Cutting Loose, page 27
He spoke in an easy monotone.
“Listen, Carey, I always dug it. It had the quality of art. A performance. Robbing banks as a life-style choice. Carey maybe on the cover of Vogue with the cute hairdo and the Remington shotgun.
“That’s okay, Carey. Who’s real? Not me, neither. Look at me. Mr. Cool with the long hair and the leather jacket? Not hardly. That was another lie. Those years were nonstop bullshit, apart from the great sex. Wall-to-wall twerps who didn’t know their ass from their elbow.
“But look. Let’s get reacquainted.”
A light was above her. A padded surface was below. She was naked.
“I want to know the real Carey. The Carey beneath the skin. And this is the place to find out. So much has happened down here, Carey. So many people have preceded you.”
She pulled at the restraints.
“I’ll get a cloth.”
Soon she felt the coolness on her face.
“I heard Capps on TV. Belize? Where Sol got the face-lift? You were down there too, what they’re saying. And before that, the easy life in South America? Yeah, for sure. Crazy to come back, but, look―the good ole USA, I get it. Home is where the heart is.
“Sol, yeah, my man Sol. An agent in Nashville! Now that was a surprise. I remember him listening to Mozart. But bluegrass? Man! Still, okay. He was a man you never got to the bottom of. And there he was, dead in that farmyard, Capps standing there. He coulda given up your name, saved himself a world of pain, but no. He did it the hard way. Gotta admire that.”
She felt his hands casually running over the thighs and stomach.
“And you, rooming with hicks, working at Walmart? But, like they say, don’t judge a person till you’ve walked in their shoes. I guess I had it easy. Being dead for the last thirteen years. Being dead―can’t beat it. No taxes, for starters. How lucky can you get? Plus, if you kill someone, the cops don’t say, Let’s check out dead guys first. That thought doesn’t occur to them. The hobo there in the house? Just dumb luck.
“Maybe things work out for the best. The three of us, together on the run? That would never have worked.
“Yeah, I came out of that kitchen and you were gone. I’ll admit it―I was surprised. Have they maybe snuck off to a convenience store for cigarettes? I looked around. No! They’ve honest-to-God gone! Check it out!
“I’ll be frank. It caught me on the hop. But, look―I made it out. And that’s the main thing. But the world takes a spin or two and here we are. Sol is dead. And we’re right here in this basement.”
She heard footsteps walking away. Then she felt cold objects on her skin and guessed he had rested knives there.
“Do you remember Lara? Back there on the coast? The two of you were close. She disappeared. We had dinner in Sausalito, great lobster, beautiful evening. Later, I put her in a 55-gallon barrel. Lisa Marin, yeah . . . beautiful girl.”
The knives were removed and she heard the clinks as they were laid on a surface that may have been glass.
“This is something I always say. Don’t be lonely. There’s sixteen more out there. Sixteen and change. Body parts down here. But this isn’t just anyone this time. It’s Carey Astaire! Right here on the gurney!”
Again she heard footsteps. Their sound suggested the floor was concrete. Then he spoke very close to her ear.
“Did I give the impression it was okay to run out on me? I’d hate there to be a misunderstanding. It wasn’t okay, Carey.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath.
“I had someone right here, a while back. Reshaped her into a fucking meatball, and guess what? She could still talk. How many pieces can be removed before death or insanity end it? That’s the sort of question you get to ask yourself when all your dreams come true.”
Poleaxed stillness suddenly gave way to wild shaking that made her torso jump and twist. Complete panic enfolded her. Her body felt slippery.
“Carey, I’ve already made incisions. The knife was so sharp you didn’t feel a thing.”
Then she saw his head turning upward. There was an expanse of neck and the prominent Adam’s apple and the dark stubble. He laid a strong hand on her mouth and stood absolutely still. From somewhere above came the slightest sound.
