The Barbed-Wire Kiss (30 page)

He eased back the hammer of the .38 again, touched the muzzle to the rear of Bobby’s head. Rego moved away a step, out of the line of fire.

“Trust me, Harry,” Dunleavy said. “If there’s a bullet in here, at this range, this is a sight you don’t want to see.”

“Stop it,” Harry said. “Let him go.”

“No chance. Tell me where it is.”

“It’s not in the house. I hid it.”

“Bullshit,” Dunleavy said and squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked empty.

Bobby doubled in his chair as much as the tape would allow. Rego let out his breath.

“That time,” Dunleavy said, “I didn’t know.”

He cocked the gun again.

“I hid it in the woods, in an old well. I can take you there. Let him go.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I’ll take you there.”

Dunleavy smiled, put the .38 to Bobby’s head again.

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Rego said.

Dunleavy pulled the trigger.

Empty chamber.

“Goddamn you,” Harry said.

Bobby’s right leg began to vibrate. A wet stain blossomed in the crotch of his jeans, spread down his left thigh.

“Stop this,” Harry said. “I’ll get it for you. It’s in an old well, about two hundred yards from the house.”

“I’ll go with him,” Perna said.

“No,” Dunleavy said. “He stays here.”

“It’s past the willows. On the other side of the creek. There’s a cement well cap there, you can’t miss it.”

“I’ll go,” Rego said. Then to Harry: “Tell me exactly where it is.”

Harry described the area, the blackberry tangle and the chamber beneath the lip of the well cap.

“Flashlight,” Rego said.

“Under the sink. There’s a pry bar there too. You’ll need it.”

Rego went into the kitchen and they heard him rooting through the cabinet. The back door squeaked open.

They waited in silence.

“Go stand by the back door,” Dunleavy said to Perna. “Have him call to you if he finds it.” He opened the .38, reloaded it with the shells from his jacket pocket.

Perna went into the kitchen. The only sound in the room was Bobby’s breathing, loud beneath the pillowcase.

“Now, there,” Dunleavy said. “Wasn’t that easier?” He held the .38 at his side.

Rego yelled from the backyard, too far away for them to make out.

“He says he found it,” Perna called from the kitchen.

“Good,” Dunleavy said. He took a step away from the chair. Harry watched him, knew what was coming.

More from Rego.

Perna came back into the living room.

“Got it,” he said. “Looks like it’s all there.”

Dunleavy looked at Perna, then nodded at Harry. He cocked the .38 again, stepped away, and pointed it at the left side of Bobby’s head.

“Got a real one for you this time,” he said. And pulled the trigger.

Harry heard the shot, saw Bobby’s head snap to the side. Perna had the Ruger up, was aiming, and Harry dove from the couch at him. The Ruger went off as Harry slammed into him, his right hand going for the grip of the .38. He batted at the Ruger with his cast and got his finger around the trigger of the .38, squeezing it as he twisted the gun inward. He heard the click of the empty chamber and then Perna pushed him away, trying to bring the Ruger up between them, and Harry squeezed the trigger again and the .38 went off.

He stumbled back, heard cloth rip, and suddenly he was holding the gun and Perna was falling. He turned, raising the .38, pointed it at Dunleavy and squeezed the trigger.

Dunleavy fired first. Harry heard the bullet thrum past him. His own shot blew slate from the mantelpiece. He stepped back, aiming, slipped on something, and sat down hard just as Dunleavy fired again, the bullet passing over his head. He rolled away and Dunleavy adjusted his aim, fired twice more, the shots sounding as one.

Splinters erupted from the floor next to Harry’s head, upholstery flew from the arm of the couch. He hooked the coffee table with his legs, toppled it onto its side for cover, and fired twice above it. Dunleavy’s answering shot punched a hole through the center of the table and into the floor near Harry’s groin. Then came the click of Dunleavy’s gun, the hammer falling on the spent chamber.

He kicked the table at Dunleavy’s legs, raised the .38. Dunleavy was already at the front door. Harry fired, blew out a window. Then Dunleavy had the door open and was through it, onto the porch and running.

Harry rolled to his feet. He was standing in blood. Perna lay faceup on the floor beside him, a black-and-red hole below his left eye. Harry looked to the kitchen. He tossed away the empty .38, picked up Perna’s Ruger. It was slick with blood.

