“Of course we knew about you,” he told her. “How do you think we controlled him in the beginning? He was terrified you’d come down and get hurt. Honestly”—he shrugged—“I can’t believe the dumb coot’s still alive. The shit Clint was feeding him was pure enough to kill a horse—grade A Ya Ba. He should’ve been dead weeks ago. We figured by the time you made it down here, it’d be for his funeral.”
“How can you—” Sara began, but the back door opened. Fred Bart looked just as surprised to see Sara and Lena as they were to see him. It had taken a while, but Lena had finally placed who Charlotte’s killer was. Bart had been practicing in Reese since Lena was a kid. It was hard to forget a dentist who had freakishly small teeth.
“No way,” Bart said, backing up. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Get your ass in here,” Valentine ordered, using the gun to wave him in.
Bart said, “I only brought enough for one. Clint didn’t say—”
Clint swung around aggressively. “What did I say, you stupid cocksucker?”
Valentine ignored them, asking Lena, “You got any more questions?”
She opened her mouth to answer and he slammed his gun into the side of her head. Lena saw stars as she fell. The only thing that kept her from hitting the floor was the fact that she was handcuffed to Sara.
“Lena!” Sara struggled to pull her back into the chair.
Lena’s ears were ringing. She heard Valentine say, “Do the doc. I owe it to her husband.”
“No!” Sara screamed, rearing back, taking Lena with her. Clint stepped in, bear-hugging Sara from behind. Lena was dragged across the floor as Sara struggled against the man, fighting for her life. Valentine’s hand clamped down on Sara’s handcuffed right wrist and Lena saw Fred Bart jam a needle into her arm.
Two or three seconds later, Sara stopped struggling. She crumpled to the floor beside Lena, her eyes glassy. Lena put her fingers to Sara’s neck, tried to feel for a pulse.
Bart said, “It’s just a mild sedative, darlin’—something to take the edge off. She’ll be fine.”
Valentine fished the keys to the handcuffs out of his pocket. “Yeah, she’ll be fine until she dies.” He gave Bart the gun, saying, “Shoot her in the head if she moves.”
Bart took the weapon, showing the same easy familiarity as that night he’d sat by Charlotte in the back of the Escalade. “What are you going to do, Jake? I didn’t sign on for any of this. I don’t hurt innocent people.”
“You do if you have to.” Valentine twisted the key in Sara’s cuff and her hand fell to the ground. He told Clint, “Take her into the hall so I don’t have to look at her anymore.”
Clint’s lips twisted up in a smile.
“Get right back in here,” Valentine ordered. “Don’t fiddle with her or I’ll cut your goddamn cock off.”
Bart had taken his eyes off Lena. She edged toward the door and he snapped the gun at her head. “Don’t try it, sugar. We both know what I am capable of.”
Lena sat back in the chair. The cuff was still dangling from her hand and she worked her fingers along the chain, thinking she could use it as some kind of weapon. She grabbed the cold, curved metal in her hand, fashioning it into brass knuckles. If Bart or Valentine got close enough, she would hit them as hard as she could no matter who had a gun pointed at her face. Better to die from a bullet than burn to death like Charlotte.
Clint came back, the door swinging behind him. Lena caught a glimpse of Sara lying in the hallway before the door swung closed.
Bart asked, “Jake, what are we doing here?”
Valentine reached into the cardboard box and threw out a handful of empty blister packs from a box of cold medicine. “We’re making meth.” He tossed more of the empty packets onto the counter, scattered some matchbooks on the kitchen table. The box had everything he needed: medical tubing, beakers, filters. He dumped the box on the table, too.
Bart asked, “Why are these girls here, Jake? I told you after Charlotte that I was finished with this kind of shit.”
“You’re not finished with anything until I say you are.”
Bart kept the gun on Lena, but he said, “I don’t want to be a part of this.”
Valentine chuckled as he opened the cabinet under the sink. Years of cleaning products were stuck to the bottom but he swept them aside with his hand, saying, “Shit we could’ve just used this.”
