Locked Doors - Crouch Blake (книги серия книги читать бесплатно полностью txt) 📗

“Barry, look—”

Sgt. Mullins held up a finger.

“That old man,” he said, “doesn’t have a thing in this world to hide.”

“It’s your suspect’s father for—”

“Means nothing.  I looked into his soul, Max.  He’s telling the truth.”

Sgt. Mullins clicked in his seatbelt and cranked the engine.

“Let’s go find Mr. Scottie Myers,” he said, shifting the car into reverse.

Max scowled.

Sgt. Mullins grinned.

“Trust me, Max.  I’m right.  It’s a gift.”

Sgt. Mullins turned the car around and they headed back along the dirt road that wound through the thicket of live oaks.  Reaching down, he turned on the radio, found an oldies station, drumming his hands now on the steering wheel.

As Max reached to buckle his seatbelt he happened to glance in the side mirror.

“Stop the car, Barry!”

“What?”

“Look!”

Sgt. Mullins stepped on the brake and both men looked back through the window.

Beyond the tunnel of live oaks, they could see the stoop of the stone house, the front door flung wide open, a woman in torn yellow lingerie falling down the steps, picking herself up again, and running after them, the blood on her left leg visible even from fifty yards away.

Sgt. Mullins said, “Holy God.”

He turned back to shift the car into park.

The windshield shattered.

His right arm exploded.

Sgt. Mullins stomped the gas and as the car accelerated, the man with the shotgun stepped out of the way and fired pointblank through the window at Sgt. Mullins’s head.

The detective collapsed into Max’s lap, his foot slipped off the gas pedal, and the Crown Victoria rolled a ways down the dirt road before veering into the thicket.  After ten feet, its front bumper collided gently with the trunk of a live oak and the car was at rest, idling quietly.

Max’s left shoulder had caught three pellets of buckshot but he felt nothing as he strained to lift the big detective off his legs.

He heaved Sgt. Mullins back into the driver seat and glanced through the rear passenger window.  A man with long black hair was thirty yards away and closing, moving deliberately through the thicket toward the car.  He saw Max looking, smiled, and pumped his shotgun.

They killed Vi.

He swept Sgt. Mullins’s coat back as the footsteps of the assailant waxed audible over the purr of the engine.

Unbuttoning the latchet, he pulled the Glock from its cowhide holster.

Vi had begged him several times to come shoot with her at the range.  He never had and knew nothing of how to use a firearm except for what he’d seen in movies and on television.

After searching for a safety that wasn’t there, Max finally aimed through the rear passenger window as the pale-faced man closed in.

He squeezed the trigger and the glass exploded as the .45 bucked in his hand.

The man continued toward him, unscathed.

Max opened the door and scrambled out of the car as the shotgun boomed, glass raining down on him.  He crawled to the back of the car, poked his head above the trunk in time to see the shotgun jerk and fire come roaring out the barrel.

Max ducked down, sitting with his back against the tire.  Sweat sheeted down his forehead into his eyes but it smelled rusty, and when he wiped it away the back of his hand was bloodsmeared.  He touched his head, felt where the pellets of buckshot had scalped three marble-size trenches down to the bone, the steel November afternoon like ice on his skull.

He looked under the car, unable to see the legs of the man who was trying to kill him.

Max peered over the trunk again.

No one there.

He stood.

Glock quivering in his hand.

Three bloodstreaks down his face like warpaint.

Blinked, and there was the barrel of the shotgun, peeking over the other side of the trunk and Max felt the ground beneath him and he was staring through the twisted limbs of those haunted trees at flinders of a fading sky the color of his wife’s name and he tried to say it, tried to call out to her.

A black moon appeared and descended toward him, filling his violet sky with the reek of scorched metal and death.

60

BETH bolted barefoot through the beach grass as the third shotgun report erupted from the thicket of live oaks.  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the old man leaning against the rusted pickup truck, hand pressed into his side where she’d cut him with the boning knife.

The adrenaline waned, her own stab wound beginning to throb like the worst cramp she’d ever felt, as though something were trying to burrow out of her stomach.

Another shotgun blast echoed across the water.

She plunged into the thicket north of the house, running like hell, not looking back, tearing through the cooling darkness of the live oaks, the sun at her back, not long for the world.

Beth crossed a patch of sandspurs.

She screamed and fell, dug three organic spikes out of her right foot and ran on, dead leaves clinging to the blood on her left leg.

After two minutes she collapsed, lying in leaves in the swarming cold.

She rolled onto her back, stared up at the fading sky.

She closed her eyes.

Excruciating now to inhale.

She pushed her palm into the wound, felt blood seep between her fingers…

When her eyes opened she could see a solitary planet in the cobalt.

Her breath steamed.

Leaves crunching somewhere in the distance.

She wondered if the man with long black hair would kill her in the woods or take her back to that awful house…

Beth woke colder than she’d ever been, the sky starblown, woods gone quiet, her bleeding stopped.  She sat up, staggered to her feet, and limped along through the thicket.

After an hour she broke from the trees into a field of marsh grass, her feet sinking every step in the cold mud.  She tramped on, so delirious with exhaustion that she hardly noticed when her eviscerated foot touched the pavement of Highway 12.

Beth stepped bewildered into the middle of the road.  To the north it ran into darkness as far as she could see.  Southward, it extended toward what could only be the nighttime glow of civilization.

The moon was rising.

Sea shining.

She stumbled along toward the village.

Rufus’s wound was long but shallow.  He sat in a chair in the kitchen while, in lieu of stitches, Maxine used a strip of duct tape to close the three-inch slice to the right of his bellybutton.

The left side of her jaw was swollen but the pain was sufferable.  There was little she could do about it anyway.  They didn’t have much time.  People would be coming soon, looking for the men their son had murdered.

While Maxine packed suitcases, Rufus took a lantern down into the basement.

The good news was that the project was nearly finished.  He had only to install the power supply and wire it to the chair.  He would work all night if he had to.

Flicking on the overhead light bulb, he rolled the generator from the passageway into the death chamber.

Rufus hoped Luther would return soon so they could put the finishing touches on their beautiful chair together.

At midnight Beth came to a dirt road.  It branched off to the soundside of Highway 12, crossed a hundred yards of marsh, and terminated on a piece of dry land, upon which sat a modest saltbox, its porchlight beckoning.

The name on the nearby mailbox read Tatum.

She could see the warm glow of the Ocracoke Light in the distance, a comforting presence above the dark trees.  The village was less than a half mile down the highway, but everything was sure to be closed at this hour.  Besides, the sole of her foot was shredded.  She doubted she could stand the pain of walking much farther.