He moved quickly to the hallway between the living room and kitchen, pressed himself against the wall and raised the Ruger, bracing it against the doorframe. A drop of blood fell from the barrel, spattered the linoleum. He aimed at the open back door.

He heard feet on the steps, then the screen door swung open and Rego filled the doorway. The knapsack hung from his left hand, the Colt in his right. The flashlight was tucked beneath his left arm.

“Stop where you are,” Harry said.

Rego looked at him. The screen door thunked shut behind him.

“Put the gun on the counter,” Harry said. He could feel his arm start to tremble, steadied it. Rego looked past him into the living room.

“On the counter,” Harry said again.

The knapsack began to swing lightly, side to side. And Harry saw then what he was thinking. He’d toss the knapsack to his left as a distraction, then raise and fire the Colt. Harry tightened his grip on the Ruger, centered the front sight on the zipper of Rego’s warm-up suit, where the white T-shirt peeked out.

“Don’t do it, Tommy,” he said.

Rego smiled. “Man,” he said. “You don’t even know me.”

He tossed the knapsack, and the Colt came up and Harry squeezed the Ruger’s trigger twice. The Colt went off, wood exploding from the corner of the doorway above Harry’s head, showering him with splinters. Rego fell back through the screen door, and the Colt and the flashlight hit the kitchen floor at the same time.

Silence. Acrid gunsmoke hung in the air. Harry slowly left the doorway, Ruger out in front of him, went to the back door.

The screen was stuck open, Rego’s right leg keeping it from closing. He was lying on the concrete steps, left leg bent beneath him, eyes open and looking at nothing. The holes in his chest were about four inches apart, just below the collarbone on the left side of his chest. The T-shirt was already turning red.

Harry backed away, kicked the Colt, sent it skittering across the floor and under the kitchen table. He raced back into the living room. Wind was lifting the curtains on the shattered window. He hit the switch to light up the front yard, kicked the door open, went onto the porch, the Ruger raised.

The yard was empty.

Halfway down the driveway, an engine exploded into life, and a car pulled out from where it had been hidden in the trees. Gravel flew as it swung toward the road, lights off. He sighted down the barrel at the back of the car, fired twice, heard glass break. The car flew down the driveway, bottomed out when it hit the road, turned left, tires squealing.

He lowered the Ruger, went back inside.

The pool of blood around Perna was wider now. He stepped around it, tossed the gun onto the couch, went to Bobby.

He was slumped in the chair, his right foot tapping a staccato rhythm on the floor. The left side of the pillowcase was soaked with blood and there was a burned black hole where the muzzle had made contact. Blood was flowing from beneath the pillowcase, down onto his jacket and shirt, soaking his pants, puddling on the chair. Too much blood.

He gingerly righted Bobby’s head, slipped the pillowcase up and off.

Bobby’s eyes were open and staring. The left side of his head was a mass of matted hair and torn flesh, the area around the wound already swelling. There were bubbles of blood under his nose.

He knelt beside him, wrenched open his shirt, sending buttons flying. He put his left ear above the heart, listened.

At first he thought it was just his imagination, the confusion of hope. He held his breath and the sound came again, beneath the blood, beneath the flesh. A faint muffled thump.

The fingers of Bobby’s right hand spasmed and closed. Harry stood, began to pry the edges of the tape off his face, peeled it away. Bobby’s mouth sagged open as if he were about to speak, but only blood came out.

Harry wadded up the pillowcase, held it against the wound. He cradled him, willing the bleeding to stop, the life force to stay inside. Bobby’s right arm began to tremble again, the fingers stretching.

Harry held him tight, rocked him like a crying child, but the soft sobs he heard were his own.

Red, blue and yellow lights circled the walls. the curtains on the shattered window moved in the breeze.

Harry sat on the couch, looked at the chair in the middle of the room, shards of duct tape still hanging from its arms and legs. The back and seat were dark with blood.

The room was full of people who moved around him as if he weren’t there. No one spoke to him.

The puddle of blood below Perna’s body was now four feet across and drying. Perna’s slacks were dyed red from the wound in his thigh, but Harry could see that the shot that killed him had gone through his face and out the back of his head. One of Dunleavy’s stray .38 rounds. There was blood on the wall beyond.