Bart said, “This is wrong, Jake. This is just wrong. Al never did things like this. Innocent people never got hurt.”
“Al was bringing in pocket change. We got us a real organization here, Fred. We can’t let our people down.” Valentine reached under the sink and grabbed the drainpipe, putting his weight into his heels as he pulled on it. “That ain’t moving.”
Clint was just standing there. “What do you want me to do now?”
Valentine indicated the cans of solvents on the counter. “Mix ’em up. Get everything ready.”
Clint started opening bottles and pouring them into Hank’s ceramic mugs.
Bart tried again, “Jake—”
“Shut up your whining, Fred.” Valentine groaned as he stood up, cursing, “Motherfucker, that hurts,” as he held his hand to his side. “You’re not even worried about me, Fred.” Valentine gripped the counter, his hand leaving a bloody print. “Lookit my damn side. I ripped it open on that stupid door.”
Bart glanced at the bloody bandage. “You’ll live.”
“Thanks for your concern.” Valentine wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was sweating. He picked up the jug of bleach that had been under the counter and set it on the kitchen table with a thump.
Bart said, “This is crazy, man. What are you going to do?”
“What we’re gonna do is handcuff her to the sink, then blow this place to hell.”
Bart shook his head. “They’ll find the cuffs in the—”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to make note of that when I’m filling out my scene of crime report,” Valentine interrupted. “One pair of police issue handcuffs.”
“What about the compound?” He glanced nervously at Lena. “Did you clear this?”
“It’s all clear,” Valentine told him. “They took the leash off as soon as she showed up with those pictures.”
Clint said, “We’re ready here,” indicating the ceramic mugs on the counter. Thin plumes of smoke already drifted out of the mugs as the chemicals combined.
Valentine asked, “How long will it take?”
Clint shrugged. “The ceramic is pretty thin. I’d say it’ll take ten, maybe twenty minutes tops for the heat to crack them. Once the liquid touches the flame, it’ll go up like a fucking A-bomb. I’d get the hell out of here as soon as you put them on the heat, though. You never know with these things. The chemicals ain’t exactly stable.”
Valentine patted him on the back for a job well done. “I hear you, boy.”
Bart said, “I am so sick of this shit. You think her husband’s going to just let this go?” He waved the gun toward the hallway. “At least shoot her so she doesn’t have to suffer through it.” He glanced at Lena, though with less compassion. “Shoot them both. What harm will it do to show a little kindness?”
Valentine splashed acetone around the room. “Because that’ll leave bullets in the body, Fred. I can pocket a pair of handcuffs but I can’t hide a bullet in an X-ray. Even if you dig it out, you can tell when a bullet hits bone. Knives leave marks, too, so don’t even think about it, Clint.” He shook his head, telling Bart, “I thought you’d done enough autopsies by now to know how this shit works. We’ll just cuff her to the drainpipe and get the hell out of here.”
Lena finally spoke. “What are you going to tell Jeffrey?”
He smiled at Lena. “That Deacon Simms was cooking meth in Hank’s kitchen and you and Sara came along at the wrong time.”
She didn’t even bother to act surprised that Deacon’s body would be found in the ruins. It made perfect sense. “Jeffrey knows you were
here.”
“He’ll know that I dropped y’all off,” Valentine countered, splashing ammonia on top of the lye. “Then he’ll know that I went home and had lunch with my wife before she had to go back to school.”
“He’ll put it together that you handed in your badge on the same day that his wife died.”
Bart had been following the conversation closely. Lena could feel his body tense. He asked, “You resigned?”
“Yes,” Lena said, gripping the handcuff in her hand, willing him to come closer. “Don Cook told me that Jake resigned this morning. Jake got a threatening letter and said he was leaving town before he ended up like Al Pfeiffer.”
“She’s lying,” Valentine said. “I resigned, but I—”
“He said he was leaving town,” Lena repeated. “Look at this stuff, Fred.” She indicated the beakers, the chemicals. “They had all of this ready to go. Why do you think that is?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Valentine told Bart, a warning in his tone.
