Blood Hunt (39 page)

Duncan went down, screaming, an arrow through his thigh.

Reflex drove Garreth toward Duncan, pulling off his tie to use as a tourniquet. Only crossing the beam of one headlight did he realize he was making himself a target. Though the distance between him and Duncan had to mean Duncan was the intentional target. Still, he killed the headlight above Duncan by smashing it with his elbow before dropping to his knees beside Duncan.

Whether or not that reduced their visibility, Lane did not shoot again. She just called back in the rasping voice, “See if you can sniff me out. The end is nigh.”

Duncan jerked the tie away from Garreth. “Leave me!” he gasped. “Get that son of a bitch!”

For several seconds Garreth wondered if he could stand again, his legs felt so weak. But the thought of Lane escaping forced him onto his feet and after her.

Behind him and on the radio, Duncan shouted, “Officer down,” and the location.

Crossing Oak into the next alley the meaning of Lane’s words struck Garreth...explaining the game she had been playing and why she shot Duncan. She mean to kill him at the sale barn, but thanks to Scott’s interruption, she changed plans to look for another victim to witness the fact that a psycho was shooting police officers in Baumen. Which signaled the game was over. Her next shot would be for the kill.

Only where did she lie in wait for him? Not behind a corner of the Lutheran and Methodist churches on the back side of the block, but maybe she planned to jump out at him from the rear door of Toews Hardware or Hartzfeldt Liquor? Yes, opening those doors would set off alarms, but who was there to respond? Or she might fire down on him from a roof.

He flattened against the wall of the hardware store where he was behind the door if it opened and looked up to check the roof line. The certainty was that she had a plan. He needed one, too. He needed a plan and he needed a weapon other than his gun — shaky as he felt, he could never make that head shot — and he needed them fast, before anyone else became involved and endangered. Radio traffic had Duncan reporting a wounded Mikaelian and Doris reassuring Duncan Fire Rescue was on its way. Garreth heard the siren coming up Oak. A deputy radioed he was close to the north and on his way in, too.

Staring across the alley at the churches, one possibility for a weapon occurred to Garreth. But he needed to make Lane follow him for a change...and manage to stay ahead of her. So where was she?

She said, sniff her out. He stepped away from the wall and followed the faint but still detectable odor of paint. Past the hardware store, past the liquor store...to the Driscoll Theater’s fire exit. She had gone in there...through a closed door. He would have to pass through, too.

Garreth gritted his teeth.

Wrench
!

The pain of passage turned to a screaming anguish in his shoulder that burned through his chest and down his arm. He stumbled through the vestibule between the exit and curtained archway into the theater proper and dropped to hands and knees, half from pain, half to use the seats for cover until he could move more steadily. Reaching his weapon meant passing through two more doors. Could he manage that?

Come on, man! Don’t be a wimp!

Gritting his teeth, he pulled his feet under him and braced to run up the near aisle through the William Tell Sitting Duck Shooting Gallery. The creaks and moans of the old building hid any footsteps or breathing, but...she waited somewhere in the twilight of his night sight with a final arrow ready for him.

A bowstring thrummed. Above him. Balcony!

Garreth dived up the aisle. The arrow sliced into the carpeting behind him.

“
That’s the trouble with a bow, Lane,” he called. “There’s no silencer on it. Catch me if you can.”

He ran for the lobby and the front door, heart thundering in terror. He wore a target on his back and Lane had all the advantages: a weapon, expertise with it, and no injuries.

Wrench
!

He lurched forward across the sidewalk, fighting a scream, fighting to stay on his feet.
Don’t fall, damn you; don’t fall or you’re dead
!

He staggered across the tracks onto the far side of the street.

The bowstring sang its deadly song behind him. Fire burned across his right ribs.

Garreth stumbled. He struggled half a dozen steps on feet and his uninjured hand but managed to avoid a complete fall, then he was up again, moving as fast as he could. Only to slip twice more on the increasingly slick street, once scraping his palms as he came skidding down on them and a knee. Nerves sent muscles over his ribs and in his shoulder into spasm. He gasped in anguish...kept moving, not daring to slow down, not daring to look back.

Castle Drugs loomed before him. He hit the door —
wrench
— and landed heavily on the floor inside. His head spun and he felt sweat running down his face. On elbows and knees, to avoid leaving any bloody hand prints, he crawled to the counters along the left wall and down behind them to the display case where he saw Rosie Wiest working two weeks ago.

Inside the display case sat a heavenly host of ceramic angels and cherubs and a row of boxes holding rosaries.

Garreth pushed a handle on the sliding door behind the case using his knuckles to avoid leaving fingerprints. Unlocked. He slid the glass open and pulled out a box. Though Lane must be seconds behind him, he moved other boxes to hide the gap before crawling around the end of the display case into the nearest aisle. Giving thanks the shelves still ran parallel to the front of the store and provided the intruder concealment he warned Mrs. Wiest about. Listening for any sound up front, he removed the rosary from its box and hid the box behind bottles of mouthwash on the bottom shelf, then he pushed to his feet and opened his jacket to examine the wound in his side. The pointed end of the arrow protruded from his shirt, having passed though his body armor, but despite the pain and warmth of blood spreading down his size, did not feel stuck in him. Maybe just caught his skin?

Footsteps whispered up front.

Garreth’s heart lurched. He peered around the shelf. Lane stood just inside the front door, an arrow ready in her bow, her head tilted, listening. Garreth forced himself to breathe slowly and softly.

“
Hello, Inspector,” Lane said. “I smell you. I smell your fear. Are you badly hurt? I warned you how a diet of animal blood affects your recuperative powers.”

He needed to get close to her...behind her.
Come to me, blood mother
. He groaned softly.

