Beware (18 page)

Dukane’s head throbbed with fire. He lay motionless, feeling the floor under him, wondering what had happened. Slowly, he remembered. Guilt hit him like a club.

What have I done!

He forced himself to open one eye. The living room was bright with sunlight. Nearby was the sprawled body of Scott, hands cuffed behind him.

Dukane was tied with electrical cord. As he struggled to free himself, he heard a quiet sob.

“Scott?” he whispered.

The body rolled over. “Matt?” His face was wet with tears. “I thought you were dead.”

“Where’s Hoffman?”

“I…I don’t know. He took Nancy into the bedroom a few minutes ago. Probably in there. Matt, Lacey’s…” He choked back a sob. “Lacey’s gone.”

“Where?”

Scott shook his head. “I came to…asked Hoffman. He just laughed.”

“Shit.”

“Oh God, Matt…”

“Take it easy.” He jerked his hands free. Grimacing as pain cut into his head like a lance, he rolled onto his side and untied the knotted cord at his feet. He scanned the room, and flinched. In the rocking chair facing the broken front window sat Jan. The shotgun rested over the sill, aiming outside.

“Beau Geste,” Scott muttered.

“Maybe the shotgun’s loaded.” Dukane forced himself to stand. He took one step.

A tinny, amplified voice said, “We want Hoffman. You’ve got five minutes. Bring him out, and we’ll let you go. If not, you’ll all die. The girl first.”

“Lacey,” Scott whispered.

Dukane rushed to the window. As he reached for the shotgun, he looked out.

He saw Lacey. A hundred yards away. Sprawled across the hood of the Rolls Royce. Her arms and legs were outstretched and tied.

A dozen men and women stood near the car, watching as a woman lashed her once with a thin, golden chain.

The woman was naked. Glossy, blonde hair draped her back. Her gold arm bands glinted sunlight.

Laveda!

In spite of the heat, gooseflesh prickled Dukane’s skin.

Lacey’s quiet gasp of pain came through the silence as the chain struck again.

Dukane grabbed the double-barreled shotgun. He broke it open. The chambers were empty. Turning from the window, he looked for other weapons.
The pistols were nowhere in sight. He quietly closed the breach.

“Four minutes,” the distant voice announced.

Dukane hurried to Scott. He fished a key from his pocket and knelt to unlock the cuffs.

“Is it Lacey?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God.”

“Come on.” Dukane tiptoed into the hallway, Scott close behind him. The bathroom door stood open. The bedroom door was shut. Almost.

He stepped quietly toward it. Stopped.

From inside came muffled grunting sounds, the creak of bedsprings.

Nancy lay on the bed, her sweatslick body pounding against the mattress, arms stretched overhead, breasts oddly mashed, legs wide open and twitching, the lips of her vagina spread far apart like an open, sucking mouth. Dukane heard the slap of flesh, and wet, smacking sounds.

“Three minutes,” announced the amplified voice.

Dukane shouldered open the door. He ran for the bed, reversing the shotgun, raising it high by its barrels.

Nancy’s wet eyes looked up at him. She turned her head away as he swung the shotgun down.

It stopped before hitting her, stopped six inches above her face, stopped with a crashing thud like a coconut hurled against concrete. The stock of the shotgun split on impact. Teethmarks appeared in Nancy’s cheek—empty, ragged holes that quickly filled with blood.

Scott dived onto her. He groped above her left arm, grabbed, snapped a handcuff in place, closed the other bracelet around his own wrist.

“Got him!” Scott cried.

“You have two minutes,” said the man with the megaphone.

Even as he spoke, the thin chain twirled over the head of the woman beside Lacey, its gold links flashing sunlight, and whistled down. She cried out as it cut fire across her breasts. A smile trembled on the woman’s lips. Her nipples stood erect on her sweaty breasts.

She’s getting off, Lacey thought.

It must’ve been at her command that the rifles hadn’t opened up on Lacey, that instead the Rolls had come for her. She’d watched it approach, too frightened to move, thinking
it’s dead
, Dukane got it with a Molotov cocktail, how can it be coming? It bore down on her, its grill blinding in the sunlight. She thought it might crush her into the gravel, but it slipped sideways and its black front tire missed by inches. A door flew open. She was dragged inside the chilly, air-conditioned car.

Two men held her across their laps, pawing her as the car sped away.

The chain whipped down, lashing her belly.

The woman was breathing hard. But not from the
exertion. She licked her lips, and struck again. Lacey jerked rigid as the chain cut her thighs.

