Cold Shot to the Heart (26 page)

The floor was wet from the snow they'd tracked in. She pushed with both feet, locked her legs, her boots scrabbling for traction. The refrigerator swayed back, something clanging inside. She pushed harder, until her back began to slide up the front of the door. In a few seconds, she was standing.

She shuffled her feet toward the stove, her fingers finding a burner knob. She pushed, twisted it all the way.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the right front burner start to glow. Slowly, it went from a dull red to a deeper orange. A wisp of smoke came off it, from dust and disuse.

She clenched her fists. The gloves would give some protection, but not for long. More than anything, she would have to keep her balance. If she fell, it was all over.

The heating coil was bright now, and she could feel its warmth. She stretched her arms as far back as they would go, held her breath, and pushed her wrists into the burner.

*   *   *

He opened the overnight bag, saw the money inside, dumped it out into the trunk. Banded stacks; fifties, hundreds. He pushed them around. Ten grand at most.

“Lying bitch.”

He pulled back the trunk carpet, looked in the wheel well, beneath the spare. Nothing.

He could use the razor on the woman, get her to tell him where the rest was—if there was any. But then he would have to figure out how to get it, start all this over again, only this time alone. It wasn't worth it. Better to take what was here, cut his losses, go back in and kill them both.

*   *   *

She could smell burning plastic now, the stink of smoldering leather. Smoke drifted up behind her, the burner scorching her right hand through the glove. She shifted to get a better angle, cried out as bare skin touched the heating element. Pain rushed up her right arm, watered her eyes.

She pulled her hands away from the burner, could smell her own flesh burning. She'd seen a paring knife in the silverware drawer. If she could get through the wrist cuffs, she could use it to cut through the ones on her ankles. It wouldn't be much of a weapon, but it would have to do. She had no other chance.

She looked behind her, trying to center the cuffs on the edge of the burner. She bit into her lip, tasted blood, and pushed down hard.

*   *   *

He put the money back in the bag, zipped it up. It would have to do.

He shut the trunk, got the shotgun from the roof. When he left the garage, he used the butt to break the light fixture on the wall. The yard went dark.

The snow around him seemed to glow in the moonlight. He walked back to the house.

THIRTY-ONE

As soon as he entered the porch, he smelled it, the acrid stench of burned plastic and leather. He shouldered through the kitchen door, came in with the shotgun up, finger on the trigger.

Chance was gone, just a puddle of blood on the floor there now. Eddie swung the shotgun toward where he'd left the woman. He saw the orange glow of the burner, the smoking gloves on the floor, and then she was coming out of the shadows, a knife in her hand.

*   *   *

Crissa went for his face, jabbing with the paring knife, trying for the eyes. He got the shotgun up, blocked it, and her next thrust went through his right coat sleeve and deep into his upper arm.

He grunted, swung the shotgun at her, and she grabbed it with both hands, tried to twist it out of his grip, couldn't. He spun her, drove her back, and she felt the refrigerator rock as she hit it. But she had a solid grip on the gun now, wouldn't let go.

His lips pulled back, and she could see his teeth, smell his breath. He was trying to get the shotgun across her throat, the knife still dangling from his arm. She let him get in close, then used her knees, jacking them up into his thighs, trying for the groin. He twisted away to protect himself, his grip on the gun loosening, and that was all she needed.

She pulled him to her, drove the top of her head into his face, and then he was falling back, sliding in Chance's blood, and she had the shotgun.

He came up faster than she expected, getting his footing, drawing her .38. She swung the shotgun. The stock cracked into his wrist, and the .38 flew away, hit the wall. She turned the muzzle toward him, and he was diving for the porch, throwing himself into the blackness as she squeezed the trigger.

*   *   *

He heard the blast as he hit the floor. The center porch window exploded and collapsed. He rolled away, heard her pump and fire again, buckshot shredding the floor where he'd been. He got to his feet, lunged for the porch door, hit it, and tumbled out into the snow. The window above his head detonated, blew glass over him. He ran into the darkness.

