Twice since Ruger had arrived she felt her cell phone — always set to vibrate — start shivering in her jeans pocket, but as before she couldn’t do anything about it. It had to be Crow calling to say he was on his way, and she prayed that he would hurry.
“Okay, kids,” Ruger said as Val and her father stood with him by the front door, “now here’s the way it’s going to go. First we’re going to fetch a wheelbarrow, and then you two are going to come with me and help me fetch my friend and some of our gear from the field, and bring him back here. Then I’ll watch as Val ties you up, Mr. Guthrie. Once that’s done, you, my little broken-nose chickie, will do your Florence Nightingale on my buddy. Then I’ll tie you up and me and my buddy will be out of your lives. Except for fixing your front door and filing an insurance claim for your Bronco, you won’t be much worse for wear. How’s that sound? Fair enough? This is a simple one-two-three sort of thing. Anyone gets creative and everyone comes out losers. Everyone but me, that is.” He looked at them each in turn. Val nodded first, then her father. Mark and Connie, bound and gagged, could only stare. “Cool. Then let’s go. I’m getting a little tired of this Early American decor anyway. Christ.”
Guthrie bent and picked up one end of the door, and Val the other, and together they hefted it. Ruger carried his pistol in one hand and a heavy flashlight in the other, with the length of the clothesline slung over his shoulder. They left the house and descended the porch steps.
“Okay, set it down,” Ruger said and they laid the door on the ground. “You,” he said to Val, “go get the wheelbarrow.” Val felt her pulse jump when she thought of all the bladed tools in the barn — and the phone — but Ruger placed the barrel of his pistol against the back of her father’s skull. “Just the wheelbarrow, sweet cheeks. You read me?”
“Yes,” she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper but well below freezing.
“Okay. Down on your knees, Pops, until our gal Val gets back.” Guthrie slowly lowered himself to his knees, and at Ruger’s direction, laced his fingers together on top of his head. Ruger closed his strong white hand over Guthrie’s gnarled sun-browned fingers and squeezed mildly, but even so the grinding of his fingers made Guthrie wince. Val saw the flicker of pain on her father’s face, as Ruger had intended. “Yes, indeed, it hurts,” said Ruger. “It’ll keep hurting until you get your ass back here with the wheelbarrow. C’mon, bitch, time is money.”
Val turned and ran for the utility shed. True to his word, Ruger kept the painful pressure up until Val came running back behind a bright red wheelbarrow that was spattered with mud. Her father’s face was pinched and his lips drawn thin and tight against his teeth.
Nodding with appreciation, Ruger released Guthrie’s hands and stepped back.
Guthrie rose, opening and closing his hands to restore blood flow. His fingers rang with pain.
“Pick up the door and let’s get rolling.” He had procured a flashlight from the house, and shone it on the backs of father and daughter as they walked along the path that ran beside the vast cornfield. The Guthries laid the door sideways across the wheelbarrow and Val hefted the handles while her father steadied the door. Ruger walked three paces behind them, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.
As they retraced the route he’d taken since leaving Boyd, Ruger watched them with something approaching pleasure. He actually liked the old fart and his daughter. They were both tough and Ruger respected tough. He was on the fence as to whether he would kill them or not. Probably not, he mused. What would be the point? Identifying him to the cops wouldn’t exactly be a news flash.
Ruger did wonder how Val would be in the sack, though. Feisty. Probably very feisty, and if things weren’t so damned pressing he might have taken the time to get to know her. See if he could tame the filly — not that it would be easy, he thought. Val didn’t seem the type to get a case of the vapors. She’d fight him all the way, and he just didn’t have that kind of time.
Now the Stepford Wife on the other hand. Yeah, she was a sweet piece. Stacked in a country sort of way, and certainly pretty enough. He might just have the time to show that one a thing or two. Just a quickie, but it would set him up right and ease some of the tension that had been knotting his neck muscles all day. Ruger liked the idea and it made him smile. He didn’t believe that Connie was as completely inane or prissy as she appeared — Christ, who could be? — and he wondered what kind of fire lay beneath the surface. Maybe all she needed was a little incentive to make her show her true colors. Her stick-up-his-ass husband probably didn’t have what it took to get much mileage out of her.
They walked down the lane between the tall walls of ripe corn, the beam of the flashlight keeping the Guthries in a globe of dancing yellow.
Ruger — you are my left hand!
The memory of those words and that voice came again and he missed a step and almost tripped. All the time he was in the house it had kept echoing in his head.
What the hell was it? It was driving him batty because he felt he ought to know that voice — that he did know it, but he just couldn’t put a name to it.
Yet the voice was compelling, insistent, and somehow…comforting.
Ruger — you are my left hand!
He took a deep breath and adjusted his grip on his pistol and focused his attention ahead. It didn’t take them very long to retrace the route Ruger had walked since leaving Boyd with his broken leg. Idly, he wondered how Boyd was doing, not that he cared a whit. If Boyd kicked it, then he’d just find someone else who could get him out of the country; there were enough travel agents in the circles he was used to gliding through. He had enough unmarked cash and enough saleable product to grease the wheels of such bureaucracy. With even moderate luck he’d be in Brazil before the weekend was out; or if things were too hot he could get into Canada for a while, hide out with a woman he knew in Montreal, and use her connections to pick up a new passport and visa and fly to Africa. Maybe pick up some mercenary work.
If Boyd was dead…then maybe he would linger here at the ol’ homestead for the night. Maybe do a comparison study of both of the gals, and then head north in the morning, blending into the tourist traffic and following the Poconos up into New York State.
Ruger — you are my left hand!
He grinned in the darkness with a wet shark’s smile, and reconsidered whether he would leave anyone here alive when he left.
The old 9mm Glock 17 felt light and comfortable in Jerry Head’s hand. He had a.32 Smith and Wesson strapped to his right ankle, just in case. Not as a throw-down, but as a true backup piece. Twice in the line of duty Head had experienced handgun disasters. The first time his old S&W 439 had jammed, and the other time he’d lost his gun during a chase that required him to jump from a garage roof into a Dumpster. His sidearm had gotten buried in Hefty bags of old pizza, used Pampers, and empty cereal boxes. In both cases the little.32 had saved his ass. Though lacking the stopping power of the heftier 9mm, and carrying far fewer rounds, the little wheel gun had the grace of never jamming, and being there when otherwise he would have had to try and return fire armed only with harsh language. It was a comfortable weight on his ankle. He knew Toombes had a similar backup piece; he doubted Jimmy Castle did. The man may have been big city once upon a time, but why would he have needed a little guardian angel out here in Stickville?