Right as Rain (34 page)

“Get your hands up, both of you!” shouted Quinn. “Don’t come up with anything, or I swear to God I’ll blow his shit out across the room.”

“Take it easy, fella,” said Earl, as he slowly raised his hands.

Quinn could barely hear him. The music coming from the jukebox echoed loudly in the big room.

“You at the table,” said Quinn. “Lay your hands out flat in front of you!”

Franklin did as he was told.

“Move over to that bar,” said Quinn, giving Ray a shove. “Put your back up against it, hear?”

Ray walked to the bar, stopping about six feet down from where his father stood on the other side. He turned and leaned his back against the bar and placed the heel of one Dingo boot over the brass rail. His forearms rested on the mahogany, and his hands dangled limply in the air. Blood trickled from one nostril and ran down his lip.

Quinn moved the gun from father to son. He moved it to Franklin and then quickly back to the Boones.

“You,” he said, his eyes darting in the direction of Franklin. “Get up and pull the plug on that jukebox. Do it and get back in your seat.”

Eugene Franklin got out of his chair, walked to the jukebox, got down on one knee, and yanked the plug out of the receptacle. The music died instantly. Franklin walked back to his chair, sat down, and placed his hands flat on the green felt of the table.

Now there was only the sound of the rain. It beat against the wood of the barn and clicked steadily on the tin roof.

“What’re you?” said Ray. “FBI? DEA?”

“Whatever he is,” said Earl, “he’s all alone.”

“Must be one of those agents likes to do it solo,” said Ray. “A cowboy. That what you are?”

That’s what I am, thought Quinn.

They heard the muffled scream of a woman. Then the rain alone, then the woman’s steady, muffled scream.

“You hear that, Critter?”

“I hear it.”

“Just shut your mouths,” said Quinn.

DELGADO
wrapped a meaty hand through Sondra Wilson’s hair and dragged her toward him across the sheets.

The door burst open. Delgado turned, naked. A man was rushing toward him with a crowbar raised in his hands. Delgado took the blow on his forearm and used his fist to clip the man on the ear as the man body—slammed him into the dresser. Delgado threw the man off of him, the crowbar flipping from his grasp. The man stumbled, gained his footing, and took a stance, his feet planted firmly, the fingers of his hands spread wide.

“Strange,” said Delgado, and he laughed.

Strange saw Delgado glance at his clothing heaped on the floor. Strange kicked the clothing to the side. Delgado balled his fists, touched one thumb and then the other to his chin, and came in, Strange backpedaling to the wall.

Delgado was on him then. He led with a left jab that stung Strange’s ribs, then hooked a right. Strange tucked his elbows in tight, his left bicep absorbing the blow down to the bone. Strange grunted, exploded with an uppercut, connected to Delgado’s jaw. It moved Delgado back a step and brought rage to his eyes. He crossed the room in two strides. The right came furiously. The right was a blur, and it caught Strange on his cheek and knocked him off his feet.

Strange rolled, came up standing, and shook the dizziness from his head. His hand found the sheath on his hip. He unsnapped it and freed the Buck knife. He pulled the blade from the handle and hefted the knife in his hand. Delgado smiled from across the room. His gums were red with blood.

“I am gonna take that motherfucker
from
you, old man.”

“Take it,” said Strange.

Delgado bobbed, moved in, feigned a left and threw a right, putting everything into the right and aiming three feet behind Strange’s head. Strange slipped the punch. The momentum carried Delgado through, and he stumbled, slipping so that he was on one knee before Strange and looking up at him, his eyes wide and white. Strange came down violently with the knife, burying the blade to the handle in Delgado’s thick neck. The blade severed his carotid artery and pierced his windpipe. A crimson fountain erupted into the room. Sondra screamed.

Delgado pawed weakly for the handle as he crashed to the floor. He coughed out a mist of red and fought for air. Delgado’s brain died, and he kicked like an animal as his head dropped into a spreading pool of blood.