After he’d called 911, he’d picked up the knapsack and the flashlight, his hands wet with Bobby’s blood, not wanting to leave him but knowing what he had to do. He’d tripped twice in the yard, dropped and almost lost the flashlight, before he found the well cap. It was still ajar, the pry bar beside it. He’d pushed the knapsack into the hole in the shaft wall, shoved the cap back with his feet. Then he’d tossed the flashlight and the pry bar as far as he could into the woods. He was back in the house just as he heard the first sirens.

A plainclothes Monmouth County detective named Nolan was standing by the front door, talking to someone on the porch. After a moment he stepped aside and Wesniak came into the room, Eagleman behind him.

Wesniak looked at Harry, then turned back to Nolan. Eagleman greeted one of the state troopers in the room.

“Two dead, one wounded,” Nolan said. “The other one is on the back steps. The injured one’s at Centrastate. No word yet.”

“How bad?”

“From what I saw, bad.”

Wesniak looked at Harry.

“He the shooter?”

“One of them. To judge from what he told us and the way this place is shot to hell, it got pretty hot in here for a while. Looks like self-defense, though.”

“Don’t say that until you know it. Why isn’t he handcuffed?”

Nolan looked at Harry, then back at Wesniak.

“Well, Lieutenant, it looks to me like he’s got a broken arm there. And he’s the one who suggested I call you in the first place. He said he used to be with your outfit.”

“I know who he is. He should be handcuffed.”

“I think we’re getting into a jurisdictional situation here.”

“No, we’re not. He’s a witness in an ongoing investigation and possibly a murder suspect. When we leave, he’s coming with us. I appreciate your help, Detective, but if you don’t put handcuffs on him, I will.”

Nolan shrugged, turned to two other county detectives who had drifted closer during the conversation.

“Anyone got a pair?”

“Shit,” Eagleman said. “I’ll do it.” He took a pair of silver handcuffs from his belt.

“Stand up,” he said.

Harry stood. Eagleman took his left arm, still in the sling, and tried to maneuver it behind him.

“In front,” Wesniak said, patient.

Harry put his hands together, felt the cuffs close tightly around his wrists. Metal rubbed against the edge of his cast.

“Sit down,” Wesniak said. Then to Nolan: “Let’s talk.”

Harry settled back on the couch. Nolan looked at him almost apologetically, followed Wesniak into the kitchen.

“Got yourself into it this time,” Eagleman said. Harry ignored him.

A county forensics man began taking pictures of Perna’s body. The flashes lit up the room.

After a few minutes, Wesniak and Nolan came out of the kitchen. Wesniak waved Harry in.

“Come on,” Eagleman said.

Harry stood and Eagleman caught his right elbow, led him past Nolan and into the kitchen. Perna’s blood spotted the linoleum, and he could see the sole of Rego’s high-top sneaker still holding the screen door open.

Wesniak pulled out a chair from the table, gestured at it. Harry sat down. Eagleman posted himself in the kitchen door, blocking it. He took a wooden match from his shirt pocket, began to chew on it.

Through the window, Harry could see men with flashlights moving around the backyard.

“So this is what it comes down to,” Wesniak said. He pulled out another chair, sat down. “You should have taken my advice.”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “Maybe.”

Wesniak looked at Eagleman, pointed at the handcuffs. Eagleman came over with the key, unlocked them, and then went back to his station at the door.

Harry rubbed his left wrist.

“I talked to Detective Nolan,” Wesniak said. “He told me about the statement you gave. Ordinarily, the county sheriff’s department would run the show with an assist from the Colts Neck cops, but I think I’ve convinced him he’ll need our help. He’s going to officially request it later today.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s me you’ve got to deal with here. But you shouldn’t be too surprised by that, should you?”

Harry shrugged.

“Nolan’s a good man, though,” Wesniak said. “Thorough. He ran checks on everybody. They all had IDs on them, which made it easier.”

“Have you talked to the hospital?”

“Nolan called a few minutes ago. Your friend’s still in surgery. They won’t know anything for a while. Do you know who the other two are?”

“Yes.”

“Both pretty bad guys, from what we’re hearing. How’d you get the drop on them?”

Harry said nothing.

“They’re both connected. Did you know that?”