The White Mountain (26 page)

“Yessir?” he said, trotting
over to where they stood.

“Miss Mary has a bad leg. 
Why don’t you level the playing field a bit?”

“Roger that.”  Thomas spun
his gun around with the grace of a cadet presenting arms, then slammed the butt
of it into the side of Randall’s knee.  The
crunch
buckled Randall’s
leg, but he didn’t go down.  Blood flew out of his mouth as he exhaled blasts
of air, fighting the pain, standing gingerly to the side, keeping the weight
off.

“Take Randall’s little
peashooter and give him twenty paces.  Put Mary down at the other end.  Leave
her one of yours.  Set it on the ground, twenty paces away, too.”

Thomas grabbed Mary by the
forearm, pulling her along as he marched down the center aisle.  He stooped,
deposited Randall’s pistol on the floor, and kept going.  She struggled to keep
up, but she knew what she had to do. 

An idea had come to her, and
it was the only way.

She heard Randall behind her,
saying, “Mary?”

She looked over her shoulder,
back to him.  Lakeland’s gun at his head.  For the first time ever—not during
his wedding, not during the birth of his son—she saw tears in his eyes.  She tripped
over her own feet, stumbled.  Thomas helped her up, but not tenderly.  His
fingers gouged into her arm. 

Randall said, “Mary…I’m
sorry.”

***

Mary stood at the far end of
the building as Thomas backed away slowly, then ducked into a side aisle and
disappeared amongst a small throng of cardboard boxes.  A hundred yards away,
maybe more, Randall stood alone, directly in front of her.  If she ducked,
slightly, she could see Billy and Lakeland over by the support beam, standing next
to Rhodes.  A moment later, Thomas appeared beside the cadre of bastards.

Her plan was simple.  Give
them a show.  Give them what they wanted by firing off a couple of misdirected
rounds and then let Randall shoot her.  She hoped to get close enough, hoped to
be able to give him whispered instructions.  Prayed for only a wounding shot. 
If they could pull it off, they might have a chance at taking the four
remaining men by surprise, somehow.  But, if she couldn’t, if Randall came
after her hell-bent on opening her forehead and ending her life, well…it was
the only approach.  Regardless of what happened after, whether or not Billy and
Lakeland let them go, at least they wouldn’t die because she refused to
participate.  Randall would be on his own then and maybe, just maybe, he’d
figure out a way.

She thought of Jimmy, choked
on the ostrich-egg lump in her throat, and silently apologized to him for what
she was about to do.

If I don’t make it, have a
good life, babe.  Miss me.

Mary took a deep breath,
counted to ten, and cracked her knuckles.

From back in the front
corner, she listened as Billy shouted, “Three…two…one…go!”

She watched as Randall tried
to dart ahead, hobbling on his wounded knee.  She did the same.

The twenty paces felt like
miles as she hop-scrambled forward and picked up the gun.  She looked up and
heard the first
crack
of Randall’s as a bullet
zinged
and
ricocheted off the shelving to her left.

Small gun.  Not as
accurate at this distance.  Good thing.

Dipping to her left—more like
falling—she threw herself down the side aisle and lurched toward the building’s
perimeter.  Another
crack
, another
zing
at her rear.

He’s not letting up.

Would he come straight down
the middle?  Come around to her side, try to flank her?  How would she ever get
close enough to tell him her plan? 

Darker now, over in the
shadows, away from the open bay door, it gave her enough cover to limp along
freely.

Unless…unless he tries to
shoot between the shelves.

She bent over, found an open
line of sight between some haphazardly placed boxes, and watched, waiting.  During
his time as a sniper, Randall had spent hours, days, weeks even, more
motionless than a weathered stone.  He could outwait her.  She knew it.  But if
it came to that, if they took too long in their stalemate, Billy would
intervene.  She didn’t want to find out what the consequences might be.

I’ll have to go find
him
if that’s how he’s playing.

Quiet.  So quiet.

It’s like a graveyard in
here—bad choice of words.  There he is.

Between the boxes, moving
along a side aisle, Randall’s white t-shirt flashed in the light, and then he
was gone. 

Mary fired a reciprocating
shot, nowhere near him, to keep the ruse alive.  Hobbling, she reached the end
of the aisle, crept up to the edge, and dipped out for a peek.  No Randall. 

Back in the belly of the
warehouse, they were invisible to Billy and Lakeland, Thomas and Rhodes.

She angled her shoulder,
risking another look between the shelves.  Searching, searching, looking for a
white scrap of t-shirt, maybe beside a box, maybe moving down a row.  She
struggled to keep her breathing silent.  The thick, overheated air difficult to
manage so far away from any sort of ventilation.

Then, Mary squealed as she
felt a hand grab her ankle.

Randall’s head appeared from
underneath the bottom shelf.  He’d crawled all the way to her, undetected.  He
put a finger to his lips, shushing her.  “Shoot,” he whispered.  “Down the
row.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Hurry!  Shoot!”

Mary lifted her gun and
fired.

From the floor, Randall
screamed, “Damn it, you’re dead!  Get over here!”  Whispering again, he said,
“Work your way up to the front.  I’ll follow under here.  Let them see you. 
The third row is full of boxes and I think I can tip these things over. 
They’ll never see me.  Shoot again.  Do it!”

Mary fired down the aisle.

Randall waited for two
heartbeats and did the same, shooting from the ground.  Sparks flashed as the
bullet bounced off a shelving leg across the center path.  He whispered, “Once
these things start falling, they won’t know what to do.  You go for the two
goobers, I’ll take out Billy and Lakeland, got it?”

“What about Alice and Jesse? 
What if they kill them first?”

