John Miller - Too Far Gone

“You can escape,” Alexa said. “If you hurry.”

“Tell Mrs. West that had not Dr. LePointe tried to rub me out, he and Mr. West would both still be alive.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Alexa said. “You can take the ransom and get away. I’ve got backup on the way.”

“Detective Manseur? Gary probably sustained some brain damage thanks to my somewhat overzealous assistant, but he might have recovered had it not been for the double-ought buckshot that will go through his lungs by means of my mechanical invention.”

“LePointe was self-defense. Murder of a hostage in the course of a kidnapping earns you the death penalty.”

“Everybody dies, dear Alexa,” he said. “The question is whether it’s best to die a pauper or prince.” He lifted the briefcase so Alexa could see it. “I think the answer to that lies herein, don’t you? Two point five million.” He reached up, and taking hold of a thin cable, pulled it. Alexa saw the pin fall as the corner of an overstuffed bag opened and a thin stream of white sand started pouring into the bowl.

“Don’t do this!” Alexa yelled at him. “Stop it and go.”

“I’ll go when-”

The front door flew open and Alexa turned her head to see Casey West standing in the doorway with her hands stretched out before her. Leland Ticholet reacted like he was spring-loaded-whirling and darting out into the night.

At Casey’s entrance, Doc turned toward the door. He lifted the briefcase just as Casey fired the gun she was gripping. Bullets slammed into the case and Doc stumbled backwards, using the case as a body shield, moving for the open back door as fast as he could work his legs.

Casey advanced deeper into the house, firing steadily as she came. The reports were earsplitting. Casey ejected the empty magazine, letting it clatter to the floor. She shoved in a new magazine as she moved purposefully toward the kitchen. The man scrambled backward frantically, turned, and ran outside.

Casey fired several more rounds, then stopped.

Outside, a boat motor roared to life.

“Gary!” Casey yelled. She ran to him, dropping the weapon as she reached to hug him.

“Casey, get back!” Alexa yelled. “There’s a booby trap. Get the cuff keys from my jacket!”

Kneeling, a fumbling and shaking Casey located the key and unlocked the handcuffs.

Alexa stood. She could see the cables to the apparatus losing their slack-tightening.

Casey was staring at the shotgun in the rafters. “Do something! Alexa, help him!”

Alexa’s mind raced. The shotgun was not only bolted to the rafter using U-bolts so it couldn’t be moved at all without tools, a steel plate had been placed over the receiver to keep anything from being placed behind the trigger to prevent its discharge. The cables were comprised of plastic-coated, twisted steel strands, which couldn’t be cut without bolt cutters, and they were thin enough to make shooting them in half out of the region of normal marksmanship. Shooting the sandbag, perched near the peak, would only add to the speed the sand was flowing into the bowl, and hasten the inevitable.

Casey began clawing at the duct tape, hoping to free the chair from the column. It was clearly a futile effort, given the speed with which the bag was draining. The bastard had designed his device well; disarming it quickly was impossible.

The gun was going to go off.

Gary West was going to be killed by the blast.

Alexa hurriedly removed her ballistic vest and draped it over Gary’s chest.

Almost before she got her hands clear, the shotgun exploded, the lead’s off-center impact causing the vest to fly off, hitting the floor six feet away. She heard the wind rush out of Gary West’s open mouth; smoke curled between the shotgun and its target.

Casey stood frozen, crying hysterically.

The buckshot hadn’t penetrated the Kevlar vest. Alexa pressed her hand against Gary’s neck and her heart leapt when she felt a weak but steady pulse under her fingers. “He’s okay,” she said.

Casey wrapped her arms around Gary and kissed him frantically. “Oh, my poor, poor, darling Gary,” she sobbed. “We’ll get you to the hospital.”

Alexa ran to the Bucar for her purse, which held her folding knife. She found her phone on the seat, pressed the CALL button to reach Manseur, and ran back inside the cabin. Quickly, she began cutting away the tape.

“Manseur and Bond are on the way,” she told Casey.

“Thank God,” the other woman said.

Casey peeled the tape from her husband as Alexa made the incisions. When the tape was removed, they lowered Gary to the floor.

Next, Alexa moved over to LePointe, and as she removed his hat, his hair came off with it. When the wig fell to the floor she saw the bright red hair and the unmistakable features of the dead man.

“Poor Unko,” Casey sobbed.

“Your uncle’s still alive. It’s Decell.”

The steady whooping of sirens and bright headlights burned through the window sheets as cars swept into the driveway.

Alexa’s eyes came to rest on the notebook on the floor. She picked it up and folded it, putting it into her purse.

“Is that the diary?” Casey asked.

“I won’t know until I’ve read it,” she answered. Pandora’s book, she thought. Technically the notebook was evidence and she was collecting it for the investigation-albeit surreptitiously. She intended to see for herself what Fugate had written before deciding how she was going to proceed.

“I want to make sure it gets read. Just between us, for the time being, okay, Casey? Your uncle can’t know I have it.”

Casey nodded once and turned her attention back to her husband.

Manseur exploded into the cabin, gun in hand, the sirens outside still blasting. “Clear!” he yelled.

Bond came through the back door, holstering his gun. “Back’s clear.”

“EMS’s ETA is thirty minutes,” Manseur told Alexa as he squatted beside her, looked at Decell’s corpse. “You’re all right?”

“Fine. Gary’s pulse is steady, but weak,” she said.

“Should we take him to the hospital in your car?” Casey asked. “Wouldn’t it be faster?”

“No,” Manseur said. “There’s a life-flight helicopter en route. The techs will get him ready for the ride, and see what he needs. We’d do more harm than good if we moved him, Mrs. West.”

“I shot the kidnapper,” Casey murmured. “I can’t believe I actually shot someone.”

“If you hadn’t, Gary and I would both be dead,” Alexa said. “I saw his and Leland’s faces…” Like avillain in some James Bond film, Doc had wanted to make sure Alexa appreciated his genius by setting his killing mechanism in operation before he killed her. Egotistical people were unpredictable criminals, and the smarter they thought they were, the dumber they thought everybody else was.

“So this kidnapper shot Decell for Dr. LePointe? Decell’s almost a foot taller than LePointe. Maybe the shooter had never seen Dr. LePointe in person,” Manseur said.

Alexa said, “Between the shadows, him expecting LePointe, not Decell, I can see it. And Decell was drawing a gun. We should make sure the rear is secure,” Alexa said, standing.

“Larry, could you kill those sirens?” Manseur said.

Manseur followed Alexa out the back door. Flipping on his flashlight, he ran the beam over the truck, the sloping yard, the small dock. “Cooley at the lab sure nailed that truck.”

“I have the diary,” Alexa said in a low voice.

“What’s in it?” he asked her.

“I’d like to examine it in private. Casey saw me pick it up. I told her to forget she did.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“Leland took me by complete surprise. I never saw him until he had my gun. The guy Casey shot is the one in the pictures from Fugate’s. Doc, Leland called him. He had gloves on, so I bet he didn’t leave his prints. I’ll wear gloves to preserve any other prints on the book.”