The Dead Run (16 page)

 

CHAPTER 27

P
ayaso's screams still rang in his ears—or maybe in his memory; either way, the sound was unbearable as Galvan aimed the station wagon at the river, hand fisted against the wheel, elbow locked, death-dealing ghouls on every side.

He was going to vault the bank and plow right into the fucking water, he decided. That way, at least, they'd be beyond the Virgin Army's reach, with nothing to worry about but the raging current.

And whatever was supposed to happen when they reached the other side.

Assuming Britannica was right about the dead girls' agua aversion or their souls being bound to the desert or whatever the fuck. Come to think of it, the con man hadn't exactly explained what prevented the monsters from crossing the channel.

Hell, maybe it was the current. Certainly laid low plenty of the living.

Speaking of which, Galvan was overdue for a little theological consultation.

“Hey, Padre. How come this thing is still beating, if I lost my stripes? Cucuy said only a righteous motherfucker could keep it alive, right?”

Britannica shrugged. “Guess the Virgin Army holds you to a higher standard than—”

“Than what? This lump of muscle?”

“I was going to say ‘than the ancient, bloodthirsty deity who made the rules.' ”

Galvan shrugged. “Whatever. Way above my pay grade. Anyway, we got bigger fish to massacre.”

Dead girls were still making regular runs at the car, but Galvan had built up such a head of steam that they ricocheted off, flipping and crumpling and twirling like players in some elaborate, macabre ballet.

Five more minutes, Payaso. If only you'd held on for five more minutes you'd still be alive
,
you crazy son of a bitch
.

The windshield was a spider's web of fractured glass, courtesy of some dead chick who'd gotten plowed, done a three-sixty, and come down face-first.

But Galvan could see enough.

T minus ten seconds, brace for impact.

In the extremely fucking likely event of a water landing, your seat cushion cannot be used as a flotation device.

He shouted above the full-throated screams of the two girls in the backseat. In lieu of proper introductions, he'd come to think of them as Betty and Veronica.

“Here we go! Get ready to swim!”

The riverbank loomed straight ahead, and Galvan gritted his teeth. Then the ground vanished beneath them, and for a glorious, breath-arresting moment, the car was airborne, floating through the sky as the frothy, mud-brown water rushed harmlessly below. As if held aloft by the four-part harmony of their screams, Galvan thought crazily, the notion sliding across the top of his own bellow.

Then gravity finished its coffee break and the station wagon plunged into the river, fifteen feet from the wrong bank and thirty from the right one. It entered headlights-first, the impact knocking Galvan against the steering wheel and robbing him of breath.

For a moment, the car teetered indecisively, half underwater and half above, rear wheels still spinning, the current slamming against the hull with so much force that for an instant, Galvan thought it might flip them upside down.

Then there was darkness, and the sound of water rushing in—brackish and frigid, a liquid version of dirt, as if the river were doing its best grave impression.

The station wagon sank fast—deceptively so, the river cushioning the descent, creating the illusion of time. But Galvan knew better; their demise was written in the rising tide, the water's swift encroachment, the growing distance to the surface.

He grabbed the box and clambered toward the backseat—just as the cracked-to-hell windshield succumbed to the water pressure and caved in, a fractal of exploding shards riding a geyser.

Britannica, Betty, and Veronica were sipping at the last inch of air left, cheeks pressed flat against the ceiling upholstery. Galvan grabbed a lungful himself, then wasted half of it on the most obvious statement in the history of the world.

“We gotta go.”

He pushed off, feet to seat cushion, and propelled himself out the window, box in hand, toward the faint nimbus of sunlight playing on the surface of the water, eight or nine feet above.

Roll with a squad that's ill / and duck suckers / it's hell on earth, kid / Welcome to the Ruckus . . .

The journey took only seconds—might've been the easiest part of Galvan's goddamn day, the underwater quietude a form of respite, a kind of revelation. For a little while, he could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart, and Galvan felt his muscles relax, despite the bracing chill of the water, and the tension leave his body. It was like the walk from the on-deck circle to home plate. A ritual emptying of the vessel, so it could resume its job anew.

As he breached the surface, it occurred to Galvan that it might not be his own heart beating in his ears, but the other one.

The time for wondering was gone. The current seized him immediately, Galvan no more than another piece of flotsam. He kicked furiously, paddling with his free arm and clamping down on the box with the other.

There was a reason you didn't see too many one-armed swimmers in the Olympics. For each foot of progress he made toward the opposite bank, the current pulled him five feet sideways. The water was a stew of fellow travelers: tree limbs and trash and who-knew-what burbled up and disappeared again, dragged down by the current—some of it harmless, some perfectly capable of knocking him unconscious should Galvan find himself occupying the wrong coordinates at the wrong instant. He scanned for something to grab hold of. Shipwrecked sailors in stories always happened on a shard of mast, rode the remains of their vessels to terra firma.