“You
know
none of us
are leaving here alive.  We gotta try.  We got to.  Go.  Go before they catch
on, but take your time.  Act scared.  It’ll work.  Trust me, Mary. 
Trust me
.”

Mary nodded, fired two more
shots, just in case.

Her leg throbbed to the point
where tiny sparkles distorted her vision with each step, but she put one leg in
front of the other, and kept going.  She ducked up and down aisles, fired
another shot, listened to Randall spitting loud, vile words at her from a
couple of rows back.  He fired again.

Almost there
, she thought. 
Couple more
. 

Billy shouted, “I see you
coming, Mary.  Not smart.  Not smart at all.”

And then, she hobbled into
the open air clearing, welcomed the breeze from the bay door as it whisked her
hair around.

She glanced to her right,
gauging the positions of the four men guarding her sister, her nephew.

Billy pointed and said, “You
want
them to die?  Get back in there.  Get back in there now and finish him off!”

“I’m trying,” she whimpered,
faking it, making her bottom lip quiver, contorting her features in mock
agony.  “I can’t beat him.  He’s too—he’s too good.  I’ll do whatever you want,
just don’t make me go back in there—”

“Get in there,
now
,”
Lakeland ordered.

A piercing screech of metal
on metal followed his command.  Loud and shrill, shrieking like a clanging
beast, marching its way through the warehouse.  The rows of shelving tumbled,
hollow dominos falling over one by one.  Boxes scattered. 

Mary hobbled backward, out of
the way.

Randall clambered up and up,
onto the shelves, aiming at her.

Time measured itself out like
the slow ooze of honey.

Mary’s beating heart tried to
break free from her chest.

Ba-bump.  Ba-bump. 
Ba-bump.

Randall squeezed the trigger.

The deafening thunder of his
9mm filled the room as Mary felt the bullet’s punch in her side, knocking her
down.  She landed on her back, staring at the rafters above.

He tricked me
, she thought. 
He wanted to kill me. 
I trusted him.

The ensuing gunfire confused
her.  She assumed it would all be over, that it was the end.  The end of her. 
The end of Billy’s scheme.

She glanced to her right. 
Thomas fell.  Rhodes followed.  Flinging themselves around, fingers clinching,
firing into the roof.

Lakeland crouched, broke for
the open bay door, laying down a torrent of gunfire to cover his exit.  He
jumped, executed a perfect shoulder-roll then disappeared around the side.

Billy tried to return fire,
missing wide, managing to blurt a panicked, “Wait—” before a single shot struck
home, dead center in the middle of his forehead.  He crumbled into a boneless
heap.

Mary watched Randall, hopping-running
for the bay door, chasing after Lakeland.

One shot, and then another,
followed by the screech of tires and an accelerating SUV.

“Come back here,” Randall
shouted.

It was then Mary realized: 
He
had the same plan.  Jesus, he wasn’t trying to kill me.  I was a distraction!

Randall made his way over to
Alice and Jesse, untied them, hugged them, held them close.

Mary heard him say, “You two
stay right here, I’ll help Auntie Lamb, okay?”

He rushed over to Mary, as
best he could, and fell beside her.  “Hold on,” he said.  “Deep breath.” 

Mary didn’t know whether to
smack him, or pull him in for an embrace.  She inhaled, held it.

Randall grabbed her blouse,
ripped it open around the bullet’s entry point, examining her wound.  He sighed
a gust of relief, then he smirked.  “Shit, man.  I’ve done worse to myself with
a butter knife.”

“I should punch you,” she
said.

“Good shot, though, huh?”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“Sorry.  Had to make it look
real.”

“What now?” she asked. 

“We get the hell out of here,
that’s what now.”  Randall crawled around, hooked his hands in her armpits, and
lifted her upright.

“Easy, easy,” she said,
wincing.  “Billy—Billy killed Herb Richmond, but my fingerprints, they’ll find
them in his house.”

“You touch the gun?”

“No, but—”

“Then we’ll take our chances,
let ballistics figure it out.”

“But what if—”

“We ain’t got time for that
right now, Lamb.  Get those two home.  Get ‘em out of here.  Do
not
take
them to my house.  Lots of things there I don’t want Jesse to see.  When the
feds come, and believe me, they will, use your head.”  He offered a short
breakdown of what had happened.

“Jesus, that’s insane,” Mary
said.  “Henry’s dead?”

“Afraid so.”

“You’re coming with us,
right?”

“Not yet.  I gotta take care
of something.”

“Lakeland?”

“Yep.  I’m going ghost
hunting.”

“Randall, no—you can’t leave
them again.”

“It don’t matter if it’s
today, or tomorrow, or next week.  He’ll be back.  This ain’t finished until we
have a reckoning.”

Moments later, after tearful
begging from Alice and Jesse, Randall apologized for what seemed like the
fiftieth time, hugged his wife and son, told them he’d be home soon, and that
he had to make everything right so they’d be safe.

He dipped his chin at Mary,
saluted her, and then vanished out the open bay door.

***

Randall was right.  Partially. 
It took twenty-four hours before the first federal agent showed up at her
door.  But instead of arriving with questions, he delivered a simple message,
saying, “We’ve contained the issue at the Blevins farm.  Have Randall give us a
call,” as he handed her a card.

Shocked, surprised, and
relieved, she could only assume someone,
a higher authority
, had
demanded that the truth remain hidden.  Possibly someone that lived at 1600
Pennsylvania Avenue, a member of the Richmond family.

Alice and Jesse stayed with
her.  It was better that way.  Safer.  In case things changed.

She’d attended Henry’s
funeral.  A nice service.  Lots of comments about what a good man he was. 

How he died a hero.