Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

They passed that and they had three hundred yards to go before they got to the log cabin that was Armstrong’s sanctum sanctorum, according to Beth, a place he came to think and brood and plot the doom of others, Archer figured.

At that point he and Dash parted company. Before he disappeared into the mist, Dash said, “Good luck, Archer, but it won’t really come down to luck, will it?”

“No, it won’t.”

A few moments later Archer slowed his pace and looked to his left and right. No one guarding these premises would think that anyone coming by stealth would stick to the road. They would be watching the paths and trails that meandered through here like a chipmunk on a stroll looking for its next meal. So stick to the road Archer did.

After another one hundred feet he looked to his right and squatted low.

The man was neither Tony nor Hank, but he was about the same size. Armstrong apparently liked his henchmen in one size only — extra large.

Archer took a widened route and came up on the man’s rear flank as he sat there on a rickety chair behind a rock that was, apparently, his cover. He was smoking. That was his first mistake. He was nipping something from a bottle. That was his second mistake. His third and final mistake was having his .44 holstered.

He never sensed anyone until Archer introduced himself by parking the muzzle of his .38 against the fellow’s skull.

“The lady you took, she okay?” said Archer in a voice that brooked nothing but a straight answer. About two pounds of trigger pull and the mistake-prone guard was a dead man.

“Yeah, she’s okay,” the man hoarsely answered.

“You lying to me, I’ll be back. And what I’ll do to you you’ll never forget right till the moment you close your eyes for the last time, you understand me? Nod or say yes because I need confirmation.”

The man nodded.

The sharp blow from the butt of the .38 put a depression in the fellow’s head and he slumped forward, hit the rock, and slid off the side into the dirt. The fog was so thick Archer could barely see the gent a foot below him.

He took off the man’s suspenders and used them to hog-tie his wrists and ankles together.

One down, who the hell knew how many to go. But Archer would get to every last one of them to bring Liberty back safe and sound.

Archer kept going, and the log cabin came into view around a bend strewn with fallen rocks. Two big sedans were parked out front, looking as out of place there as a horse at a dog show. And one of them was Pickett’s Town and Country. Lights were on inside, and Archer could see a power line snaking from a tall pole to the side of the cabin.

There was no guard out front, and Archer realized the tactic Armstrong was employing.

He’s pulled back, built his interior line, and he’s daring us to cross it.

The next step Archer took, he stumbled over a small fallen branch, cracking it in half. The sound shot through the misty air like cannon fire.

The voice calling out to him sounded confident and unsurprised, and also confirmed Archer’s theory.

Armstrong said, “Willie, is that you? Please come in and have a drink. I know it’s still the morning, but this evening is guaranteed to none of us, unfortunately.”

Archer made no move to do as the man asked.

“Archer, if you’re out there, too, I want you to know that your lady friend is a feisty one. I don’t think I’ve seen a woman get hit harder and not even one little moan. I have to respect that. Now come in here and let’s discuss this rationally.”

The next sound Archer heard was Liberty screaming.

This was followed by someone roaring with laughter. “Okay, that one got her, yes sir. I knew there had to be some point of vulnerability. I mean, she is flesh and blood, and what flesh and blood she is.”

Archer watched as the front door to the cabin slowly opened, but no one appeared.

“Now, the next sound you hear from this young lady will be her death rattle,” Armstrong called out.

“Archer, don’t!” cried out Callahan.

The next sound was a dull thud like something hard hitting a watermelon.

“All right, all right,” called out Archer. “I’m coming in. Lay off her.”

“Without your weapon. And take your jacket and belt off.”

Archer did so because he had no choice. He decided against trying to wedge the .38 in the rear of his waistband, because without the belt his pants were bound to sag, which was why Armstrong had demanded that he shed his jacket and belt.

He walked slowly toward the open door and passed through. He immediately felt cold metal against his neck. He knew without looking that it was a man with a gun.

He surveyed the area in front of him as the door was closed behind him.

Sawyer Armstrong was sitting in a rocking chair, a thin, dark cigar stuck in his mouth. His straw hat was on his head and his faded blue shirt was neatly tucked into dark brown corduroys. Next to him was Hank. Next to Hank was Tony, who looked like he wanted to claw Archer’s eyes out of their sockets, and that was just for starters.

Douglas Kemper sat on the floor with stout rope bound around his arms and legs.

Next to him was Liberty, dressed in the robe they probably let her put on before they insisted at gunpoint that she leave her nice suite of rooms at Midnight Moods on her very first night there.

He looked at her and she looked back at him. The blackened right eye matched the one on her left. She was holding her left arm funny and though there was not a single tear in her eyes, Archer could see the pain the woman was in. He nodded at her, trying to convey a sense of calm in his look. He didn’t know if she received it as such, but it really didn’t matter. Not much mattered right now.

Next to them was Carl Pickett, looking more nervous than Archer would have given the corrupt cop credit for. And on the right of Pickett was Steve Prichard in plainclothes and looking even more menacing than normal, which was saying something.

“Now, Archer, where is Willie?” asked Armstrong.

“Probably having his breakfast back in town.”

Armstrong shook his head. “There is no possible way he sent you up here alone. It was Beth who told you about this place, wasn’t it?”

“With Drake dead, you seem to have lost your horse in the race,” said Archer, ignoring the man’s questions.

“That’s the wonderful thing about horse racing, Archer — you can always find another ride.”

“We told Beth, you know.”

“You told Beth what?”

“Why you had O’Donnell killed.” He looked at Hank and then Tony. “And did you have to kill Earl?”

“You mean, the colored boy?” said Hank. “Hell, that don’t count.”

Archer turned back to Armstrong. “Beth knows you’re not her father.”

“What?” gasped Kemper.

“Now just hold on there, Archer,” said Armstrong with a smile. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Where is your proof of that?”

“O’Donnell had it. That’s why you took it.”

“You’re not her father?” snapped Kemper. “Then who is?”

“Carl,” said Armstrong sharply. “I can’t hear myself think. Take care of it.”

Pickett looked at Prichard, who clocked Kemper so hard he hit his head against the wall and slumped over onto Callahan’s lap. She put her hands protectively around Kemper even as blood from his nose and mouth leached onto her robe.

“Leave him alone,” she cried out.

“Now, Archer,” said Armstrong in a scolding tone. “You really can’t go around spouting lies. When I see Beth I will tell her the truth.”

“No, you won’t. Because the truth is, Andrew Smalls was her father.”

From Armstrong’s expression, Archer could tell that Dash’s theory on this point was correct.