Cold Fire, page 16
‘Keep rolling.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere else but here. I managed to shut off the power, but they’ll soon have it up again and we can’t be sure they haven’t a direct line to the cops. We don’t want to be here when the cavalry arrives.’
‘Once the cops have their hands on Joanne it will be impossible to get to her.’
‘Nothing’s impossible, Siobhan. Never limit your options.’
‘So what? Is this a case of discretion being the better part of valor? Are we going to try to get back to Boston?’
‘There are few routes out of here, so we’d best put plenty miles behind us before the cops try setting up blockades.’
‘This blizzard,’ she reminded him. ‘We’ve no idea how heavy it was further south. We can’t be sure we’ll be able to get through.’
‘Folks up here are prepared for inclement weather, they’ll have the roads clear.’
‘Not like you to replace logical thinking with supposition, Harp.’
‘Supposition based on logical historical fact,’ he corrected her.
‘OK, Dr Spock, you and your logic win.’
‘It’s “Mr Spock”. Dr Spock was a pediatrician.’
‘Sorry, I was confusing my pediatrics with pedicide.’
Harper scowled, before his mouth twitched and he said, ‘Says the woman who just committed infanticide.’
‘Nope. I tried, but I’m sure Tess got her hand in the way. Can’t say how badly I hurt her.’
‘She was on her feet when she tried shooting me,’ he pointed out. ‘Still, you tried, so don’t come at me calling me names because I’ve murdered a few snot-nosed brats.’
‘I never took you as the sensitive type, Harp.’
‘Just shut up and do what you’re good at. Get us outta here.’
‘Same way we came in?’
‘Don’t think we have any other option.’
‘That means that if Joanne still means to avoid the cops, she’ll also be coming the same way. So this is about tactical repositioning rather than a retreat?’
‘Now you’re thinking. Like I said: maybe I will make a decent partner out of you yet.’ Harper wiped his red-rimmed nostrils with the back of a wrist. ‘And third time should be the charm with that wily son of a bitch that broke my nose.’
TWENTY-SIX
It felt like a dereliction of his duty when the cab took Pinky away from Tess and Po’s home, but it was important to him that he check on their other premises: he had taken over Tess’s apartment on Cumberland Avenue, rent free, after she’d moved in with Po. The apartment above a curios and antiques shop still belonged to Tess and was as much a target of their arsonist enemies as anywhere else they were associated with. The autoshop, the diner, even Po’s muscle car, all were impersonal targets, but to lose Tess’s home would be a terrible wrench to her. Earlier in the day Po had collected him from the apartment and he’d willingly come to guard the ranch, but now it was more important he be in situ when the arsonists came for Tess’s place, as they surely would.
The cab took him through North Deering on to Forest Avenue, before cutting on to Deering Avenue for the final leg of the journey. It was about a five-mile trip, completed in under a quarter hour, but it felt much further and time-consuming to Pinky. He didn’t exchange a word with the driver beyond telling him his destination, but he was damn well tempted to tell the guy to hurry the fuck up on more than one occasion. He kept his lip tightly zipped. The snow in Portland had stopped falling and the roads had been partially plowed, but driving at speed was still not advisable.
Tess’s brother Alex had promised to send a patrol car around Po’s neighborhood, and had intimated that he would personally keep an eye out on her place on Cumberland Avenue from the handy confines of the Parkside Community Policing Center, but Pinky was under no illusions. The cops had plenty to deal with, and this winter cyclone hadn’t lessened their load. It’d be easy for determined firebugs to slip by; case in point, during the cab ride out to North Deering he hadn’t spotted a single police patrol. During his previous life in Louisiana he’d have chuckled at the irony of wishing to see the police coming.
He’d brought his pistols along for the cab ride, tucked inside a knapsack so it wasn’t obvious he was packing heat. Alex had maybe warned against vigilantism with a barely perceptible wink, and though Pinky might expect leniency from prosecution, even Alex Grey couldn’t outwardly condone the shooting of the arsonists. His kid sister’s property, and perhaps even her life, was under threat and Alex’s loyalty might be tested, but first and foremost he was a cop.
