The Evil That Men Do (27 page)

“Did he tell you why I was let go? About the explosion at the office?”

“Anger issues. That was how he put it.”

“I loved being a cop. I loved working for the bomb squad. I wouldn’t blow up the office. Marshall kept pushing me, and pushing me, from the first day on the job when he told me about my past. My parents never told me about that. I didn’t know about it until Marshall did a background check on me.”

That didn’t make sense to Donne. The hatred had been in Hackett for as long as Donne had known him. But maybe that hadn’t been hatred of the Donne family. Maybe it was the hatred of his parents for forcing him to live with them.

Hackett’s hands were shaking now. Something about Jason Marshall had set him off.

“Oh my God,” he said. “Jill.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My wife, she’s… The party…”

Hackett pressed his hands to his face and shook his head.

“It wasn’t me who set the bomb in my office,” he said. “It was Jason Marshall. He hated me too. He wanted me out.”

The words cut through Donne. The conviction in Hackett’s voice worried him. What if Hackett wasn’t lying? And Susan was still with Marshall. He’d saved her husband, but at the same time, he’d left her in danger.

Donne’s gun dropped to his side as a chill ran through him. It was exactly the opening Hackett needed.

Before Donne could raise the gun again, Hackett lurched forward and tackled him into the mud. He hit Donne twice in the ribs as they splattered to the ground, and Donne almost passed out. An explosion of pain thrust through him as his lungs exhaled the last of the air in his body.

Mud caked his face as Donne sank deeper. His clothes were heavy and he couldn’t swing his arms. He was stuck. Hackett hit him twice in the stomach, rabbit punches, so fast that Donne hadn’t even had time to feel the first when the second connected. Donne tried to gulp air but tasted only mud. He was going to drown there.

And he felt the fight going from him. He wanted to let go, get the whole thing over with. Die right there.

Hackett caught Donne across the chin with a right cross. He screamed something out, but the mud muffled it. Something about family.

Donne’s family.

He couldn’t let go. People needed him. There was only one way out — to fight back. To reach inside and find the last ounces of strength and use it. Ignore the pain in his legs and wheel back with his knee and drive Hackett’s balls right into his stomach. He swung his knee up as hard as he could and found his target. Hackett grunted and coughed. The blow hurt him enough that Donne could roll him off and sit up.

Donne opened his mouth and inhaled, gulping air down as if he’d just been underwater. As the air filled his lungs, so did pain. Could his lungs pop like an overinflated balloon? Was that possible? Donne closed his eyes and focused on the air instead.

He was caked with mud. He must have weighed an extra twenty pounds. Behind him, back toward the destroyed building, Donne heard sirens. They were close.

He found his gun in the mud, picked it up, and wiped the mud off it and onto his shirt. He pointed it at Hackett.

“Sit up,” Donne said.

“Just kill me,” he said. Hackett was covering his crotch and writhing on the ground. The rage had gone out of him with one blow. Or so Donne thought.

The hand that wasn’t covering himself swooped out from beneath him, catching Donne in the ankle. A sharp pain shot through him, and his brain registered the knife that had been jammed in his leg. His already injured muscles contracted hard around the wound, Donne went down on one knee, and the gun went off.

Hackett didn’t make a sound. He sank softly into the mud.

Donne pulled the blade from his leg, grunting as he did so. It was hard to pull it out, as if his body didn’t want to give it up. It slid out, inch by painful inch. Blood spilled from the wound with each tug until it finally gave way. Pressing his right hand against the opening, Donne limped up the hill away from the river. Away from Hackett’s body.

The building still burned. EMTs surrounded Franklin Carter, checking his vitals and his injuries. An ambulance careened around the corner. A few onlookers turned to face Donne, taking a step back when they saw the gun in his hand.

He should stay and see if Franklin was okay.

He should explain things to the police.

But he didn’t. Before anyone approached him, he managed to get to the car, start the engine, and pull out onto the road. He was sure someone took down the license plate number.

It didn’t matter.

His sister came first.

Bitch won’t get far.

