The Empty Chair (44 page)

"There're three of them, they've got rifles."

"They're going to set fire to the place. And either burn us alive or shoot us when we run outside. We don't have any choice. Take the cuffs off." Sachs held out her wrists. "You have to."

"How can I trust you?" Lucy whispered. "You ambushed us at the river."

Sachs asked, "Ambushed? What're you talking about?"

Lucy scowled. "What am I talking about? You used that boat as a lure and shot at Ned when he went out to get it."

"Bullshit!
You
thought we were under the boat and shot at
us
."

"Only after you . . ." Then Lucy's voice faded, and she nodded knowingly.

Sachs said to the deputy, "It was
them.
Culbeau and the others. One of them shot first. To scare you and slow you up probably."

"And we thought it was you."

Sachs held her wrists out. "We don't have any choice."

The deputy looked at Sachs carefully then slowly reached into her pocket and found her cuff key. She undid the chrome bracelets. Sachs rubbed her wrists. "What's the ammunition situation?"

"I've got four left."

"I've got five in mine," Sachs said, taking her long-barreled Smith & Wesson from Lucy and checking the cylinder.

Sachs looked down at Thom. Mary Beth stepped forward. "I'll take care of him."

"One thing," Sachs said. "He's gay. He's been tested but . . ."

"Doesn't matter," the girl responded. "I'll be careful. Go on."

"Sachs," Rhyme said. "I . . ."

"Later, Rhyme. No time for that now." Sachs eased to the door, looked out quickly, eyes taking in the topography of the field, what would make good cover and shooting positions. Her hands free again, gripping a hefty gun in her palm, she felt confident once more. This was her world: guns and speed. She couldn't think about Lincoln Rhyme and his operation, about Jesse Corn's death, about Garrett Hanlon's betrayal, about what awaited her if they got out of this terrible situation.

When you move they can't getcha . . .

She said to Lucy, "We go out the door. You go left behind the van but
don't
stop, no matter what. Keep moving till you get to the grass. I'm going right – for that tree over there. We get into the tall grass and stay down, move forward, toward the forest, flank them."

"They'll see us go out the door."

"They're
supposed
to see us. We want them to know there're two of us out there somewhere in the grass. It'll keep 'em edgy and looking over their shoulders. Don't shoot unless you have a clear, no-miss target. Got that? . . . Do you?"

"I've got it."

Sachs gripped the doorknob with her left hand. Her eyes met Lucy's.

• • •

One of them – O'Sarian, with Tomel beside him – was lugging the kerosene can toward the cabin, not paying attention to the front door. So that when the two women charged outside, splitting up and sprinting for cover, neither of them got his weapon up in time for a clear shot.

Culbeau – back a ways so he could cover the front and sides of the cabin – must not have been expecting anybody to run either because by the time his deer rifle boomed, both Sachs and Lucy were rolling into the tall grass surrounding the cabin.

O'Sarian and Tomel disappeared into the grass too and Culbeau shouted, "You let 'em get out. What the fuck you doing?" He fired one more shot toward Sachs – she hugged the earth – and when she looked again Culbeau too had dropped into the grass.

Three deadly snakes out there in front of them. And no clue where they might be.

Culbeau called, "Go right."

One of the others responded, "Where?" She thought it was Tomel.

"I think . . . wait."

Then silence.

Sachs crawled toward where she'd seen Tomel and O'Sarian a moment ago. She could just make out a bit of red and she steered in that direction. The hot breeze pushed the grass aside and she saw it was the kerosene can. She moved a few feet closer and, when the wind cooperated again, aimed low and fired a bullet squarely into the bottom of the can. It shivered under the impact and bled clear liquid.

"Shit," one of the men called and she heard a rustle of grass as, she supposed, he fled from the can, though it didn't ignite.

More rustling, footsteps.

But coming from where?

Then Sachs saw a flash of light about fifty feet into the field. It was near where Culbeau had been and she realized it would be the 'scope or the receiver of his big gun. She lifted her head cautiously and caught Lucy's eye, pointed to herself and then toward the flash. The deputy nodded then gestured around to the flank. Sachs nodded.

