Redemption Road: A Novel (52 page)

“He needs medical care.”

“Like William Preston needed medical care?” The warden held the stare; she had no words. “It’s a funny thing, really.” The warden sat on a pew, speaking conversationally. “When we first met, I felt as if I knew you. What you value. The person you really are.” He lit a cigarette and pointed the gun at Gideon’s chest. “Where is Adrian Wall?”

“Don’t.”

He swung his aim to the girl. “You see how this works.” The gun moved back and forth. The boy. The girl. “I want you to call him. Tell him to come here. Tell him he has an hour before I start killing children.”

“He’s farther away than that.”

“I’m an impatient man, but not beyond reason. We’ll call it ninety minutes.”

Elizabeth held the stare. The warden smiled.

At their feet, Beckett lay dying.

36

Adrian was at the window when the phone rang. Only Liz knew he was here, so he answered, “Liz?”

“Adrian, thank God.” She was curt, her voice strained. “Listen to me, and listen carefully. I don’t have much time. You remember my father’s church? The old one?”

Of course, he remembered. He’d joined the church a month after finding Elizabeth at the quarry. He’d hoped to marry Julia there and start a new life. It had, for a time, embodied dreams of better days.

“What’s going on, Liz?”

“I need you at the church, and I need you soon.”

“Why?”

“Just come, please. It’s important.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you? Our last phone call?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I mean it now more than ever.”

Adrian wanted to know more. He had questions.

The phone went dead.

*   *   *

The warden took the phone from Elizabeth’s fingers and slipped it into his pocket. The conversation had been on speakerphone. His insistence. “Were you being clever, just now?”

“No.”

He leaned close enough to smell his skin, the gel in his hair. He was closely shaven, his eyes too soft and brown for the man he was. Elizabeth averted her gaze, but he touched her hair with a finger, tapped the gun against her knee.

“What was the last thing you said to him?”

“You wanted him here. I said what I had to say to make sure he’d come.”

“I find that answer unsatisfactory.”

She glanced at the children, then at Beckett. His eyes were open; he was watching. “The last thing I said was that I loved him. He’ll come because of that.”

The warden measured her words, her face. “Are you lying to me?”

“All I want is for the children to live.”

“Eighty-nine minutes.”

*   *   *

Stay away from this place. Stay away from me.

Those were the last words she’d said to him. Did she really want him to stay away? He doubted it. Else why call him at all? Something had changed, and it wasn’t something good.

Cops, maybe?

That was equally doubtful.

The warden?

That was the best bet, but it didn’t really matter. Liz would not have called unless she needed him. The beautiful part was that he had clarity at last, knew what to do and when to do it. He heard Eli as if he were in the room.

It’s only worth so much, boy .

Six million dollars, he thought.

Liz was worth more.

*   *   *

In the church, it was hot and still. Beckett was alive, but as close to dead as Elizabeth had ever seen a man. She asked the same question for the seventh time. “Please, may I help him?”

Gideon and Channing sat on either side of her, the three of them herded onto the step at the bottom of the altar and held at gunpoint. Olivet was at the door. The warden stood gazing at stained glass.

“He’s dying,” she said.

“Two minutes left.” The warden tapped his watch. “I hope he makes it in time.”

“I’ve done what you asked. No one else needs to die.”

She said it as if she meant it, but deep down she knew the truth. If the warden had his way, no one would get out alive. Witnesses. Risks. He would accept neither, not with one man dead and another dying, not once he had Adrian.

“Talk to me,” she said. “Let’s work this out.”

“Stop talking.”

“I’m serious. There must be something—”

“Bring her here.” The warden gestured, and one of the guards hauled Elizabeth to her feet. “Put her down there. Cuff her to the pew.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“So I have a clear shot at the children.”

She jerked an arm free, but the guard pushed her down, pulled her hands behind her back, and cuffed her to the leg of the pew. “You wouldn’t.”

“Actually, I’d rather not.” The warden stooped beside her. “Can’t you feel it, though?” He traced the line of her cheek. “The suspense.” He was speaking of Adrian, and confidence underlay it all. “Sixty seconds.”

