The Evil That Men Do (26 page)

Donne didn’t know how much time they had. He could see the glint of a cell phone lying on a thick clay-like block through the stream of light. He undid the rest of Franklin’s bonds, yanked him from the chair, and they hustled to the stairs.

After three steps, Franklin started to drag. He couldn’t keep up. Donne hefted Franklin over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

“Hurry,” Franklin said.

“No shit,” Donne said.

A cell phone rang. It wasn’t even an entire ring, just a bit of noise suddenly cut off.

That couldn’t be good.

There wasn’t time to take the steps. He knew that with the weight on his shoulders he’d never get up them in time. The whole place was going to blow up. They needed cover. Behind the stairs was a small hole where they could both crouch. He hurried across the room, and dropped Franklin. He pushed hard, and Franklin slid inward. Then Donne pulled himself inside.

Then the room went white and yellow and loud. Donne felt the heat on his skin. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

And he prayed.

THICK DARKNESS WAS ALL HE COULD SEE AT FIRST,
to the point where he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. As his vision cleared, he could see flames licking the sides of the walls around him. Then the pain settled in. His face stung and burned as if splinters had embedded themselves in his cheeks. His arms throbbed as if he’d just curled hundred-pound weights.

But pain was good. It told Donne he was alive.

Donne tried to call out Franklin’s name, but nothing came out. He tried to scream it. Still nothing. He couldn’t talk.

No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t that he couldn’t talk, because he could feel his vocal cords vibrate in his throat.

I can’t hear.

A loud rumble ran through his ears. It was constant, like rushing water. It clouded everything else. He tried shaking his head, but all that caused was more pain, like a migraine.

A long piece of wood rested across his stomach, but his arms and legs were free. Angling his arms beneath him, he pressed his hands against the two-by-four. And pushed, hard. It gave way, but dust and debris shifted onto him instead.

The room was thick with smoke hanging above him and smelled like a fireplace the morning after the fire went out. Only stronger — the smell wasn’t faint, it encompassed everything. Donne decided to breathe through his mouth instead.

Donne coughed hard. It felt like his lungs were going to give out, like they would only expand so far. He could get only half a breath in. When he exhaled, he had to contract his chest to press the air out. It tasted like ash. After each breath, his chest ached. Donne called out Franklin’s name again and for the first time heard it. At least his ears were starting to work again.

“Franklin!” Donne yelled again. It sounded like a whisper. And he didn’t hear anything in return. If Franklin was alive, it was unlikely he could hear Donne’s voice anyway.

Donne could see flashes of light poking through holes in the debris above him. He lifted his aching arms upward and some of the debris gave way, but not anywhere near as heavy as the two-by-four that was on top of him. Maybe the whole building had blown outward, but some of the rocks, wood, and mortar had still fallen inward. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

To his left, toward the center of the explosion, he saw fire burning and felt the heat on his face.

Donne rolled onto his stomach, more debris giving way above him and crashing to the ground next to him. He tried to push himself up against the rest of the debris, despite the ache in his arms. The sweat on his hands made them slippery and the dirt from the ground was the best remedy. Donne pushed and some more wood rolled off his back, probably from the old stairs they’d hidden beneath.

Donne finally got to his feet. He tried to stand up straight, but sharp cramps in his stomach wouldn’t let him. At the same time, he got a lungful of smoke and had to crouch as he coughed. When the fit passed, he took a few steps forward, pushing through wood and concrete. He felt the jagged pieces slash away the skin on his hands.

Franklin Carter lay on the ground in the corner. A thin stream of light shone on him from above. He wasn’t burned — at least as far as Donne could tell. Donne pressed his fingers to Franklin’s throat for the second time in minutes and found a pulse, though it was considerably weaker. The bone of his already broken arm was sticking out of his skin, blood pouring from the wound.