It was the woman who ordered her tied to the car’s hood. The sunbaked metal had scorched her, but the pain of the burned flesh faded when the whipping started.

The chain whished down, biting into her shoulder and breast.

A man suddenly threw himself onto her, licking the blood from her breast.

The woman lashed him. “Not yet!” she snapped.

Others jerked him away.

“One minute,” said the man with the megaphone.

“They won’t come,” said a stocky, red-faced man.

The chain slashed her belly.

“I did not expect them to come,” the woman said in a trembling voice. “They threw her out. She’s ours.”

“Will we drink?” asked a voice.

“When I am done with her.” Again, the chain whipped down.

Lacey bucked as it tore her.

“The dagger.”

A teenaged girl in a bikini and Dodger cap handed a knife to her. Lacey stared at its thin, tapering blade.

“The river flows,” said the woman.

“The river is red,” chanted the others.

“The river flows!”

“Flows from the heart.”

“The river…”

“They’re coming out!” a man cried.

Lifting her head, Lacey stared over her torn body.
Dukane and Scott were out of the house, walking slowly forward, tugging at the open space between them.

She glanced at the woman, saw a fierce smile on her face.

“Tell the snipers not to shoot. I want all three alive.”

A man spoke over his megaphone, ordering everyone to hold fire.

On both sides of the car, men and women lowered their weapons.

Lacey gazed at Scott, watched him struggle to hold his invisible, silent captive. The pain of her wounds was forgotten as gratitude and despair brought tears to her eyes.

They’re doing this for me, she realized.

Sacrificing themselves.

If only she’d had the courage to end her life back at the house when she had the chance…

They were thirty yards away.

“Go back!” she yelled, but she knew it was too late.

The men kept coming, jerking and swaying as if the beast between them fought to free himself.

Twenty yards.

She could see the grim, determined look on Scott’s face.

Ten yards.

A low laugh came from the woman. “Bring him Tome,” she called. “I have waited a long time for Samuel Hoffman. And for you, Matthew Dukane. This will be a great day for me.”

“Every dog has its day,” Dukane said. One side of his mouth curled into a smile.

He and Scott sprang apart, diving sideways and rolling through the dust. Four pistols appeared from behind them. They stopped rolling, and their gunfire stuttered through the stillness in a deafening roar.

Bodies whirled and flopped. Dirt exploded around Scott and Dukane as their fire was returned. Screams tore through the din. A man clutched his belly and sat down hard. The ball cap and bloody matter flew from the head of the teenaged girl as she fired at Dukane. He tossed a pistol aside and kept firing his automatic. A man spun, crashed into the side of the car, and fell.

Dukane yelled as he was hit.

Scott rose to one knee, not even glancing at him, shoving a fresh magazine into the handle of his.45. Gravel kicked up beside his foot, but he didn’t flinch. He worked the slide and resumed firing.

Dukane was on his knees, his left arm hanging limp, firing with his right.

A man raced forward, shooting. A bullet slammed him down.

Abruptly, there was silence.

Jerking her head from side to side, Lacey saw no one still standing. On both sides of the car lay crumpled bodies.

Scott ran forward in a crouch. Far off, a rifle cracked. Dirt spouted in front of him.

As Dukane dropped and crawled forward, Scott dived to the ground near a fat man. He grabbed the
man’s rifle. It had a telescopic sight. Settling himself in a prone position, he aimed toward the far left of the house.

A distant shot. The top of a cactus near Dukane exploded. Scott fired, then made a thumbs-up sign at Dukane. He swung the barrel to his right.

Dukane scurried forward. He reached the front of the car, and began to cut the rope at Lacey’s foot.

A shot thunked the grill.

Scott fired. “Watch it,” he called. “Still one out there.”

Dukane freed Lacey’s left hand, then rushed around the rear of the car and came up at her other side. As he sliced through the rope, a shot rang out. The bullet smacked the windshield inches above her head.

He scurried to the front.

Scott fired. “Got him!” he yelled. “That oughta be it.”

Lacey sat up. As soon as her right foot was loose, she scooted off the hood. Scott, hurrying toward her, passed the rifle to Dukane and pulled off his shirt. He draped the shirt over Lacey’s back. Holding her by the shoulders, he looked down at her torn body. “Oh God, Lacey,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

With blurry, tear-filled eyes, she stared at his tormented face. She kissed him. Then she managed a smile. “Who do you think you are, James Bond?”

“Max Carter and Charlie Dane.”

Dukane came up behind him. “I think I deserve a kiss, too.”