You're not a sailor, asshole. And this ain't no kids' book.

Britannica and the girls surfaced, a few yards downstream, the tight cluster of their heads barely visible above the rapids. One glimpse of the girls' drenched manes, the terror on their faces, and Galvan's determination was vibrating at an even higher pitch.

I can't let them drown,
he thought, even as he felt the fatigue returning, burning in his limbs. No quicker way to exhaust yourself than trying to stay afloat.

There's nothing you can do. Not until you get yourself to dry land
.

Galvan redoubled his efforts, putting on a burst of speed and reaching midriver. He'd settled on a strategy: ten all-out strokes, rest, and repeat. It took a certain force to cut through the current; better to summon that energy in pockets than to fight constantly and futilely.

Another burst, and the far bank was coming into focus. It wasn't as steep as the one they'd Dukes of Hazzarded across; it looked like there were shallows. Five or six walkable feet, if he could get there, get his legs beneath him.

Two more bursts might do it. He took a deep breath, started paddling.

Right into traffic.

Galvan never saw the log. Just the stars, after it slalomed into his solar plexus. The impact threw him below the surface, and for a terrifying moment, Galvan didn't know which way was up. He thrashed, spun, spun again, found the light, rejoined the world of oxygen, drew a ragged breath, realized something was wrong, cast desperately around.

The box was gone.

Borne downriver, if he was lucky.

Touching down atop the silty riverbed, if he was not.

Luck hadn't exactly been a strong suit, lately.

Galvan gave himself over to the current, throwing his body headlong and paddling with all he had left.

How remarkable it was to give in and go with the flow instead of fighting it, he reflected. How quickly you moved. What harmony you felt.

And yet, Galvan had spent his whole life doing the opposite.

The metal glinted, up ahead—or else, Galvan imagined it did. He was closing in on Britannica and the girls, the three of them bobbing in the middle of the river, holding on to something. That storybook hunk of driftwood, perhaps.

“The box!” he called. “Look for the box!” And though the rapids swallowed much of the sound, Galvan saw Veronica's head snap toward him. She screamed something he couldn't hear, and then Britannica was calling Galvan's name.

He tried to answer and inhaled a mouthful of river instead: subtle notes of mud and lichen, paired well with poached salmon, soft cheeses, death by drowning. The rapids flipped him onto his side, and by the time he recovered, Galvan was nearly on top of the others, and a crimson eddy of unclear origin was swirling its way into the water.

He grabbed on to the ballast they'd found: a termite-gnawed, river-tossed log, slimy as a wet cigar. Tried to get his bearings, even as the current swept them on.

It was Betty's blood, Galvan realized, and it was leaking fast. Something had gashed her forearm, elbow to wrist, the incision deep and nasty looking.

“What happened?” Galvan demanded.

In response, Britannica thrust something hard and heavy into his chest.

“This hit her.”

The box. Galvan clutched it to him.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

She looked him in the eye and nodded, her jaw set, even as the blood kept coming. Girl had some spirit to her.

He sized her up, decided she could make it another five minutes without a tourniquet. And that applying a wet strip of filthy cloth while treading water wasn't going to work anyway.

“If we wanna beat this current, we've gotta swim together,” Galvan said. He wedged the box next to the log, wrapped his arm around both, then got his swim team situated.

Two on each side of the log. Four free arms, eight working legs.

Regular fuckin' outboard motor.

“Stroke!” he called, like one of those megaphone assholes at the back of a crew boat, the anchor or the coxswain or whatever. Word wasn't exactly leaping to Galvan's mind.

“Stroke!”

It was working. They lunged a few feet closer to land, the log's modest prow slicing through the chop with force.

“Keep kicking! Don't stop kicking! Stroke!”

The current was merciless, the progress slow but steady. After ten minutes' hard labor, Galvan's arms and shoulders aching like he'd been holding a steel beam aloft, they felt solid ground beneath their feet. Britannica led the charge up the riverbank and collapsed at the top, gasping for air. Betty staggered after him, arm clutched to her chest, with Veronica spotting from behind. Galvan brought up the rear, moments from passing out himself. He reached level ground and fell to his knees. Told himself he'd rest for ninety seconds, then jury-rig some kind of tourniquet if Betty's bleeding hadn't slowed down on its own.

He was twelve seconds into his shut-eye when Britannica's voice intruded.

“Uh, Galvan?”

He willed himself to keep his eyes closed. He'd earned this, goddamn it.