*   *   *

She tracked him through the shattered windows, the shotgun up, glass at her feet. The garage light was out, the yard lit only by the moon. She saw the solidity of his shadow, fired, the gun kicking back hard. She worked the pump again, the smoking shell flying to her right. The breech closed with a hollow click. Empty.

She went back into the kitchen, tossed the shotgun on the counter, picked up the .38. Her hands stung. She shut off the stove light, ducked below the level of the kitchen windows, listened. The only sound was the wind.

Staying low, she moved into the dining room. Chance lay where she had dragged him.

She knelt beside him. He opened his eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “You're back.”

He shifted, winced.

“Don't move.” She set the .38 down, opened his jacket.

“He got me good,” he said. His voice was weak.

“Yeah, he did.” She gently pulled the sweater away from his wounds. He gasped as she ripped the material along the pellet holes, exposing his chest and shoulder. The wounds were clustered high, all of them steadily oozing blood.

“A little lower and that would have been it,” she said. “But what you caught doesn't look too deep. Can you move your right arm?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

“Where is he?”

“Out there somewhere.”

“You hit him?”

“I don't think so.”

“Too bad.”

“Don't move. I'll be back.”

She picked up the .38, went upstairs. Wind blew down the hall from the broken back window. She crouched beside it, looked out on the moonlit snow. There was a maze of tracks from the three of them. She couldn't tell which were his.

In the bathroom, she closed the door tight, turned the light on, set the gun on the sink. Her hands were throbbing, both wrists bright red and spotted with pale blisters. She ran water over them, the pain shooting up into her shoulders. After a few moments, the burning began to subside.

In the medicine cabinet, she found rubbing alcohol and a box of large gauze pads. She took a clean hand towel from the shelf, then turned the light off, opened the door to listen. He might not run, she knew. He might just double back, try to find a way into the house.

She carried everything downstairs. Chance had worked himself into a sitting position against the wall.

“I told you not to move,” she said. She knelt, set the .38 on the floor.

“I don't want to pass out again.”

“You may anyway. This is going to hurt.” She pulled the ragged edges of the sweater wider, uncapped the alcohol, looked in his eyes. “Easy now.”

She poured alcohol down his shoulder and chest, washing through the clotting blood. He cried out, stiffened, closed his eyes. The pungent smell of it drifted up.

“You still with me?” she said.

He nodded, opened his eyes. She shook three gauze pads from the box, tore them open. She laid them on his chest and shoulder, covering most of the pellet wounds. Almost immediately, the gauze began to darken.

She folded the hand towel, placed it on his chest. “Hold this against yourself. Keep up the pressure.”

She guided his left hand to the towel, helped him hold it there. He winced again.

She sat back on her haunches. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

He looked up at her. “You think he's still out there?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

She picked up the .38.

“Go find him,” she said.

THIRTY-TWO

She went out the front door. The wind had stopped. She listened, then cocked the .38 as quietly as she could. Rounding the corner of the house, she looked up the driveway. Moonlight gleamed on the snow.

She started toward the rear of the house, staying close to the wall. When she reached the back porch she stopped and looked out into the stillness of the yard. The snow began to darken. Clouds moved in front of the moon.

The garage was a darker shape ahead. He might be inside there, waiting for her to show herself. Or anywhere in the trees, with another weapon, waiting for a clear shot.

She raised the .38 in a two-handed grip, pointed it into the yard, searching for a silhouette, a shadow. Hoping she'd be quicker on the trigger than he was.

She started toward the garage. The clouds parted again, bathed the ground in moonlight. A gleam in the driveway caught her eye, right on the edge of the woods. Something metallic there in the snow. She moved closer. It was the paring knife, the blade shiny with blood. So he'd gone that way, back into the trees. He'd have a car out there somewhere, on the other side.