Pinky directed the driver to stop the cab at the intersection of Cumberland and Deering Avenues, and paid over the odds with bills plucked from his jacket pocket; he added a ten-dollar tip, advising the guy to get a hot drink inside him. He wished he could take his own advice, because although the snow had mostly stopped falling, the wind was biting and chilled him the instant he left the warmth of the cab. He shivered, his shoulders wiggling, and he stamped his feet for the first few steps, testing the sidewalk for slipperiness. The treads in his sneakers left a distinct print. He set off along Cumberland Avenue, approaching the apartment from several blocks distance in order to reconnoiter its surroundings. As he drew closer he began taking more interest in the footprints of other pedestrians using the avenue. Foot traffic was low and unsurprising given the icy chill, so it was a simple enough task to check directions and if anyone had made several passes of his home, or spent any time lurking and observing the place. It was too late at night for the curios shop to be open, but a security night-light had been left on, throwing a dim glow on to the sloping pavement outside. Pinky’s, rather Tess’s, upper-storey home was in full darkness, but that was as it should be. Pinky’s car sat unmolested on the sloping drive and there was no sign of tracks in the virgin snow heaped on the external steps leading up the side of the building to the apartment.
Adjusting his hold on his knapsack, Pinky slung it so that he could easily dip a hand inside and hook out one of his pistols. He bypassed the building a second time, noting that the light cast on the sidewalk also contained a slow moving shadow: he wasn’t alarmed, because it was not unusual for Anne Ridgeway, the shop’s proprietor to stay late. The elderly lady had nobody waiting for her at home, so she’d regularly stay on after the six o’clock closing time if she was engaged in reading a good novel or adjusting the layout of her stock of trinkets and curios. He slowed, darting sidelong glances to see if he could spot the tiny, bird-like old woman inside, but the view inside was distorted by condensation on the window. At the end of the building, he paused momentarily, then turned sharply and walked up the service ramp. At the top there was a small yard wherein Mrs Ridgeway kept her trashcans hidden from potential customers by a tall wooden stockade. Pinky checked and found the gate locked from within. He was tall enough to stand on tiptoes and peer over the fence. There was no movement. He continued around the back. Out of sight of the front street, he drew one of his pistols. He padded along, leaving footprints in the virgin snow, noting he was the only person who’d been around the back of the building in hours.
He couldn’t relax his guard. As he moved to the opposite side of the house, he was partially obscured from the street by the set of external stairs that gave access to the apartment. There he stood a minute, listening: there was distant traffic noise, but nothing close enough to be of concern. He stepped out and approached his SUV, parked hood out on the sloping drive. He checked once more before popping the locks and getting inside. He turned off the interior light and sat still. The snow piled up on the windshield helped conceal him. He could see enough of the street through clear patches but his shape wouldn’t be betrayed within. He set his knapsack down, but only after withdrawing the second pistol and placing it in reach of his left hand.
Then he waited.
His wait lasted more than an hour. So as not to give away his location he’d left off the engine, but the interior of the car was anything but cold. His exhalations had caused steam to build up on the windows; it warped the small areas of visibility spared by the falling snow, and occasionally he’d had to use his sleeve to wipe away the moisture. He shivered, but it was through the slow release of adrenalin, as he prepared for battle that must surely arrive. He wiggled his toes in his boots and regularly shifted his butt so that there was no danger of numb legs once the doo-doo hit the fan.
Cars and a few late-night delivery trucks rolled past, compacted snow crunching under their tires. He heard a distant siren but the emergency vehicle never showed up in his vicinity. There was no movement that he could perceive from the nearby police office. Twice pedestrians ambled past, laughing drunkenly, late night revelers who had not allowed the inclement weather to get in the way of their drinking and dancing. The other distinct sounds he heard came from within Mrs Ridgeway’s shop: it sounded as if she was remodeling the entire store by the amount of scraping and thuds going on.
