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"Put this on," I said urgently, holding out the coat to Jack. I was thinking of the bitter cold, Jack's wounds, shock, God knows what.
I kept lookout while Jack tried to manage, but in the end I had to help him. I was so intent on maneuvering Jack's left arm into the sleeve that I did not know anyone was behind me until Jack's face gave me a second's warning. Just as Jack began to move, something slammed against my shoulder. I shrieked involuntarily, knocked to my right, off my feet. I slammed my head into the shelves and fell to the floor hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I couldn't move. I stared up at the bright lights of the storeroom, high above me. I could see tall dark Jim Box, his shirt soaked with blood. He gripped an oar, holding it like a baseball bat, and he was swinging it back. He was going to hit me in the head, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
Jack went mad. He launched himself at Jim, wrenched the oar from him, and slammed it into Jim's head. Jim went over like a felled tree, without a sound. Jack stood over him, his blood-spattered chest heaving, wanting Jim to move, wanting to strike again.
But Jim didn't move.
With a rush the air came back into my lungs. I moaned, not only from the pain but from black despair. We were both hurt now, weak. How many more were in the building? Where was Mookie? Had they killed her?
Jack stood over me with the oar. Gradually some of the madness seeped from his face and he crouched beside me.
"Can you get up?" he whispered. I saw the finger marks on his throat for the first time. They'd choked him, enough to almost cost him his voice. I wanted to tell him no, I couldn't move, but found myself nodding instead. That was a mistake. Pain rocketed through my head. I had to lie still a moment, before I rolled over on my stomach, pushed up to my knees. My arm, sliced by Darcy's knife, was bleeding. I touched my hair, which felt—fu
I gripped the nearest upright, a corner bar for the shelves, and tried to gain my feet while Jack stayed alert for another attack. Finally I was standing, though I could feel myself swaying from side to side; or maybe I was still and the warehouse was swaying? Earthquake?
"You're really hurt," Jack rasped, and I could hear a little fear even in his strained voice.
I felt weak and shaken. I was letting him down.
"Go," I said.
"Right," he whispered, the sarcasm diminished by his voice level.
"You can move. I'm not sure I can," I faltered. I hated the wavering of my voice. "They won't kill me. How many more are there?"
"Two in the store, and the old man."
What old man?
"Bobo won't hurt me," I reassured Jack, thinking he was counting Bobo as one of the adversaries.
"No, I don't think he will. I think he didn't know any of this. I hope to God he's calling the police."
That was fu
"Look," I said to Jack, amazed.
Jack turned, and old Mr. Winthrop raised a hand. To my bewilderment, it held a gun. I opened my mouth to yell something, I don't know what, when two strong arms wrapped around the old man and lifted him from the ground.
"No, Grandfather," Bobo said. The expression on the wizened old rat terrier's face had to be seen to be believed. Howell Sr. struggled and wriggled in his grandson's grasp, but it was a futile effort. If I'd had any inclination toward humor, it would have been fu
Bobo's face was tragic. He didn't look at me, at Jack. He was alone with the bitterest betrayal of his short life.
I didn't care where he was taking his grandfather, because the measure of that betrayal was unfolding itself to me. Howell Sr. had used his own son's business as a cover for his little hate group. Howell Sr. was the reason his son, Jack's employer, had kept secrets from Jack. Howell must have suspected his father's involvement from the first. So he hadn't contacted police, or ATF agents, or the FBI. He'd hired Jack.
And here we were, thanks to old man Winthrop, bleeding and maybe dying in a damn storeroom.
"Where's Mookie?" I asked Jack. "The woman with the rifle."
"She went in the store after Darcy," Jack whispered. The jacket hung open over his bare bloody chest. He'd laid down the oar in favor of Mookie's knife, the knife I'd used to slash his bonds.
"Tom David," I said.
Jack was puzzled for a minute. Then his face cleared. "I don't know. He may be in the store, too."
"Naw, I'm here," said a taut voice from a few feet away. "I'm out of the fight."
I staggered over in the direction of the voice despite Jack's telling me not to. I didn't seem to have much control over my actions. Tom David was lying on the floor to the right of the door. The left leg of his jeans was soaked with red. Now I knew where Mookie's second shot had gone. The policeman's face was absolutely white. His eyes shone brilliant blue.
"I am sorry," he said.
I stared down at him.
"You can call the police, it'll be safe. I'm the only one."
I nodded, and nearly threw up again.
"I don't hold with what they did to Jared, and I wouldn't have hurt you," he said wearily, and closed his eyes.
"Did you kill Darnell?" I asked.
He opened his eyes at that. "I was there."
"Who did it?"
"Darcy and Jim. The old man. Paulie who works over there," and he moved his head infinitesimally in the direction of the Home Supply store. "Len. Bay Hodding, Bob's dad. He ain't here tonight. Wedding a
But the policeman's final testimony had taken valuable time, and in that time things once again had happened without my awareness or participation.
I was alone.
The bright storeroom, with its long stretches of shelves and dark shadows, was empty except for the silent bodies of the fallen and dead. I felt like an actor onstage after the play is over.
Then, from the store, I heard a scream.
I shuffled toward the door. The clear pane set at eye level had gone dark. The store lights had been shut off. As my hand closed around the knob, I realized that when I opened it, I would be silhouetted against the storeroom lights. I switched them off. Then I opened the door and propelled myself through it, and seconds later heard the distinctive clunk! of its falling shut.
There was a whoosh of sound over my head, a heavy impact. Then silence. I reached up cautiously. A hunting arrow protruded from the wooden doorframe. My skin crawled. Darcy was an avid bowhunter. He and Jim had discussed it morning after morning this fall.
I had to get away from the door. He'd be coming. I pulled myself forward on my elbows, trying to hug the floor as closely as possible. It was all too easy, and I cursed myself for a fool in thinking my venturing into this trap could help anyone.
I tried to summon up the floor plan, see it in my head. I felt hopeless when I thought of how familiar it was to Darcy.
"I got your yellow friend," he called to me. "She's de-ad. Got an arrow in her he-ad." He was singing. He was having a good time.