Donne’s hearing came back even more, the rush of water giving way to the crackle of fire. He turned to see that some of the walls had caught up and the fire was spreading. They had to get out of here, and quickly. Straining his neck, Donne could see the perfect exit. Behind him, only feet from the fire, the building had caved in on an angle. He was sure he could climb up the rubble and out into open air. The smoke at the top of the angle twisted, then dissipated through a hole that streamed the light that shone on Franklin and now Donne. It was their only option. The rest of the room was filled with thick smoke, with only a few shards of light pushing through.

“Franklin!” Donne yelled.

Franklin didn’t stir. Donne slapped his face hard, and still he didn’t move. Donne was going to have to carry him again. He needed a medic, and soon. His arm was bad, and who knew how much smoke he’d inhaled.

Donne tried to lift Franklin onto his back. His chest and arms were having none of it. The muscles in them stretched and tugged against the deadweight, then gave out. Franklin remained on the ground. Donne tried once more, but Franklin hardly budged. Donne sat down and tried to catch his breath, but found himself only coughing.

Not good.

If they stayed down here any longer, they’d suffocate. Firemen would dig them out by the evening and Susan would have two more funerals to plan.

Susan.

Donne remembered the pledge he’d made to himself. That she wouldn’t suffer the way he had with Jeanne. That Franklin wouldn’t die. That Donne would save him.

Back in a crouch, he tried once more to lift Franklin. Donne felt his muscles scratch against his ribs, his back and legs straining against the weight. Injured and exhausted, Donne gritted his teeth against the pain. Franklin’s torso was against Donne’s back, but his legs still dangled against the floor. Donne shifted his shoulders and bounced on his toes to slide Franklin against him some more. Donne’s arms burned, the muscles tight against his skin. His face ached, and he felt either blood or sweat stream down his forehead and cheeks. His teeth chattered as a scream tried to force its way out.

And then he stood straight up. And took one step forward. Franklin was limp against him. The pile of debris leading to safety was just a few feet away.

Each step was torture. Franklin kept slipping, and Donne had to stop after each step to make sure he wouldn’t drop his brother-in-law. The fire burned against Donne’s legs, searing his pants. Moving as fast as he could, Donne stepped against the first stone on their ascent toward the outside world.

Donne put his foot in the next foothold and it gave way. He nearly toppled backward, but caught his balance. The next step was like climbing a mountain. Each time he put his foot down, more debris got free.

About three steps from the top, some onlookers rushed toward them. The sun blinded Donne for a moment. Two men carefully pulled Franklin from Donne’s shoulders. A woman put her hand under Donne’s arm and helped him for the final steps. The moment he hit grass, he collapsed to the ground, exhausted and coughing. It felt like the fire had spread to his lungs.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked. “The ambulance is on the way.”

One of the men was checking Franklin’s busted arm. And then his pulse. His face was blackened and his eyes were closed. Donne hoped he wasn’t too late.

His eyes adjusted to the light, and he saw a figure lumbering away along the river. It looked like he was trying to run but kept getting his feet stuck in the mud.

“I’m fine,” Donne said, and got to his feet.

This wasn’t over yet.

THREE HOURS

Susan Carter opened her eyes. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline struck her like smelling salts. She was suddenly completely awake and alert. Her side burned, and when she looked down she saw she was bleeding. The edge of the console must have sliced her during the crash. The muscles in her neck had stiffened and she couldn’t look too far down. She tried to turn to her right and only got a glimpse of Marshall, unconscious. Blood trickled from his lip.

The engine was still running, or at least trying to run, though it was more a rattle. The windshield was cracked, but she couldn’t see much else: Most of her view was obstructed by the inflated air bag. Susan tried to move the air bag out of the way, but the pain was too great. Liquid trickled down her cheek, and she hoped it was tears, not blood.

Her left hand was free and didn’t hurt too much. She took a moment to check the time. The deadline was approaching. She had to get out of here and pay Hackett.

Finding the door handle was difficult, however. As she turned toward the door, the tear in her seemed to open even more. She felt it burn and felt a warm liquid run down her leg. Meanwhile, the car was warped, the metal bent, and the frame twisted. The door was not going to open easily.

