Infamous (53 page)

It was an impressive show of power and force, and A.J. was maybe twelve minutes from running right into it.

I dropped back in and told Alison, yes, then tried to figure out the best way to tell her that I had to leave, I tapped her on the head, once, and then ten times in a row. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

“What are you telling me?” she asked.

I did it again. One tap, then ten.

She was silent, thinking hard.

“Come on, girl,” I said. And I did it again, but this time, around tap four, she said, in a rush, “A, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j—A.J.?”

Yes, I told her. Yes.

And then I left, because right at that moment, he needed me more than she did.

But before I popped back to him, the truck jostled as it took a turn, and the engine dropped into a lower, louder gear as it started up a hill.

And I went out into the night to see what the hell, and
discovered that Brian in Hugh’s Jeep was leading Gene in his truck up the road that led to that silver mine that used to belong to me. The one I’d won in that poker game all those years ago.

They were going to Gallagher’s Claim.

A.J. stopped his truck at a place where an arroyo had completely washed out the road.

If you could even call something that had never been paved a road.

Still, this two-rut pathway was—according to Jamie—a shortcut up to the mine where his great-grandfather’s ghost said Alison and Hugh were being taken by their captors.

Short cut
in that the distance between here and the mine was less than the main road. And
short cut
, too, in that A.J. didn’t have to crash his way through a police road block to get there.

But not
short cut
in the sense that it would take him less time to arrive.

He was about to put the truck into reverse to try going off road to work his way over to the remaining trail farther up the hill, but Jamie popped back in, shaking his head. “It’s washed out in other places, too,” he told A.J. “All the way up to the mine.”

Which meant there was only one thing to do.

A.J. took his cell phone and his borrowed baseball cap, and he got out of the truck and started to run.

I returned to Alison and Hugh just as Brian pulled the Jeep up in front of the mine.

He’d made it all the way up the trail that the movie crew had designated for pedestrians only—as had Gene behind him in his truck.

There was a third vehicle waiting for them there—another truck—and as they shut off their engines, Skip Smith, whom I’d seen murder Neil Sylvester, climbed out.

He was smoking a cigarette, and he dropped it in the dust, grinding it out beneath his boot. “About time you got here,” he
said. “I brought the dynamite into the mine all by myself. It’s all ready to go.” He looked around. “Where the hell are they?”

“In the truck,” Brian told him.

“They dead?”

“No, asshole,” Gene said in his thick accent, as he unlocked the cover and opened it and the tailgate. “You think I want to have to burn bloodstains and other DNA shit offa my truck bed?”

Brian was carrying that rifle again, and as he’d done before for emphasis, he cocked the thing.
Cha-chunk
. “Get out,” he ordered.

A.J., on foot, was still a mile and a half away, and most of that was uphill. I dove into the truck bed and let Alison know that I was there.

“Is A.J. close?” she whispered, and I backed away, because he wasn’t.

She took a deep breath and exhaled hard at that lack of news, then took her sweet time getting out.

Of course, I stood there praying that Brian wouldn’t get mad at her and hit her again.

But he didn’t, even when she pretended that her knees were weak upon exiting the truck. She sank to the ground, and Hugh tried to help her. I wanted to grab him and tell him to back away, because we needed to stall.

Although what A.J. was going to do when he got here—unarmed—was something I hadn’t yet figured out. I supposed he could start by throwing his cell phone at Brian and hopefully hitting him in the head and knocking him out.

But that left Skip, who also had his gun drawn as he stood several paces back from Brian. Gene, lazy as always, no doubt figured that was enough firepower, and he kept the weapon that he wore in its holster. Still, I knew that if A.J. appeared, even with Gene’s fumbled draw, he’d get his piece out and firing faster than A.J. could overpower him from a dozen or so paces away.

I elevated straight up to scan the surrounding countryside, but saw no sign of A.J. The sky to the east was slowly getting lighter. Dawn was on its way.

Brian turned to Skip and asked, “Did you bring the shovel?”

“You know it,” Skip said.

