Detroit Combat (15 page)

For it was certainly Queen Faith. It could have been no one else.

Hawker knelt over one of the corpses and retrieved the Uzi. He checked the clip. It was full. He found two spares in the dead man's pocket and took them both. He hesitated, then stooped to pick up the shotgun. He had no idea how much firepower he would need, but it was better to carry too much.

He started to stand, then hesitated. He recognized the second man. It was Bobby, one of the three greasers who had attacked them in the parking lot.

Now there was only one left alive.

Hawker pumped another round into the chamber of the big Winchester.

The night was still young … and he could hear the heavy footfall of men running in the hallway above. Hawker retreated to the heavy cellar door and waited.

There were four of them. One was still trying to pull on a shirt; they had been in bed. The first three carried heavy handguns; the fourth—the big greaser who had beaten Hawker unconscious—carried another Uzi.

Putting down the 12-gauge and picking up the Uzi, Hawker watched as they reacted to the corpses. They shouted, they swore, they sprinted for the stairs.

The vigilante waited until they were halfway down, then brought the Uzi to bead. Hawker preferred the American-made Ingram submachine gun. It was much lighter and had double the cyclic rate. But he had used the little Israeli weapon before and knew that inventor Uziel Gal's Uzi had not only been an ordnance breakthrough back in the forties, but it was also dependable and lethal as hell. With his thumb, he pressed to make sure it was on full automatic. Then he opened fire.

The first two men spun and vaulted as if dismounting a trampoline. They landed on the marble steps with bone-crushing impact and tumbled the rest of the way down.

The big greaser dove bellyfirst down the steps in a desperate effort to avoid the slugs while the fourth man opened fire with his big handgun. Wood splintered beside Hawker's head, but he held fast and swung the muzzle of the Uzi in a spraying motion. The revolver flew from the man's hand as he was slammed against the staircase wall, his contorted form interrupting the uneven line of black bullet holes in the white plaster. The man's mouth opened as if to speak, but all that materialized was a frothy gush of blood.

He writhed down the wall, dead.

That left only one.

The man who had beaten Hawker was hidden near the fireplace behind a massive mahogany sideboard. Hawker punched out the empty clip and slid a fresh one in, waiting. He pushed the wooden door completely open. It made a creaking sound—a sound answered by a two-second burst of gunfire that all but severed the door.

Hidden safely within the confines of the cellarway, Hawker waited another minute, then pushed the door wide again.

The burst of fire from behind the sideboard was shorter this time, and Hawker hoped he knew why: At ten rounds per second, a thirty-two-round clip didn't last long.

He listened for the metallic clank of the empty clip hitting the floor, but heard nothing.

Hawker poked his head around the corner to see the big greaser crawling desperately toward a handgun one of the dead men had dropped. His left arm was bleeding and his swarthy face was covered with sweat.

The vigilante ex-cop stepped out carrying the Uzi in his left hand and the Winchester 12-gauge in his right. He walked calmly toward the fallen man and didn't change his cadence even when the greaser lunged for the handgun, picked it up, and got shakily to his feet. As he raised the revolver to fire, Hawker raised the Winchester and the Uzi in chorus. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “Take your shot. But you'd better make it good, because if you hit me anyplace but square between the eyes, I'm going to blow your head right off.”

The greaser stood directly in front of the fireplace. Because the roaring flames held him in silhouette, Hawker couldn't see his eyes. But he saw the gun waver, and he heard the tremble of the man's voice. It told the vigilante all he needed to know.

“Look,” the greaser said, “I've got nothing against you. I was just doing my job. I swear.” He tried to laugh, but his laughter sounded like grating glass. “Hell, we'd probably be buddies if we met in a bar or someplace like that.”

“Don't flatter yourself, boy.”

“What I'm saying,” the man went on, his voice touched with desperation, “is that you got no reason to kill me. Hell, you want Queen Faith? You want the fat bitch? She's yours. I'll tell you exactly where to find her—her and your girlfriend.”

Hawker's eyes were riveted to the revolver in the man's right hand. “I'm listening,” he said. “Keep talking.”

