Days of Reckoning (11 page)

The older woman laughed as well. Sam was pleased to see that she picked up on the joke. “Well,” she said, “you best keep it that way, young man. But if you see my Sam, you tell him to stop by and see his aunt. Will you do that? It’s been so long since he was here last.”

Actually, it’s been less than a week
. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

Sam’s chest felt heavy as he left the building. He hated seeing his aunt this way. Since his parents had passed away she was the only family he had left. “I need a beer,” muttered. He decided to stop at the neighborhood bar on his way home. He never noticed the blonde woman standing at the receptionist’s desk, rubbing her face as he walked by.

#

This should be interesting
, Miranda thought. She walked down the hall to room I-14 and briefly considered wandering aimlessly before leaving, but she decided to look in and see Francine Connor. She had never met any of Sam’s family, or even heard much about them for that matter. Perhaps this would shed some light on him. She knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Hello?” she asked.

“Well hello dear!” the woman in the bed greeted her brightly. “How nice to see you. It’s been ages since I’ve had any visitors.”

Miranda wondered if she had the right room. “Are you Mrs. Connor?” she asked.

The woman thought hard for a few minutes. “Well, you know, dear, I suppose I am.” Miranda glanced at the nameplate on the door, double-checking that it did in fact read
Francine Connor
. “And what is your name?”

“Um, Becky.”

“You don’t sound sure. That’s all right, though, neither am I, usually. Do come in and sit down, Becky.” Miranda walked in and took a seat beside the older woman’s bed. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Sam the detective. Hmm. I’m sorry, dear, I’m not as sharp as I used to be. Let’s see, I suppose he’s a nice boy. A little rambunctious though. Always getting into trouble. I don’t know, he must drive his poor mother up the wall.” She smiled. “He always wants to play with the bigger boys. I don’t know how many times I've heard about him coming home with a black eye, split lip, bloody nose… his father always used to tell me ‘you should have seen the other guy,’ but those boys were always so much bigger…” Her voice faded away as she struggled to recapture the rest of the memory. Failing, she fell silent.

“Mrs. Connor?” Miranda prodded. “Are you all right?”

The woman smiled. “You can call me Aunt Fran, if you like. That’s what everyone else calls me. Always have. You’re a very lovely young woman. What is your name?”

“Yes, but a sweet boy. I never had any children, you know, so I would watch him when his parents were away. Never any trouble at all.”

Miranda wondered briefly if they were talking about a different Sam than before. She looked at her watch discreetly while the woman stared at the ceiling with a dreamy smile on her face.

Miranda hurried out of the home, remembering to smile at the receptionist, who was engrossed in her magazine again. She shuddered as she walked to her car. Nursing homes always gave her the creeps. She couldn’t imagine a fate worse than that. She wondered how often Sam visited his aunt. She imagined it was fairly frequently, but with Aunt Fran’s failing memory it probably didn’t make any difference to her. Miranda heaved a heavy sigh as she slid into the seat of her car. Well, there was too much to do now to worry about the fate of the country’s elderly population. She had to get home and get ready for an important meeting. She pulled out of the retirement village lot, squealing her tires, anxious to shake off the depression of the nursing ward. She had her brother to think of. After all, he would never face the problem of being stuck in a nursing home.

Miranda returned to Wainwright’s lodge that night and tried to remember its interior layout. The first floor had a large kitchen, a sitting room and a den with amenities such as a pool table and satellite television. Upstairs were four bedrooms and a bathroom. A half-bath was attached to the den on the first floor. The décor was rustic and somewhat quaint: a contribution, perhaps, courtesy of the Chief’s wife. As far as Miranda knew, Mrs. Wainwright was oblivious to the goings-on of the militia; she just knew the members as friends of her husband who liked to shoot and hunt. Nothing about that was abnormal in this part of the state. But she couldn’t take anything for granted.

Miranda drove past the driveway about a half-mile and left her car hidden off the road. She took stock of herself before setting off on foot. She was dressed in shades of black and gray, with a knit hat covering her brunette hair. She removed her jacket. Strapped to her back was one of the MAC-11 machine pistols Damon had stolen from Beaumont’s store. It was fitted with a threaded barrel and silencer, as was the Glock strapped to her right thigh. On the inside of her left thigh was a long, thin stiletto blade. She made sure all the weapons were locked and loaded. Satisfied, she pulled a ski mask down over her face and headed off into the woods.

#

Wainwright and Shane sat in the den, drinking beer and watching the television. “How much longer do you think it will be before Damon shows up?” Shane asked.

Wainwright consulted his watch. “Supposed to be here midnight. He’ll probably want to scout out things a bit, so maybe he’ll be early, maybe he’ll be late.”

“You think he’ll have the guns with him?”

“I hope so. I’ve been keeping an ear out; none of the agencies after him have a clue where he is. And no one’s mentioned any guns except for a few pieces stolen from Beaumont’s store. If he was smart he ditched those somewhere.”