The more he heard the more he realized that it was uncommon for the old antiquarian to make so much noise. He slept directly above her store and never had she disturbed his sleep before. Besides, it sounded as if she was hauling furniture around three times her weight, because she was a tiny, fragile-looking woman who’d occasionally requested he come downstairs and help her shift a bookcase or trinket box. Pinky kept his hair cut short to his scalp. Nevertheless he could feel it writhing as realization hit.
He popped open the door on his SUV and slipped out on to the ramp. The snow was fresh, ankle deep and fluffy and not yet compact enough to be treacherous underfoot. He planted both feet though, while transferring one of his pistols to a holster in the small of his back. He retained the second pistol, but tucked it close to his abdomen while he approached the front street.
He stood near the shop’s entrance, without presenting his silhouette against the door glass, and listened. Those inside, because he now understood that Mrs Ridgeway was not behind the noises, spoke without any filter, believing that Pinky was yet to return home. He made out two distinct voices, both male, both gruff. A third voice, meek and high-pitched had to be Anne Ridgeway’s.
Earlier he hadn’t discovered any evidence that the arsonists had recce’d the building, so he had left things so that it would appear he wasn’t home. He thought it might entice the cowards to launch an attack as they had at the autoshop and diner where there was no apparent fear of discovery. He’d made a major error. He was not the only one to try an ambush; only his damn enemies had arrived before him and gotten in place before the last snowfall. How they hadn’t noticed him creeping around earlier he couldn’t say, but they’d all been fools and had wasted more than an hour.
Hearing the frightened tone of Mrs Ridgeway caused heat to build in Pinky’s chest. Anne Ridgeway was normally fearless, a strong person who didn’t suffer fools or bullies. To that end, she must’ve been shown proof of the threat she faced. It was one thing attacking Po, Tess or himself, because they were all capable of defending themselves, quite another for the cowardly bastards to terrorize an elderly lady. He was sorely tempted to go in, both guns blazing. But he held off. He required a clearer head and locations for his enemies, because the last he wanted was to drop the old lady with friendly fire.
He moved away, dodging around the front of the building again, and around the back. He paced along, and came to where a small window indicated the bathroom and tiny kitchenette that Mrs Ridgeway used while at work. The window was closed and locked, and he had no intention of breaking it to gain admittance, but at its base was a small vent through which fresh air was allowed to circulate without compromising the building’s security. Through it he could hear the voices clearer than before and it took only a moment to decipher who was where in the shop. Mrs Ridgeway, he deduced, was seated in her usual chair behind the cash register, where she often read novels between serving customers. The two men were in the shop proper and as long as he kept his pistols trained that direction then Mrs Ridgeway should be safe from a stray bullet.
He quickly went around the opposite end of the building to the trashcan compound. He peeked over the top; it was deserted as before. The gate was locked, but being a resident Pinky had a key. Usually he was the one to pull out the trash for Mrs Ridgeway when the municipal garbage collection truck was due. He opened the gate taking extra care to be silent. Once inside the compound it was barely two paces to the side door into the shop. For her ease of access to the trashcans he hoped that Mrs Ridgeway had left the door unlocked. He laid his fingers on the handle and paused a few seconds having second thoughts about breaching the building; perhaps he should back away, call the police and allow them to do their jobs.
Yeah, that’s exactly what he should do.
Back off.
Let the cops do his job.
Yeah, right!
Pinky tightened his grip on his pistol and with the other hand turned the handle slowly. As the latch cleared the lock, he shouldered inside, bellowing a challenge.
He immediately spotted one of the arsonists, a short stocky man who had concealed his lower face with a neckerchief and a woollen hat pulled down to his ears. He wore a navy blue padded anorak. Pinky couldn’t immediately see the second arsonist; in the half minute since moving from the bathroom window to breaching the door the tableau had changed. Pinky covered the first man, a bug’s wing of pressure all he required to discharge the pistol, while seeking the second. A moment later and the second man gave away his location by straightening up and holding out a can of lighter fluid; he held a throwaway cigarette lighter in front of the nozzle. This man, Pinky was certain, was the same asshole he’d chased from behind Po’s Mustang and down through the woods to the frozen river. He was also masked and wore a baseball cap and a brown coat. Ordinarily Pinky would shoot and be damned, but not while the impromptu flame thrower was aimed directly at Anne Ridgeway. The old lady looked tiny perched atop her chair, eyes huge and moist, lips splayed in disgust. Her curly hair hung in damp ringlets on her forehead and around her ears and the front of her sweater was darkened with fluid. Pinky smelled the accelerant and understood the horrible truth: she had already been doused and it would take only a spark to turn her into a column of flames.