“Then get it,” Brian said.

And Skip tucked his sidearm into his pants as he turned to head toward his truck.

Which was when Brian surprised me—although it really shouldn’t have. If he was so intent on cleaning up after Wayne’s murder, it made sense that he would be thorough.

But he took that rifle of his and pointed it at Skip and neatly blew a hole in the back of his head. The dead man crumpled to the ground.

Gene was frozen. He was possibly even more stunned than Alison and Hugh, who’d nearly flattened at the sound of that gunshot and were now clinging to each other, wide-eyed in shock.

As we all watched, Brian swung that weapon around and drilled Gene, too, right between the eyes.

He also fell in the way of the instantly dead. It wasn’t like in the movies—no staggering, no flailing. One minute Gene was standing and the next he was in the dirt.

Brian quickly took the weapons from both of his former cohorts’ bodies, making sure the safeties were on before he tucked them into his pants.

“Another fine weapon that crazy bastard A.J. Gallagher purchased at a gun show, this time here in Arizona,” Brian told Alison and Hugh, as he admired the rifle in his hands.

They thought they were next, and I did, too. And I could see from both Alison’s and Hugh’s eyes that they were well aware that the odds had just changed from three against two, to two against one.

Except it was really three against one. And Alison knew that, too.

“Now, Jamie, now!” Alison shouted, and I launched myself at Brian, hoping he’d be stunned like the snake that he was, and would fumble that gun.

It all happened so fast.

Alison leapt forward, too, even as Jamie ran into Brian’s
personal space and stayed there, lighting him up with that electrical buzz.

It wasn’t really that painful, but it was startling, and she was counting on that.

Hugh was right beside her, fighting for their lives as together they took Brian down into the dirt, his rifle skittering away.

But he was bigger and stronger than he looked—most of his bulk was muscle, and even as Hugh scrambled after that rifle, Brian twisted and managed to kick him in the jaw. Hugh’s head snapped back and his eyes rolled up, and Alison knew that her friend was either dead or unconscious. But she grabbed for the butt of Skip Smith’s gun that was there at the top of Brian’s pants.

Her arm hurt like hell, but she grabbed it and got it, and scooted away from Brian, pushing herself back on the seat of her jeans as she held it—God, it was heavy—in both hands. She aimed it at the biggest part of Brian—his chest.

“Freeze,” she shouted.

And he froze, one hand outstretched, still reaching for the rifle that was half under Hugh’s limp body.

One second passed, then two, and she felt Jamie’s now familiar presence telling her what sure as hell felt like both yes and no.

And Brian smiled and in that instant, she knew he was going to do it—he was going to go for that rifle, so she pulled the trigger.

And nothing happened.

Brian laughed and she pulled it again, and he moved and she knew there was something called a safety, but she had no clue how to remove it so that the gun would fire, so she did the only thing she could do. She dropped the weapon and she ran, slipping and scrambling her way into the darkness of the mine.

A.J. was almost there.

He could see lights blazing—probably headlights—at the entrance to the mine.

He’d heard the gunshots—two of them, God help him. Then he heard another, and he ran even faster.

I followed Alison into the mine, wishing she hadn’t dropped that weapon, but knowing that my priority now was to help her hide from Brian, who was coming after her, not try to show her how to remove the safety on an unfamiliar gun using taps and other signals.

She stumbled in the darkness over a pile of rocks, and I realized that I could see what she couldn’t, so I positioned myself in front of her and waited until she bumped into me with her outstretched hands.

“Jamie,” she whispered, and we moved slowly forward, shuffling along, the dead leading the blind.

I’d been in that mine only a few times, and I struggled to remember where the tunnel split. I knew there was a fork up ahead, but just how far?

And then the question became moot, because Brian had returned to Gene’s truck to get a flashlight, and its beam bounced along the rock and dirt walls that were barely shored up by a series of rotting timbers.

Alison saw the light, too, and tried to move faster now that she could see.

But we were in a stretch of the tunnel that had nowhere to hide, no cover save an ancient wooden cart.

