John Connolly - Dark Hollow

"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 The radio was still playing, but The Band had now been replaced by Neil Young, his high, plaintive tones echoing around the room.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."

"Go to a neighbor's house and make the call. With a little luck, we'll get to Dark Hollow shortly after." All of which assumed that the lines hadn't been cut from outside town, in which case Dark Hollow itself would be cut off. My cell phone had failed to raise a signal here, so I doubted if anyone else would have better luck.

Already there were neighbors appearing at their gates, trying to figure out what all the noise was about. It was time to go, but Lorna raised a hand. "Wait," she said, and went back upstairs. When she returned she had my shoes in her arms, along with a thick cotton shirt, a pair of dark pants, a sweater and a padded jacket from LL Bean. She helped me to put on the clothes, glancing away when I stripped off my wet pants, then touched my hand gently as I prepared to leave.

"You take care."

"You too."

Behind me, Angel started up the Mercury, Louis in the front seat. I climbed in back and we moved off. I looked back to see Lorna standing in her yard, watching us until we were gone from her sight.

The roads were deserted as we drove, the silence around us broken only by the purr of the Mercury's engine and the soft thud of snowflakes impacting on the windshield. The pain in my side burned fiercely, and once or twice, I closed my eyes and seemed to lose a couple of seconds. I caught Louis taking careful glances back at me in the rearview mirror, and I raised a hand to let him know that I was okay. It might have looked more convincing if the hand hadn't been covered in blood.

When we pulled into the parking lot in front of the police department there were two cruisers parked ahead of us, along with an orange '74 Trans-Am that looked like it would take a miracle to start it and a couple of other vehicles that had remained stationary long enough for the snow to blur their lines, including a rental Toyota out of Bangor. There was no sign of Tony Celli, or any of his men.