Cut and Run (20 page)

When it came time, he felt no great adrenaline rush; to the contrary, he found a quiet stillness within himself, an immediacy that led him into a graceful movement, a silent, one-man ballet, choreographed to deliver death.

A moment later it was over, the deputy gaping soundlessly like a beached fish, his body twitching and sparking through the throes of death as he bled out from the neck. Paolo considered taking the man's gun but, recalling the barking dog, decided against its use for fear of alarming a neighbor. He did take the dead man's cell phone, but disconnected the battery. He would study it later for programmed phone numbers, call lists, and might even use it for a call or two.

Now, for the time being, he assumed the role of the circling deputy, picking up where the man had left off. He came around the front of the old farmhouse, ears alert for any sounds whatsoever inside. He heard only the yap-yap-yap,
pause
, of the baying dog.

Charged with exhilaration, Paolo headed straight for the tree behind which he hoped to find and kill the second agent. Only at the last moment did he realize he'd chosen wrong as the agent stepped out from behind the tree to Paolo's right . . . not where he expected him.

“What's up?” this deputy asked in a whisper. In the thick black of night, both figures were silhouettes.

Paolo said nothing, having no idea what voice to mimic.

“Hey! What's up?” the deputy tried again, his voice clear and tight, more strained than before, perhaps sensing, as some animals can, his own demise, even before taking precautions against it.

Paolo took two last strides, suddenly much longer strides than he'd used in his approach, so as to throw off the deputy's timing. One moment he was a smudge in the ground fog, the next a blur of arms and limbs, a slicing blade behind extraordinary leverage and strength. The deputy managed two defensive blocks, both of which cost him long gashes down the palms and wrists of both hands. As he opened his mouth to scream, Paolo's hand flashed before his face, slicing his tongue and lower lip. Containing him in a choke hold, Paolo spun the man, drove his right knee into the man's lower back, bending him backward, and in that moment of pas de deux, drew a hot, angry opening across the man's jowls and larynx, issuing a sound like a steam pipe bursting behind a crimson spray that joined the fog and painted the tree bark scarlet.

He dropped the man like a bushel of apples, not looking down to see if the job was complete. He knew his work. Instead, his back to the bark, he opened his senses like a flower to the sun. Every sound, every swaying branch and rattling leaf was a part of him. He waited for the backup, for the threatening glow of an infrared rifle sight tracking the tree and trying to find a kill spot on his body. He anticipated surprise, braced himself for the unexpected.

He kneeled, glanced once at the dead man, and pulled open his windbreaker. He found the man's weapon, chambered a round, and shoved the gun into the small of his own back. This for inside, if needed.

The dog stopped barking, as if somehow silenced by the scent of fresh blood on the wind—Paolo pissing on his territory; the dog wisely unwilling to challenge. Well off in the distance, he could make out the low, insect hum of interstate traffic. A jet rumbled. Fallen leaves tumbled and rolled and swirled at his feet, offering faint applause.

Paolo sensed there was no backup coming. He would face one more inside the house, and beyond him the prize. At any second, any minute, the deputy inside would attempt his scheduled contact with those on perimeter duty. Never longer than ten- or fifteen-minute intervals.

Paolo moved through angular shadows, dodging across the lawn toward the farmhouse.

The dog started up again, his nose revealing the truth. Only the dog, far off in the distance, stood witness to what had been done.

Larson drove all but the last mile with the retrofitted light system in play, his parking lights, taillights, and headlights alternating right to left and left to right in a dazzling display that identified him as an emergency vehicle. From inside the car's front grill, bright blue and white bursts of warning marked him as law enforcement—not fire or medical.

He'd called for backup—federal, not local—not knowing how traffic would affect his ride. As it happened, he reached Orchard House first.

He pulled off the road a quarter mile short of the farm and set out on foot.

Paolo ducked and crossed below the window, intent on reaching the front porch as quickly as possible. The ground floor would not only be highly secured, but would be where the remaining agent would keep himself.
Herself
was more likely, he thought, since they were protecting a female witness. This gave him more confidence.