The door to the right was open. Inside, lit by moonlight, were chairs around a dining table, and a stone fireplace. The room looked as though it was never used. The air was dead. Dust lay on surfaces.
In the entrance hall where Emmett stood, stairs and a closed door lay ahead. To his left were two more rooms. Both doors were ajar. Was he totally wrong? Had Lindemann taken her somewhere else?
He would clear the ground floor first. The rooms to the left were empty. The air smelled of solitude. On the tongue-and-groove wall to his right was a print of a hunting scene. He moved slowly along until he was touching the brass door-knob at the end. It turned easily, and he gently pushed the door with the fingertips of his left hand. Ahead lay a living room. A TV was in a corner. Newspapers were spread across a table. A mug was on a side-table beside a kerosene lamp that cast a dim light. Photo albums were stacked on the floor. He felt the mug. It was still warm.
Straight ahead was another door leading to the back rooms. It was the only way through to that part of the house. There was no safe way through it: Lindemann would have it covered if he knew someone was there.
Lindemann pushed a cloth into Carey’s mouth and took a Browning Hi-Power 9mm from a drawer. The trap-door at the top of the stairs was hooked back to the wall. He went up quickly and silently, then stood listening in the utility room. There was no sound. Night had come. He went to the windows but could see little. To his right, a door led to narrow back-stairs up to the bedrooms. He took them, and went along corridors to the front of the house. Below was a Texas Ranger Plymouth, empty, the driver’s door open. He stared down the darkened path, but no other vehicle was visible. He knew it was Capps. That bastard had found him. He heard the beating of his heart. Did Capps have back-up? Would he want the glory all to himself? Either way there was only one choice. Capps had to be dead. If this was the end, the hell with it. He would take them all down.
He left the bedroom and looked over the banister rail to the entrance hall. He knew there were no steps that creaked. He went down them fast and, at the bottom,turned to the closed door leading to the living room, leveled his pistol and fired. The shock of the report seemed to reverberate in his skull.
He ran back up the stairs, through to the rear and down the back stairs. The only light in the utility room shone upward from the basement. He saw a glimpse of Emmett’s back in the next room and fired. Emmett seemed to fall to the right, out of sight, and Lindemann fired again through the wooden wall, then went through fast to finish the job.
Emmett, though, was on his back, holding his revolver with both hands, his eyes steady. He fired and hit Lindemann in the shoulder. The second shot removed most of an ear.
Lindemann fell backwards into the utility room, still holding his pistol level, and fired again through the doorway.
Emmett waited. There was silence. Through the open door, he had a partial view of the open trap-door, lit from below. He drew a bead on the lock and fired. It flipped to one side ang hung on by just a sliver of wood. He quickly ejected three and loaded three.
“Carey!”
There was no reply.
Then there was a scuffling sound. Emmett moved to his right and saw bloodstains leading to the back door. Keeping low, he ran toward it and saw a second light switch. He lifted it, and the yard jumped into view. There was no sign of Lindemann. Emmett pushed the bolt, then went to the trap-door. If Lindemann cornered him down there, it would be over. This, though, was his one chance. He went down.
She was strapped to a gurney. A cloth was in her mouth. A few trails of blood had trickled down from small cuts on her torso. Her eyes were popping with terror. He had no time to do anything but look for a knife. There were three next to the gurney on a lab table. He took one and began to cut the strap holding her left wrist.
Against the wall were gas canisters. Specimens in formaldehyde were on shelves. Plastic containers of white spirit were on a counter beneath.
The strap parted. He removed the gag. She retched and tried to turn. There were sounds from above.
“Take the knife,” he whispered and grabbed her right hand. He put the knife in it and closed her fingers around it. “Cut the rest.”
There was no time. He went straight back up the steps.
Lindemann was back in the house. His footsteps were moving fast along the hall from the front door.
Emmett ran into the living room as Lindemann kicked the door open and racked the slide of a pump-action shotgun he must have got from the garage. He was drenched in blood. The bald head, the wild eyes, and the stump of the ear gave him the look of a creature from hell.
