Jack Stone - Wild Justice (19 page)

Stone
left the engine running. Snatched up the shotgun and shoved at the door. Got out and wrenched the back door of the patrol car open and dragged the sheriff out into the pouring rain. The big man was wheezing, gasping for every breath as though he was hyperventilating. Stone didn’t care. The sheriff fell awkwardly to his knees in the mud. Stone kicked him in the gut. The sheriff groaned painfully. Looked up to Stone with a pleading expression. Waved his left arm in the air like his hand was on fire, then suddenly reached down inside the leg of his trousers and there was a flash of glinting steel in his
right
hand.

A knife.

It was a short hunting knife. A three inch blade, an inch wide at the handle tapering to a wicked razor point. He had kept it concealed in a leather scabbard strapped to his shin.

Cartwright lunged
upward with the blade and roared. His face was twisted into a vicious, murderous snarl. Stone saw it all just a fraction of a second too late. He started to swing the butt of the shotgun like an axe when he felt hot burning pain in his thigh. Stone reeled away, his face contorted in agony and his wet hands clawing for the knife handle.

The sheriff clambered to his feet,
heaved his shoulder into Stone’s side and he went down in the mud. The sheriff pushed himself off the trunk of the car and made a desperate dash for the house.

The rain was like a thick grey curtain, shrouding everything in a teaming
blur as the downpour detonated against the iron roof of the porch. The sheriff hurried up the stairs. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Stone was still in the mud, lying on his side near the open rear door of the police car. Headlights blinded his vision, making Stone’s shape in the rain smudged and indistinct. He dragged his hand down his face, wiped rain and mud from his eyes. Shook his head. He was breathing hard. His hands were shaking. His heart was thumping in his chest. He was trembling, but not from the cold and mud that had soaked through his uniform.

He was trembling with fear.

Cartwright threw his weight against the front door. Once, twice. He heard the sound of timber splintering. He heaved again and the door burst open, the brass lock still in the door but the timber around it shattered. He stumbled inside, frantic and desperate.

Stone
rolled onto his side and straightened his leg. Jammed his foot against the rear tire of the cop car and braced himself. The knife handle was steel, slippery and hard to grip. He felt the muscles in his leg clenching around the blade, saw blood soaking through the denim of his jeans and dripping into the muddy ground.

The blade was buried deep, but it had gone in straight. Stone gritted his teeth. He turned his head. Saw the sheriff on the porch, heaving at the front door. He was lit up in stark relief by the blinding glare of the headlights. Stone wrenched the knife free with a single loud roar of agony and flung it aside. He reached out for the shotgun, his hands slick with his own blood and cloying mud.

Stone heard the front door splinter open. He looked up and saw the heavy shape of the sheriff disappearing inside. The rain was blinding – driving into his face. The whole world seemed a howl of sound and swirling mist. A sudden jagged flash of blue lightning hummed in the air and then ripped the night apart, and the sound of thunder shook the ground beneath his feet.

Stone limped up the stairs, holding the shotgun on his hip, his finger on the trigger, the barrel pointed straight ahead. He paused on the porch for three long seconds, and wiped the mud and rain from his eyes on the sleeve of his t-shirt. He could hear
frantic sounds from deep inside the house. Furniture being knocked over. Glass breaking. The sounds were muffled by the tremendous roar of rain against the iron roof above his head. Stone took a long deep breath and then stumbled through the broken front door. He felt for a switch and flicked on lights. He looked around, his eyes hard and wary. Took three steps into the house, spattering mud and slush and blood across the floor.

The interior of the house had been tricked out like an old western ranch. The walls were covered in some kind of imitation timber effect that Stone had never seen before. There were thick timber beams running across the ceiling and a stuffed moose head hung beside the window on the far wall. It was a man’s room. Stone saw nothing feminine at all – no framed photos, no flowers.
Nothing that suggested a woman’s influence.