The second story looked best. Even if it came down to breaking glass to gain entry, the time it would take a deputy to respond would be in his favor—he'd be inside and at the ready before anyone could make it upstairs.

Once onto the porch, he climbed atop the railing and pulled himself up a column, leprous white paint flakes peeling away and floating to the autumnal vegetation like moths that had ventured too close to the light. He climbed with all the sound of a snake, slipping up onto the porch roof, and from there the steeper main roof, to the first of several dormered windows, all pitch-black. He moved carefully and slowly, one window to the next, feeling vulnerable. The construction was old. Rope-and-weight double-hung windows. A barrier had been hung just on the other side of the glass—some kind of blackout material. He hoped this fabric might mute the sound of breaking glass. When the windows proved impossible to jimmy open, he drove his elbow just above the lock. Pieces of glass tumbled down, caught by the blackout curtain.

The window opened. His razor led the way through the rubbery vinyl covering, and he squeezed through the slit, into the interior.

The room was dark. A simple bed, made. A corner sink from a hundred years ago. A mirrored dresser. No suitcase. No clothes. He crossed to the door, soundlessly, ears alert for the sound of a guard rushing up the stairs.

Nothing
.

For a moment—only a moment—he allowed himself to believe the woman was not here, that this accounted for the informal patrolling of the perimeter, that these two had not been protecting someone but defending a structure. Another possible explanation for this complete silence was so tantalizing that he barely allowed himself to consider it. Were there only the two guards, not three? Had they adopted the format of one moving, one stationary because of these minimal numbers? Was the witness here, armed perhaps, but all alone?

It seemed plausible. The Service could be in chaos. How many deputies could they spare for a single witness when thousands of witnesses were at stake? But this optimism got interrupted by a second thought: The remaining deputy could be more clever than he'd given him credit for. Perhaps he was not the type to charge upstairs and force an encounter. What if he/she was lurking somewhere inside, ready to spring a trap and gain the element of surprise? Added to his sudden uncertainty was the idea of timing. Payment for his killing the two deputies outside would come due. With communication lost, the Service would respond, either by helicopter, car, or both. He might have five to ten minutes. After that, he couldn't be sure. It was a big house.

He went to work.

Through the whine in her ears that whistled like a teakettle, Hope thought she heard something. Larson's warning had tightened the screws at her temples, fixing her jaw to where she ground her teeth, her prickling skin feverish with fear. She'd worked so hard all these years to control such reactions, but this time, isolated in a strangely familiar place, without Penny for company, she panicked.

Outside. Close by. On the roof?

A location. She'd thought of little else since his call. In her various residences over the years she'd always created clever hiding spots for herself and Penny. Not panic rooms, but a nook or cranny, a false wall at the back of a closet, cleared out shelf space in the kitchen cabinets. But here, in this place? She considered the back bedrooms, for they gave her a shot at the back stairs if she heard someone coming up the front. She thought she might even engage in hide-and-seek by using both stairways and constantly keeping on the move. But Larson had told her to seek out a spot and stay put, and as much as she resisted being told what to do, she knew instinctively this made sense.

When she heard the muted but distinctive sound of glass breaking, she moved without further thought. The point was to find someplace out in the open yet hidden—how many times had that been drummed into her? Not a closet or an attic.

She spotted it that same second, her imagination fast at work given the breaking glass. She grabbed the bolster in this first of the two back bedrooms, the room having been converted into a television den. She unzipped the zipper the full length of the long round pillow that sat atop the twin bed converting it into a makeshift couch. Inside was a tube-shaped filler that she quickly hauled out and wrestled into the room's only closet, pausing as she found herself faced with two buckets of cleaning supplies, and on the shelves, in typical government fashion, another six cans of each cleaning product, all neatly lined up like little soldiers. Deodorant. Toothbrushes. Aspirin. Tylenol. Tampax. Toothpaste. Hand cream. A mini-pharmacy. How many times had she schooled Penny on using readily available household items as weapons?