Strange put the sole of his boot to the side of Delgado’s face and withdrew the knife. He wiped the blade off on his jeans, pushed down on the brass safety, and folded the blade back into its handle. Sheathing it, he turned to the girl. She had balled herself up against the headboard, and her screams were shrill in the room. Strange picked up the crowbar and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Strange crossed the room and slapped Sondra hard across the face. He slapped her again. She stopped screaming and began to sob and shake. She was afraid of him, and that was good. He ripped the wool blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Strange picked Sondra up and carried her from the room, out onto the landing, and down the stairs. He managed the front door and walked out to the porch, down the steps, and out into the rain. He didn’t look at the barn. He stopped at the stand of pine, laid Sondra down, slung his day pack over his shoulder, and picked her up again. He saw Quinn’s pack and coat and left them there. He moved quickly into the dark shelter of the trees and did not look back.

“SCREAMIN’ stopped,” said Ray.

“I know it,” said Earl, looking over at Franklin.

“I told you to shut your mouths,” said Quinn, side—glancing Franklin, seeing Eugene’s right hand slip off the green of the table.

“I’m just gonna go ahead and keep talkin’,” said Ray, “it’s all the same to you.”

“Keep talkin’, Critter.”

“Makes me feel better. Don’t it make you feel better, Daddy, to talk all this out?”

“Yep,” said Earl, who scratched his nose.

“Keep your hands on the bar,” said Quinn.

“Yessir,” said Earl, and Ray laughed.

“What is it you want, exactly?” said Ray. “Money? Drugs? Hell, boy, it’s right up there on top of the bar. Get it and get gone, that’s what you’re here for.”

Quinn said nothing.

“Your
gun arm must be gettin’ tired,” said Earl.

The rain sheeted the walls of the barn.

“You gonna stand there like that all night?” said Ray. “Shit, boy, you gotta do
somethin.
I mean, shoot us or rob us or walk away. What’s it gonna be?”

The beeper sounded on Quinn’s hip. No one said anything, listening to it. Then the beeping ended.

Quinn began to walk backward, still covering the men with his gun.

Ray laughed, and Quinn felt the blood rise to his face.

“Look at that, Daddy. He’s gonna back on out of here now.”

“I see him,” said Earl, the lines of his cheeks deepening from his thick smile.

“That what you gonna do, pussy—boy? Just walk away?”

Quinn stopped. He stood straight and holstered his weapon. He glanced at Eugene Franklin, turned, and gave them his back. Quinn headed for the barn door.

Earl picked up the Colt and slid it down the bar to his son. Ray’s boot heel caught momentarily on the brass rail as he swiveled his hips. He lost a second of time, reached out for the Colt’s grip, got his hand around it, and swung the muzzle toward Quinn as Earl found the .38 and drew it from his coat pocket.

“Hey, Terry,” said Franklin in a quiet, even way.

Quinn cleared his Glock from his holster. He crouched and spun and fired from the hip. The bar splintered around Ray. Quinn fired again, and the slug tore open Ray’s shirt in the center of his chest. Ray dropped his gun and fell to the slatted wood floor.

A gunshot exploded into the room. Earl’s pistol jumped, and Quinn felt air and fire burn at the side of his scalp.

Franklin kicked the card table over as he stood. He squeezed the trigger on his Glock four times, the gun jumping in his hand. Earl was thrown back into the bar mirror. The bottles on the call rack exploded around him in a shower of glass and blood. Earl spun, dropped, and disappeared.

A bell tone rang steadily in Quinn’s ears. He heard someone moan. Then a short cough and only the ringing sound and the rain.

Quinn walked through the roiling gun smoke. He kicked the .38 away from Ray’s corpse. He went around the bar with his gun arm locked and looked down at the father. Quinn holstered his gun.

“The girl,” said Franklin.

“Strange got her,” said Quinn.

“Delgado?”

“If Strange got the girl, he got Delgado, too. Let’s go.”

Quinn picked up his coat and pack in the stand of pine. He and Franklin entered the woods and headed for the row of lights on the interstate, glowing faintly up ahead.

AN hour later, Quinn parked the Chevelle in the lot of Franklin’s apartment house and let the motor run.

Franklin said, “What now, Terry?”

“You’ve got a little bit of time,” said Quinn. “Strange sent a package off today to someone he trusts in the department. Chris Wilson’s notebook and the photographs.”

“What about my confession?”

“Strange made a copy of that.” Quinn reached across Franklin and opened the glove box door. “I’ve got the original right here.”

