Gilt (29 page)

I decided they were all focused on what was happening in the barn, at least for now. I whirled and headed back toward the front of the house, skirting the front porch in waddling baby steps as I alternately crouched then listened intently for any sign that someone was near. When I reached the peony bushes, I got onto all fours, shivering when cool grass pressed against my knees. I peered cautiously around a plant, the heavy blossoms sweet with perfume. I had a clear view of the drive to the garage where Dan leaned on his cane. He and the guard were each staring at the barn, Dan partially turned toward me, and the guard with his back to me.

Did I dare move closer? What if the guard turned and saw me crouching there? I edged around the nearest bush then froze when Dan's head turned. His eyes widened. The burly man with the gun glanced at him and Dan dropped his cane, sagging back against the garage. The guard said something and Dan nodded. The man turned his attention back to the barn in the distance, his gun still pointed toward Dan but not directly on target. Dan had obviously been relegated to
handicapped, no threat
.

Dan leaned over, balancing himself with one hand on the garage wall. He held up his left hand close to his side in a stay-there motion. When he straightened with his cane in his right hand, the fingers of his left hand were now rigidly extended. As I watched, his thumb bent. A few seconds later his index finger bent. I nodded in understanding.

More seconds passed. Middle finger bent. More seconds. Ring finger bent. More seconds. Pinky finger. I took a deep breath and stood. Dan dropped his cane and stepped forward, both hands locked over his head. The guard turned but Dan was already bringing his hands down. They landed with a sickening crunch on the man’s neck. Without pause Dan snapped his arms upward, catching the man under the jaw and sending him sprawling. As the guard pitched forward, Dan stabbed with his hand, his fingers digging into the flesh under the man’s left ear. The man dropped like a rock, his limbs flaccid and blood flowing from his nose.

I darted away from the shelter of the porch, pausing briefly in the middle of the drive to check the barn. The dark sedan sat outside the open barn door but there was no sign of people. I sprinted to join Dan, who was bending over the inert form of the man on the ground. "What did you do?" I hissed.

"He's out. We don't have to worry about him." Dan straightened, gun in hand. He checked it quickly and tugged on something, probably the safety, which made it click in an ominous sort of way. He pulled me with him into the shadows of the garage. "They've got Jack, Amy, and Denton's kid."

"I know. I saw. I was upstairs."

"Tell me you've got a phone."

"I do but it's dead."

"Son of a bitch. They took our phones. They're in the limo." He eyed the house then the barn. "Go back to the house. Call 9-1-1. Tell McCord that Nesbitt is here and he has Jack and Amy. We need to get in that barn."

"Nesbitt? The gangster?" I looked at the barn in disbelief. "You're kidding."

"He's got nothing to lose. He's dying of cancer. He doesn't care if they kill him but before they do, he's going to kill Amy."

My mouth sagged open in disbelief. "That's insane."

"Yeah. No kidding. He is. Hey. Wait a minute. Why are you here? I told you to go to your mom's house."

"Long story. I was on my way."

He suddenly pulled me to him and kissed me hard, his cane butting against my backside where it dangled from his hand. "I wish you weren't here but I'm glad you are. If that doesn't sound stupid, I don't know what does."

I hugged him. "I know. I feel the same way. I mean, I'm glad you're here but I wish you weren't. What are you going to do?"

He pulled away, the gun held loosely at his side in his left hand. "If I can, I'll wait until McCord comes and I'll help him."

"What do you mean, if you can?"

"I don't know if we have that kind of time." His mouth drew taut in an inflexible line. "Get in there and call. And don't come outside, no matter what." He gave me a little push to get me going before he ducked into the shadows, disappearing behind the garage. I visualized the route he would take as I scurried back across the drive, around the front porch and into the side entrance. Dan could stay in the shadows behind the garage and the shadows of the windbreak of spruce trees between the garage and the barn. It was relatively flat and should be easy to navigate, even for a man with one good leg. But the trees ended about twenty yards from the barn, leaving an exposed area of gravel that he would need to traverse. If he could get past that open spot, he'd be safe.