The words on a green-and-white can jumped out at her:
Oven Cleaner
.

Paolo opened the bedroom door a crack, his back against the wall and away from the door in case someone threw shots blindly. He sneaked it open to where he could get an eye out.

An empty hallway. No guards.

Razor in his left hand, the borrowed gun now in his right, he moved down the hall, his back to the wall. He paused. He tried the next door. A bathroom, longer than it was wide. Empty of people, but not of their presence—a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush, both new, on the sink.

Another bedroom, next door, near the top of the stairs, its bed made, but ruffled. Someone had lain there. The air smelled cleaner, less dusty, less trapped, and Paolo could picture Hope Stevens airing out the stale air ahead of the blackout curtains being hung.

He took a glimpse down the staircase. With the hallway being empty, if there were other guards they were downstairs. Was she down there with them, or had he missed her somehow? But the woman was most likely upstairs. He retraced his steps, hurrying down the hall past where he'd come from, only to discover an unexpected hallway that emptied quickly into a television room.

He stopped cold. He smelled her: the sharp tang of fresh sweat. The pungency of woman. Close now.

He raised and lowered the gun as he stepped toward the room's closet.

He yanked it open, gun now aimed into the darkness. Found a string dangling and yanked it. A bare bulb flashed on, revealing two plastic buckets and some rags on the floor. All kinds of personal items and cleaning supplies on the shelves. A regular storehouse. A long white pillow, like a bolster.

Paolo jerked his head to his right: the bolster on the bed.
Misshapen
.

He followed along the zipper with his eye. A small gap at the very end, the zipper not quite closed.

There
.

Weapon in hand, Larson accidentally smeared the doorknob with Marland's blood as he cracked open the farmhouse's back door and slipped inside. Panic had invaded him and he couldn't shake it. He left the blood-smudged key in the lock to avoid making any more noise than necessary.
Settle down
, he told himself, but he found it impossible. He'd come across the body of only one of his fallen deputies. It had been too dark to identify him, though he believed it to be Marland.

He'd abandoned Hope here. Left her. Again.

He moved, cautiously and alertly, through the kitchen.
Clear
.

He surveyed the living room.
Clear
.

As he passed through it and crossed the hall and continued into the small study, the structure's old floorboards creaked beneath him with every step. No matter how fancy he got with his attempts at delicate footfalls, the boards still complained, some loudly. He decided distraction wouldn't be such a bad thing. He cleared the study, now focusing on the staircase to the second floor. Climbing those stairs would leave him exposed and vulnerable.

His lower back pressed against the handrail, his shoulder blades dragging on the peeling wallpaper, Larson started up the stairs.

They announced his every step.

With the first of the sounds, the reluctant bending of unwilling wood, Paolo turned toward the improvised hallway and the second-floor banister beyond. Someone was coming.

Hope saw the intruder fix on her. He'd not so much as given the bolster a second look until he'd seen the pillow that belonged in it at the bottom of the closet floor. Then he turned and looked right at her—right at the tiny gap in the zipper through which she looked. Right into her eye.

He took a cautious step toward her. Then another, to the edge of the bed.

As a sound in the hall distracted him, she made her move. With her left hand, she stripped the zipper open. With her right, she pushed the can of oven cleaner out of the bolster, sitting up simultaneously.

He sensed her and turned.

She threw herself forward, aimed for his face, and pressed the button, the can issuing a hiss of white spray that grew into foam as it contacted his skin. The cleaner covered the right side of his face, bringing a scream of pain, and she kept spraying.

The burning began at once.

With the pain, Paolo's finger involuntarily flexed on the trigger and the weapon fired wildly. Its recoil sudden and more than he'd have expected, his wrist was jerked violently back and, as he reached to stem the agony in his right eye, he dropped the weapon completely.

He lashed out blindly with the razor in his left hand, transferring it effortlessly to his right, and continuing to slash the air. The back of his calf caught the low coffee table and he went down backward, first to sitting, then rolling off the table.