To his right was an opening into a kitchen. The area was dark. There was a long window, curtains open. Ambient light filtered in from the night but not enough for Stone to see clearly. He stood still. Fought to control ragged breathing. Listened, keeping the barrel of the shotgun turning as he turned his head.

He heard the sound of a chair or furniture being scraped across timber floor boards. He looked up. There was a doorway on the far side of the living room. It was ajar. Stone went across the room with quiet urgency. Put his ear to the door. Heard a sound of metal scraping.

He kept his back against the wall and prodded the hall door open with the barrel of the shotgun. Hinges creaked, suddenly loud above the drumming rain. Stone waited. Counted to five. Heard nothing and stepped into the open hallway.

Three doors. All of them wide open, all black empty voids in the darkness. Two doors on the left, one on the right. Stone moved down the empty passage. He put his ear against one wall. Listened hard. Heard nothing. He went down the hall quickly, gun held ready, slung low at his hip, clenching his jaw against the stabbing pain in his thigh.

The first door was on the left. Stone pressed
himself against the hall wall, raised the gun upright like a soldier on a parade ground. Stepped out suddenly and filled the doorway, swinging the barrel of the weapon down at the same time and sweeping it across an arc to cover the inside of the room quickly.

Dark shapes, all of them rectangular and angular.
Furniture against the walls. Maybe book cases. Maybe cabinets of some kind. Nothing moving. No sound. Stone backed out of the room, swung quickly to cover the next door on the right. Went straight into the room, and as he did, he turned himself sideways and dropped low in a crouch.

There was a bright flash, blinding, searing. A pounding explosion that roared in his ears and filled the room with a split-second of light. An orange
burst. The flash of a gunshot, smashing into the wall above Stone’s head.

Stone saw it all like a flash bulb had gone off. He saw the dark furniture of the room. Saw a high-backed leather chair in the far corner, and a desk in the middle of the room. Saw the outstretched arm of sheriff Cartwright, and the shape of his head behind the cover of the chair.

He dropped the shotgun. Left it in the doorway and stayed low. Rolled across the floor until he felt his head crack against the side of the desk. He ignored the pain. Forced himself back into a crouch and then lunged into the dark at the shape of the chair. He hit with all his weight and strength and the chair went over in a crash. The sheriff was still behind the chair. He was thrown off balance. Stone felt the big man’s chest, then an arm and he lashed out with his fists.

Punches connected. He heard them sock into soft flesh, and he heard the sheriff groan. But Stone was flailing wildly without being able to see his target. He swung again and again, thumping his fists into the floor, into bone, into fleshy muscle, and there was a furious loud roar of hatred and anger rising in his throat.

He heard the sheriff scream in pain. Then he felt the man beneath him rolling away, trying to free his arm. Stone clamped down and used his elbow, driving it hard into a blur of movement. The sheriff screamed again. Then Stone found the sheriff’s wrist. He locked both hands tight and slammed down. He felt the jar of the impact. He wasn’t sure if it was the leg of the chair or something else, but the sheriff’s body tensed. He slammed down again and again. He felt the tendons in the big man’s arm flex and then release. Felt his resistance weakening. Then he heard the gun in the sheriff’s hand clatter away into the darkness. Stone released his grip, came up onto his knees quickly and drove his elbow down again. The sheriff groaned, seemed to flop around under him. Then finally he went slack.

Stone reeled away. Made it back to the door. Picked up the shotgun and thumped at the light switch.

The sheriff was on his back, clutching at his guts. His shirt was streaked with blood from Stone’s thigh. So was the floor around the upturned chair. There were long scrap marks of mud and blood across the timber floor boards.

There was a metal box on the desk, and a handful of loose bullets scattered across the tabletop. One of the desk drawers hung open.

Stone raised the shotgun. Jammed the stock tight into his shoulder. He was breathing heavily. The pain in his thigh was like a searing hot poker. He clenched his jaw and stepped passed the wrecked furniture. Aimed the shotgun barrel at the sheriff’s bloated gasping face.