But as Lucy started through the grass on the left side of the cabin, running in a crouch, O'Sarian rose and, laughing again madly, began firing with his Colt. Sharp cracks filled the field. Lucy was, momentarily, a clear target and it was only because O'Sarian was an impatient marksman that he missed. The deputy dove prone, as the dirt kicked up around her, then rose and fired one shot at him, a near hit, and the small man dropped to cover, giving a whoop and calling, "Nice try, baby!"

Sachs started forward again, toward Culbeau's sniper's nest. She heard several other shots. The pops of a revolver, then the staccato cracks of the soldier rifle, then the stunning detonation of the shotgun.

She was worried that they'd hit Lucy but a moment later she heard the woman's voice call, "Amelia, he's coming at you."

The pounding of feet in the grass. A pause. Rustling.

Who? And where was he? She felt panicked, looking around dizzily.

Then silence. A man's voice calling something indistinct.

The footsteps receded.

The wind parted the grass again and Sachs saw the glint of Culbeau's telescopic sight. He was nearly in front of her, fifty feet away, on a slight rise – a good spot for him to shoot from. He could pop up out of the grass with his big gun and cover the entire field. She crawled faster, convinced that he was sighting through the powerful 'scope at Lucy – or into the cabin and targeting Rhyme or Mary Beth through the window.

Faster, faster!

She climbed to her feet and started to run in a crouch. Culbeau was still thirty-five feet away.

But Sean O'Sarian, it turned out, was much closer than that – as Sachs found out when she sprinted into the clearing and tripped over him. He gasped as she rolled past him and fell onto her back. She smelled liquor and sweat.

His eyes were manic; he looked as disconnected as a schizophrenic.

There was an immeasurable beat and Sachs lifted her pistol as he swung the Colt toward her. She kicked backward into the grass and they fired simultaneously. She felt the muzzle blast of the three shots as he emptied the clip, all the long rounds missing. Her single shot missed too; when she rolled prone and looked for a target he was leaping through the grass, howling.

Don't miss the opportunity
, she told herself. And risked a shot from Culbeau as she rose from the grass and aimed at O'Sarian. But before she could fire, Lucy Kerr stood and shot him once as he ran directly toward her. The man's head lifted and he touched his chest. Another laugh. Then he spiraled down into the grass.

The look on Lucy's face was shock and Sachs wondered if this had been her first kill in the line of duty. Then the deputy dropped into the grass. A moment later several shotgun blasts chewed up the vegetation where she'd been standing.

Sachs continued on toward Culbeau, moving very fast now; it was likely that he knew Lucy's position and when she stood again he'd have a clear shot at her.

Twenty feet, ten.

The glint from the 'scope flashed more brightly and Sachs ducked. Cringing, waiting for his shot. But apparently the big man hadn't seen her. There was no shot and she continued on her belly, easing around to the right to flank him. Sweating, the arthritis pinching her joints hard.

Five feet.

Ready.

It was a bad shooting situation. Because he was on a hill, in order to acquire a clear target she'd have to roll into the clearing on Culbeau's right, and stand. There'd be no cover. If she didn't cap his ass immediately he'd have a clear shot at her. And even if she did hit him, Tomel would have several long seconds to hit her with the scattergun.

But there was nothing to be done.

When you move . . .

Smittie up, pressure on the trigger.

A deep breath . . .

. . . they can't getcha.

Now!

She leapt forward and rolled into the clearing. She went up on one knee, aiming the gun.

And gave a gasp of dismay.

Culbeau's "gun" was a pipe from an old still and the 'scope was a part of a bottle resting on top. Exactly the same trick she and Garrett had used at the vacation house on the Paquenoke.

Suckered . . .

The grass rustled nearby. A footstep. Amelia Sachs dropped to the ground like a moth.

• • •

The footsteps were getting closer to the cabin, powerful footsteps, first through brush then on dirt then on the wooden steps leading up to the cabin. Moving slowly. To Rhyme they seemed more leisurely than cautious. Which meant they were confident too. And therefore dangerous.

Lincoln Rhyme struggled to lift his head from the couch but couldn't see who was approaching.

A creak of floorboards, and Rich Culbeau, holding a long rifle, looked inside.

Rhyme felt another jolt of panic. Was Sachs all right? Had one of the dozens of shots he'd heard struck her? Was she lying somewhere injured in the dusty field? Or dead?

