The deputy fell like a discarded doll to the grass, which was by then already dotted with her blood.
79
Hannah screamed.
Allison Parker called from the parlor, “Han! What?”
Mouth open, eyes wide, the girl stared out the window.
Shaw watched Jon pocket the dead deputy’s pistol, her two extra mags and phone. He pulled the girl away from the windows and closed the drapes again, then he slammed the door and wedged the chair back under the knob.
Hannah was sobbing. “No...”
When Shaw looked again, Merritt was gone.
Shaw turned toward Parker. “It was Jon. He killed her. The deputy.”
“Jesus, no...”
It was then that Shaw noticed that the woman’s car was still idling.
Kristi Donahue hadn’t shut the engine off when she’d arrived. Merritt hadn’t noted this. He’d neutralized a threat and, in a hurry to rendezvous with his hitmen, he’d forgotten about the vehicle.
Scanning the forest. No threat from him or the Twins. Not yet.
How long would it take Shaw, Parker and Hannah to get to the sedan? Twenty seconds.
While the short move would be painful for the woman, there was no other choice. He’d carry her to the car and, basically, shove her into the back. They’d speed away before the three hostiles, hearing her scream, could arrive and start firing.
He called to Hannah, “We’re going to the car.” She was staring toward the window, not seeing a thing. He said firmly, “You with me? Hannah. I need you with me.”
And like flipping a switch her eyes came to life. She inhaled, wiped tears away with her fingers and nodded.
“Get your mother up.”
She vanished into the parlor. Shaw looked again outside. Still clear.
He joined the girl and they helped Parker into the living room. “Oh, no,” she whispered, looking through a gap in the curtain. The pool of blood was slowly growing.
Shaw got his arm around her shoulders and helped her to the front door.
Hannah glanced at her feet and saw the bolo. She picked it up. Hefted its weight.
Shaw started to open the door.
Just as a human form appeared in the woods, pushing through the brush.
Crouching, Jon Merritt hurried to the car once again. He stepped unceremoniously over Kristi’s body, reached into the passenger compartment, shut the engine off and pocketed the keys. He started to leave but noted something in the backseat. Opening the door, he took out a short black pump shotgun on a strap and a green and yellow box of shells.
He turned toward the forest to meet his triggermen, who would be easing carefully through the woods for the final attack.
Hannah exhaled slowly, her face a mask without expression.
She was no longer crying, though her mother was. “No, no,” Parker said breathlessly, wincing. She was leaning against the parlor doorjamb.
They would probably know by now the detergent box target was a trick — otherwise one of the occupants would’ve fired when Merritt came back to snatch the keys and scattergun.
“What now?” Hannah asked coolly.
It had come down to the twenty percent option.
Shaw pointed from one side window to the other. “Escape routes. Before they come, they’ll fire into the cabin. I’ll be watching. That’ll give me their positions. There’ll be a lull before they come in. They’ll be worried about cross fire, hitting each other. I’ll tell you which window’s best to go out of. Get into the brush and just keep going as fast as you can. Follow the shore. Circle around to the far side of the lake. It’s not that far to the highway, the one that leads to Millton. Flag down somebody.”
The girl nodded.
The twenty percent referred to the success of getting out of the cabin. Once they were in the bush their chances increased dramatically. The woodland was dense and the sun was nearly down; covering darkness was spreading.
But getting over the twenty percent hump was going to be tough. Would one or all of them be hit when the three men peppered the cabin? And if they did make it out, would they be picked off in the yard before they made it to the relative safety of the woods?
Parker said, “The lake... Swim?”
“Too cold and not with your leg.”
A scan of the grounds. Nothing out the front or the other side window.
Where were they?
The snake you can’t see is worse...
Hannah was studying the side yard, east, then west.
He saw her focused eyes, her stance.
This took him back to the Compound, when he was her age.
Sixteen. Stalking through woods similar to the ones surrounding them now, armed with the Colt Python, following two sets of tracks — his father’s, and those of the man who was hunting him.
Sixteen. Rappelling down a hundred-foot cliff to Ashton’s body.
Sixteen. Resolving to find and kill that killer himself.
Hannah’s voice was urgent. “Mr. Shaw, you made it sound like you’re not coming too. Aren’t you?”
“Not right away. I’m going to get one of their weapons.”
“I’ll help you.” The words were crisp and unwavering. She lifted a bolo.
“No. Your mother’ll need you.”
She paused. Finally she whispered, “All right.”
Shaw looked over the pathetic weapons they had: a kitchen knife and canoe paddle, bolos, a hammer.
MacGyver...
He was about to check the surroundings again. But just then Shaw’s eyes cut to the girl’s. He cocked his head. She nodded. Again, they’d heard something at the same time.
Footsteps were approaching the front door.
The attacker had come from one side yard while Hannah was checking out the other.
“Down.” He gripped the knife in one hand, the hammer in the other and walked to the door. Hannah helped her mother to the floor and picked up one of the bolos again. She swung it ominously back and forth.
Volleyball...
A moment of howling silence, tension flooding the room.
And then:
“Alli, Hannah. It’s me.”
“Jon?” Parker gasped.
Shaw looked out briefly. Yes, there he stood alone. “Merritt, I’m armed.”
A faint chuckle. “Armed? With a kitchen knife and some kind of slingshot.”
Thuds sounded on the resonant porch.
“All my weapons. There they are. My hands are up.”
Shaw glanced outside. Merritt stood at the bottom of the steps, wincing. He was in pain. His arms were skyward. On the porch were the deputy’s Glock, two revolvers and the shotgun. The backpack too.
He said, “Just tugging up the clothes, giving you a look.”
Shaw had, for no reason, expected a low, raspy voice. But Merritt’s was soft and tenor.
With his left hand, Merritt lifted his windbreaker shirttail and jacket and turned slowly. No other weapons. Shaw noticed a massive bruise on the belly.
“I’d just as soon not stand out here much longer. I saw those two assholes in the woods and they’re not very far away. Sorry, Han. Language.”
80
First, Shaw secured the weapons.
This was not governed by a never rule. Though if there were one, it would read: Never be stupid.
He took the Glock, made sure it was loaded and a round chambered. It went into his waistband, right rear. An easy, practiced draw. Two mags in the left front pocket of his jeans.
The others — the two revolvers and the shotgun — he checked and set in the corner.
“Car keys?”
“Right pocket.” A nod at the windbreaker. “Two sets. Mine and hers.”