Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

Quinn nodded.

“We can do what other people only dream of,” Aaron whispered. “We’re fucking masters of the universe.”

“Yeah,” breathed Quinn. Face shining, he reached out and tugged Clare across the lintel into the abattoir. “Where do you want her?”

“Right over there.” Aaron followed, the rifle never wavering from Clare’s head. “This time, you’re going to get to do it. The killing cut.”

The expression on Quinn’s face wavered. “Uh,” he said.

Aaron’s eyes gleamed. “It’s amazing, man. You’ll never know what power is until you do it.”

Quinn looked down at the knife in his hand. Clare looked at it, too. It came to her that despite her professed belief in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come, she really really really didn’t want to die.

O God, she prayed, a little help here.

“Hey,” came a voice from the barn. They all looked. Russ Van Alstyne stood in the doorway, relaxed and unhurried, hands open and unthreatening. “What say we talk about this?”

He had already been heading across the road toward the barn, after a fruitless search through the house, when he heard the rifle shot. He reached for his service weapon, which, of course, wasn’t there.

Cursing under his breath, he waded through the snow that was drifting deeper and deeper into the leeward side of the road. He was struggling up the ramp when a body hurtled out of the barn straight toward him.

He could feel, as soon as he caught her, that it wasn’t Clare. She screamed. He clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. A terrified woman looked up at him. Tears were freezing along her cheeks.

“I’m Chief Van Alstyne of the Millers Kill Police Department,” he said. “What’s going on? Where’s Clare?”

“Downstairs. With the cows. Hurry, please hurry! They have a gun and a knife!”

“How many?”

Her brow knitted up into confusion.

“How many bad guys?” he clarified.

“Two. Um… Quinn Tracey and his friend.”

“How do you get there?”

“There’s a… there’s a ladder through the floor at the end of the barn.” She pointed.

“Clare?”

“She’s…” The woman started weeping again. “I don’t know. He hit her so hard he knocked her over. That’s when I ran.”

Like a buzz bomb, her words exploded along his forebrain, whiting out every thought for a split second. He hitched in his breath. Focused on the woman. “You drive a standard?”

“Yes, but-”

He slapped his keys into her hand. “Get into my truck. It’s at the end of the drive. Head toward town. Go slow. If it gets bad, pull over and wait. Got it?”

She nodded jerkily. “She’s crazy, you know. What kind of woman jumps a man with a knife? She’s crazy.”

“Yeah. I know.” He pushed her in the right direction and thrashed his way up the remainder of the ramp into the barn. He pulled his cell phone out. Flash-dialed Harlene’s direct number.

“Harlene here.”

“Van Alstyne here at 645 Old Route 100. We’ve got a hostage situation with gunfire. I need backup.”

“You got it,” she said, her voice even. Then, before he could sign off, “Chief?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you unarmed?”

“Yeah.”

“Then wait for the backup. That’s the smart thing to do.”

“I can’t. I”- Clare -“can’t. Van Alstyne out.” He clicked off the phone.

He padded between the haymows, his good sense reining in the part of him that wanted to charge, berserker-like, to Clare’s defense. His parka rubbed, arms against body, creating a papery noise. He frowned, took the coat off, and laid it on the floor next to the trapdoor opening to the lower level. He laid down on his belly and elbow-walked to the edge. Heard agitated cows and faraway voices from what sounded like the other side of the building. Took a chance and hung his head and shoulders down.

It was the other side of the building. He waited until the figures disappeared into the fluorescent-lit room, then dropped down the ladder. He hurried down the walkway between the stalls, conscious that at every moment he was framed and lit like a shooting-gallery target. Approaching the door, he slowed. Took a deep breath. Heard one of the boys say, “It’s amazing, man. You’ll never know what power is until you do it.”

He felt sick to his stomach. “Hey,” he said, stepping forward. “What say we talk about this?”

A dark-haired kid turned with the fast-twitch reflexes of the young, and Russ was staring down the barrel of a.308 Remington. Behind him, Quinn Tracey brandished a wicked long butcher’s knife toward Clare’s throat.

Clare. Russ felt his gut tighten around an urge to hurt whoever had touched her. She’d been banged around hard-her parka torn and smeared with manure, her jaw and cheek purpling, blood coating the inside of her lips and threading down to her chin.

The Tracey kid recognized him. His mouth sagged open. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

“Hey, Quinn,” Russ said. “Good to see you’re okay. Your folks are worried about you, taking off in the middle of a storm like that.” He shifted his attention to the other one. “You must be Aaron MacEntyre. I’m Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police.”

Something flashed in the young man’s eyes. Panic? Anger? Russ couldn’t tell. “I’ve already called in a hostage situation,” he went on, using the same easy voice. “This place is going to be swarming with cops soon.”

The corner of MacEntyre’s mouth curved up. “In this weather? I doubt it.”

“You can’t get away, Aaron. Your best bet is putting the weapons down and cooperating.” Russ turned to Tracey. “I’m here to talk. The guys following me will be here to shoot. Let’s not let it get to that.”

Tracey looked terrified. “Aaron?” he asked.

“Finish securing her to the wall ring, Q,” MacEntyre said.

Tracey awkwardly grabbed a length of chain and slipped it around Clare’s badly bound wrists. The kid had to juggle the knife he was holding as well as keep the chain from slipping and reach for a D-clip. Clare looked at him, then at Russ. He could see the question in her eyes.

Should I take him?

Russ glanced at MacEntyre. His aim hadn’t wavered. He was still perfectly lined up to gut-shoot Russ. “Don’t be afraid, Reverend Fergusson,” Russ said. “We’ll have you out of there soon enough.”

“Is she secure?” MacEntyre asked without turning his head.

Tracey rattled the chain. “Yeah,” he said.

“Come here, then.”

Tracey hurried to MacEntyre’s side. Behind them, Clare immediately began twisting and rotating her hands. MacEntyre dug into his jeans and fished out a rag. He carefully wiped down the barrel, bolt, trigger mechanism, and stock of the Remington. “Hold this,” he told Tracey when he was done. “Keep your finger on the trigger. If he moves, shoot him.”

Tracey frowned but took the gun. Everything about his stance and his handling of the gun proclaimed his inexperience. Russ considered rushing him, but he could see a round chambered and the safety off. Five-year-olds had been known to kill people under those conditions.

MacEntyre crossed to the rear of the tiled chamber. He opened a battered locker and rummaged around inside for a moment. When he turned back toward Russ, he had on translucent latex gloves, the kind worn by cops handling evidence. And by butchers handling raw meat.

He strode back toward Tracey and retook the Remington.

“Why’d you wipe the gun down?” Tracey asked.

“It prevents a positive gunpowder test,” MacEntyre said. “The cops won’t be able to tell this rifle was recently fired.”