Deadlocked (38 page)

The barn was close to the church, which gave Mason a chance to be there on time, but not until after King had arrived and chosen his ground. There were multiple entrances to the park and King could easily approach the barn from another direction, keeping hidden until he was ready to reveal himself. Mason and Victoria would be forced to come down the curved circle drive and wait for King in the theater courtyard where they would be both hidden and exposed.

The theatre was called Just Off Broadway, an almost clever play on the name of the nearby street and the dreams of the actors. It was a square building constructed of redwood with limestone corners and a forest green–pitched roof, the entire effect more suggestive of a rustic mountain retreat than an urban oasis for the arts.

The remains of the barn were also made of limestone, all that was left of outer walls with arched doorways and narrow windows. With no structure connected to its walls, it reminded him of a Hollywood back lot rendition of the Alamo.

There was a short stretch of wall in the southeast corner interrupted by the paved parking lot for the theater and the entrance to a courtyard inside the walls. The western wall was an unbroken bulwark that wrapped around the north end where the ground rose into the back of a hillside. The top of that wall was at least twenty feet above the interior courtyard, windows filled with wrought iron bars like it had once been a Wild West jail though it had been built in the early 1900s to house city-owned horses and park equipment.

Turning the car around, Mason parked on the street running alongside the hospital near the top of the driveway that led down to the theater. A few other cars were parked to the north, none of them Whitney's. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes left and no sign of Claire. He circled the car, walked back to Thirty-first Street to stare at the empty street, then back again to the car, repeating the process four more times.

With only five minutes to go, Claire's white Volvo sedan turned onto Thirty-first Street from Broadway, crested a slight rise, and glided to a stop half a block away. Harry was behind the wheel, which only surprised Mason a little. Harry still liked to drive and would fight Claire for the keys if the trip was a short distance over familiar ground with little or no traffic. This trip fit the bill and Mason guessed Claire was too nervous to fight with Harry. Claire and Victoria were with him, one in the front and the other in the back, though he couldn't see their faces clearly enough through the dirty windshield to tell which was which.

Harry got out, walked around the back of the car, and opened the rear door, helping a woman out of the backseat. Mason recognized Victoria King's hat and raincoat from the day before. She hesitated as if uncertain of her surroundings, walking slowly toward Mason, looking back at Harry who nodded encouragement. Harry got back in the car, gunned the engine, and turned around, disappearing as Thirty-first Street dipped back down toward Broadway at the same moment Mason realized the woman was Claire, not Victoria.

"Are you out of your mind?" Mason hissed as she reached him.

"I would be if I let you trade that poor woman like a side of beef," she said. "She doesn't know where she is or what she's doing. We're about the same size and with her hat and coat, Whitney won't know the difference."

"What about Mary?" Mason demanded. "Whitney will kill her if we don't deliver his mother."

"You and I both know he'll kill her if we do once he has his mother back."

"And you don't think he will if we don't?" Mason asked.

"What are you going to do? Adopt him so he thinks you're his mother?"

"We'll keep our distance so he won't know I'm not. You tell him that I won't budge until he releases Mary," she said. "I know it's not much of a plan, but it's the best I could come up with on short notice. Just keep us far enough apart that he can't see me clearly."

"Where did Harry go?" Mason asked.

"Far enough away that you can't make me change my mind. He told me to give you this," she added, handing Mason a gun. It was Harry's .357 magnum, Mason remembered how he used to tease Harry that Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry had nothing on him, Harry grinning and saying the difference between him and Eastwood was that he wasn't shooting blanks.

Mason stuck the gun in the back of his jeans, pulling his shirt out to cover it. He had a gun and a knife, neither of which could offset the odds Whitney had in his favor except for one thing. Whitney would assume he was unarmed. It was a slender edge.

He checked his watch. They were out of time. He studied his aunt. Her slate eyes were clear and unwavering. Her mouth was firm. Her hands didn't tremble. She was magnificent.

"Well, then," Mason said, threading his arm around hers. "Let's go for a walk."