“Don’t pretend you’ll let us live.”

“Not even for the children?”

The smile seemed shockingly real, but the eyes said it all. He’d shot one man in the heart, and put a bullet in a cop’s stomach. It could only end one way. He knew it, and she did, too.

“Movement.” That was Olivet at the open door. Beyond him, it was dusk. Purple sky. Cicadas in the grass. “Car’s turning in. Some kind of green wagon.”

The warden looked at his watch and, before he stood, gave a wink Elizabeth would never forget. Craning her neck, she saw three men at the door, one watching the children. Elizabeth caught Channing’s eye, and the guard—seeing it—put his gun to Channing’s head. “Everybody just stay calm,” he said.

But, that was not possible.

It was not even close.

*   *   *

When the church appeared on the hill, it was more to Adrian than glass and stone and iron. It was the past, his youth, his undying regret. He’d hoped to be married there, and to start a life with the woman he should have married all along. The building was old, and solid. He’d liked the feel of it and the permanence, the reverend’s message of birth and hope and forgiveness. He’d thought of it often as his marriage failed. At times he’d driven to the church and simply watched it on the hill, thinking,
If I am honest at last …

Instead, he’d gone to trial for Julia’s murder and never spoken of regret or redemption. He spent thirteen years dreaming of the life he’d lost, and when the church rose tall in those dreams, he saw Julia die alone and pleading; and it wasn’t God she called for, or her husband. The name on her lips was his, night after night. She was afraid and dying, yet he was never there but in the dreams. When next the nightmares came, would he see his wife, as well? Or Liz? The thought was unbearable so he made a promise as the road fell away and gravel shifted beneath the tires.

Whatever it takes.

Never again.

Cresting the hill, he saw men in the door and parked cars. He stopped twenty feet from the granite steps. The warden stood outside the door with Olivet and Jacks. Woods would be there, too, probably with Liz. Adrian killed the engine and put the key in his pocket. The air outside was warm.

“You should have run and kept running.”

The warden stepped out, his shoes scraping granite. The trees above his head were dark and heavy.

“Maybe I should have killed you. First day out. First night.”

“You don’t have the balls.”

“Maybe you underestimate me. Maybe you always have.”

“That implies you had secrets to keep, and that you kept them. I find that hard to believe.”

Adrian fished a gold coin from his pocket and tossed it so it rang on the steps. The warden kept an eye on Adrian and picked it up, tilting it. “You could buy the same in any pawnshop.”

Adrian flung another dozen coins.

“So, it’s true.” The warden didn’t stoop that time. He smoothed a thumb across the coin; showed it to Jacks. “How many?”

“Five thousand. They’re yours if you let her go.”

The warden studied Adrian with new eyes. Respect was there, and even a little fear. All that time, unbroken. All that pain. “There’s still the matter of William Preston.”

“It’s six million dollars,” Adrian said. And that was the only truth that mattered. He saw it in the warden’s face, and in the way Jacks shifted his feet. Friendship was fine, but the money came first.

“Do you have it with you?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“How do you propose to do this?”

“If Liz is okay, I’ll take you to the gold. She stays behind.”

“If I say no?”

“You can torture me again, for all the good it’ll do.”

“Maybe I’ll torture her, instead.”

“Death is death,” Adrian said. “We all win or none of us do.”

The warden rubbed his chin, thinking. “And when she tells her story about what happened here?”

“Do you love your wife?”

“Not so much.”

“It’s six million dollars. Untraceable. You can put it in the trunk and go anywhere. Tomorrow morning you start a whole new life.”

The warden smiled, and it made Adrian nervous. “I don’t think Detective Black would accept the idea of her torture as lightly as you.”

“She wouldn’t have called me unless she’d thought it through.”

“Perhaps, she thought you’d come in, guns blazing.”

“I’m nobody’s hero. She knows that.”

The warden ran the same thumb across the coin. “Jacks is going to pat you down.” He gestured, and Jacks took the stairs.

The pat-down was rough and thorough. “He’s clean.”