“Honest. Some Canadian stuff I picked up. Take it with me when I go hunting. Guns and alcohol are a bad mix.” Wainwright started to say more, leaning forward to continue his explanation, but was cut off by the sound of glass shattering. “What the hell was that?”

Shane was out of his seat, a pistol in his hand. “Came from out front.”

They took cover behind their chairs, their backs to the window. Wainwright pulled out his own weapon, an old .45 automatic, and crouched. “Head for the doorway, I’ll cover you from here, then we’ll go in together.”

Shane nodded and rose. He made it about three steps before the window behind them shattered as well. The burly bearded man cried out as a stream of bullets stitched across his back, knocking him to the floor. Wainwright rolled to the other side of his recliner just before the stream tore into the leather where his head had been. He kept moving, staying low, waiting for the angry buzzing to cease. When he reached the far end of the couch he pointed his pistol over the arm and fired a pair of shots at the window. He fired three more into the wall below it, hoping they would penetrate the wood. They didn’t, so he fired two more through the window. No bullets answered him.

While the ringing in his ears died down, Wainwright changed magazines in his gun. Then he risked a look around the couch. Shane lay sprawled on the floor face down. A puddle of red spread out and away from his body. His pistol had skittered across the floor and was only a few feet away from Wainwright. The Chief waited several more seconds and then lunged out to grab it. The Smith and Wesson more than doubled his firepower. He decided that no more shots were going to come through the window, and turned to move to the front of the house.

#

Miranda emptied the machine pistol through the window and was gone before Wainwright ever fired a shot in reply. She had seen a big man fall and Wainwright diving for cover. Assuming no one else was in there, that left only the Chief to be dealt with. She made her way around to the front of the house. The sound of Wainwright’s .45 firing masked her entry through the window she had shattered in the kitchen. Once inside she let the MAC hang from its sling and drew her Glock. No footsteps or shouts sounded from upstairs, so she decided to deal with Wainwright first and then clear the second floor. She moved soundlessly through the doorway and knelt at the two stairs leading into the den, just in time to see Wainwright pick up the pistol lying on the floor. She waited for him to turn around.

“Drop them.”

Wainwright’s eyes widened in surprise, not only to find that he was staring down the barrel of a pistol, but also that it was a woman’s voice and figure behind the trigger. He weighed his options. She had the drop on him and his pistols weren’t pointing anywhere near her. He was fast, and might be able to pull down on her, but she was obviously good as well. And she had already drawn a bead on him. Shane’s dead body testified to the fact that she could shoot straight. Wainwright’s shoulders slumped, and he let his guns drop to the floor. Maybe she wouldn’t find his hideout piece.

“Lay down, spread eagle,” she commanded.

Wainwright obeyed. Miranda didn’t bother to frisk him, and he began to hope, but that died away when she jerked his arms behind his back and restrained them with plastic cuffs. “Anyone else in the house?” He shook his head in the negative. “I don’t believe you.” She delivered a swift kick to his ribs.

Wainwright shouted in pain. “Jesus! There’s no one else here! I swear!”

“Good. You wait here while I check.”

Miranda left him facedown on the floor and quickly moved through the house. While she was searching, Wainwright struggled against the restraints. They were the same kind used by his department to temporarily restrain suspects. Usually they were cut off after the person had been restrained with metal cuffs. He tried to worm his way into the kitchen, hoping to get to a knife there.

“Naughty boy,” Miranda chided as she walked into the den again. “I told you to wait here for me.” Her foot connected with his ribs again, eliciting another sharp cry. “I guess I can’t blame you for trying, though. After all, you are going to die.”

Wainwright froze at that comment. He decided to try defiance. “Then get on with it.”

Miranda gave a low chuckle as she searched him for weapons, finding the snub-nosed revolver strapped to his ankle. “Oh no, Chief, you and I are going to have a little chat first.” When she was finished, she pulled him roughly to his feet. “Move out to the kitchen.” She pushed him in the back with the butt of her pistol for emphasis.

Wainwright stumbled at the steps, but made it into the kitchen. Miranda pushed him down into one of the chairs at the table. She rifled through the drawers and found some duct tape, which she used to secure his feet to the chair legs. Then she pulled a second chair out and straddled it, facing her prisoner. She lifted the ski mask over her face.

Wainwright stared at her for a moment as recognition dawned on him. His jaw dropped open. “Miranda? What is this about? Where’s -” He cut himself off.

Miranda smiled. “Thought you were meeting Damon tonight, huh? Text messaging is such a wonderful thing. Communicate without voice, all at the push of a button. He’s the same place as my brother, now, but was kind enough to give me his phone first.”

“Look,” Wainwright said, “if you killed him that’s okay by me. He stole some things of mine and killed Henry. My friend. You knew him too. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Miranda was up in a flash and sent a kick into Wainwright’s gut. “Neither did my brother,” she hissed.