Chapter 53

Mason stopped at the edge of the courtyard, shielding Claire though she was nearly as big as he was. The raincoat added unexpected bulk to her frame. The grass was more brown than green, stunted by the summer's heat in spite of the recent rain. The sun had risen far enough to clear the hospital high on the ridge to the east, splashing the top of the raised north wall with a blinding glare, the courtyard still shaded. He held his ground, preferring to keep the open parking lot to his back rather than the claustrophobic ruins.

They stood there, not moving, the only sounds a stray cry from a crow drifting lazily overhead before disappearing into the trees. Minutes passed, Mason feeling King's unseen eyes on them waiting until he was certain they were alone.

"Mason!" King finally called out. "Don't be shy. Come a little closer. I want a good look at my mom so I know she's okay."

Mason shaded his eyes with his hand, scanning the ruins for King's hiding place. King's voice had come from in front of them, the most likely place being from behind the north wall where the sloping ground gave him added cover and a clear field of fire down into the courtyard. Sandwiched between the hillside and the limestone, the sun's glare provided added camouflage.

"Not until I see Mary," Mason answered.

Mason heard her before he saw her as King flung Mary against the iron bars filling an otherwise empty window next to where he stood hidden behind the wall. She grunted in pain, swallowing her cry. Mason squinted against the sun, finding Mary clinging to the bars, her face pressed against them. King's gun was flush against her head. Mason started to reach for his gun, stopping when he realized Mary would be dead before he could clear it from his belt.

"Closer!" King demanded. "Or she dies!"

Claire took the first steps, Mason quickly catching up to her. He grabbed her arm, stopping alongside her near the middle of the courtyard.

"This is as close as we're coming," Mason said. "She's not going any farther until you let Mary go."

Whitney shoved Mary aside, standing in the window, his gun hand extended between the bars. "That's close enough," he said and shot Claire, the bullet slamming into her chest, knocking her to the ground and onto her side.

Mason screamed as he saw the muzzle flash, unable to knock Claire out of its path or take the bullet for her. He dropped to the ground, blanketing her, tensing his muscles, expecting a second bullet to cut into him. When none came, he rose up and rolled Claire onto her back, stunned that she wasn't a bloody mess. He ripped open the raincoat, blessing Harry's Kevlar vest that Claire was wearing, the slug cushioned firmly against it, still hot.

Her eyes were closed and he felt her neck for a pulse, finding a strong one. The impact had knocked the wind out of her, the shock causing her to faint.

"Don't move, Mason!" King shouted.

Mason stayed huddled over Claire, closing the raincoat, turning her on her side so that King wouldn't see that she was-n't bleeding. He found the handle of the knife sticking out of his pocket, wrapping his fingers around it, drawing it out. He listened to King's footsteps as he got closer, watching as King's shadow cast ahead of him by the sun marked his approach.

"For God's sake, Whitney! You killed your own mother!" Mason yelled, still keeping his head down.

"Had to," Whitney said, now standing directly behind Mason, nudging him with his shoe. "Can't trust a woman who'd get in a car with you, now could I?"

Mason slowly stood, palming the knife in his right had as he turned toward King. He caught a glimpse of Mary lying on the ground, her eyes open. There had been no second shot so Mason assumed that King had dumped her there, leaving her too stunned to move.

King raised his gun, aiming at Mason's face. "Smile," he said.

Mason whipped his right hand up, stabbing the short blade into Whitney's gut, ripping through muscle, warm blood coating his hand. Whitney's eyes widened, his jaw slackened as Mason knocked the gun from his hand. Whitney grabbed Mason's wrist, struggling against the knife as Mason drove the blade higher into his abdomen and buried his knee into Whitney's groin.

Moaning, Whitney collapsed to his knees as Mason let go of the knife, throwing it on the ground out of reach. Whitney pressed his fingers against his belly, looking up at Mason, his face contorted, unable to speak. Mason clasped his hands together like a mallet, swinging down hard against Whitney's face, the blow spinning Whitney into a heap. Stunned and bleeding, he lay still long enough for Mason to remove his belt and bind his hands behind his back.

