She came out of the trees, to a surprisingly large lake. Lambent moonlight shimmered on the tranquil surface. A chorus of bullfrogs croaked and bellowed.
On the other side of the banks, she saw the mobile home. It stood upon a grassy, tree-studded knoll, reached by a crumbling set of concrete steps. The trailer’s white paint was so faded, the tin roof so festooned with kudzu and overhanging branches, walls so buried within tall, dense grass, that it looked as if it might have sat there for decades and was slowly being sucked into the earth.
A couple of the trailer’s windows were broken. But soft light glowed in one of the rooms.
Her baby was inside that room. She could feel her.
Hold on, baby, I’m coming.
She raced around the muddy banks, heedless of the aches and pains that wracked her body. Loose stones tumbled away beneath her shoes as she pounded up the steps.
She caught the smell before she reached the top of the staircase. The stink of garbage, feces, and urine. The mingled fumes hung heavy in the air.
When she arrived at the top, she saw why.
76
Springing out of hiding with a battle cry, Corey swung a thick tree branch at Leon. It smacked solidly against his chest, and he flew backward off his feet with a surprised uuuhhhh, his pistol spinning away into the weeds.
Lifting the wood to his shoulder, Corey bared his teeth in a savage grin. This man had jeopardized his family, his life, everything, and he wanted to kill him, wanted to split his skull open until his brains oozed out and the crazy light faded forever from his manic eyes.
Shouting, Corey raised the branch and brought it down.
Leon rolled out of the way.
The wood slammed against the earth, sent painful tremors through Corey’s arms.
As agile as a jungle cat, Leon launched toward Corey, tackling him. Corey’s teeth clicked together as they collided, and he whammed to the ground.
They wrestled across the forest floor. Leon was grunting, cursing.
“Can’t take me out. . homeboy. . can’t take me out. .”
Corey grappled him into a headlock. Wheezing, Leon got a hand free and pounded his fist against Corey’s same kidney that he had slugged earlier, and a burning poker of pain speared Corey’s side. He howled, loosened his hold.
Their bodies tangled like the weeds in which they fought. Leon frantically rammed his elbow against Corey’s chin. Corey’s head whipped sideways, and he tasted blood, warm and salty.
Leon got on top of him. He was trying to apply a choke hold. Corey threw a punch, and it snapped into Leon’s jaw. Leon dropped away with a grunt.
Gun, Corey thought, desperately. Todd had a shotgun.
He staggered to his feet. Leon grabbed his foot. Corey spun and kicked him in the head.
Leon groaned, went down.
On weak knees, Corey stumbled to Todd. Todd’s eyes were glazed, as if he were daydreaming, but blood soaked his face and throat.
Was he dead? Corey didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He snatched the shotgun out of Todd’s slack fingers. Turned.
Leon crawled away from him, tunneling like a badger through the undergrowth. Going for the other gun.
Corey aimed in his direction and pulled the trigger.
But nothing happened.
Jammed, jammed, the damn thing’s jammed.
He didn’t know how to clear a shotgun jam, and didn’t have time.
Leon retrieved the Glock and fired. A round whizzed past Corey’s cheek, the heat trail kissing his ear.
Corey fled in the opposite direction. Stampeding through weeds. Bouncing drunkenly off trees.
Another gunshot shattered the night, and a round smashed into Corey’s shoulder.
He cried out, swayed as fire bit into him, and collided against a tree.
No, you fall, you die.
Somehow, he kept his balance and kept running. There was a lake up ahead. He sprinted across the banks and jumped in at a full run
As he catapulted through the air, he prayed the water was deep enough to hide him.
He plunged into the lake. He sank below the surface, kicked, and didn’t feel a bottom.
Paddling his one good arm and kicking, he dove deeper.
Driftwood and vines batted against him. Fish wriggled by. Water flooded his wounded shoulder, felt like ice leaking into his bloodstream.
His lungs ached. He needed to breathe. But he forced himself to swim farther away from shore, stroking like crazy. When he could hold out no longer, he risked rising to the surface.
Gasping, he looked around, expecting to see Leon on the banks, taking aim at him like a kid in a shooting gallery.
Leon was gone.
The echo of warbling sirens rolled across the water. Through the forest beyond the lake, he saw flashes of red and blue light, and only then did he remember that he had called 911 to report the fire.
77
Moving toward the trailer, Simone had to choke down her gorge. So many heaping piles of dog manure filled the overgrown yard that she didn’t know where to step. A big blue trash bin near the front porch overflowed with garbage. Four mongrel dogs were camped out in front of the can, picking through the trash.
A rust-eaten pickup truck was parked in the driveway beside the house. A gravel road led out beyond the property.
Who lived here? How could they?
The dogs’ ears lifted at her approach. They turned to regard her, tails wagging.
Relief passed through her as she saw the animals’ friendly demeanor because she wasn’t going to let any number of canines stop her from getting inside that house to her little girl.
Other dogs inside began to bark, and she saw furry faces appear at the broken front windows. There were so many yips and barks it sounded as if a dog kennel were based inside.
The door sagged on weak hinges. She didn’t bother with knocking. She turned the knob, found it unlocked, and went in.
The front room was dimly lit with a kerosene lantern, but it was difficult to see the furniture because there were so many dogs. Dogs were everywhere, puppies and adults and geriatric hounds, of every breed and size, some in poor health, others fine. They swarmed around her, licking, poking, sniffing.
The stench of feces and urine was unbelievable. She covered her mouth with her T-shirt.
Hoarder, she thought, recalling case studies. Whoever lives here is a hoarder, obsessive compulsive, and because dogs are being hoarded, the resident is almost certainly a man.
She wished she had a weapon. It would have made her feel safer.
A thumping sound reached her. It sounded as if it were coming from a back room, as if someone were going nuts with a hammer: thump-thump-thump-thump.
Her heart pounding in sync with the sound, she forced her way through the crowd of canines. She passed by a kitchen that was unbelievably foul. Roaches skittering across the floor and walls and counters. Mounds of feces everywhere. Urine-stained tile.
Sweet Jesus.
She gagged into her shirt, longing for a gas mask.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
She moved into a narrow hallway. Head-high stacks of phone books lined one wall. Light came from behind a door near the end, on the right, and that was where the thumping came from, too.
She pushed the door open.
Dogs were in here, too, but compared to the rest of the house, the room was pristine. It looked like a nursery. She saw a dusty crib. A box of diapers, a changing table.
Thump-thump-thump-thump. .
A bearish, long-haired man in a fatigue jacket knelt in the corner, his wide back to her. He was ruthlessly beating something with a hammer and muttering a stream of gibberish.