He got one. Lacey hugged him, ignoring the pain of her own wounds, and kissed his dry lips.

“You guys are nuts, coming out like that.”

“The best defense…” Dukane said.

Lacey gasped, her joy suddenly turning to cold fear. “Hoffman! You let him…” She staggered back, clutching the shirt tight to hide her nakedness, looking behind her as if she might somehow see him sneaking up.

“Hoffman isn’t with us,” Dukane said.

“I know. You let him…”

“He’s still in the house,” Scott interrupted. “Securely handcuffed in the bathroom.”

“You mean…?”

“Pretty good act, huh?”

“Now,” said Dukane, “how about attending to my arm before I bleed to death?”

“Oh,” Scott muttered. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

The bullet had smashed a bone in Dukane’s forearm. Scott broke the stock off a rifle, and made ungainly splints from it. He used strips of Dukane’s shirt to bandage the wound and lash the splints into place.

“We’d better get you to a hospital,” he said. “Both of you, and Nancy.”

“All in good time. See if the car works.”

Scott helped Lacey inside.

“Right with you,” Dukane said.

As Scott climbed into the driver’s seat, Dukane wandered from body to body, crouching over several of the women for a closer inspection.

Scott turned the ignition key. The car came to life, blowing cool, welcome air onto Lacey.

“What’s he looking for?” she asked.

Scott shook his head.

Finally, Dukane climbed into the backseat. In each hand, he held a large gold band, the bands Lacey had seen on the arms of the woman who’d whipped her. “I know I hit the bitch,” he said. “Saw her go down.”

“Who?”

“Laveda. But she’s not here now. Just her damn jewelry. Did you see anyone run off?”

“No,” Scott said. “I thought we got them all.”

“Okay. Let’s pick up Hoffman and Nancy, and get the hell out of here.”

The car sped forward, bumping over the rough earth, down a gradual slope, and up a rise to the flat area in front of the house. Scott turned off the engine. “You can wait here if you want,” he told Lacey.

She didn’t want to be left alone. “I’ll go in,” she said.

Scott pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out. Lacey opened her door. Stifling heat wrapped her like a blanket as she climbed out. She glimpsed the body of the man under the broken window, hammer still clutched in his outflung hand.

She entered the house behind Scott. Dukane followed and shut the door. The house was silent.

“Nancy?” Dukane called.

No answer.

He suddenly broke into a run, vanishing down the hall. Scott and Lacey rushed after him.

The bedroom was empty.

“Nancy?”

From the closet came a muffled sob.

Dukane jerked its door open.

Nancy sat crouched in a corner, half-hidden behind hanging dresses. Her black hair clung to her face with sweat. Though the room was hot and she
wore jeans and a wool shirt, Lacey could see her shivering.

“It’s all right,” Dukane told her. “It’s over. Everything’s fine.”

“No,” she gasped, batting away his hands as he reached for her. Her wide eyes blinked. “Not over. Wanta hide.”

From behind them came a scream that washed over Lacey like a vile, chilling flood. It was the scream of a man.

“Get Nancy out of here,” Scott snapped, and ran after Dukane.

Lacey dropped to her knees. She tried to grab the girl’s flailing hands. “Stop!” she cried. Then she clutched a foot and dragged Nancy from the closet. She pulled the girl to her feet, tugged her into the hall.

From there, she saw Dukane slam the bathroom door, shutting himself and Scott inside.

Screams filled her ears as she led Nancy through the living room. “Wait in the car,” she said.

Then she raced to the hall.

The bathroom door flew open. Dukane staggered backward through it, and fell. The wooden hilt of a butcher knife stood upright in his belly.

As she ran toward him, she heard a
whup
like the sound of a windflapped canvas. Fire exploded through the doorway.

“Scott!” she shrieked.

The fire lapped her body, forcing her away from the door. She shielded her eyes and gazed into the inferno. Near the floor, she saw a hole in the fire as
if a tunnel had been dug in the flames—a writhing tunnel shaped like a man.

A passage opened in the blaze. It rushed toward her. Smashed her aside. She tripped over Dukane. As she slammed the far wall, she saw a flaming figure race down the hallway, arms waving, hair ablaze.

Scott? She ran after it. As it lurched across the living room, she realized she could see through it: the fire blazed around a hollow shell. It fell against a window. The curtains caught fire. As it lurched out the front door, it turned and Lacey glimpsed its fire-wrapped face, its breasts.

She rushed back to the bathroom.

“Scott!” she cried out. “
Scott!
”

The wall of fire roared.