He had to turn half-right to use the shotgun. Emmett fired first, no more than five feet away. Lindemann fired a wild shot before he could aim but kept coming. Then he was on top of Emmett and suddenly too close to use the shotgun. Blood on the shirt told Emmett his shot had been good, but Lindemann seemed fueled by rage and adrenalin.
They fell down together in a tangle of limbs. Emmett’s head struck the edge of a table and his Smith and Wesson went flying. Lindemann rose, shotgun in hand. He picked up the kerosene lamp, backed into the utility room, and hurled it down into the basement.
Then he turned back to face Emmett.
“Both of you! I was born lucky.”
He racked the slide.
Emmett saw over Lindemann’s shoulder a naked figure emerge from the basement. Tendrils of blood streaked her body. Her eyes were wild. In one hand was the knife.
“So long, Emmett,” said Lindemann
He aimed the shotgun.
Carey ran like a deer and threw herself onto Max’s back and wrapped her left arm around his throat. The shotgun fired and the blast pounded Emmett’s eardrums. Lindemann twisted under her weight and tried to throw her off. He suddenly lost balance, and they crashed to the floor. She had her legs locked around him, riding him as he thrashed around.
Emmett grabbed his Smith and Wesson from the corner and tried to aim, but the fight was too fast and wild. They flipped over so Carey was underneath, still strapped on tight.
A wave of heat rose from the basement.
Lindemann scissored his legs, and they rolled onto their sides. His head turned; his neck came free; and the knife instantly rose and fell. It went in to the hilt.
He gasped. Blood sprayed from his mouth. Carey never let go. They were locked together, skin to skin. He howled in rage, but his throat was awash with blood. He was drowning in it. His body kept twisting. Life was still there in his stunned eyes. He blinked a few times. His movements began to slow. Even then, Carey did not relent.
Emmett stood silently watching.
Carey whispered into his ear, “Max, honey, this is you dying.”
His body gave a few convulsive jerks and the breath rattled in his throat.
Carey withdrew the knife and slowly unwrapped herself. She got to her knees.
“Is the bastard dead?”
“He’s dead.”
She stood then, her eyes wild, and began to dance a jig of triumph with the knife in her hand as the blood flicked off her.
“The bastard’s dead!”
She left bloody footsteps as she danced.
“The bastard’s dead!”
“Carey―”
She stopped. “What, Emmett?”
“We need to get you cleaned up.”
“Why?”
“Listen, Carey―”
“Bathtime? Now?”
She laughed.
He went closer to her.
“Don’t touch me!”
She stopped dancing then and looked at the blood stains on her body and at the knife in her hand. She dropped it.
He again tried to approach her.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Okay. I’ll grab a towel.”
“Towel?”
“Sure, Carey. There’s a lot to do. This place is going up.”
She began to shake.
Emmett opened the bathroom door and found a towel. “Right here. Wipe yourself down. Make it fast.”
“He’s―”
“Yes.”
Emmett ran to his auto and took her emergency bag from the trunk. In the darkness beyond, he saw the lights of police vehicles. Back inside, he took black clothes from the bag. “Hurry. Get dressed.”
The cuts, though superficial, were still leaking blood. She wiped them as best she could, then dressed right there in the living room, in front of him. There was a confused look on her face.
“Carey, you need to start thinking.”
She turned and looked at him. “Sure, Emmett.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. She struggled and he let his arms fall.
“Carey, listen, you have to get your head straight.”
She shook her head, and said, “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“The bag right here. Keep it. You’ll need it.”
It took her a few moments to understand.
“You’re dead in the basement. This place is a bomb. They’ll be picking pieces up two hundred yards away. Beat it. Go.”
Her eyes were fixed somewhere far distant. She picked up the bag.
“Go.”
Then she looked at him with a slight smile, turned, and walked out the back into the night.
