“How do you get there?”
“There’s a… there’s a ladder through the floor at the end of the barn.” She pointed.
“Clare?”
“She’s…” The woman started weeping again. “I don’t know. He hit her so hard he knocked her over. That’s when I ran.”
Like a buzz bomb, her words exploded along his forebrain, whiting out every thought for a split second. He hitched in his breath. Focused on the woman. “You drive a standard?”
“Yes, but-”
He slapped his keys into her hand. “Get into my truck. It’s at the end of the drive. Head toward town. Go slow. If it gets bad, pull over and wait. Got it?”
She nodded jerkily. “She’s crazy, you know. What kind of woman jumps a man with a knife? She’s crazy.”
“Yeah. I know.” He pushed her in the right direction and thrashed his way up the remainder of the ramp into the barn. He pulled his cell phone out. Flash-dialed Harlene’s direct number.
“Harlene here.”
“Van Alstyne here at 645 Old Route 100. We’ve got a hostage situation with gunfire. I need backup.”
“You got it,” she said, her voice even. Then, before he could sign off, “Chief?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you unarmed?”
“Yeah.”
“Then wait for the backup. That’s the smart thing to do.”
“I can’t. I”-
He padded between the haymows, his good sense reining in the part of him that wanted to charge, berserker- like, to Clare’s defense. His parka rubbed, arms against body, creating a papery noise. He frowned, took the coat off, and laid it on the floor next to the trapdoor opening to the lower level. He laid down on his belly and elbow- walked to the edge. Heard agitated cows and faraway voices from what sounded like the other side of the building. Took a chance and hung his head and shoulders down.
It was the other side of the building. He waited until the figures disappeared into the fluorescent-lit room, then dropped down the ladder. He hurried down the walkway between the stalls, conscious that at every moment he was framed and lit like a shooting-gallery target. Approaching the door, he slowed. Took a deep breath. Heard one of the boys say, “It’s amazing, man. You’ll never know what power is until you do it.”
He felt sick to his stomach. “Hey,” he said, stepping forward. “What say we talk about this?”
A dark-haired kid turned with the fast-twitch reflexes of the young, and Russ was staring down the barrel of a.308 Remington. Behind him, Quinn Tracey brandished a wicked long butcher’s knife toward Clare’s throat.
The Tracey kid recognized him. His mouth sagged open. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.
“Hey, Quinn,” Russ said. “Good to see you’re okay. Your folks are worried about you, taking off in the middle of a storm like that.” He shifted his attention to the other one. “You must be Aaron MacEntyre. I’m Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police.”
Something flashed in the young man’s eyes. Panic? Anger? Russ couldn’t tell. “I’ve already called in a hostage situation,” he went on, using the same easy voice. “This place is going to be swarming with cops soon.”
The corner of MacEntyre’s mouth curved up. “In this weather? I doubt it.”
“You can’t get away, Aaron. Your best bet is putting the weapons down and cooperating.” Russ turned to Tracey. “I’m here to talk. The guys following me will be here to shoot. Let’s not let it get to that.”
Tracey looked terrified. “Aaron?” he asked.
“Finish securing her to the wall ring, Q,” MacEntyre said.
Tracey awkwardly grabbed a length of chain and slipped it around Clare’s badly bound wrists. The kid had to juggle the knife he was holding as well as keep the chain from slipping and reach for a D-clip. Clare looked at him, then at Russ. He could see the question in her eyes.
Russ glanced at MacEntyre. His aim hadn’t wavered. He was still perfectly lined up to gut-shoot Russ. “Don’t be afraid, Reverend Fergusson,” Russ said. “We’ll have you out of there soon enough.”
“Is she secure?” MacEntyre asked without turning his head.
Tracey rattled the chain. “Yeah,” he said.
“Come here, then.”
Tracey hurried to MacEntyre’s side. Behind them, Clare immediately began twisting and rotating her hands. MacEntyre dug into his jeans and fished out a rag. He carefully wiped down the barrel, bolt, trigger mechanism, and stock of the Remington. “Hold this,” he told Tracey when he was done. “Keep your finger on the trigger. If he moves, shoot him.”
Tracey frowned but took the gun. Everything about his stance and his handling of the gun proclaimed his inexperience. Russ considered rushing him, but he could see a round chambered and the safety off. Five-year-olds had been known to kill people under those conditions.
MacEntyre crossed to the rear of the tiled chamber. He opened a battered locker and rummaged around inside for a moment. When he turned back toward Russ, he had on translucent latex gloves, the kind worn by cops handling evidence. And by butchers handling raw meat.
He strode back toward Tracey and retook the Remington.
“Why’d you wipe the gun down?” Tracey asked.
“It prevents a positive gunpowder test,” MacEntyre said. “The cops won’t be able to tell this rifle was recently fired.”
“He’s lying,” Clare said.
“Put the knife to her,” MacEntyre said. “If she talks, use it.”
Tracey walked toward Clare. He brought the knife up.
“He wiped the gun down so you’ll be the only person whose fingerprints are on it. He has a plan.” She raised her voice. “You said you always have a plan, didn’t you?” She dropped her voice and looked directly at Tracey. “Actually, he’s had two plans. The one he told you was that the two of you were going to go away together and, what, rob banks?”
Tracey shook his head. “Join up with mercenaries,” he said, his voice sounding younger than his years.
“Shut up, Q. You don’t tell the enemy your plans.”
Clare stared into Tracey’s eyes. “The second plan’s the one he hasn’t told you about. That’s the one where he kills you, makes it look like a suicide, and blames it all on you.”
Tracey recoiled. “That’s a lie!”
“Feel in my coat pocket,” Clare said. “I took something out of your truck upstairs. Take it out of my pocket and read it.”
“She’s trying to trick you,” Aaron said. “Who are you going to believe? Her or me?” He couldn’t turn and confront Tracey directly without taking his eyes off Russ, but he backed up until his hip checked against a stainless steel table. His eyes flickered toward his friend. “You and me, man. We took a sacred vow.” His voice was almost seductive. “We’re not going to be drones like the rest of them. We are going to be kings of the earth.”
“I thought it was masters of the universe,” Clare said.
“Shut up, bitch! Before I blow your head off.”
It was probably the first time in his life Russ wanted a gun pointed at him, if only to prevent MacEntyre from making good on his threat. “Were you in it with Dennis Shambaugh?” he asked quickly.
“Who the hell is Dennis Shambaugh?” MacEntyre said.
“The guy whose girlfriend you killed.”
MacEntyre gave him a look of withering scorn that was so typically teenaged it was almost a put-on. “You don’t get it, do you. Who the target is is irrelevant. What matters is taking the power. Getting the blood on your hands. Being a wolf instead of a sheep.”
Russ blinked. “You didn’t go to my house to kill Audrey Keane?”