Franklin took the yellow piece of paper from Quinn’s hand. Quinn nodded, and Franklin slipped the paper into the pocket of his coat.

“Thank you, Terry.”

Quinn stared through the windshield and pushed hair behind his ear, careful not to touch the tender spot where Earl Boone’s bullet had grazed his scalp.

“You’re not off the hook. The evidence Strange mailed in is enough to convict you. However you want to plead your defense, that’s up to you. As far as what happened tonight, and the girl —”

“Ain’t no one ever gonna know about what happened tonight, or about the girl. Not from me.” Franklin swallowed. “Terry —”

“Go on.”

Franklin offered his hand. Quinn kept his grip tight on the steering wheel.

“All right, then,” said Franklin. He stepped out of the car and crossed the parking lot, his head lowered against the rain.

Later, and for the rest of his life, Quinn would not forget Eugene Franklin’s sad, odd face, or the hang of his outstretched hand.

NEAR
dawn, Derek Strange exited the house of Leona Wilson, closing the front door softly behind him. The rain had ended. He stood on the concrete stoop and breathed the cold morning air, turning his collar up against the chill.

Down on the street, parked behind his Caprice, was a pretty blue Chevelle. A long—haired young white man sat behind the wheel.

“Thank you, Lord,” said Strange.

He locked eyes with Quinn and smiled.

Chapter
33

T
HAT
evening, the suicide of Eugene Franklin made the six o’clock news.

A resident in the apartment next door had heard a gunshot around noon and phoned the police. They found Franklin upright on the couch. His eyes were bugged from the gas jolt, and his nose was blackened and scorched. Blood and bone and brain matter had been sprayed on the walls and the fabric of the couch. His service weapon lay in his lap. A letter written in longhand had been neatly placed on the coffee table before him.

On the eleven o’clock news, Franklin’s suicide was eclipsed by the discovery of a mass homicide on a wooded property at the east—central edge of Montgomery County. Six bodies had been found in various stages of decomposition. The police had been alerted by a friend of one of the victims, a woman named Edna Loomis. The friend, Johanna Dodgson, had not heard from Loomis for days and had called the local cops when her concern became great.

After two bodies were discovered in the barn, and another in the house, police found three additional bodies, including the corpse of Edna Loomis, in a tunnel underneath the property. Johanna Dodgson had mentioned the existence of the tunnel in her initial call to the police.

The Out—County Massacre, as it was immediately dubbed by the press, dominated the news for the next three days. A rumor surfaced that one of the victims was a D.C. cop, and then the rumor was publicly confirmed. Drugs and large amounts of money were said to have been found at the scene. Another rumor surfaced, alleging that the suicide of Officer Eugene Franklin was somehow related to the Out—County Massacre, but this rumor remained unconfirmed. Police spokesmen promised a speedy resolution to the case, claiming that an announcement regarding the findings was “imminent.”

STRANGE
went to work daily and kept to his general routine. He followed the news reports closely but did not discuss them, except with Ron and Janine, and only then in passing. He phoned Quinn and spoke to him twice, and on both occasions he found him to be uncommunicative, remote, and possibly in the grip of depression. He visited Leona and Sondra Wilson briefly and was pleased with what he found.

It was a tentative time for Strange, and though he picked up a couple of easy jobs, mostly he waited. By the end of the next week, he welcomed the phone call that he knew with certainty would come. The call came on Saturday morning, when he was returning from a long walk with Greco, as he stepped into the foyer of his Buchanan Street row house.

“Hello,” said Strange, picking up the phone.

“Lydell here. You ready to talk, Derek?”

“Name the place,” said Strange.

OREGON
Avenue, south of Military Road, led into a section of Rock Creek Park that contained a nature center, horse stables, and miles of hilly trails. A huge parking lot sat to the right of the entrance, where people met to train and run their dogs on the adjacent field. The parking lot was a popular rendezvous spot for adulterous couples as well.

Strange and Lydell Blue sat in Strange’s Caprice, parked beside Blue’s Park Avenue in the lot and facing the field. Blue’s hair had thinned and it was all gray, as was his thick mustache, which he had worn for thirty years on his wide, strong—featured face. His belly sagged over the waistband of his slacks. He held a sixteen—ounce paper cup of coffee in his hand, steam rising from a hole he had torn in its lid.