Mason dragged him across the grass, propping him against the limestone wall. Breathing hard, he pulled his shirt off and pressed it against Whitney's wound, slapping Whitney when he spit at him. He couldn't tell how badly Whitney was hurt, though he expected he would live.

Wiping his bloody hands on the grass, Mason knelt beside Claire, loosening her collar and lifting her head. Her skin was white though her breathing was steady. He patted her cheek, smoothing her brow.

"C'mon, Claire. Wake up. Show's over," he said.

Her eyelids fluttered then opened. She blinked at him and said, "Whew."

"My sentiments exactly," Mason said, grinning at his aunt.

She smiled in return as he helped her sit up. She supported herself with one hand, feeling her chest with the other. "Good old Harry," she said, stroking the bulletproof fabric.

A sudden gunshot stunned them both. Mason jumped to his feet, whirling around as Mary walked away from Whitney King, dropping his gun at his feet, Whitney's face dissolving in a crimson blossom.

Chapter 54

Crime scenes grow like tiny cities. The victim and perpetrator are the founders. The police and paramedics move in next, annexing a wide ring of land around the small plot where the crime takes place. News media arrive like they are on a mission of manifest destiny crowding the cops for elbow room. Bystanders who sniff out calamity as if it had the scent of freshly baked bread plant themselves on the fringes like suburbanites enjoying the view and glad that someone else is there to do the dirty work, though they still find time to bitch about high taxes.

After the ambulance leaves carrying the dead and wounded and the cops finish picking over the ground like a prospector panning for gold, the voyeurs pack it in. Yellow crime scene tape is all that remains of the ghost town.

The Penn Valley Park scene followed the same boom-and-bust cycle. Reporters from the local Fox affiliate claimed special squatter's rights since the shootout took place within a stone's throw of their studio at Thirty-first and Southwest Trafficway. It all evaporated by early afternoon, latecomers consigned to a picnic in the park kept company only by the squirrels.

Blues and Mickey caught up with Mason just as he was getting into the Ford Escort, ready to return it to the young priest at St. Mark's. Mickey, breathless, bolted from Blues's car, slapping his hand on the hood of the Escort.

"Son of a bitch!" he yelled. "We heard the story on the radio! You okay, boss? What about Claire?"

Blues parked along the curb in front of the Escort, sauntering toward Mason, his blank face giving nothing away.

"I'm fine, she's fine," Mason said. "I'm sorry I let Mary run you off," he said to Blues. "I let the tail wag the dog when I could have used your help."

"Not a problem," Blues said. "She's got her issues. They ain't mine."

"She's got more than issues since she killed Whitney King," Mason said. "Tell me what you got from Janet Hook. That might help with Mary's defense."

Blues leaned against the Escort. "You got a good reason to be driving this piece of shit?"

Mason smiled, "Yeah. I got a reason. You got a reason you're not telling me what Janet Hook told you?"

Blues said, "Yeah, I got a reason. You found out from Whitney that Ryan was innocent. I found out from Janet Hook. I know that doesn't mean I put the needle in that boy's arm, but it sure feels that way."

"You did your job, Blues. You didn't decide guilt or innocence. Did Janet take a bribe to acquit Whitney and convict Ryan?" Mason asked.

"She was bought along with some of the other jurors," Blues answered. "She says she didn't know which ones or how many. Says she needed the money and figured it was no big deal. One white boy gets it, one white boy doesn't. Made no difference to her."

"How much did Whitney's father pay her?" Mason asked.

"It wasn't the father," Blues answered. "It was the mother, Victoria King, and she paid her five thousand dollars."

By late afternoon, Mason had visited Mary at the Jackson County jail, assuring her that he'd push for a bail hearing first thing Monday morning.

"Don't bother," she told him. "I'm in no hurry to go anywhere, but I'd appreciate it if you'd take care of my fish. What did you find out about Father Steve?"

Mason had finally learned the name of the young priest. "Father Brian told me that he made it through surgery but it's too early to tell about anything else. The doctors say there's probably some brain damage."

Mary nodded though her eyes were somewhere on the middle distance. Mason wasn't certain if she had heard him. She was relaxed to the point of indifference, content with what the system would do to her, devoid of any regret for what she had done.