Lena pressed on, putting together the pieces. Valentine must have been pretty fucking pleased with himself. Lena had handed him surveillance photos. The right ones shown to the right people would paint Fred Bart as the mastermind of the whole operation. “They were going to set you up, Fred. They’ve been planning this all along, just waiting for the right time to bang you up.” He shook his head, and she insisted, “Think about it, Fred. Look at what’s going on here. Jeffrey would’ve needed an explanation, somebody to blame for his wife dying. Can’t you see Jake is setting you up for the fall? You are the explanation.”
“Don’t listen to that crap,” Valentine said, but even Lena could tell she’d struck close to home. The man was visibly nervous. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the gun. “Come on, Fred. Things were just getting a little hot and I—”
Both Lena and Valentine ducked as Bart squeezed the trigger. Instinctively, Lena put her hands over her head and the loose cuff slapped her in the face. She looked up, expecting to see Jake Valentine lying dead, but it was Clint who had been shot. Bart was an excellent marks-man. The bullet had gone straight between the man’s eyes.
For his part, Clint seemed the last one to realize he’d been shot. He stood there, his eyes staring blankly, body swaying to the side; at least two full seconds ticked by before he collapsed back against the door. It swung open as he fell, the chain looping his wallet to his belt clanging against the wood.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” Valentine demanded. “For the love of Christ, Fred. He was Jerry’s man.” He stamped his foot on the floor. “You’re going to have to explain this, you stupid asshole.”
Bart had the gun trained squarely at Valentine’s chest. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What?”
“She’s right,” he said. “You’ve never cooked meth in your life, and Clint was too far up the ladder to fool with this shit.”
“That’s not—”
“What were you doing with all this stuff?” he asked, indicating the chemicals, the beakers. “You were planning on leaving me holding the bag while you skipped town with that fat wife of yours.”
Valentine’s fists clenched. “Don’t you dare bring Myra into this.”
Bart said, “Al and I kept this town in line, kept the good people away from the bad, for thirty years. You didn’t give a shit about right and wrong. You just offered it around like candy.”
“Money is money, man.”
“At what cost?”
“Them fistfuls of cash I was giving you every week didn’t seem to bother you none.”
“Like I had a choice,” he snapped back. “You were nothing but a little pissant before you married into that family. Then all of a sudden you’re the big man in town, waving your dick around like you’re somebody special. All you ever were was a fuck-up.”
“Like it was my bright idea to throw Boyd through the fucking hotel window!” he yelled. “What about that, Fred? Another one of your grand gestures, just like the schoolteacher you torched on the football field. She’s what started this shitstorm in the first place.” Valentine looked pleased with his point. “You and your foolish ways, thinking you’ll scare people off like in the old days, and all it ends up doing is throwing gasoline on the fire. And here I am, trying to clean up your mess. Who’s the fuck-up now?”
“You know why they kept me around?” Bart demanded. “You ever ask yourself why they didn’t give me a one-way ticket to the swamp? It was because they didn’t trust your skinny little ass as far as they could throw you.”
Valentine chuckled. “If you know them so well, then you know how they feel about family.”
“I think they’ll be glad to get rid of you, is what I think.”
“I think that I’m the only one standing between you and death right now.”
“Get over by the sink,” Bart ordered. “Both of you.”
Valentine started, “Hold on now—”
Bart shot him in the leg.
“Shit!” Valentine screamed. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing?”
Bart reached down and picked up the shell from the bullet. “I said both of you get over by the sink.” When Lena didn’t move, he kicked her chair. “There are worse ways to hurt you than with a bullet, darlin’.”
She got up, moved toward the sink.
Valentine held his bleeding leg, fuming, “You think you can get away with this?”
“I think I’m gonna have an awful lot more bullets to dig out of your body down at the morgue if you don’t get down in front of that sink and cuff your hand through that pipe.”
“You think you can go back to the good old ways? There’s too much money now, Fred. They’re gonna put you in the ground.”