He grabbed the body by the shirt, which bunched up under the armpits. He pulled the body along the corridor toward the open front door. The first canister exploded and blew a plume of fire straight up from the basement. Ahead of him, he saw the lights of police vehicles. As he got the body to the porch steps, a second canister exploded and then another. Glass blew out of the windows. The heat scorched his back. Sirens were wailing along the blacktop.
When he was clear of the steps, he let go of Lindemann and kept walking up the path toward the wall of vehicles.
Emmett drew into the Pruetts’ yard and parked beside their Ford F100. A Texas Ranger vehicle was already there; Joe Compton, behind the wheel, raised a hand.
“Emmett, hi.”
“Joe. How are they?”
“Shook up. I guess a thing like this is gonna pin you back. But I haven’t said much to them. Thought I’d leave it to you.”
“Sure. Press aren’t here yet.”
“That’s right. We’ll keep them at a distance when they come.”
“Okay.”
He took his hat off and knocked on the door. When it opened, Etta was framed there, a stunned look on her face. She put her arms round Emmett’s neck and hugged him.
“Please, Emmett, come on in. I knew you’d come.”
“Sure.”
He walked in, and Loomis rose from a chair and shook his hand.
“Emmett. You’ve surely brought a land of trouble along of you.”
“I know.”
“Come sit in the kitchen.”
“I can’t stay long. There’ll be a mountain of work back there, though right now I’m suspended cos I discharged my weapon. Internal Affairs have interviewed me. But I need to see you before anyone else gets here.”
“Emmett,” said Etta, “please tell us what’s going on. Where is she? No one is saying. Your friend out there, Joe, he just said it’s bad. He wouldn’t say more. Is she dead?”
Loomis was quiet and brooding. The phone rang, and he waited a while before answering. When he put the phone down, he said, “Cousin Billy says there’s something on TV.”
He turned on the set and jumped channels until he saw smoke rising from a frame house. A swarm of Ranger vehicles was parked along the track leading to it. An FBI unit was parked on the blacktop, and a couple of their operatives were talking to a Ranger across barriers. A reporter was standing on the main road and talking to camera.
“. . . have the site contained. The fire department has brought the flames under control though it’s not safe yet for Forensics to enter. This major deployment of resources means this is no mere house fire. As you can see behind me, an ambulance is present.”
A news helicopter had started to circle the scene, playing a beam of light on the house.
“We have no information at this time about who may have died or been injured here . . .”
Etta put her hands to her face in shock. “Emmett, please, is Marie in there?”
“Let’s sit down, folks. There’s things I need to say.”
“About Marie?”
“Sure.”
Etta and Loomis looked at each other. There was an odd silence. Emmett lifted his eyebrows.
“Possible we know,” said Loomis.
Emmett waited.
“That she’s Carey Astaire?” said Loomis. “Emmett, we knew that from the beginning, pretty much.”
“Uh huh. I wondered. Okay.”
Etta began to sob, and Loomis put an arm round her shoulders.
“Honey, let’s see what Emmett has to say.”
“Sure. I’m sorry.”
They sat at the table.
“Marie, “ said Etta, fighting to be calm. “She was just a person answering an ad, way back. We said, come by. Let’s talk. There she was―just a person on our doorstep. Struck us both as a decent person.”
“That’s right.”
“Then one day she just sat herself down and told us who she was. We couldn’t rightly believe it. But she told it all, not stuff you could make up.”
She looked at Loomis.
“Sure.” He shifted in his chair. “She became family. I guess with Mack being Mack, there was a gap in our hearts. She filled it. But she was dragging a heavy load―the thought was there all the time that it would end. That you or someone else would come knocking. When Sol was killed, she knew her time was up. You there at that farmyard on TV―she knew you’d make the link.”
“I was dumb not to make it earlier.”
“Emmett―that scene right there on the tube, Marie did all that? The fire, the whole thing?”
“No.”
“Then who?’