Lane’s head turned, hunting the source of the sound. “Come out, come...out.”

He yelled at himself in his head to drown her voice.
Don’t listen, don’t listen. Make
her
listen
. He whimpered.

Lane moved forward, almost soundlessly now...past the checkout counter...past the photo counter. “Stop...hiding.”

He groaned.

She passed the batteries to the rosary display case.

Breathing as little as possible, ears straining for sounds of Lane’s approach, he waited. Steps whispered closer.

Garreth grabbed a dental floss package and tossed it over the shelves into the next aisle. It clattered on the floor.

He heard her spin...step into the aisle.

Gathering all his will, Garreth made himself move...leaping around the end of the shelves. With his arm and ribs screaming with agony at lifting his arm, he tossed the loop of beads over her head and mask and jerked it snug.

Lane reached for her neck, snarling, dropping the bow and arrow she had ready for him. Then her hand touched the crucifix in the middle of the rosary. She shrieked...the high, tearing sound of someone in mortal agony. Garreth needed all his will to keep the rosary tight.

“
Garreth, let loose!” Lane cried. “I can’t stand the pain!” She clawed at his hands. “I’ll do whatever you want...anything...just take this thing off me. Please. Please!” She began sobbing.

Dizziness swept through him. His knees trembled, making him fight to stay on his feet. Was this capture too late? Had he become too weakened to hold on to her?

He thought of Duncan shot down, of Mossman and Adair’s drained bodies...of Harry bleeding almost to death on Wink O’Hare’s floor. Of his own shattered life.
The maiden is powerful
. Grimly, he held the rosary tight.

“
We’re going to walk out of here and back to my place.” He hoped.

“
Yes. Yes! Whatever you want, if you’ll just take this thing off! Inspector, it’s burning me! It’s a thousand times worse than the barrier around dwellings. Help me. Take it off! Garreth, please!” Lane screamed.

Wrench
!

Only his grip on the rosary kept him on his feet...and kept him standing while he kicked in the drug store’s door to fake a break-in and explain the presence of a bow and arrow on the floor. The street spun around him. He shivered with cold, a sensation he noted in dismay. Could he hang on long enough to reach his place?

Lane started screaming. “Help! Someone help me!”

Garreth jerked the rosary. “Shut up!”

She subsided into raspy gasps. Her hatred beat at him. He angled for Maple Street. Whoever had gone to Duncan’s aid would initially concentrate activity at the north end of the block near Oak. If he forced Lane past the south end, then stuck to alleys and back yards, they should reach his place without being seen.

And then what?

He saw only one answer. But the deaths had to look like an accident, and it had to destroy their bodies. A fiery crash of the ZX should do. It would solve everything. Lane would be punished and he pay for her blood with his. He could stop fighting blood hunger; Grandma Doyle would be relieved; Brian could be adopted in clear conscience.

They crossed the tracks. Lane reached for his hands, but each time her nails touched his skin, Garreth jerked the rosary and she subsided with a gasp of anguish. He gritted his teeth, fighting dizziness and weakness...fighting to keep his hold on her and his balance on the slick paving.

Up Kansas, motors roared. Garreth looked around to see Scott’s Trans Am gunning out of the mist, just in front of a pickup jacked high on its axles. He sucked in a breath of relief. He did not have to take her all the way home.

Before he could debate the rightness of the action, or change his mind, he caught Lane’s chin with his good hand. A quick jerk snapped her head around backward on her neck with a crack like a gunshot. Too fast for her to know what happened, he hoped. Then he shoved his hands under her arms and leaped directly in the path of the Trans Am.

It had no chance to stop. Scott tried. Brakes screamed...but his tires found no traction on the paving and the Trans Am spun end for end. Garreth kept moving, pushing himself and the slack Lane between vehicle and a solid old light pole in front of the theater...until hurtling metal wrapped itself sideways around the pole, Lane, and Garreth. The pickup piled into the Trans Am, further crushing them and the car against the pole.

Wrench
.

Garreth found himself rolling on the sidewalk, shoulder and side burning with pain, arrow now driven out through the front of his jacket.

“
No!” he howled. He was not supposed to pass through the pole! He was supposed to die in the crash and burn with Lane.

Then he realized there was no fire, only the smell of spilling gas.

Lurching to his feet, Garreth scrambled for the driver’s door. The crash had jammed it. He smashed the window with his radio and pulled out the dazed boy. “Run!” he yelled at the pickup’s driver. “It’s going to blow!”

Dropping the radio, he searched Scott’s pockets. Good. There were the cigarettes and lighter Garreth expected to find. Flicking the lighter, he tossed it under the Trans Am and hauled Scott backward.

Flame engulfed the car and quickly spread to the pickup and the light pole.

Violet ran out of the hotel with a fire extinguisher.

Garreth reached for it. “I’ll do this. You take the boys in the hotel and call the fire department.”

He contrived to fall, with the extinguisher “coming apart” in his hands, spewing foam on the sidewalk instead of the flames. After that, he and the people who materialized out of the hotel could only stand and watch the car, and Lane’s body, burn.

An unexpected sense of desolation swept him. In spite of his outrage at her crimes, in spite of burning hatred for what she had done to Harry and him, her death hurt. Pain closed his throat...grief for the child whose torment had driven her to seek the power of the vampire life and use it to vent her hatred on humanity, for the waste of an intellect curious and clever enough to theorize what made vampires, for the voice that would never sing enchantment again.

The fire department arrived in time to save the light pole and keep Lane from burning to the bone, but what Garreth saw amid the metal wrapped around her, told him her hands had charred beyond recovery of fingerprints and the hockey mask looked melted onto her face. An autopsy, if they bothered with one, could establish her as female but forty-eight years too young to be Mada Bieber.