I raced into the living room and grabbed Portia's black phone, dialing 9-1-1 with trembling fingers then ducking down, sitting on the floor. As soon as someone answered, I said, "I'm at Portia Winslow's farm, south of town on County 161. I'm with the FBI guy, Jack Tinsley, and Dan Steele. They're here and somebody has them and they're armed."

"Hold on, hold on. Slow down. Winslow, you said? FBI Agent Tinsley?"

"Damn it, I can't slow down, someone's going to get shot if--" There was silence on the line. "Hello? Hey, answer! Come on, we're in danger here and--" The line clicked twice and I thought I was disconnected. I was getting ready to drop it back in the cradle when a new voice came on the line.

"This is Police Chief McCord. Who is this?"

I dropped onto the nearby chair in relief. "I'm Genny Carlson. Dan Steele told me to call. He's here. Jack Tinsley is here and that gangster has a gun to his head and Amy is here with poor Candace Denton and Dan went to hide until you get here I think he said to bring SWAT or something because they're in the barn and they all have guns." I gasped for breath.

"How many?"

"How many what? Oh, people. There are at least two guys with guns and that gangster guy has one, too. Dan has one now because he hit the guard and the man fell down and he's bleeding." I jumped to my feet, suddenly anxious to move. "He said to call and you need to get here because--"

"Calm down. Where's the barn?"

"The barn?" I longed to bang the phone on the table. Was the man an idiot? "It's a barn. It's near the house."

"I realize that. Is it next to the house? Behind it? Where's it situated?"

"Oh, for--ask anybody, they'll know. It's the Winslow house. The barn is behind the house on the left. You can't miss it. It's near the back screen porch. You have to get here now. Dan's there and--" Shouts erupted outside. "Get here, something's happening, I have to go." I dropped the receiver on the chair. Someone squawked on the other end of the line but I ignored it. The less time I spent talking the faster they'd get here.

I started for the kitchen door but stopped. What if they were out there? What if that guard woke up and was pissed off and was out there waiting with another gun? They probably carried backup guns. I wavered, my hand near the door. Go out? Stay inside? Dan said to stay inside. I ran for the stairs and raced up the first six steps without stumbling. I tripped on the landing and almost clawed my way up the remaining stairs until I stood in the upstairs hall. I started for the back window that overlooked the barnyard then I stopped.

Gun. Maybe I should have a gun.

Gun? Who was I kidding? I didn't know anything about guns. Then I remembered the sight of Jack, his hands in the air. A gun suddenly seemed like a good idea. Even if I didn't use it, I could brandish it or something. Wait a minute. Who was I kidding? Brandish it?

I felt like my head wanted to explode with speculation, fear, adrenaline, and confusion. I whirled, ran into Portia's bedroom, and snatched old TG, the twenty-gauge, off the wall over the fireplace. I spent a precious few seconds scrabbling in her desk drawer for the shells before I found them hidden behind a box full of paper clips, which went flying when I snatched the shells. Even if I didn't use it, I could still have it nearby just in case.

I put three of the yellow shells into my shirt pocket, figuring that was safer than pants pockets for such volatile items. Who cared if I looked like I had three breasts? Maybe I'd scare anybody who came in the house. Holy crap. What if somebody came in the house? I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry.

I walked quickly down the hall, the gun broken open and slung over my left arm the way Uncle Leland taught us. He had started us on a BB gun at first until he was sure we wouldn't flinch when we pulled the trigger. After that we graduated to this twenty-gauge shotgun on my arm, a lightweight gun he bought for Portia to use on the coons and occasional coyote who raided her hen house. The gun was cold on my arm and heavy, heavier than I remembered. Of course, I was forty years older, too, so maybe that accounted for it.

I got to the window over the back porch and peered through it. The sedan still shone brightly into the barn and now I could see figures moving in the shadowy depths. It was so far below me. I gulped. The people seemed small. Very small. Even the maple tree appeared dwarfed by the height. That was a tall tree, too.