“What?”

“The ground is moving.”

So much for a nap.

 

CHAPTER 28

N
ice to see you again, Officer,” Nichols growled, looking past the gun barrel and meeting Lautner's eyes. The dude's partner, shorter and skinnier but just as young, was on his way over, a set of cuffs in one hand and a service revolver in the other.

“Don't move,” he said. “Hands behind your head.”

“That pepper spray still stingin' a little, buddy?” the sheriff called as Lautner's partner relieved him of his gun.

“Your partner might want that back,” Nichols suggested. “This little lady here, she grabbed it off him a couple miles back. Bet Lautner didn't tell you that, did he? Probably told you I took it, am I right?”

Lautner's knuckles whitened around the borrowed gun he was clutching. “Shut up.”

“Why, because anything I say can be used against me in a court of law? Let's cut the shit, huh? You ain't no goddamn cop.”

It wasn't well thought out enough to call a strategy, but something told Nichols that popping as much junk as possible might rattle these wet-behind-the-ears cocksuckers enough to force an error. There wasn't much he remembered from the dog-eared copy of
The Art of War
that had made the rounds of his army battalion, but
If your enemy is of choleric temper, irritate him
had made its mark. Served Galvan repeatedly and well in the million little pissing contests that comprised both military and small-town life.

This, of course, was a tad different.

Lautner's gangly fuck of a partner—McGee, the kid's badge read—was in back of Nichols now, reaching for his wrist.

“Hey, McGee, you know how I can tell you're not just a dirty cop but a shitty one? Do you? What's the matter, toothpick, afraid to answer me?”

The first bracelet clicked shut. Nichols put everything he had into a shit-eating grin and lifted his arm, the handcuff dangling from it.

“Because you only brought two sets of cuffs for four people. See what I mean, dumbass?”

In response, McGee grabbed the empty cuff and closed it around Cantwell's wrist. Nichols didn't miss a beat, the smack talk cascading from his lips with ease now. He was wringing a perverse enjoyment from this situation, for some reason.

“Now that right there's a violation, McGee. Texas law does not allow suspects to be handcuffed together. Although I guess that's the least of your concerns, seeing as you take your orders from a sex-trafficking child-murderer. You feel good about that, chief? You always want to be a candy-assed thug, or were you a real cop once upon a time?”

McGee was grim faced, tuning it all out or doing a great tuning-it-all-out impression. Nichols lifted his chin at Lautner, decided to go at him awhile.

“How 'bout you, tough guy? Is it the money, or do you just like to see innocent people suffer?”

Lautner slipped a pair of aviators from his pocket, disappeared behind them.

Smiled.

“It's the money.”

He strolled over, a peacock again. Cuffed Sherry to Eric and pushed the boy in the back, hard. “Walk.”

“You too,” McGee said, giving Nichols a copycat shove.

The six of them marched toward the parking lot: Sherry and Eric in front, followed by Lautner, then Nichols and Cantwell, and finally McGee.

It was a three-quarter-mile jaunt. Nichols's eyes darted left and right, calculating the angles, the possibilities, taking everything in. He had to make a move, and it had to be the right one. These guys were sloppy, but they were also on high alert.

Best to wait until they reached the lot, he decided. The closer the cars, the quicker the escape. Lautner and McGee hadn't thought to pat them down for keys. A few moments of chaos, and they'd have a decent shot.

Unless the other guys had a decent shot, anyway.

“I don't think your wife there likes me,” Nichols popped off, twisting at the waist to look at McGee—and take stock of how far behind he was walking, where the gun was, all that good stuff.

“Face forward, and zip it.” A poke in the back, muzzle to vertebrae.

Perfect. A non-idiot would have given his prisoners more space, realized his greatest advantage was the firearm and that it became a question mark, or even a liability, at such close range.

God bless you, Officer McGee. Jesus sanctify the moonshine your mama was guzzling throughout her pregnancy.

Lautner, in front of him, was no smarter. Hadn't glanced behind him to check Nichols's proximity in a quarter mile.

Despite having equipped him with a steel garrote.

And a shout-out to your mama, too.

The path dipped, and the sprawling lot came into view below, asphalt shimmering with rising late-afternoon heat. The Audi sat at the far end, gleaming like a ruby.

Nichols gathered Cantwell's hand into his, gave it a squeeze. She threw him a sharp, questioning look, and Nichols realized he was powerless to convey all he needed to, handless charades not his forte. He settled for a raised set of eyebrows, a minuscule nod in Lautner's direction, a slight jangle of the chain.

Cantwell understood something was going to happen, even if she didn't know what.

That put her about even with Nichols.

Sometimes you had to embrace improvisation.

