

"Can you drive and hold this at the same time?"

"I think so," I say, then slip my hand over hers and she pulls away.

I give the Lexus some gas and use my free hand to crank the wheel, sending us toward Laverton. We'd accomplish nothing by heading in the other direction, other than provide distance from the horror of what just happened, and that would be a temporary salve. Jim and Meredith deserve to have the circ.u.mstances of their deaths made known.

Espy lapses into silence again. I pick up speed, and a small white sign indicating that Laverton is ahead comes into view.

"What now?" she asks.

"We have to tell someone what happened."

She nods, still focused on the pa.s.sing terrain out the pa.s.senger window.

"Then what?"

"I don't know."

"I'm getting tired of hearing you say that."

"Do you want me to lie?"

"I want you to decide how far you're going to take this." She turns away from the window and I catch enough of the look in her eyes to understand that what she's saying is not coming from some emotional well. There's a calmness to her features that gives added weight to the words. "Six people are dead." She pauses. "Make that seven, with the one you killed. Jack, you're carrying a gun."

"Eight."

"What?"

"I've killed two people tonight, so that makes it eight. Just so you know."

"Eight. And for what? You're not even sure you believe in this thing we're chasing."

"That stopped being the point days ago."

"So what is the point?" Her eyes flash with the spark that's been missing for a while, and I mentally kick myself for wishing its return.

I'm not sure how to respond because it bothers me to think that the only honest answer is that there is no point. Beyond stubbornness, or spite, or the simple fact that I've become wrapped up in something that's carrying me along despite myself. I can't tell her those things. I'm saved from having to say anything when an insistent crackling cuts through the silence, followed by a voice.

"Status check."

Esperanza and I exchange glances and then she's bent over and rooting around the floorboard. When she straightens, she holds a radio. It's a short- to moderate-range model, with a green indicator light signaling its readiness.

"Status check two."

I'm not sure how to respond so, in this case, inaction seems to be the best option. We wait for the person on the other end to say something else but the seconds stretch into a minute.

"Now they know that something's wrong," Espy says.

"Which means they'll either disappear or go to the house to see what's happened."

"Unless they have a Plan B."

I have a feeling that there is, indeed, a Plan B. And we can't wait around to find out what it is. I press down on the accelerator and send the Lexus flying down the road until I see the outskirts of the town. The dashboard clock reads 2:13 a.m. The streets, like the people who would travel them, are asleep. I have no way of knowing how many of them there are, but it seems logical they would have some sort of presence here-a place to regroup. It means we have to be quick.

Years have pa.s.sed since I was last here and everything is new to me. Once we get closer to the center of town, I start to look for something open-a restaurant, a store, a gas station. But every establishment looks b.u.t.toned down. For a town with a reputation of having been the Tombstone of Australia-the quintessential Wild West town-it seems oddly tame. And the ominously silent radio serves notice that at any moment any number of identical vehicles could converge on us. I wonder if they would be able to track us with the GPS?

Running low on choices, I pull up next to a building that looks promising.

"Stay here."

She puts her hand on the door handle. "I'm getting tired of hearing you say that, too." Then she's out the door, standing barefoot on the cold sidewalk.

I get out and walk to the back of the truck and find a tire iron under the rear seat. Then I join Espy on the sidewalk, where she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Without waiting for her to say anything that might give me pause, I walk up to the large gla.s.s window of the storefront and, after peeking in to make sure it has everything I need, smash in the gla.s.s. No alarm sounds, and I whisper quiet thanks for small favors. Of course there might be a silent alarm that's been activated at a remote monitoring site. I use the tire iron to clear away the jagged edges, ignoring the fact that I can now officially call myself a burglar. Desperate times.