as she stepped to the car. Nora, hurrying ahead of her, opened the rear door.
Tyler rushed to the driver’s side and climbed in. The car wobbled as Nora dropped onto the passenger seat. Tyler twisted the ignition key.
“Let’s take it easy,” Nora said. “We’ve got an injured girl with us.”
“Hurry!” Janice blurted from the back seat.
Tyler rammed the shift into reverse and hit the gas pedal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Abe eased off the accelerator as a pickup swung in from a sidestreet. It sped down Front ahead of them. It didn’t stop for the blinking red traffic signal, and neither did Abe.
“Five’ll get you ten that’s the chief,” Jack said.
Just the other side of Beach Lane, it swerved onto the shoulder. Its tires kicked up dust as it lurched to a stop. Abe steered behind it.
“You lose,” Abe said as a stocky woman leapt from the pickup. Linda? No, Lucy, he recalled. She was out of uniform. She wore jeans and a flannel shirt. The shirt tail hung out, drawn in around her waist by her gunbelt. She glanced toward Abe’s car, then turned and jogged past the front of her truck.
Abe, Jack, and Gorman climbed out. Gorman followed a few steps to the rear. Abe raised an open hand as their approach caught the attention of the others.
Four others. Lucy, Chief Purcell, and two officers in uniform. They stood near the open door of a police car. Another patrol car was parked just beyond them. The flashers were dark.
“Abe Clanton,” Abe said. “This is Jack Wyatt, Gorman Hardy.”
Purcell nodded. “You should’ve stayed at the Inn. But since you came, I want all of you to keep your distance. Stay here at the road unless we tell you otherwise. We don’t want civilians getting mixed up with this.”
“Yes, sir,” Abe said. “It’s your ballgame. If you need a hand, though, give us a shout.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Purcell said.
One of the patrolmen knelt on the car seat and came out, a moment later, with a shotgun. Abe recognized it as a .12 gauge Ithica semi-automatic.
“There’s no rear exit to this place,” Purcell said.
“No windows, either,” Lucy added.
A quick flash of light made Lucy flinch. Purcell and the others frowned at Gorman.
Gorman snapped another photo. “Thank you,” he said, and lowered the camera.
Purcell shook his head. “Let’s go.” He walked up the dirt driveway toward the house, Lucy at his side, the other two following.
“Are we simply going to stand here?” Gorman asked.
“We’ll do as he said.”
Gorman took a step away, but Jack clamped a hand on the back of his neck. “Stay,” he ordered. He looked at Abe. “Do you think they am-scrayed?”
“Their pickup’s in front of the garage.”
“They must know the girl got away. They’ve got three stiffs in the basement, that woman and baby prisoners, and a beast in there. How’re they gonna cover up all that?”
“I’d say they can’t,” Abe said.
“Hope those cops know what they’re doing.”
“They asked us to stay out of it. We’ll stay out of it.”
Near the dark front porch, Purcell pointed to each side. The two uniformed patrolmen spread out. They positioned themselves to the left and right of the porch stairs. Purcell and Lucy mounted the stairs. Lucy drew her revolver and flattened her back against the wall. Purcell stepped in front of the door.
“I can’t
“Shut up,” Abe muttered.
He stared at the distant door. He saw the shape of Purcell raise a hand to knock. He couldn’t hear the knock. Purcell lowered the hand to his side.
Abe realized he was holding his breath. He let it out.
Then a dim blue swath of light silhouetted Purcell and someone standing in the doorway. Abe heard his heartbeat. Seconds were passing. Purcell must, he thought, be talking to the person. Who was it, Maggie Kutch? Probably denying…
A man’s voice, faint with the distance, cried out, “No!” Purcell suddenly hunched. A gunshot popped in Abe’s ears. Purcell doubled over and staggered backwards. As he tumbled down the porch stairs, a blast from somewhere to the side sent the cop with the shotgun spinning. The other cop whirled around and aimed toward the pickup. Before he could fire, a shot kicked his head back.
Lucy froze against the wall as if crucified.
Abe dashed between the parked cars. He jerked the revolver from the back of his jeans as he raced in a crouch up the driveway. “Hit the deck!” he yelled at Lucy.
The front door slammed shut, cutting off the blue glow.
Lucy crouched. An instant later came the flat bang of a rifle. She dropped to one knee and swung her revolver toward the pickup. She fired four quick rounds. A man cried out, came stumbling into Abe’s view from the cover of the pickup’s hood, fell to one knee and aimed his rifle at Lucy. He jerked and flopped to the thunder as bullets from Lucy and Abe and Jack socked his body.
Abe straightened up. He heard nothing but the ringing in his ears.
The sprawled man didn’t move.
Lucy was still on one knee. Through the ringing, Abe heard shell casings clatter and roll on the wooden floor of the porch. He realized she was reloading.
He and Jack hurried forward. He crouched over Purcell. The man was on his back, clutching his belly and squirming. “Take it easy,” Abe told him. “We’ll get help for you.”
He heard quick footsteps behind him. As he stood, a blink of light illuminated the chief’s contorted face and bloody shirt. “For Christsake, Hardy!”
Gorman sidestepped and took another photo of Purcell, then rushed toward the officer who’d fallen to the left of the porch stairs.
Jack, kneeling by the one to the right, called, “This one’s dead.”
Lucy backed down the stairs, her revolver aimed at the closed door.
Light flashed as Gorman shot two photos of the cop at his feet. Abe shoved him roughly aside and dropped down next to the motionless body. This one had a chest wound. He searched the neck for a pulse. “Dead,” he called. He straightened up. “Lucy, get back to your car and radio for an ambulance.”
With a nod, she took off running for the road.
Jack was standing above the man who’d ambushed the two officers. Abe went over to him. “It’s the old shit that took our tickets,” Jack said.
“Guess we cancelled his,” Abe said.
Gorman, panting, ran up beside them. His flash lit the skinny, grizzled old man. In the instant of brightness, Abe saw half a dozen bullet holes in the front of his sodden shirt and trousers: small entry holes from Lucy’s .38, large exits from the slugs that had caught him in the back. Gorman stepped to his feet, crouched, and took another picture.
“We going in?” Jack asked. His voice was hushed and eager.
“Right.”
“She’s gonna be ready.”
“She’ll expect us to break through the front door. We’ll go in the back.”
“There is no back door,” Gorman pointed out.
“There’s the tunnel.”
“Where you killed the beast?”
“Want to see it?” Jack said.
“I must.”
