Two figures stood at the end of the yard. One held a shotgun. The other had his arm in a sling.
I came back to the hallway. Lorna took one look at my face and said: "They're out front as well, aren't they?"
I nodded.
"Why do they want you dead?"
"They think I'll interfere, and they owe me for something that happened back in Portland. You must have guns in the house. Where are they?"
"Upstairs. Rand keeps them in the dresser."
She led the way up the stairs and into their bedroom. It contained a large, country pine bed, with a yellow bedspread and yellow pillows. A matching pine dresser stood across from a large closet. In one corner was a small bookshelf packed with books. A radio played softly in another corner, The Band singing "Evangeline," with Emmylou Harris's vocals snaking in and out of the verse and chorus. Lorna pulled some old T-shirts from a drawer and threw them on the floor, revealing the guns. The first was a Charter Arms Undercover.38 with a three-inch barrel, a real lawman's weapon. There was a speed loader beside it, fully packed. Close by, in a Propex holster, lay a second gun: a Ruger Mark II with a tapered barrel. There was an almost empty box of.22 Long Rifle rimfire cartridges in the corner of the drawer.
"God bless the paranoid," I said. I took the.38, loaded it and tucked it into my belt, then picked up the Ruger and examined it. The bolt was open, the chamber was empty and the safety was on.
"Rand sometimes uses it for target practice," Lorna explained, as I released the bolt, ejected the magazine and began loading it with cartridges. On the bedside cabinet stood a large plastic bottle of water, almost empty now. I steadied myself against the dresser. In the mirror facing me, my skin appeared deathly pale. There were smudges of hurt and exhaustion under my eyes and my face was pockmarked by glass cuts and smeared with sap and the old man's blood. I could smell him on me. I could smell his dog.
"Do you have tape; adhesive tape?"
"Maybe downstairs, but there's a roll of adhesive bandage in the bathroom cabinet. Will that do?"
I nodded, took the plastic bottle and followed her into the yellow-and-white tiled bathroom. She opened the cabinet and handed me the roll of inch-wide bandage. I emptied the last of the mineral water into the sink, inserted the slim barrel of the Ruger into the bottle and held it in place by wrapping the bandage repeatedly around it.
"What are you doing?" asked Lorna.
"Making a suppressor," I replied. I figured that if Celli's men searched the house, I could take one of them out with the suppressed.22 if I had to and buy us five, maybe ten seconds of time. In a gunfight at close quarters, ten seconds is an eternity.
From below came the sound of the back door being kicked in, followed by the shattering of glass and the sound of the front door being opened. I inserted the magazine and pulled the bolt, jacking a cartridge into the chamber.
"Get in the tub and keep your head down," I whispered. She slipped off her sandals and climbed silently into the bathtub. I removed my shoes and left them behind the door, then moved softly onto the landing and back into the bedroom. The radio was still playing, but The Band had now been replaced by Neil Young, his high, plaintive tones echoing around the room.
"Don't let it bring you down…"
I took up a position in the shadows by the window. The gun felt awkward in my hand after the Smith & Wesson, but at least it was a gun. I released the safety, and waited.
"It's only castles burning…"
I heard him on the stairs, watched his shadow moving ahead of him, saw it stop and then begin to step into the room, following the music. I tightened my grip on the trigger, and took a deep breath.
"Just find someone who's turning…"
He pushed the door open with his foot, waited a moment, then darted fully into the bedroom, his shotgun raised. I swallowed once, then exhaled.
"…And you will come around."
I pulled the trigger on the.22 and the top of the bottle exploded dully with a sound like a paper bag bursting. He stumbled back and I shot him again as I advanced, the light leaving his eyes as he slid slowly down the wall. I caught the shotgun, a pistol-grip Mossberg, as it slipped from his grasp. Dropping the.22, I stepped over his body, my stocking feet soundless on the floor, and moved back into the hallway.
"Terry?" called a voice from below, and I saw a man's hand, a. 44 Magnum held in its grip, then his arm, his body, his face. He looked up and I took him in the head, the noise of the shotgun like a cannon's roar. His features disappeared in a red haze and he tumbled backward. I pumped and was already moving onto the stairs when a bullet struck the wall close to my left ear, a muzzle flashing in the darkness of the dining room. I fired, pumped, fired, pumped: two shots into the darkness. Glass broke and plaster disintegrated, and no more shots came. The front door now stood ajar. What remained of its glass burst and wood splinters flew as more shots came from the kitchen. I stayed on the stairs, jammed the shotgun between the supports of the banisters, turned it and fired the last round.
In the kitchen, a shadow detached itself from the wall and moved to the edge of the long hallway, firing a barrage of shots, sending wood singing from the banisters and yellow dust clouding from the wall beside me as his aim gradually grew closer and closer. I reached for the.38, yanked it from my belt and fired three shots. There was a cry of pain as, from the corner of my eye, I saw movement at the front door. It distracted me and, as I turned, the wounded gunman in the kitchen exposed himself fully and moved into the hall, his gun hand raised, the other hand holding onto his shoulder. He bared his teeth and then a noise came, louder than any gunshot I had ever heard before, and a hole appeared in his torso, big enough for a man to put his fists through if he chose. I thought I could see the kitchen through it, the glass on the floor, the sink unit, the edge of a chair. The gunman remained upright for a split second longer then tumbled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
At the door stood Louis, a huge Ithaca Mag-10 Roadblocker shotgun in his hands, the rubber stock still fast against his shoulder. "Man just had himself a 10-gauge handshake," he said. From the back of the house came more shots and the sound of a car accelerating fast. Louis jumped over the corpse, with me close behind. We headed through the ruined kitchen to the back door and looked out on the yard beyond. Angel stood at the gate, a Glock 9mm in his hand, and shrugged at us.
"He got away, the ugly fuck. I didn't even see him until he was in the car."
"Mifflin," I said, wearily.
Louis looked at me. "That freak still alive?" He shook his head in wonder.
"Maybe we could blast him into space and hope he burns up on reentry," mused Angel.
I shivered in the cold, with only the bandages to cover my upper body. They were already soaked with red. My ears rang from the noise of the gunfire in the enclosed space of the house. Louis slipped off his overcoat and put it over my shoulders. Despite the cold, I felt like I was burning up.
"You know," said Angel. "You oughta be more careful. You're gonna catch your death like that."
The three of us started at a noise from behind, but only Lorna stood at the door. I walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around herself, keeping her eyes on me and away from the bodies on the floor behind her.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"We're going back to Dark Hollow. I need Billy Purdue alive."
"And Rand?"
"I'll do what I can. You better call him, tell him what's happened."
"I tried. Our phone is dead. They must have cut the wires before they came in."