“Not until you put those guns away, man. You think I'm dumb? Here, we'll both put our guns down at the same time—” He made a motion as if to discard the revolver, but Hawker was ready when the greaser's knees bent and the gun came up to fire. He squeezed the triggers of the Uzi and the 12-gauge simultaneously, and the greaser was catapulted straight back into the fireplace. He screamed hideously, but somehow found the strength to climb out again, his clothes ablaze. Hawker watched without emotion as the dying man sprinted into the heavy draperies that covered one wall and clawed at them until the curtain rods gave. The draperies fell, and they, too, burst into flame.

The fire grew brighter. It made a nauseating crackling sound.

James Hawker knew the dry wood of the walls and the floor would go next. He turned back to the cellar, running.…

TWENTY

As Hawker retraced his steps through the massive cellar, something one of the women captives had said kept hammering at his brain … something about the music Queen Faith played when she was alone with a new girl. “Weird churchy music” was the way she had described it.

Hawker had heard music. Classical music that some might consider “churchy.” He had heard it when he'd first climbed out of the vat.

Clare Riddock was there someplace. There in the cellar. Hawker felt a wave of desperation take him. He had to find her, damn it … and something told him he had to find her soon.

Hawker quickened his pace.

At the stable area where the captives were imprisoned, Hawker searched the wall until he found the switch to the bare overhead bulb. It threw a garish light over the cells. Hawker could see the stalls were in a kind of stone tunnelway, and the cells were covered with soiled straw and human fecal material.

It explained the odor.

“You made it!” Elizabeth Harrington called as the vigilante came sprinting down the tunnel. She and the others gripped the bars of their cells anxiously. “Did anyone hear you? How did you do it without being caught?”

“Got lucky,” Hawker said cryptically. He pulled out the collection of keys and went through them until he found the longest, oldest key in the bunch.

The old lock tumbled and the girl's door swung open on the first try. The other women in the dungeon actually burst out with weak applause. Elizabeth stepped through the door and into Hawker's arms. Her eyes were shiny. “Thank you,” she said, her voice choked. “Thank you so much.”

Hawker held the girl away from him. Her face was grimy and bits of straw clung to her pale young breasts. “You can thank me by helping me, Elizabeth.”

“Anything. Name it.”

Hawker released her and began to open all the cells, door by door. Speaking to the girl, he said, “I'm going to need you to take charge, Elizabeth. It means you're going to have to give these girls and the boys orders and make them stick. I'll lead all of you outside. But, after that, I've got to get back in to take care of some unfinished business. You'll have to keep everyone together. It's December, and most of you are only half dressed. You're going to have to lead them to the nearest house for help—and I have no idea how far that is. You're going to have to find out where you are and call the cops. Also—and this is important—you must keep all these people together until a doctor can have a good look at them. Some of them are going to realize how tough it is going to be to face the world after some of the things that were done to them here. They're going to try to sneak off like nothing ever happened to them. They'll tell themselves they can go back to their old lives as long as no one else knows. You can't let them do that, Elizabeth. It'll drive them mad. There's no way they'll be able to handle it on their own. Understand?”

The girl shook her head slowly. “You know,” she said, “you must be a mind reader. That's exactly what I had planned—right after I drank about a gallon of water, anyway.”

Hawker hugged her briefly. “Do me a favor and talk to a doctor like a good girl. Okay?” He looked at the others. “Did all of you hear that? That's all I ask of you. That's the one way you can repay me for getting you out of here. Deal?”

Everyone nodded, too anxious to get to freedom to talk. Hawker led them quickly to the stairs to the main room of the mansion—but one look told him there was no way they could get out that way. The room was engulfed in flames, and the heat was withering.

The vigilante backtracked to the cellar where he found a coal chute. He forced it open, and suddenly it was winter again. Snow lay upon the ground and the midnight stars glimmered in the black sky.