She reached out and grabbed the door handle. She pulled on it, but it didn’t give. Her neck muscles screamed and the wound in her side felt as if it was opening wider with each movement. She gritted her teeth, shut her eyes, and pulled harder.

Marshall stirred.

“You… bitch.”

The words were whispered, but the sound of them made her left hand work harder. As she pulled, she heard metal grinding on metal. It was moving ever so slightly.

“I’ll kill you.”

The handle gave way. She pushed at the door, but it didn’t give. It was jammed. She pressed harder, ignoring the pain as she leaned into the door.

Jason Marshall reached across. He was weak, had to be, his arm moved so slowly. The fingers wrapped around the shoulder of her shirt, and Susan gave one more hard push.

The metal grinded and inched forward a little more. The door was going to open; she could feel it giving way. Marshall held her shirt tight and started to pull her back toward him. She pushed harder on the door. Marshall gave a hard tug, and Susan let go of the handle.

He must not have expected it, her body tumbling right into his. He grunted when her back hit his shoulder. Susan shot her legs out and kicked the door. It inched open a crack. She kicked it again. The door opened wider. Susan forced herself off Marshall toward the open door.

Susan tumbled out onto asphalt. She crawled back toward the sidewalk, the twisted wreck of a car next to her. Her knees scratched along the pavement, and her nails tore as she pulled herself along. When she hit the grass, she rolled onto her back. All her muscles relaxed and a sense of exhaustion fell over her. She went light-headed. She wanted to sleep.

“I’ll kill you!”

Susan exhaled. There was no time for sleep. She had to get away.

But she wasn’t even sure she could get up. She rolled over again and put her palms flat on the ground.

I will not die today.

Every muscle strained. Her wound burned and tugged at the surrounding skin. Sweat poured from her brow. But she got to her feet. And she let instinct take over.

Susan Carter ran for her life.

THE GROUND WAS UNEVEN AND MUDDY ALONG THE
river, and each step jarred Donne’s legs. His feet sunk deeper into the ground, and he struggled to pull them free. The smart move would have been to run toward Hackett another thirty yards away from the river and out of the mud, but Donne rarely did the smart thing.

Sneaking up — hell, catching up — to Hackett wasn’t going to be easy. Not with his body aching, not with his feet sticking. The Browning rested in his jeans waistband. He pulled it and aimed at Hackett’s back.

“Bryan Hackett!” he yelled.

Hackett turned around and mumbled something that could have been a curse. Stopping in the mud, he allowed Donne to approach him. He raised his hands. Donne tightened his grip on the gun.

He’d aged in the past ten years, his hair fair but thinning. He’d filled out muscularly, as if he’d worked out hard. He had a wedding band on his finger. But he didn’t look twenty-three. He looked double that. He looked like life had taken the fire out of his soul.

The stress of the past few weeks had probably done it to him.

When Donne got within five feet of him, Hackett said, “You scarred me, and that wasn’t enough. Now you’re going to shoot me?”

Hackett put his hand to his forehead, probably where Donne had hit him long ago. But there wasn’t a noticeable scar. Nothing was there but pale skin.

What a lunatic.

“This has to end, Hackett.”

“It doesn’t end until your family is gone. Your mother won’t last much longer. And even if you saved Franklin now, I’m sure he won’t be able to survive his injuries. I’m going to kill your sister once I get my money. Right now, though, I’m going to kill you.”

His voice was confident, even though Donne’s gun was trained on his chest.

“Give it up. What happened between us was years ago.”

“Do you really think the past dies, Jackson? What happened to my grandfather was even longer ago. But it affects everything. My father could have been rich. I could have lived a blessed life. Instead, all that’s left are scars.” Hackett touched his forehead again.

“Jason Marshall told me all about you.”

Hackett’s resolve broke just a little. The level his hands were raised lowered a bit. Next to them the river kept flowing, the odor of trash and slime the chemical factories in Clifton and Paterson dumped in it overwhelming the usual cleanliness of summer air.

“What did he say?”

Donne didn’t say anything, the gun heavy in his hand. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it. His forearms ached from lifting Franklin. Hackett took another step forward.