Infamous (46 page)

An assault weapon. “Are you sure?” A.J. asked. “Because I’ve only heard single shots.”

As Jamie quickly described the gun, they were both sure.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Jamie continued, his eyes and face somber, “but I’ve seen this man before. He’s got long hair and a scar and his name is Brian, and he murdered that man named Wayne down in Arizona, and your Alison is somehow involved, because he’s here, now, to silence her permanently. And he’ll kill you and Rose and Bev without blinking, in order to do it.”

Alison’s cell phone didn’t work.

A.J.’s and his mother’s didn’t either.

Alison was sitting up, leaning back against the kitchen island with A.J.’s mother still applying pressure to her gunshot wound.

God, the entire world had gone completely crazy, and the only thing that Alison knew for sure was that A.J. would protect them from whoever was out there.

Or die trying.

A thought that scared her to death.

“Are they hunters who are lost?” Rose asked. “Can’t we wave a white flag or shout to tell them to move away?”

“That’s what we were doing when A.J. shot back at them,” Bev told her mother. “When he fired over their heads, it was a very definite
Hello, we’re in here
. Which they have since ignored.”

A.J. had tried returning fire from the broken front window,
which under normal circumstances would make a gunman duck for cover and momentarily stop shooting. But whoever was out there, he was either fearless or stupid, because he just kept firing at the front of the cabin, almost indiscriminately.

And if that wasn’t crazy enough, there were the constant reports that A.J. received from Jamie.

There were two gunmen—one in the front and one in the back. There was also an SUV parked about a mile down the road, in the pull-off by a hiking trail. Jamie got the plate number, which Bev dutifully wrote down.

Like Bev, Alison was glad that the ghost, or spirit or whatever Jamie was, was there. But A.J.’s mother clearly didn’t feel the same. She kept trying to call out on her cell phone, even after A.J. told them that Jamie believed the gunmen had something called a TechWhiz 7842—a cell phone signal jammer—which was keeping them from calling for help.

“How does a man who died in 1977 know about that kind of technology?” Rose asked, but A.J. didn’t answer her.

Instead he turned to Alison. “Jamie thinks you’re their target—that they’re trying to kill you.”

Dear God. Alison felt her entire world slip sideways. “What?” she asked. “Why?”

“Do you know a man named Brian?” he asked, as if his question were an important one. “Or Wayne?”

She shook her head. “No. You’re the only people I know here in Alaska, A.J., I swear.”

“They aren’t from Alaska,” he told her. “They’re from Arizona. Wayne’s dead. Brian apparently killed him a week ago.”

Dear God …

“Jamie thinks you witnessed it,” A.J. said. “Wayne’s murder.”

Again, Alison shook her head. “I didn’t,” she breathed.

“Brian shot him,” A.J. told her. “In the back of a car.”

She laughed—she couldn’t help it. “I really think I would’ve remembered that.”

“If Wayne is dead, then how could he be shooting at us?” Rose asked.

“He’s not, Mom,” A.J. said impatiently. “But Jamie says Brian is.” He looked at Alison searchingly. “A tall man, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, scar on his face …?”

She shook her head. With the exception of the scar, that described half of the men on the movie set. But a scar … Why did that ring a bell? Still, it was a distant one, and try as she might, she came up blank. “I honestly don’t know any Brians.”

“Maybe you don’t know his name,” A.J. said, but then his attention went to Jamie as he stared intently, grimly up at nothing. He nodded. Spoke to Jamie. “Go check it out. But be quick.” Jamie must’ve vanished, because A.J. turned back to Bev and Alison. “Jamie says Brian’s approaching the back more cautiously now that he knows we’re armed. The other man hasn’t moved from his position out front. Jamie’s going to try to find him from his next muzzle flash.”

“When the gunman fires,” Bev explained to Alison, “there’ll be a brief flash from the barrel of his weapon. That’ll help Jamie find where he’s hiding.”

“I need you to watch from the front,” A.J. told his sister, as his mother checked Alison’s arm. “Stay down, use a mirror. Break the one in the bathroom if you have to.”

“I’ve got a makeup mirror in my toilet kit,” Alison said. “It’s on the sink in the master bathroom.”

Rose glanced up at that and Alison gave her a
Yes, I’m sleeping with your son
look in return.