My hands started to sweat, the gun slipping in my grip. "Don't think about it," I muttered. "Don't worry. It's okay. People go onto roofs all the time. Don't think about it." I thought of Jack Tinsley, dancing with Amy. "If he can learn ballroom dancing, I can get on a stupid roof." The two thoughts--my fear of heights and his ballroom dancing--somehow seemed equal, which made about as much sense as anything else at that moment.

"I can do this," I whispered. "Step out there. Hell, Dan got up in a tree and he's missing a leg. If he can do it..." I opened the window, pressing on the old wooden-framed screen until it popped free of its fastenings. It swung drunkenly for a minute before dropping to the porch, bouncing once then landing on a lilac bush to the left.

"I must be crazy," I muttered as I leaned through the window and set the shotgun on the roof of the porch four feet below me. The pitch of the roof was shallow, not steep, so the gun rested easily on the slant without me having to worry about it sliding off.

I took a deep breath then bent over and slung my right leg out the window, following it with the rest of my body, moving fast before I could second-guess myself. I leaned back against the house, clutching it for one heart-stopping minute. I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. I opened them and bent my knees to grab for the shotgun. I didn't dare look down. If I did, I would see how far off the ground I was. I groped for a few agonizing seconds until my hands closed on the cold metal.

My sneakers thankfully gripped the shingles of the roof as I inched toward the end that faced the barn, taking little shuffling steps lest I slip. I hoped the trees that shaded the porch would hide me from sight, but I crouched as much as I could.

I had reached the mid-point of the twenty-foot-long roof when a gunshot boomed in the barn. "Holy crap," I croaked, my trembling legs suddenly weakening. I sank into a somewhat graceful sit-down. Rather than straddle the peak, I let my legs slide along the side of the roof and I scooted, one butt-foot at a time, until I was near the edge that overlooked the barnyard. I fumbled the shotgun shells from my shirt pocket and loaded the two over-and-under barrels, snapping the gun shut and verifying the safety was set.

I stared at the brightly lit scene, twisting slightly to see through the branches of a maple tree. I struggled to remember what Uncle Leland said about the gun pattern but all memory seemed to have fled except for a clear image of him saying, "Always aim farther to the left or right than you think. The buckshot will take care of the rest."

A woman screamed from inside the barn. Amy and Candace raced out, Amy dragging the younger woman by the arm. Immediately behind them was Jack, his arms wide, obviously trying to protect them from whoever was behind them in the darkness. A heartbeat later one of the thug-types emerged, the gun in his hand aimed at Jack.

Dan came from the shadows at the side of the barn, gun up. "Drop it," he shouted. He moved awkwardly without his cane but with confidence, his eyes fixed on the man threatening Jack and the gun unwavering in his hand. He no longer appeared small and weak. This was the Dan I met only a few days ago, a man with a disability who didn't recognize his handicap.
He's a cop
, I thought.
Most people run away from danger. He runs into it.
I had a fleeting image of John in my head, running into a burning building.
They're so alike
.

Another shadow materialized behind Dan, on his left and behind him. As the shape leaned into the periphery of light cast by the car, I saw it was another man, one I hadn't seen before. The driver of the car? Another bodyguard? It didn't matter. He was out of Dan's sight and he had a gun.

I scanned the area below me. Jack, Amy, and Candace were almost to the sedan, at the side of the barnyard. A thug was almost below me. All I need to do was provide a distraction. I could hear Uncle Leland's voice in my head. "The gun will jerk. Make sure you've got butt-cheek touching." I remember us kids laughing at that image when he described the gun butt and our cheeks. "Pull the gun into your shoulder." That was the moment when he would say in a rush, "Click off the safety, point, and pull. Don't think. Do."

"Dan!" I raised the gun, clicked off the safety, pointed left of the man below me who held the gun, and pulled the trigger.

All hell broke loose. Amy and Candace screamed, someone fired a gun, someone else fired a gun, Dan shouted and the twenty-gauge shotgun exploded in my arms, bucking me backward. My right shoulder lit on fire with excruciating pain and my arms were suddenly watery. I held the gun as it slipped from my arms, slithering down onto the roof. I peered forward over the side but that proved my undoing.