Jason Marshall undid his seat belt and pushed the passenger door open. He glanced in the rearview mirror to check his face. A large gash crossed his forehead, blood dripping from it. His left arm didn’t work right, he noticed as he tried to wipe the blood away. He tried to lift it, but it barely rose past his waist. That was probably why Susan had been able to get out of his grasp so easily.

Marshall picked up his gun. Then he got out of the car and slammed the door shut. His legs felt okay. He felt like he could run. First, though, he needed one thing.

The money.

The duffel bag had bounced around during the accident, but it was undamaged. And heavier than he expected. He checked his watch. He still had time.

He slung the bag over his right shoulder and jogged off in the direction Susan had run.

SUSAN ALWAYS HATED HORROR MOVIES. THE WOMEN
always ran the wrong way, or worse, stopped running altogether and tried to hide. But that was exactly what she did. She hurt too much to run any farther. It seemed like she’d taken the brunt of the car accident, even with the air bag.

Her plan was to get home and lock all the doors. She was only a block away, after all. But she couldn’t run hard; the wound at her side burned and bled more with each step. Once she got into the backyard of the gigantic brick home she ran behind, she found the closest bush. She pushed some of the branches out of the way and slid underneath and lay flat on her stomach, looking out over the yard. She pressed her right arm tight against her side, trying to slow the bleeding and relieve some of the pain.

The yard was pristine. A picnic table with an open umbrella was aligned near the back of the home, a large aboveground pool fifty feet to the left of that. The smell of freshly cut grass made her want to sneeze. She was hiding from someone trying to kill her, and the setting was a fucking Norman Rockwell painting.

Watching the corner of the house where she’d run moments earlier, she caught the shadow first. Jason Marshall came around the corner, slowly, holding a gun. He was holding on to the money too, the duffel bag awkwardly hanging from his shoulder. He surveyed the yard.

Calm, cautious. There was blood on his face, but he was walking without a limp. Both the bag and the gun were on his right side.

Her muscles tensed in fear as he turned his head toward her. She prayed that he wouldn’t see her, that it wasn’t her time to die. But she also knew Marshall was good. Every instinct told her to just get up and run. But she ignored them and froze, tried to sink deeper into the ground. All she wanted was to be invisible.

Marshall took a step toward the bush and stopped. Susan kept her eyes on the gun hand. That would be how she’d know. If he raised his gun, he’d found her. And she’d be dead.

Donne saw the car as soon as he hit Upper Mountain Road. Smoke drifted up from the engine and the back door was open. He accelerated up to the wreck and put his own vehicle in park.

As he got out of the car, his left leg almost gave way. Not sure which hurt more, his lungs or his bleeding leg, he did his best to ignore them both. No time to even try to slow the bleeding. He instead limped over to the accident.

No one was in the car. And since the onlookers and emergency workers weren’t around it yet, it must have just happened. Donne saw blood on the console, and his heart lurched. Blood on the passenger seat and the dashboard. Blood everywhere. Was it hers?

They had to be close. Donne checked the gun to make sure it was ready to be used. Sure, it had gone off once earlier, but it had also been caked in mud.

Once he was satisfied, he took a deep breath. Then opened his mouth.

She was under the bush. Jason Marshall had made her easily. He just wanted to see if she’d try to run. It would be an easier shot if she was standing. After the accident, there was no way she’d be able to move too fast.

“Jason Marshall!”

The shout came from behind him. A male voice, loud and booming.

“Jason Marshall!”

It was Jackson Donne. Marshall closed his eyes and sighed. He hadn’t counted on Donne’s coming back. The guy was supposed to be out somewhere hiding. Marshall had counted on being miles away by the time Donne found out the money was gone and his sister was dead.

Plan changed. No time to wait for Susan to run. That was okay; he was good at improvising.

He walked over to the bush, dropped the duffel bag, and aimed the gun downward.

“Come on out,” he said. Then: “We’re back here!”

THOSE WORDS MEANT IT WASN’T TIME TO FUCK
around. Donne could tell the voice came from behind the house, a columned mansion that probably cost millions. The owners were probably at work. It seemed like the whole neighborhood was at work.