Bev was already rummaging in one of A.J.’s kitchen drawers, pulling out a giant spatula—the kind you’d use during a cookout to keep your fingers far from the heat. “Rubber bands, Age?” she asked.

“Junk drawer,” he told her. “Bev, I’m serious. Do not put your head up over that sill, but start firing over your shoulder, out the window, if you see any movement at all. Just to signal to me that the man’s on the move, and maybe keep him from going too far. Okay?”

“Got it.” She crawled for the bathroom.

“What can I do?” Alison asked. “How can I help?”

A.J. smiled, a short, fierce smile that, combined with the
deadly intention on his face and the hardness and ice in his eyes, made him look like the soldier he once had been.

And still was, apparently.

“I need you to stop bleeding,” he said, as he kissed her, quick but sweet. “Keep your head down—and make sure my mother does, too.”

“What are you planning, A.J.?” Rose asked sharply.

“I’m going out the side window,” he told her, told Alison, his smile replaced by grimness that would have scared her a little, if she didn’t know him quite so well. “With Jamie’s help, I can circle around behind the gunman in the back, and eliminate the threat.”

“You mean, kill the man,” Rose clarified.

A.J. nodded. “Yeah, Mom,” he said. “If I have to.”

“A.J.,” she started.

“Jamie says he’s got an assault weapon,” he told his mother. “A submachine gun. From his description, it sounds like an MP5, which is nicknamed a ‘room broom.’ If he gets inside and uses it, just a few sweeps of this kitchen? We’re all dead in less than five seconds. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“And if Jamie’s wrong?” Rose asked. “And this man’s not even armed?”

“Jamie’s not wrong,” A.J. said with conviction.

His mother was not convinced. “And what if Jamie’s not real?” she asked.

Boom. Thunk
. In the silence there was another gunshot, another bullet hitting the front of the house—providing Jamie with that muzzle flash that he’d needed.

“Jamie’s real, Dr. Gallagher,” Alison spoke up. “I know it’s hard to fathom. But … I think right now, especially now, I want to believe he’s real. I’ve … felt him. And … I do believe A.J. I trust him about this, very much.”

A.J. kissed her again, breathing, “Thank you,” as he pulled back to look into her eyes. “I love you,” he told her. “And I believe you, too.”

His mother was watching, but Alison didn’t care. “I love you, too,” she said, because, oh, God, she did. “Be careful,” she added, for about the thousandth time.

He nodded and picked up his rifle—about to go outside and face off with a man who had a machine gun that was called a
room broom
.

“No one else is getting hurt,” he said absolutely, as Bev crawled back from the bathroom, her makeshift spatula mirror rubber-banded together and held in front of her along with her rifle—a soccer mom gone totally Rambo.

A.J. waited until Bev was in place, then headed for the hall that led to the back of the house. “Jamie, I need you,” he called, as Alison watched him go.

This was not the time for tears, but she could feel them welling up. She fought them, refusing to succumb. Instead she turned to A.J.’s mother, who was sitting beside her.

“So,” Alison said. “My mother was an alcoholic. I’m going to need a lot of counseling and support to make this work, because I’m terrified of A.J.’s disease. Will you help me with that?”

And now it was Rose, A.J.’s dragon of a mother, who had tears in her eyes. “Of course,” she said, as she reached over and took Alison’s hand.

But then A.J. came back, crawling down the hall toward them, saying, “Change of plans.”

I’d been trying, ever since I’d seen that automatic weapon that A.J. called a room broom, to convince the kid to slow down and come up with a plan B.

It had been years since A.J.’d fired a weapon of any kind, let alone taken a life, while it was clear that Gene’s buddy Brian had had a lot of recent practice in both skill sets.

Also, I was personally very familiar with the damage that six bullets, rapidly fired from a Colt 45, could cause. The thought of twelve bullets per
second
—all aimed at my kid—made me feel ill.

So no. I did not want A.J. anywhere near Brian. It was far too risky.

True, the plan was for A.J. to climb up onto the roof, and for me to find Brian and stand directly in front of him. That
way A.J. could find me in his gun sight. His bullets would pass through me and damage Brian. Hopefully permanently.

But it still made me nervous—a single-shot rifle against a machine gun.