She was in the center of the driveway when she heard the click of the Toyota's ignition, the roar of its engine. She turned toward the garage just as the car came skidding and screeching out of it, aiming at her. She twisted to run toward the house. Knew she wouldn't make it.

*   *   *

Eddie looked over his shoulder, steered at her, heard the fleshy thump as he caught her with the left rear fender. Halfway down the driveway, he hit the brakes hard, and the Toyota slewed to a stop, pointing toward the house.

He turned on the headlights, saw the woman in their glare, struggling to stand. It had only been a glancing blow, not solid enough to put her down for good. She was on her feet now, dragging one leg. She looked down the driveway at him, blinded by his lights.

He slammed the gearshift into
DRIVE
, pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

*   *   *

She heard the Toyota's engine, the buzz saw whine of its tires fighting for traction. In the blaze of the headlights, she saw the .38 a few feet away, lying in the snow.

She dragged her right leg, bent for the gun. She heard the tires grip and squeal, and then the car was coming at her, and she had the gun, was turning with it, into the lights. Aim, she thought. Make it count. Even if he kills you.

She fired at a spot above the headlights, the gun jumping in her hand, fired again, and then the car was veering toward the house. She threw herself to the left, the front fender missing her by inches, and landed hard on the frozen ground.

*   *   *

When the first shot came through the windshield, Eddie turned his face away, the glass spraying across him. He aimed the car at her, standing there in his headlights, and the next shot starred the windshield above the steering wheel, scored his neck. He twisted the wheel to the left, and then the woman was moving to the side, out of the way, and he slammed hard on the brakes, but it was too late. The house filled his vision.

*   *   *

The Toyota hit the house just under the dining room windows, the front end punching into the siding, then bouncing back with the impact. She saw the driver's side air bag bloom open.

The engine was still running. It steadily pushed the car's crumpled front end back into the wall again. Steam hissed out from under the wrecked hood, then a puff of darker smoke.

When she got up, her right leg and hip were numb. She opened the .38, picked out the empty shells, reloaded. Moving to the center of the driveway, she raised the gun, the car about fifteen feet away.

The whine of the engine grew louder, higher, and then there was a burst of black smoke from beneath the hood. Flames began to dart out from around its edges, blistering the paint. The engine coughed and died. Ruptured fuel line, she thought, spilling gasoline onto the hot manifold.

The air bag had deflated. Santiago was slumped motionless over the wheel. Her only angle on him was through the passenger side windows. She steadied the .38, centered the front sight on his silhouette.

But she couldn't squeeze the trigger.

*   *   *

The heat woke him. He opened his eyes, and the loose air bag was in his lap, the gunpowder smell of it in the air. He was powdered with white dust. Faint steam rose from the floor.

He touched his forehead, felt blood there, his hand a blur. There were two wide holes in the windshield, the glass spiderwebbed around them. More blood on his neck, the shoulder of his trench coat.

He could see flames coming from under the hood. They were running up the wall of the house, blackening the siding.

He yanked on the door handle, pushed. It groaned, held. The impact had jammed it. He butted it again, felt it give slightly. Smoke began to filter through the dashboard vents. He could hear the crackle of the flames now, the windshield darkening.

The third time he hit the door, it popped open, stiff and creaking. He slid out, fell into water, the heat from the fire melting the snow. Thick black smoke was filling the car now. The air stank of burning plastic and rubber.

He crawled through the slush, staying low, knowing the woman was somewhere on the other side. He leaned against the left rear fender, the metal warm against his back, got the guns out. He cocked the Ruger, then the Star, had a sudden memory of finding it in Casco's safe, taking his money. The day he'd gotten out. The day it had all started.

Steam rose off the ground around him. The fire would reach the gas tank soon. He had to get up, find the woman, end it.

*   *   *

The wind was back up, blowing the smoke in her direction. She moved away, her eyes watering. Her right leg had no strength, but the numbness had turned to pain, and that was good.