Or maybe they were just smart enough not to come outside with guns around.

He limped toward the house, then alongside of it. His pant leg and sock were caked with red and brown and moved stiffly. The gun was heavy. Donne wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep from passing out. He’d lost a lot of blood.

When he got to the backyard, he had to lean against the corner of the house to stay up. His grip loosened on the gun. What he saw made him feel even weaker.

“Drop the gun,” Jason Marshall said.

He had Susan pressed against him, gun pointed at her head. She was crying, screaming for Donne, and Marshall had to yell over her.

“Drop the gun or I shoot her.”

“Jackson, please!”

Susan had bloodstains on her cheeks. Her left eye was swollen. Her clothes were torn on the left side, and through a hole in her jeans, Donne could see a long cut. The barrel of Marshall’s gun dug into her temple.

“Let her go,” Donne said.

“You are not in any position to tell me what to do. Drop. The. Gun.” To accentuate his point, Marshall pressed the gun harder against Susan’s skin. His finger tensed on the trigger.

“Okay,” Donne said. “Okay.”

The Browning clattered against the concrete patio. Donne felt like he was going to pass out and slumped against the house wall. He fought against the feeling, breathing as deeply as he could.

Stand up straight,
he told himself, but he couldn’t will his body to agree. “We’re going to walk right past you, and you won’t do anything about it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Donne asked.

“Why else?” Marshall nodded toward the duffel bag at his feet. “I need the money.”

“Hackett’s dead. It’s over,” Donne said.

“He’s dead? Thanks, Donne.”

Keeping the gun on Susan, he picked up the bag, slung it over his shoulder. It took him some time. He winced like his arm was hurting. Donne knew how he felt.

They stepped toward Donne, Marshall keeping Susan between them. If he could get toward Marshall’s arm, maybe he’d have a chance, but Marshall was smart. He used Susan to block it. Susan and Donne made eye contact. He felt her fear, the look in her eyes tearing at his heart. He couldn’t blame her. He hoped she didn’t see the same thing in his eyes.

Marshall backed his way up toward the front of the house. Donne matched him step for step. His leg still throbbed, and no way could he push off to try and tackle the both of them.

When they got to the front of the house, Donne could hear sirens in the distance. Someone had called in the accident.

Marshall got himself next to the car he’d pulled up in hours ago.

“We’re going to get the hell out of here. When I get to where I feel safe, I’ll let her go. I just want the money.”

“Where’s Draxton?” Donne asked, just to keep him there another second. To give himself time to come up with another plan.

“All you need to know is when I’m free, she’s free.”

“Did you kill him?”

Marshall didn’t speak. Donne took a step forward, trying to run toward him, crouching like a linebacker about to tackle a running back.

Almost as if it were a muscle instinct, Marshall pushed Susan away from himself into Donne. When they collided, his legs finally gave way. Donne fell to the asphalt. Marshall got into the car.

“Take her,” he said, though he sounded annoyed to let her go. “I don’t have time for this shit. I’m on a schedule.”

He did a three-point turn and disappeared down Upper Mountain Road.

Jason Marshall, the money, the car. Before Donne could stand again, they were halfway down the street.

Sitting back on the asphalt, Donne hugged Susan. The police showed up before anyone else. One cruiser, one uniformed cop with a notepad. When he saw them, he immediately rushed over.

He started asking questions while scribbling in a notebook, but Susan held up a hand.

“Get us an ambulance,” she ordered.

“This was a hell of an accident,” the officer said.

She ignored him and said to Donne, “Franklin?”

He nodded. “I found him. He was alive. When I left him.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “When you left him?”

“He was hurt bad. His arm was broken. Then there was an explosion. EMS showed up when I left.”

She hugged Donne back. “I knew he was alive.” Donne prayed Franklin still was. For her sake.

Marshall didn’t hit too much traffic. Not on Route 3, not on the Turnpike. It was like the traffic gods had been looking out for him and left him a clear shot. Keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, Marshall was pretty sure he wasn’t being followed.