The first he’d spotted backed away, one hand extended, as if he might catch the bullet Pinky promised him. He was wearing leather gloves, but they’d do nothing to deter a bullet. Pinky allowed him to retreat, while advancing a step further inside the shop. He noted the disarrayed stock and where flammable items had been stacked to fuel a bonfire. They’d never intended confronting Pinky directly in his own home, they had planned to wait until he was settled in and then set the shop ablaze and allow the flames to rise and roast him to death; the sick bastards must have considered Anne Ridgeway collateral damage, perhaps even planning on making it appear that she was behind the blaze. He turned the pistol on the second arsonist.
‘Think you can strike that lighter before I put a bullet through your head, you?’ Pinky demanded.
‘Take a sniff,’ the arsonist answered, ‘it doesn’t matter if it’s from my lighter or your gun, one spark and this place will go up like it’s the fourth of July.’
‘You aren’t prepared to strike a flame, you, not if it means you and your buddy burning to death. Put down the lighter fluid and let’s go outside and sort this once and for all.’
‘You presume to know me and what I am or am not prepared to do.’
Pinky noted that the other guy squinted in alarm at his partner and edged further away, angling towards the front street exit. ‘Just one more step, you,’ Pinky snarled, turning the pistol back on him. The man didn’t lower his gloved hand.
‘I know you’re a cowardly piece of shit,’ Pinky said. ‘Who else would choose fire as their weapon? Who else would threaten the life of an innocent old lady? Man up, let’s go outside and sort this.’
‘You’ll shoot us the second we walk outside.’
‘I’ll put down my gun, but not until after you’ve dropped that lighter.’
‘No deal.’ The man rolled his thumb over the wheel on the lighter. It’d take no pressure at all to cause it to catch and strike. Above the line of his facemask the man’s eyes twinkled with dark promise. Pinky aimed the pistol directly between them.
Anne Ridgeway moaned and shifted slightly in the chair.
The nozzle of the lighter fluid canister threatened her. ‘Don’t move, Grandma,’ snapped her tormentor.
For that split second the coward’s attention was on Mrs Ridgeway and Pinky capitalized on it. He couldn’t shoot, but he was big enough and bad enough to beat the living crap out of the arsonist. He lunged forward and, rather than rely on speed and momentum, he swept his left hand up and caught the ridge of a trinket display case. He cast the cabinet ahead of him and it struck the arsonist while he was still charging. The man didn’t relinquish either fluid canister or lighter, but neither was aimed directly at Anne Ridgeway when Pinky crashed into him. Pinky battered at the man’s arm with his pistol, trying to knock the lighter out his hand. The arsonist cried out, and dodged sideways. Already his friend was abandoning the shop, clawing his way through the overturned furniture to reach the exit. Futilely Pinky could only hurl a curse after him. He focussed on the other, the one that was still capable of turning the building into a pyre.
As Pinky swept aside the cabinet, he kicked at the man and sent him staggering. In response, the arsonist barked in disappointment. He turned the canister on Pinky and sprayed a jet of fluid at his chest. Pinky, a big man, was an easy target. But he wouldn’t allow the arsonist to light him up without blowing his brains out too. He aimed the pistol and the arsonist backed away. His partner wrenched open the door and skidded out on to the sloping sidewalk, almost going down on his back. He broke his fall on a hip and elbow and immediately slithered away, clearing space for his pal to follow. Pinky came after them and would have fired but for the threat of igniting the fumes, or the fluid now dripping from his jacket.