But now we had a real plan B, because the weapon being fired at the front of the cabin was the same style submachine gun. I took a good look at it after I tracked that muzzle flash. Apparently it could be—and was—set to fire a single shot. It wouldn’t take much—the adjustment of a button—for A.J. to turn it into a hamburger-maker of his own, and even out the odds.

A few dozen rounds fired in Brian’s direction would—I hoped—make the killer turn tail and run for his SUV. At which point, we could load the women into one of the trucks and race down to town. To the sheriff’s office and the hospital, not necessarily in that order.

And if we were really lucky, the local law enforcement would send out an all-points bulletin with Brian’s description and license plate number. And he would be caught so we could find out, as A.J. was fond of saying while under stress, “What the fuck?”

There was, however, one small catch. A.J. had to convince three very skeptical women that his running toward the “gunman” in the front wouldn’t be suicide.

“According to Jamie, this guy Brian’s set up some kind of robot device,” he was telling his mother, his sister, and his lover—the three most important women in his life. Bev was still using her mirror to watch out the front, and I kept popping in and out as I kept an eye on Brian, who was hunkered down and no doubt wishing he’d brought Gene along for backup.

Or maybe not, on second thought.

He was probably wishing he’d never gone and killed Wayne, though. What a barge-load of trouble
that
had brought him.

“So there’s not actually anyone out front?” Bev clarified. “Just a gun that fires on its own?”

“Jamie says it’s a submachine gun—a 9 mm—set up on some kind of swivel mechanism, kind of like a house fan, you know? So that the bullets don’t hit the same place each time,” A.J. said. “The weapon’s probably programmed to fire randomly—I’m not sure how it works, but I haven’t noticed a pattern. There seems to be anywhere from fifteen to ninety seconds between shots.”

Rose shook her head. “I don’t like this.”

“Jamie’ll watch the thing and shout when it’s clear for me to leave the house,” A.J. said as he made sure his rifle was locked and loaded. “I’m going out the front door.”

“What?” His mother was aghast.

“It’s the fastest route from here to that weapon. It’s important I get hold of it quickly. As soon as I do, I’m going to start firing it. It’s going to sound like a ripping noise, so don’t get scared when you hear it. Be ready to run for the truck on my command—but only on my command. Is that clear?”

They all nodded, and he held out his rifle to Alison, because he knew how much his mother hated guns.

“You ever fire one of these?” he asked.

“No,” Alison said stoutly, taking it from him, despite her injured arm. “But I’m willing to learn.”

But Rose took it from her. “Be careful,” she told her son.

A.J. turned and looked at me. “Let’s do this,” he said.

This time it was Rose who stopped us. “Jamie,” she said, speaking directly to me. “You keep my son safe.”

“I will,” I promised her, and I went up, right through the roof of that cabin I’d built with my own two hands, so I could verify that Brian was right where I’d left him.

He was, indeed, so I sailed over to that robot gun and watched as it jerked off a shot, then swiveled all the way to its right.

“Go now,” I shouted to A.J. “Head to
your
right and circle around behind this thing!”

And he came charging out of that cabin, moving faster than I’d ever seen him run as I lifted myself up above the brush so that he knew exactly where he was heading.

The expression on his face, and his single-minded determination
and speed reminded me, well, of me. I’m pretty certain that was what I’d looked like that godawful night I’d smelled Silas Quinn’s cigar in the hallway outside of the room I was sharing with his ex-wife.

And yeah, I’m sure there’re some of you who’d quibble over the fact that Melody and ol’ Silas had never technically ended their marriage. But I’d always told Mel that I was pretty sure a black eye and broken rib were a legal form of divorce in God’s eyes. In a similar way, I always believed that God married Mel and me the very first time we kissed. Back in 1944, when we finally said our vows in front of a preacher, beneath the most beautiful display of Northern Lights I’d ever seen, we were just cementing that lifetime commitment we’d both made in Jubilation, in 1898.

But I digress.

Here was A.J. running for that room broom, looking like he’d tear apart anything or anyone that got in his way.

And I knew just what he was thinking.

That son of a bitch Brian had shot Alison. A few inches to the left, and she would’ve been dead, not merely injured.

And even though the plan was to frighten Brian away so they could escape into town, A.J.
really
wanted to send the rat bastard straight to hell, where he belonged.