“All right, then.” The warden picked up the other coins, bounced them in his palm so they rattled and clinked. “Let’s go inside and talk this thing out.”

Adrian followed the warden and felt Olivet and Jacks close up behind. He had no confidence his plan would work, but it was all he had: gold and men’s greed and his own readiness to die. He knew the warden, though. He was pushing sixty, tired of his job. Six million was a lot of money. Adrian thought the plan had a shot.

That disappeared when he saw the kids.

Before that moment, it was all or nothing. The plan worked or it did not. If Elizabeth died, he’d die with her. There’d been acceptance in that, and a kind of difficult peace. Liz made her choices. He made his.

That had nothing to do with the kids.

They huddled beneath the altar, not just frightened, but wounded. He knew Gideon, of course, who was as close as anything alive to the woman Adrian had loved with all his heart. The girl would be the one from the papers, Channing. A man was dead on the floor. Elizabeth’s father, he thought. The other man was Beckett, who was dead or close to it. Elizabeth was secured to a pew on the front row. “I want her free. Right now.”

“Adrian—”

“Hang on, now.” The warden cut her off. “This is still my show, so let’s try this again.” He drew his pistol and put the barrel against Elizabeth’s knee. “Where did you hide it?”

“I’ll take you to it.”

“I know you will.”

“The five of us in a car,” Adrian said. “We drive east on back roads. No cops. No witnesses. Two hours later, you’re rich.”

“My leverage is here.”

“It’s the smart move. Six million dollars.”

“Bring me the boy.”

“No!” Elizabeth fought the cuffs. “You son of a bitch! You bastard!” She kicked the warden once.

He struck her on the head, knocking her bloody. “The boy. Now.”

Gideon tried to fight, but the guard was too strong. He dragged the boy down the steps and across the rotted carpet. He left him at the warden’s feet, screaming as a foot pushed on his throat and the barrel of a gun dug into the place he’d been shot. “You see how this works?” The warden leaned on the gun and twisted. “No one around. Lots of time.”

“Stop it,” Adrian said.

“Where’s Eli’s gold? Come on, Adrian.” The barrel twisted again. An edge of smile carved the warden’s face. “You remember how we do this.”

Adrian tore his eyes from the boy. Three guards. Three guns.

“Girl’s next,” the warden said. “Then, Liz.”

He pushed harder, and Gideon screamed again, his voice as high and clear as that of any choirboy who’d ever sung in the ancient church.

*   *   *

Beckett was in all kinds of hurt, but alert enough to know how badly he’d messed up. The warden. Liz. The reverend …

He saw the dead man, the open eyes.

He found Liz, then blinked and thought of Carol.

My beautiful lady …

They were his life, the both of them, his partner and his wife. He loved them each, but the choice had never been in doubt.

His wife.

It would always be his wife.

But this …

Death and children and the way Liz looked at him. He’d never had a choice, but goddamn it was bad. The kids. The hole in his gut. He was dying; had to be. There were words he couldn’t understand, a musty smell and movement like a spill of color. He was fading, nearly gone.

But there was also the pain.

God …

He blinked, and it chewed through him, dragged him in and out, and broke him like a bottle on a rock. Right now he was lucid, if only just. The boy was screaming; the guards were focused on Adrian.

That left Channing.

Beckett tried to speak, but couldn’t; tried to move, but his legs didn’t work. One arm was trapped beneath him, but the other was clear. He could barely move it—just his fingers—but he got fabric in his grip and worked the jacket up, an inch, then five. When the gun at his back was exposed, he tried to say her name, but came up empty. It hurt. Every bit of it hurt like hell. But this was his fault, so he asked God to take pity on a stupid, fucked-up, dying man. He prayed for strength, then drew air into his lungs and said her name again. It came out a croak, the barest whisper. But she heard it and saw the gun.

The girl, who was bending above him.

Channing, who could shoot like a dream.

*   *   *

Olivet saw it first, a slip of girl with a gun too large for such tiny hands. He wasn’t worried. She could barely stand, and thirty feet of carpet stretched between them. His instinct was to hold out an open hand and say,
Careful, little girl.
Instead, he said, “Warden.”