One by one, he helped the women and boys step through. He got his first look at the outside of the mansion now: a massive four-story gothic structure built of wood. It had oculus portholes in the high gable, sloping dormers, and a black wrought-iron roof cresting. On the ground and second floors, bright orange flames flickered within the tombstone-shaped windows.

Elizabeth Harrington was the last to leave. She stopped and gave Hawker an emotional hug. “Thank you. Thank you so very much,” she said. “I'm going to see you again, aren't I? I have to see you again.”

“I hope so, Elizabeth. I'd like to make sure you're doing all right. Until then, though, you can do something for me.”

“Anything, James. I mean that. Absolutely anything you want.”

He kissed her forehead. “I want you to forget my name. Don't ask me why—it's too complicated. When you talk to the police, describe me as honestly as you can, but don't tell them my name.” She started to say something, but Hawker touched his finger to his lips. “Another time, lady. I'll explain it to you some other time. Go on now. Take care of your friends. Hurry—or you'll all freeze.”

Hawker didn't wait for a reply. He ducked back through the coal chute and into the cellar. Smoke boiled from the cracks in the flooring overhead, and the roar of the flames upstairs sounded like a nearby waterful.

The old house was burning like a tinderbox.

Hawker found the area of cellar that contained the vats. He stopped and strained to listen for the music. He heard nothing. The fire overhead made it harder to hear.

He made a random foray down a second corridor, then a third—and that's where he heard it: the oboe and string cant of a stereo somewhere beyond the wall.

The wall was made of wood, oddly lined and scrolled. Hawker put his ear to the wood, listening.

The music was louder.

He began to look for an opening frantically. He ran his hands all along the wall, but with no results. He tried finding a way in from another corridor, but lost the location of the room entirely.

What in the hell kind of place was this, anyway? Rooms with no doors, no windows, and sliding-board exits?

One of the women had told him the house was full of trapdoors and secret passages. He had dismissed her as emotionally disturbed.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Hawker returned to the wooden wall. He could still hear the music. He pushed on the wall and noticed it gave slightly, like a door on rails. He leaned against it with all his weight, and the door began to slide into an invisible pocket in the wall.

Hawker brought the Winchester up, ready to fire, and stepped into the big, antiseptic room. He saw the elaborate film set in the corner … and then he saw Clare Riddock strapped to the table. He was at her side in three long strides. She lay naked, unconscious. Hawker pressed his ear to her chest. Her heart made a feeble drum roll within her, and her skin was cold.

She was in shock, close to death.

Hurriedly Hawker unstrapped her arms, her legs, and grabbed two sheets off a metal cabinet. He spread one of the sheets over her and rolled her into his arms. He would use the other when he got her outside—if he made it outside.

“So you are the man who has been causing me so much trouble,” said a raspy woman's voice.

Startled, Hawker looked up. The woman was stepping out from behind a wooden cabinet that had been built into the wall. Her huge, piggish face was flushed and her pale hair was in disarray. One of the hamish hands protruded from the baggy sleeve of the black kimono. In it she held a sawed-off 410 shotgun with a stock customized so it was no longer than a revolver. “Yes, you are certainly the man. The auburn hair, the cold blue eyes, the description matches. You were supposed to have been killed, Mr. Hawker.” She patted the shotgun. “But I guess it's like most everything else. If you want a job done right, you're better off doing it yourself.”

TWENTY-ONE

She waved the weapon at him and stepped out into the room. “You're kind of upset about that girl there, aren't you, dearie?” Her grin implied all things obscene. “Kind of sweet on her, huh? You were worried about her, so you came to the rescue, came barging in like a brave white knight. No, do be honest. Don't try to deny it. I just came down from my room—it's directly above this little lounge of mine, by the way. And while I was upstairs, I saw that you had killed several of my men, and you've set my fine big house on fire in the process.” She looked up at the smoke curling out of the ceiling as if to underline her accusation. The whole house seemed to creak above them. Queen Faith continued, “You're not a very good house guest, dearie. I can't trust you. So drop those two guns you're carrying and pull that big Blackhawk out of your belt. Drop them all on the floor like a good boy, or I'll blow the girlie's fucking head right off.”