The Tin Man (11 page)

Thea
laughed and he glanced her way. She was standing there staring at him as if he’d completely lost his mind.

“Be careful there,
Buchanan,” she said with a grin. “You might get Anthrax or Mad Cow Disease.”

Chuckling, he
moved up the road. She followed him, hurrying to catch up. He waited until she was beside him before he said, “When was the last time you saw your grandfather?”

“A couple of months ago
. We met for coffee in the Village.”

“
What did you talk about?”

He
hoped to hear they’d talked about the book and that it might turn out she knew something she didn’t know she knew.

“
Personal things, mostly,” she said, shrugging. “He’s always haranguing me about when I’m going to settle down and have kids. It’s gotten worse since my mother died.”

“I know the feeling.”

She turned to him with a stunned expression. “Do you? How so?”

“My
mum’s the same way,” he told her. “With Kenny gone, I’m her last hope. And I don’t have the heart to tell her not to hold her breath.”

“
Don’t you want kids?”

“Call me
old-fashioned, but I’d like to find a wife first—and I don’t see that happening. Not in this lifetime, anyway.”

Her pace slowed.
“Why not?”

“Because I’m the
Tin Man, remember?”

They
had reached the porch. Taking the rail, he climbed the stairs. No sound was coming from inside the house, which struck him as odd. And unnerving. He knew that farmers turned in early, but did they leave the candles burning all night? Stopping halfway, he checked the time on his BlackBerry. It was after ten o’clock.

“Maybe we should come back in the morning,” he told
her.

She
was now on the step below him.

“And where are we supposed to go in the meantime?”

He didn’t answer, partly because he had no clue and partly because his gut told him something wasn’t right. He drew his Glock, keeping it low as he hobbled up the rest of the steps and across the plank porch. He drew a steeling breath before rapping on the screen-door frame. He waited for what felt like an eternity before leaning in to listen. He could hear nothing but the ticking of a clock. He waited a bit longer, then knocked again. Still nothing.

“Hello?” he called once more
before opening the screen. The hinges squealed, giving him chills. There was a small window on the oak front door. He peered in, but saw only candles, which, judging from their reduced state, had been burning for some time. He knocked again, still watching for movement. Seeing nothing, he tried the knob. As it turned in his hand, he pushed open the door.

Stepping inside, he called out,
“Hello? Anybody home?”

Thea
, right behind him, grabbed hold of his shirt and yanked him back. “You can’t just walk in,” she hissed. “It’s breaking and entering.”

Technically, it was only trespassing, since the door was unlocked, but this was no time to be splitting hairs. He kept moving. She followed,
keeping hold of his shirt.

“What if they’re only in bed?”

“Then we’ll apologize for the intrusion and show ourselves out,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Shadows danced eerily across the walls.
A strange blend of odors filled the room. Burning wax, food, and something distasteful.

“Stay here
,” he said, attempting to dislodge her.

“Not on your life,” she
whispered, seizing a bigger clump of shirt.

Raising his gun, he duck
ed around the edge of the door, calling, “Hello?” Given the smell, he didn’t expect an answer.

“I’m scared,” she said behind him.

So was he, but he saw no advantage in admitting it. He crept across the foyer and into the parlor. Thea remained hot on his heels, but was no longer hanging on. Up ahead, he could see candlelight washing honey-colored cabinets. He moved toward them, holding his breath.

He stepped into the doorway,
gaze darting around. The room was bursting with the aroma of roasted poultry and fresh-baked bread. There was a long pine table in one corner, set for a feast. Four plates, all clean. The food was untouched. Where were they? He shivered, feeling like he’d stepped into an episode of
Twilight Zone.

He
grimaced when he saw a woman, sprawled on the floor, hole in her forehead, white cap askew, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. When he stopped, Thea bumped into him.

“What is it?”
she whispered.

He saw the others then, the husband in a blue shirt and suspenders, the two kids—a boy and a girl. His
heart wrenched. They couldn’t have been more than six or seven.

“
Stay back,” he croaked, overcome. “You don’t want to see this, believe me.”

Thea
, ignoring the warning, stepped around him, and stood there, staring in horror at the bodies.

“Was i
t them, do you think? The men in the Mustang?”

“Who else?”

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, and then she cried out, “Oh my God! Where’s my grandfather!”

Before he could react, she was sprinting toward the
stairs. He took off after her, but by the time he reached the landing, she was nowhere to be seen.

At the top, t
he long hallway was pitch-black. He knew there must be doors, but he couldn’t see any. He felt his way along, knocking pictures askew as he went. He could hear her frantic footsteps and her pulling open doors. He was afraid for her. And for himself. What was she thinking? The Arabs were probably lying in wait.

“
Thea,” he called out, his voice no more than a rasp. “Where are you?”

N
o response.

He found a door, felt for the handle, pushed it open. There was a window on the far wall.
Moonlight was breaking through the lace, casting spidery shadows across the walls. He limped over and looked out. Everything was black. Mineshaft-black. He cast around, straining to see something, anything. Shapes. Outlines. Silhouettes. There was a cottage, he saw after a moment, behind the house at the bottom of the knoll. He could only just make out a porch. The windows were dark, but he thought he saw something. The faintest whisper of movement. Had he imagined it? And, if not, was it Thea, the professor, or the gunmen?