“Where are the girls
?”

The sheriff said nothing. Stone put the shotgun to the man’s ear and shoved. The sheriff cried out in pain. “Where are they?” Stone asked again.

“Under the rug in the front room,” the sheriff said.

Stone reached down and grabbed the sheriff by the collar of his shirt. Started dragging him towards the door. The sheriff moaned, got to his knees and Stone kicked him hard to keep him moving.

Stone saw a large brown animal-skin rug in the middle of the living room floor. He went quickly around the room and flicked on more lights. Then he kicked the rug aside revealing a trap door in the timber floor. It was a few feet square with a black iron ring recessed into the top and a bolt beside it. Stone kept the gun on the sheriff. Went down onto one knee. Heaved the trapdoor open against its hinges.

The s
tench of stale urine and vomit came up from the dark hole. It was pitch black. He could see a narrow wooden ladder against the lip of the trapdoor, descending down into the inky void. Stone called out,

“Margie? Stella?”

He heard the sound of shuffling feet on bare earth, and then the sound of a girl moaning softly.

“It’s alright,” Stone said,
leaning into the dark opening and fighting the surge of his relief to keep his tone steady and reassuring. He could smell stale food and stale air. He could smell desperation and fear. “You’re safe,” he said. “I’m here to rescue you. Just stay calm for a few more minutes.”

One of the girls gave another groan, and then Stone heard her say quite clearly, “Thank God.”

He turned the shotgun back onto the sheriff. “You’re vermin,” Stone hissed. “You’re a piece of filth and you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison.” As he spoke he could feel his finger tightening around the trigger of the shotgun. A surge of anger overwhelmed him and Stone threw the gun down because the temptation to shoot the man dead was almost overpowering. The gun skidded across the floor, out of reach and Stone got to his feet. He stood over the sheriff. Fear had eroded the granite of the man’s features, leaving the sheriff’s face sagging and bloated. He was clutching at his chest, like he was having a heart attack. Stone grabbed the man’s hand and wrenched one of his fingers. He heard the sound of bone breaking. The sheriff screamed in pain.

“Where is Harper?
” Stone asked

The sheriff doubled over in pain, tried to pull his hand away. Stone tightened his grip around the sher
iff’s wrist.

“Where is Harper?”

He broke the sheriff’s thumb this time. A distinct
‘crack’
that sounded like chicken bones being crushed. The sheriff wailed in excruciating pain. He looked up into Stone’s hard emotionless eyes and his face was streaming with tears.

“I don’t know,” sheriff Cartwright wheezed. “I don’t know!” Stone broke the little finger.
It was as thick and soft as a raw sausage. Stone just bent it all the way back until it broke. The sheriff swore with bitter agony.

“Alright!” he sobbed. “Alright. I don’t know wher
e Harper is or who Harper is,” the sheriff’s voice was strained now, rusty and pain racked. He swallowed with an effort. “But I have a cell phone number. I swear it’s all I have. It’s how I contact him and how he contacts me.”

“Give it to me.”

The sheriff looked up, his head turned. It’s in my wallet,” he said. Stone held the man’s wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back, and reached down into his muddy wet trousers. Pulled the sheriff’s wallet out. It was a thin black leather piece, battered and bent as though it had molded itself to the weight and shape of the sheriff’s heavy butt. Stone tipped it upside down and shook the contents out. A wad of banknotes and credit cards fluttered to the ground like confetti. Stone found a piece of tattered paper with a cell phone on it, written in pencil.

“It’s all I have,” the sheriff bleated.

Stone believed him. “How many girls?” he asked. “How many have been picked up?”

“Three,” the sheriff said. “He’s sent me three girls in the last
four years, each for customers. I never even saw the clients. I just took delivery of the girls and held them here for a few days. Then Harper would phone me and arrange a drop off point somewhere nearby. That’s all I did. I dropped the girls off, and a car would be waiting.”

Stone pulled his
own wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and shoved it close to the sheriff’s face.