Greg Iles: 24 Hours

“What do I want with a ranch in Costa Rica? I can’t stand spics anyhow. This is what I came for. What goes around comes around, Doc.”

Will felt a hard tug on his pants. “Daddy, look.”

As Hickey steadied his aim, Will threw himself on top of Abby. Then, just as Cheryl had done before the crash, he turned and looked death full in the face.

He expected a muzzle flash, but what he saw was a bloody forearm the size of a ham slip around Hickey’s neck and lift him bodily into the air.

“You can’t hurt Abby, Joey,” Huey said. “You can hurt Huey, but you can’t hurt Abby. She’s my Belle.”

Hickey’s eyes bulged with surprise. He tried to bring his pistol far enough back to shoot his cousin, but the first shot didn’t come close. The bloody forearm just lifted him higher, closing off his windpipe like a clamp. Hickey’s legs kicked like a badly hanged man’s, and his gun barked harmlessly into the sky. He somehow managed to choke out four words, but they were poorly chosen.

“You-god-damn-retard-”

Will watched in fascination as Huey choked the life out of his cousin, his face as placid as that of a mountain gorilla at rest. Hickey’s last bullet tore off part of Huey’s ear, but then the gun clicked empty. By the time the sharp snap of cervical vertebra reverberated across the road, Hickey’s face was blue-black.

His limbs went limp as rags, and his gun clattered onto the concrete. After a few seconds, Huey set him gently on the side of the road, sat beside him, and began to pet his head. Then he shook him gently, as if he might suddenly wake up.

“Joey? Joey?”

The beating of the helicopter was much louder. Will rolled off Abby and unbuckled his belt, wrapped it around his wounded thigh, and tied it off.

“Look,” Abby said in a small voice. “Huey’s crying.”

Huey had knelt over Hickey and put a hand over his mouth to feel for breath. When he felt none, he started mewling like a baby.

“Why’d you want to hurt Belle?” he sobbed. “It’s not right to hurt little girls. Mamaw told us that.”

“We’ve got to help him, Daddy.” Abby started across the road, but Will limped after her and brought her back.

“I need you here, baby. We’ve got to find Mom.”

“I’m right here,” someone said from behind them.

Will turned. Karen was standing on the median side of the road, an automatic pistol in her hand. It was Cheryl’s Walther. She was pointing it at its owner, while Cheryl crawled over the grass stuffing loose packets of hundred-dollar bills back into the briefcase. Both women looked like air-raid survivors, dazed beyond reason but still trying to function, their brains pushing them down logical paths without any larger perspective.

Abby started to run to Karen, but Will caught her arm and pulled her back. Karen was not herself. If she was, she would have run to Abby as soon as she sighted her.

“Bring me the gun, Karen,” he said.

She seemed not to have heard. She kept pointing the Walther at Cheryl’s head, which was only two feet from its barrel. For her part, Cheryl seemed not to notice. She just kept stuffing bills into the briefcase. Will saw blood on her shoulder, but apparently the bullet had not done major damage.

He limped to within three feet of his wife. “Karen? May I please have the gun? I need it.”

“She’s one of them!” Karen cried suddenly. “Isn’t she?”

“It’s over,” he said, holding out his hand. “Hickey’s dead. And she’s not going anywhere.”

Karen jerked the Walther out of his reach. As she did, Will saw a large bloodstain on her upper abdomen.

“What happened?”

“He shot me,” she said, still following Cheryl with the gun.

“DROP THE WEAPON!” shouted a male voice. “State police! Drop the gun and lie down on the ground!”

Will turned and saw two uniformed state troopers pointing long-barreled revolvers at Karen.

“Hold your fire!” he yelled. “She’s in shock!”

“DROP THAT WEAPON!” one trooper shouted again.

Karen turned toward them but did not drop the gun. Will knew they might fire at any moment. He stepped forward and put his body between their guns and Karen, but even as he did, a fierce wind sprang up, driving gravel and cinders across the road in a punishing spiral.

A Bell helicopter with “FBI” stenciled in yellow on the fuel tank flared over the road and set down near the dwindling fire that had been Will’s plane. Two men in business suits leaped out of the cockpit and ran toward the state troopers, their wallets held out in front of them. A hurried conversation resulted in one of the troopers lowering his gun, but the other did not seem impressed by FBI credentials. One of the agents interposed himself between the stubborn trooper and Karen, and addressed himself to Will.

“Are you Dr. Jennings?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Frank Zwick, Doctor. I’m glad to see you alive.”

“I’m damn glad to see you. Can you help us? My wife has been shot, and she’s disoriented.”

“Can you get her to put down the gun?”

Will turned to Karen and held up his hands. “Honey, you’ve got to give me the gun. These people are here to help us. You can’t-”

Karen wobbled on her feet, then crumpled forward onto the ground.

Will ran forward and knelt beside her. Her radial pulse was weak. As carefully as he could, he rolled her over and unbuttoned the bloodsoaked blouse. The bullet had struck her in the left upper abdomen, probably in the spleen. He leaned over and put his ear to her mouth, listening and feeling for breath, watching her chest expansion. Her airway was open, and her lungs probably okay, but he could already see some distension in her belly from internal bleeding.

“What’s wrong with Mom?” Abby wailed. “Daddy, what’s the matter?”

“She’s all right,” he assured her, though the wound could be fatal if not treated quickly in an operating room.

“We’ve got paramedics about five miles out,” Zwick said. “They’re coming up the shoulder in an ambulance. I’d estimate fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“I want her in your chopper,” Will told him. “You can have her on the helipad at University Hospital in ten minutes.”

“That’s not an air ambulance, Doctor. It’s just a row of seats.”

“It beats waiting. Make it happen, Frank.”

The SAC nodded and ran over to talk to his pilot.

“Abby?” said Karen, her eyes fluttering.

“We’re all here,” Will said.

“Where’s Abby?” Karen struggled to rise. “Where’s my baby?”

“Right here, Mom.” Abby knelt beside her mother.

Karen seized her hand, then raised her head, looking right and left like a lioness guarding her cubs. “Where’s Hickey?”

“Dead,” Will told her again. “We’re all safe, babe.”

It took a few moments for this to register, but at last Karen sighed and closed her eyes again. Will estimated her blood pressure by checking her various pulses, carotid, femoral, and radial. Then he checked her nail perfusion. She was going into shock. They needed to get moving.

“Daddy’s going to make you all better, Mom.”

Karen smiled a ghostly smile. “I know, baby.”

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“With you holding my hand, nothing hurts.”

Abby laughed through tears.

“All set,” Zwick said, coming over from the chopper. “Ready to move her?”

“I’m a little under the weather,” Will told him.

“My dad got shot in the leg,” Abby said proudly. “He was trying to save me.”

“Whose money is this?” called a state trooper from the median. He was holding up the ransom briefcase. Beside him, his partner was cuffing Cheryl’s hands behind her back.