Panic
besieged his brain, shutting it down. He lumbered down the hall, blind in the darkness, hands out in front of him, groping for obstacles. Finally, he found the stairs again and, clutching the rail for dear life, half-stumbled down.

He
fast-limped to the front door, down the steps, and to the edge of the house. Cautiously, he stole a peek around the corner, but saw nothing but night. He heard something then. Looking toward the sound, he saw movement. A figure. Thea, running down the hill toward the cottage.

“
Thea,” he yelled, “come back!”

He heard a
click. It took his mind a second to register the sound as a silenced gun. He searched the darkness. Where the devil did she go? He didn’t dare call out to her again. Their only hope now was to keep out of sight.   

Footsteps in the grass.
Someone was coming up behind him. Heart in throat, he spun around, raising his gun. His hands were trembling, his finger twitching on the trigger.

“Stop,” he
bellowed into the blackness, “or I’ll shoot.”

“Don’t
,” she returned, “it’s me.”

“
Jesus wept, woman,” he whispered, heart pounding as he lowered his gun. “I nearly shot you.”

“
There are two of them,” she said. “On the porch.”

With fear-sharpened senses, he
homed in on the cottage. He could make out dark shapes, could hear them moving around and speaking fast and low in a foreign tongue. His mind raced around the possibilities: take cover in the house, praying they didn’t wind up like the family inside; try to make a run for it, knowing they wouldn’t get far; call the police and risk going to prison; or, attempt an ambush like he’d seen them do in Kuwait. He glanced around, mapping the course in his mind. The only cover between here and there was a small stand of trees. It was several yards away. Could they make it?

“How good are you with that gun?”
he asked.

“Not half bad.
At the firing range.”

“We need to get to those trees,” he said, pointing. “Can
you soldier crawl?”

“Tell me how.”

“Lay flat on your belly, stay low to the ground, and use your elbows and knees,” he explained. “I’ll act as the buffer.”

They got down
together and started moving. He could feel the grass, cold and wet, seeping through the front of his shirt, could smell the chlorophyll leaking from the crushed and broken blades. He paused every few seconds, listening to be sure the men were still on the porch. They made it to the trees and took cover behind a couple of thick trunks.

“Now what?”
she said between heaving breaths.

“Now you stay here
,” he told her, “while I creep down the hill and try to get a clear shot.”

“What
! Have you lost your mind? They’ll kill you.”

“Not if I kill them first
,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

There was a pause before she said, voice shaky,
“Buchanan, do you think there’s any chance my grandfather’s still alive?”

“I
couldn’t really say.”

What he could say, but
chose not to, was that it didn’t look good for Frank Aslan. And if the professor was dead, he might never learn who had killed his editors (and was still after him) and, more importantly, why.

He told her what to do as he got down on his belly.
When he was midway down the knoll, she started shooting, as he’d instructed, and, as he’d hoped, the men on the porch returned her fire. He crawled faster, reached the outer corner of the house, and scrambled behind it. He was breathing hard, sweat stung his eyes, and his heart felt ready to burst. He sat up, pressed his back against the clapboards, and checked his weapon.

He took a couple of breaths to steady himself, knowing that,
once he fired, they would know where he was. He needed, therefore, to make every shot count. Craning to see around the corner, he took a good look. The porch was screened in, but he could see them both. They wore black, but no masks. Other than that, the details were a blur.

Thea
fired again. The assassins ducked behind the frame. He had a clear shot. He raised his Glock, squinted down the sight, taking careful aim. Sucking in a breath, he squeezed the trigger. The gun cracked, kicking hard. From the porch, he heard a yelp of pain. He fired again. The loud thump of a body falling told him he’d hit one of them.

Thea
shot off another round. Her fire was returned. He held back, waiting for his chance. As soon as he heard the guy reloading, he started shooting. When he ran out of bullets, he dug in his pocket for another clip and reloaded. Just as he was taking aim, he heard a shot crack sharply. It came from the direction of the trees, only closer. He looked out, but saw nothing.

He
hung back. More shots from behind him, which were matched by the man on the porch. He threw a glance back, praying it was Thea, but saw nothing.

Bam, bam, bam.

The remaining gunman cried out.

“Did I get him?”

He jumped.
She was beside him now.

“Jesus,” he gasped,
“you scared the shite out of me.”

“Did I get him?” she asked again.

“You grazed him, I think,” he said, taking aim.

Bam, bam.

They waited,
bodies pressed together against the clapboards.

“How do we know if they’re dead?” she whispered.

“We won’t know until we go up there.”

She coughed.
“Go up there? But—what if they’re faking it, to draw us out?”

He peered around the corner.
One of the men was on his back, soles presenting. He raised his Glock, aiming right between the man’s legs. He thought about his slaughtered staff. Kelsey. Stan, his crotchety political editor. Jeremy, the kid who took care of the server. Fury engulfed him, a blazing fury that burned all the way down to his bowels.

Bam.
Bam. Bam.

The body jerked, but not
in the way it would have if it still contained life. Satisfied, he told her to stay put while he went around back to look for a way in.

Buchanan, gripping his Glock with both hands, slipped in through the kitchen. It was dark, but he could see enough to know the place had been turned upside down. Cupboards were open, drawers hung out, and spilled packages of foodstuffs littered the floor.