A tenet of Nichols's military training popped into his mind as the decline steepened, resolving into something like a thirty-five-degree angle.

Use the terrain.

He grabbed Cantwell's hand and pitched forward like he'd tripped—throwing out a “Whoa!” to sell it, keep McGee's finger off the trigger. Nichols hit the slope hard, going head over heels, gathering momentum, his weight carrying Cantwell through the same spin, turning them into a pair of rampaging bowling balls.

McGee shouted an alert, and Lautner spun, gun raised—just in time to secure the role of tenpin. They plowed into him, Nichols leading with a shoulder, not as out of control as he looked, and taking out the cop's legs.

It was a beautiful hit. The hill foreshortened Lautner's fall, slammed him into the dirt cheek-first before he could drop a hand to brace himself. Faster than the cop could recover, Nichols and Cantwell were behind him, the steel chain connecting their handcuffs looped around his neck, no air allowed.

They pulled him to his knees, the taut steel cutting into Lautner's flesh, and Nichols relieved him of his gun. McGee was twelve feet uphill, legs spread in a marksman's stance, adrenaline-addled confusion and raw hatred playing in his eyes.

“Drop it!” Nichols ordered, bringing his gun around the top of Lautner's shoulder. The cop's meaty frame gave them partial cover, but McGee had plenty of targets. If he was thinking clearly, he could—

Nichols broke the thought off short, remembering the purpose of this entire gambit.

He turned his head a few degrees, just enough to find Sherry and Eric in his periphery, standing frozen to their spots.

“Run!” he yelled. “Go! Now!”

They took off. McGee watched it happen for one second and then half of another, everything silent but the kids' footfalls and Lautner's gasps—he was managing to draw a little air into his lungs, the garrote imperfectly applied.

Enough to maintain consciousness, but not much else.

Nichols saw resolve creep across McGee's features, and his pulse quickened. The cocksucker had realized he held some cards—that Nichols was fucked the minute he tried to move, unless he and Cantwell planned on drag-choking Lautner all the way across the lot—and decided on a force play.

“You drop it,” McGee spat back—and then, incongruously, he darted out of sight, into the low brush. Nichols watched, helpless, as the cop sprinted out of sight.

He was going after Sherry. Of course. She was the prize. They were nothing. It wasn't a force play. It was a belated realization of the mission's priorities.

Fuck.

Nichols weighed his options, then lifted the pistol and smashed the butt into Lautner's temple. The cop slumped to the ground, unconscious. Nichols leapt up and ran.

Immediately, a jolt of pain brought him up short.

He'd forgotten all about the goddamn handcuffs.

“Sorry,” he said, helping Cantwell to her feet. “Come on. We've gotta take him out. Give Sherry a chance.”

They lumbered down the hill, into the lot.

Deserted. No Sherry, no Eric.

That was a good thing.

No McGee.

That, Nichols was less crazy about.

Cantwell started toward the Audi, then stopped short when the bracelets jerked tight.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “Shouldn't we get the car?”

Nichols's gaze roamed the lot. “Something's not adding up,” he said, almost to himself. “They couldn't have gotten away so fast. There must be another lot. McGee—”

Before Nichols could finish the thought, the roar of an engine silenced him. He and Cantwell turned their heads to follow the sound and watched as a police cruiser barreled into sight, cornering past a row of parked cars and screeching to a halt fifteen feet in front of them.

McGee leapt from the driver's seat and laid a shotgun across the hood.

“Drop it, Nichols. Or watch your girlfriend die.”

Nichols did as he was told.

McGee smiled. “Good boy.”

Nichols smiled back, pleased as fucking punch to stand here and play decoy. Seemed nobody had clued McGee in on the point of this mission after all. He pictured Sherry and Eric buckling themselves into the Jeep, riding the hell out of there, and his smile widened.

“Down on the ground,” McGee barked. “All the way! Lie flat.”

“Sure, sure. You got it, Officer. You got it.”

The ground was pleasantly warm. Nichols felt like he could fall asleep, then and there. A little siesta would have done him lovely right about now.

The bray of a phone rang out, and McGee's hand darted from the shotgun to the dashboard, flipped open his cell.

“Hello. No, sir, this is McGee. Lautner's— . . . Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Both of them, sir? Yes, sir. Not a problem. Thank you.”

He hung up, and Nichols heard the kid take a deep breath. Lifted his eyes in time to see McGee come around the back of the car, shotgun in one hand, service revolver in the other.

“Raise up on your knees,” he ordered, and Nichols thought he heard a tiny quake somewhere toward the back of McGee's voice.

The cop passed in front of them, stooped to pick up Lautner's gun, then took up position close behind.

Execution style.