Culbeau looked at Rhyme and Thom and concluded they weren't a threat. Still standing in the doorway, he asked Rhyme, "Where's Mary Beth?"

Rhyme held the man's eyes and said, "I don't know. She ran outside to get help. Five minutes ago."

Culbeau glanced around the room then his eyes settled on the root cellar door.

Rhyme said quickly, "Why're you doing this? What're you after?"

"Ran outside, did she? I didn't see her do that." Culbeau stepped farther into the cabin, his eyes on the root cellar door. Then he nodded behind him, toward the field. "They shouldn't've left you here alone. That was their mistake." He was studying Rhyme's body. "What happened to you?"

"I was hurt in an accident."

"You're that fellow from New York everybody was talking 'bout. You're the one figured out she was here. You really can't move?"

"No."

Culbeau gave a faint laugh of curiosity, as if he'd caught a kind of fish he'd never known existed.

Rhyme's eyes slipped to the cellar door then back to Culbeau.

The big man said, "You sure got yourself into a mess here. More than you bargained for."

Rhyme said nothing in response and finally Culbeau started forward, aiming his gun, one-handed, at the cellar door. "Mary Beth left, did she?"

"She ran out. Where are you going?" Rhyme asked.

Culbeau said, "She's down there, ain't she?" He pulled the door open fast and fired, worked the bolt, fired again. Three times more. Then he peered into the smoky darkness, reloading.

It was then that Mary Beth McConnell, brandishing her primitive club, stepped out from behind the front door, where she'd been waiting. Squinting with determination, she swung the weapon hard. It slammed into the side of Culbeau's head, ripping part of his ear. The rifle fell from his hands and down the stairs into the darkness of the cellar. But he wasn't badly hurt and lashed out with a huge fist, striking Mary Beth squarely in the chest. She gasped and dropped to the floor, the wind knocked out of her. She lay on her side, keening.

Culbeau touched his ear and examined the blood. Then he looked down at the young woman. From a scabbard on his belt he took a folding knife and opened it with a click. He gripped her brunette hair, pulled it up, exposing her white throat.

She grabbed his wrist and tried to hold it back. But his arms were huge and the dark blade moved steadily toward her skin.

"Stop," a voice from the doorway commanded. Garrett Hanlon stood just inside the cabin. He was holding a large gray rock in his hand. He walked close to Culbeau. "Leave her alone and get the fuck out of here."

Culbeau released Mary Beth's hair; her head dropped to the floor. The big man stepped back. He touched his ear again and winced. "Hey, boy, who're you to be cussing at me?"

"Go on, get out."

Culbeau laughed coldly. "Why'd you come back here? I got close to a hundred pounds of weight on you. And I got a Buck knife. All you got's that rock. Well, come on over here. Let's mix it up, get it over with."

Garrett clicked his fingernails twice. He crouched like a wrestler, walked forward slowly. His face showed eerie determination. He pretended to throw the rock several times and Culbeau dodged, backed up. Then the big man laughed, sizing up his adversary and probably concluding that the boy wasn't much of a threat. He lunged forward and swung the knife toward Garrett's narrow belly. The boy jumped back fast and the blade missed. But Garrett had misjudged the distance and hit the wall hard. He dropped to his knees, stunned.

Culbeau wiped his hand on his pants and gripped the knife again matter-of-factly, surveying Garrett with no emotion, as if he were about to dress a deer. He stepped toward the boy.

Then there was a blur of motion from the floor. Mary Beth, still lying on the floor, grabbed the club and swung it into Culbeau's ankle. He cried out as it connected and turned toward her, lifting the knife. But Garrett lunged forward and pushed the man hard on the shoulder. Culbeau was off balance and he slid on his knees down the cellar stairs. He caught himself halfway down. "You little shit," he growled.

Rhyme saw Culbeau grope in the dark cellar stairway for his rifle. "Garrett! He's going for the gun!"

The boy just walked slowly to the cellar and lifted the rock. But he didn't throw it. What was he doing? Rhyme wondered. He watched Garrett pull a wad of cloth out of a hole in the end. He looked down at Culbeau, said, "It's not a rock." And, as the first few yellow jackets flew out of the hole, he flung the nest into Culbeau's face and slammed the root cellar door shut. He hooked the clasp on the lock and stood back.