In seconds, Brian would round the corner that was keeping Alison concealed from him, and she was going to die.

And I couldn’t do a goddamned thing about it.

Never had I felt so utterly impotent and useless.

Never had I wanted anyone to see and hear me as badly as I did right at that moment. Never had I wanted so badly to be flesh and blood again, and for the gun belt that I wore on my hips to be real leather and steel.

Brian rounded that corner and saw Alison and raised his rifle.

With a shout, I drew my own gun and fired.

Bullets were flying in what seemed like every direction, the sound of the gunshots deafening in the mine.

Alison dropped to the ground, uncertain where to go for cover, where to hide.

Brian must’ve had yet another helper, because there were two gunmen—one of them firing from the darkness behind a flashlight. The other—in a cowboy hat—was only a few feet away from her. But he wasn’t shooting at her, he was shooting at … Brian?

“Stay down, get behind that cart!” that second man was shouting at her, riding the hammer of what looked to be an authentic antique Colt 45.

Bullets from the other gun cut through him, but he didn’t fall. It was as if he were insubstantial. But Brian didn’t seem to realize that, he just kept shooting at him.

Around her, bits and pieces of the mine’s walls and ceiling shook loose from the noise.

“Come on, Alison,” this new man shouted. “Move!”

He turned and looked directly at her from under the brim of his black hat, his eyes a sharp blue, his lean face intense.

It was Jamie Gallagher. The ghost of A.J.’s great-grandfather.

And Alison moved, scrambling back behind that cart for cover, even as she saw Brian fall, his flashlight hitting the mine floor and rolling down the slight incline, toward her.

Had Jamie really managed to kill him? It didn’t seem possible, but then in the sudden silence, she heard a voice from the entrance of the mine. “Alison?”

“It’s A.J.,” Jamie told her. “Hallelujah!”

But then, with a rush and a roar, the sky fell.

The mine was caving in.

A.J. stumbled back, diving and scrambling out as dirt and rocks rained down upon him, coughing and gasping for air as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

And the panic and the bile that he’d felt when he’d first arrived at the mine and saw the bodies and the blood was back with a vengeance and it was all he could do not to throw up, right there in the still swirling dust.

But he’d shot Brian. Shot and hit him—as Brian was aiming that rifle to take another shot at Alison.

Which meant that—at that moment, at least—she’d still been alive.

“Jamie, where are you?” A.J. said, but Jamie didn’t appear.

As the dust began to settle, I found Alison.

Brian’s flashlight had rolled down next to her, and in its light I could see that she was lying facedown. She was half-buried by dirt and debris, but she was stirring and still alive, thank God.

A quick look around told me that, had A.J. not already killed Brian, he would’ve been good and dead, crushed beneath the pile of rocks and earth that now blocked our way out of the mine.

Well, it didn’t block
my
way out. I could walk through anything. But Alison had to use a more conventional form of exit, and it wasn’t going to be the way she’d gotten in.

Farther down the shaft, though, another cave-in had occurred. She was lying in a very small open area. Several feet in any direction, and she would have been crushed—which made me think about divine intervention and miracles.

Although I have to confess, I also spent a second or two considering that a pocket this small had to have a limited amount of air.

Alison lifted her head and looked directly at me.

“A.J.,” she said, and for a moment I thought she mistook me for him. But then she added, “Is he all right?”

I nodded, because I could feel him out there, calling me. “He made it out,” I told her.

“Thank God,” she said, trying not to cry. As she composed herself, she looked around, picking up that flashlight to shine it on the walls and ceilings and fresh new piles of earth and rocks. Her mouth tightened as she no doubt came to the same conclusions about the air supply that I had.

She pulled herself up so that she was sitting, wincing at the bruises she’d collected. She brushed as much of the dirt and dust as she could from her clothes and hair, making note of the fact that her injured arm had bled through its bandage and her shirt sleeve.

“I doubt I’m dead,” she finally said. “Or I wouldn’t feel so awful. But … how come I can see you?”

I didn’t have a good answer. So I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be able to.”