“Shut up,” Bart ordered, kicking Valentine in the leg right where he’d just been shot.
“Fuck!” Valentine screamed, his knees buckling as he fell down.
“You, too,” Bart said, waving the gun at Lena. “Get down on the floor.”
She knelt slowly. “I never told anyone it was you in the car,” she said. “I kept quiet the whole time.”
“I know, hon,” Bart said. “That was really good of you.”
“Let me go,” Lena begged. “Let me and Sara go and neither one of us will say anything.”
Bart flashed his nasty little teeth. “The funny thing, Lena, is if it was just you, I’d believe it. I really would. But the doctor lady out there won’t lie. She may give it a good try, but no way she can keep a secret.”
“She will.”
He shook his head. “Jake, reach down there and pull that cuff through the pipe.”
“You son of a bitch,” Valentine muttered, grabbing Lena’s arm and passing the cuff through the bend in the drain.
“Tight now,” Bart instructed. “Tighter.”
Valentine made the cuff so tight his wrist turned red. “They will find you,” he warned Bart. “They will find you and rip your intestines out through your asshole.”
Bart was over by the stove. He turned up the burners, as high as they would go, and used the butt of the gun to knock the knobs off the stove. Satisfied they couldn’t be turned down, he got the ceramic mugs and put each one over the open flame.
“You’re gonna die for this,” Valentine warned. “You think you can get away with killing me? I’m a fucking general in the Brotherhood of the True White Skin. Vengeance will rain down upon you like the wrath of the one white God.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bart said. “And you’re gonna get ass fucked by the biggest, blackest cocksucker in hell.” He lifted his foot and kicked Valentine in the face. Bart’s angle was off, but the bottom of the sink was right behind Valentine. His head slammed against the cast iron, an ominous crunch sounding from his skull. He slid down the sink, blood dripping from the back of his head.
Bart knelt down and checked Valentine’s pockets, the gun aimed at Lena’s chest.
“Don’t do this,” she begged. “Please d
on’t do this.”
He found Valentine’s cell phone and broke it under the heel of his cheap shoe. He told Lena, “I really am sorry, darlin’.”
“Yeah,” Lena said, thinking if her hands were free she would choke the life out of him. “Look, no problem. I understand.”
Bart shook his head, a faraway look coming into his eyes. “You’re just like your mama was. You know that?”
Was. Lena felt her throat tighten, all the fight draining from her body. “What happened to her?” she asked. “Please. I’ve got to know.”
“She was one of the good ones that crossed over, honey.” Bart stood, checked the mugs on the stove. “She’s in a better place now.” He indicated the room, the situation. “I hope knowing that brings you some peace.”
“Peace?” she echoed. “Are you fucking kidding me? You think you’re doing a favor killing me?”
Bart tossed the gun onto the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, baby.” He opened the door and closed it softly behind him.
“Fuck!” Lena screamed, kicking Valentine in the leg. He moaned, rolling to the side. She saw the top of his head where his skull had been caved in. The bald spot was on display now. The bottom of what could only be a red swastika was tattooed on his scalp.
“Sara!” Lena yelled, knowing there wouldn’t be an answer. “Sara!” She leaned out as far as she could, looking past Clint’s lifeless body. Sara was still propped up against the wall, her eyes staring vacantly back at Lena.
Lena dragged Valentine’s arm through the pipe, groaning from the exertion. He was deadweight; she might as well be cuffed to a boulder. Pushing and pulling, she managed to get him inside the cabinet, his elbow looped around the bend in the pipe. He was saying something, begging her to stop, to help him, but Lena ignored his pleas, bracing her feet on the sides of the cabinet, gripping his hand in both of hers, pulling as hard as she could without dislocating her shoulders. When she’d dragged Valentine into the cabinet as far as he’d go, she reared back from the sink and kicked the pipe with all her strength.
“Help!” she yelled, kicking the pipe again and again, her foot slipping and pounding into Valentine’s shoulder. “Help!”