The Grim Reaper's Dance

Dixon laughed. “Little bit of your own there, girl. Can’t say any of us feel too bad about it.”

Mifflin grunted. “Not sorry at all.”

Casey’s head hung as they dragged her, bound feet scraping the ground, toward the far end of the room. They took her through a doorway, banging her against the doorjamb, and held her up.

“Put her there.”

They dumped her onto a reclining lawn chair and she fell off, smashing her nose on the floor.

“On the chair,” Yonkers said. “Untie those things if you have to.”

“But Yonk, if we let her loose her she could—”

“Look at her, Craig. Do you really think she’s in any shape to escape?”

“It’s not escape I’m worried about.”

Yonkers snorted. “I didn’t realize you were such a little girl, Mifflin. Especially when surrounded by your team. Now untie her.”

Mifflin was anything but gentle as he worked at the knots. He finally got so frustrated he sawed through them with a knife, managing to knick Casey several times as he did it. Finally, he and Dixon grabbed her and threw her onto the chair.

Casey pressed the side of her face into the weave of the seat. L’Ankou. Please. Take me away.

“Not now, dearheart. It’s not your time.” Death ran cold fingers through her hair.

“Now,” Yonkers said. “Miss…Jones, was it? I suppose that’s as good a name as any at this point. Miss Jones, I understand you were in the truck with our unfortunate friend Evan a few days ago.”

Casey breathed around the gag in her mouth. Evan? Who was Evan again?

“The trucker,” Death whispered. “Evan Tague.”

Right.

“Dix,” Yonkers said. “Take that thing off her face.”

Dixon untied the knot on the gag, yanking out some of her hair in the process, and unwound the fabric from her face. She stretched her mouth open and shut, easing the pain.

“How was it you were in Evan’s truck, Miss Jones? Had you planned to meet somewhere?” He waited, and when she didn’t answer asked, “Just how deep were you into this with him?”

She swallowed, her mouth dry from breathing through it, and tried to speak. Her voice wouldn’t come.

“A drink, Mifflin. Do I have to tell you everything?”

Mifflin left the room and came back with a glass of water, probably straight from the hose. He poured it on her face, some of it actually making it into her mouth. She tried again. “Hitched. Ride.”

“Oh, I see. You hitched a ride. From where?”

Where had she been? She thought she shouldn’t tell him. Somehow it didn’t seem… “O…hio.”

“Ah, yes, Ohio. Lovely state. We do lots of business with people in Ohio. And you just happened to be traipsing along in Ohio when Evan drove up with his wealth of stolen information, is that right?”

Was she supposed to answer?

“Answer him.” Dixon kicked the chair, jarring her so that she could hardly catch her breath from the pain shooting through her ribs.

“Dix, give her some time. She can’t think straight, since you guys got so carried away. There, has she fainted now?” Casey’s eyes opened to slits, and she saw Yonkers sitting behind a desk, his hands folded on top. A large window, blinds down, framed him as he watched her. “Oh, you’re awake. Good.” He came around to the front of the desk, pulling an upright lawn chair a few feet from her. He sat and leaned over, his face inches from hers. “When did you and Evan join forces?”

What day of the week had it been? How long ago? “S-Sun…day.”

“Ah, Sunday. Just hours before his little accident. Such a shame. A shame things worked out the way they did—for both of you. You know, we really didn’t want Evan to die.” He tilted his head, looking into her eyes. Was that sorrow she saw there?

She blinked as he went fuzzy around the edges.

“Miss Jones?” He patted her cheek roughly. “Miss Jones?” He sat up, sighing loudly. “Well, congratulations, guys, you’ve done her in so hard she’s no good to us at all.”

“Can we get rid of her, then?” Mifflin sounded all too eager.

Casey strained to keep her eyes open—she wasn’t about to let him kill her with her eyes closed.

“No you can’t get rid of her, you idiot. We need her. We need what she has. And unless you know where it is…”

“You know I don’t.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Casey’s eyes drifted shut as she held on to the understanding that Mifflin wouldn’t be killing her just that moment.

“The kids,” Dixon said. “The teenagers.”

Casey kept her eyes shut, but her heart beat faster.

“What about them?” Casey heard Yonkers get up and move behind his desk.

“Don’t you think they know where it is?”

“The Cross kid told us to look at the shed. We did. It wasn’t there.”

“But—”

“He thought you were a cop, Dix, remember? He would have told you. Look, haven’t we been over this?”

A phone rang, and Dixon answered. After a brief conversation his phone slapped shut. “He’s here.”

“Good. Let’s get him in and out. No reason to keep him while we’ve got other…complications.”

“You got it. This is Sandy Greene, though. He was pretty pissed she called him. He probably wouldn’t mind getting a few punches in.”

He and Mifflin both laughed, and shuffled toward the door. Casey listened as hard as she could when they’d gone. Only one person breathing.

“Yonkers,” Death whispered. “He’s the only one left. Can you move?”

She certainly couldn’t take Yonkers out, if that’s what Death was wondering. Yonkers had been right to tell his men not to worry.

“Just try to do something,” Death said. “Move a finger. A toe. He’s not watching.”

She managed to move both. When she’d done that, she concentrated on her hand. Her left wrist seemed to be the one part of her that didn’t hurt.

“Well, that’s a plus,” Death said. “How about an ankle?”

The left one seemed okay. In fact, from what she could tell she didn’t have any broken bones except for maybe some ribs. She’d had broken ribs before, and what she was feeling was very familiar. There was no telling what kind of internal bleeding she was suffering—she vaguely remembered getting hit numerous times in her abdomen.

“Yonk?” Westing’s voice jerked Casey back into the room, and she held as still as she could. “Want to see this? Sandy got some extras, and I’m not sure what you want done with them.”

Yonkers growled. “How many times do I have to tell these guys? No extras—just what’s on the paperwork.”

“I know.”

“There’s a reason these people can’t drive legit anymore. Too stupid.”

Yonkers’ footsteps followed Westing’s, and the door slammed shut. Casey’s impulse was to relax, but she knew this could be her only chance to get free. Or, if not free, to at least arm herself. Biting her lip, she eased into a sitting position, sliding her legs off the chair, her feet on the floor. Her vision swam.

“Steady,” Death said. “I can’t catch you, you know.”

Casey took as deep a breath as she could and looked at the top of Yonkers’ desk. Papers. A clock. Picture frames. Not much within reach. She stretched as far as she could and snagged a pencil. Not newly sharpened, but when you were thrusting lead into someone, it didn’t need to be.

“Coming back!” Death hissed.

Footsteps and angry voices were heading their way.

Casey slid the pencil up her shirt and lay back on the chair just as the door opened.