He’d watched the orange band on the horizon as it was devoured by the mountains, thought about the beauty of the country. Danny had not ventured out of San Francisco often in his life. Mya had talked about travelling when Sara was older. Explore America, maybe even Europe. That dream had turned to dust, along with his wife.
Once darkness had smothered the land, he headed back to town, switching off his headlights as he worked through the lowly houses on the outskirts, crossed the bridge, and turned into the alley at the top of Main Street. He left the car there, out of view of the street, and worked his way down the rear of the properties until he found the soft-furnishings place. He was inside within two minutes; the store wasn’t alarmed. Upstairs, he found a box full of uncovered cushions. He emptied them onto the floor, formed them into a nest, and set his phone’s alarm for three a.m.
Now awake and alert, he checked his watch: two forty-six. But what had woken him?
He listened.
There: movement, a footstep. A rustling. Leather on linoleum, fabric on fabric.
Danny reached for the small cluster of belongings he’d left by the nest, his shoes, wallet, phone. The Smith & Wesson Model 60 and the ammunition remained hidden in the rental car, in the trunk, beneath the spare wheel, along with the cable ties, wire cutters, tape, knife, and other items he’d bought at the hardware store in Phoenix.
Noise on the stairs. Two pairs of feet. One heavier than the other.
He knew then who it was, and he felt relief that he’d left the pistol behind. If he’d had it here, it would have provided all the excuse they needed to shoot him down. He got to his feet, stuffed his possessions into his pockets, backed toward the wall, put his hands up.
Shuffling and whispers on the other side of the door that led to the stairway. A sliver of light moved around the doorframe.
‘I hear you,’ Danny said. ‘Come on in. I’m not armed.’
Silence for a moment, then the door burst inward, the flashlight beam blinding him. He put his right hand out to shield his eyes.
A click, and the overhead fluorescent light stuttered into life.
Whiteside and Collins faced him, both dressed in civilian clothes. Collins aimed a Glock at his chest while Whiteside switched off the flashlight.
‘Just passing through, huh?’ Whiteside said.
‘Thought I’d stick around another day,’ Danny said, his hands still raised. ‘How’d you find me?’
‘Wasn’t hard. I knew you wouldn’t leave town like you were told, there’s plenty of empty properties, so I just checked for any sign of a B&E. And here you are.’
‘Here I am,’ Danny said.
‘You should’ve gone to the motel over in Gutteridge,’ Whiteside said. ‘It’s not much, but Jesus, it’s better than this.’
‘I’m easy to please.’
‘Yeah, and you got a smart mouth on you too. Now, this presents me with a dilemma. Do I arrest you for vagrancy, breaking-and-entering, or both?’
‘Or I could just be on my way,’ Danny said. ‘No harm done.’
‘No harm done?’ Whiteside laughed. ‘Boy, you crack me up, you really do. You done plenty of harm. You’re unarmed, you say.’
‘Yeah,’ Danny said, smiling. ‘Pity, right?’
Whiteside returned the smile. ‘Well, it might have simplified matters. You don’t mind if I check, though, do you? Just put your hands on your head and take a couple of steps forward.’
Danny did as he was told and stood quiet and still while Whiteside patted him down, went through his pockets. The sheriff examined what he found, leafing through the contents of the wallet, studying the cards, counting the cash. He pulled the driver’s license out, read the details, before slipping it back inside.
Whiteside handed the wallet and phone over. Danny lowered his hands, took them, and put them back into his pockets.
He saw Whiteside’s fist coming, but too late to block it.
The blow caught Danny on the left side of his jaw, rocked his head back and to the right. His legs disappeared from under him as the room tilted. He hit the floor shoulder first. Although every instinct told him to get up, fight back, he made himself stay down. As his mind and vision steadied, he put a hand to his cheek, tested his jaw. No break, maybe a tooth loosened, that’s all. He’d had worse.
‘Stand up,’ Whiteside said.
Danny spat on the floor, saw blood on the linoleum. ‘I’m okay here,’ he said.
‘Get up, goddamn it.’
Whiteside drove his boot into Danny’s flank, below the ribs. Danny’s diaphragm convulsed, expelled the air from his lungs, denied him breath to fill them again. He tried to get onto his hands and knees, crawl away, but Whiteside kicked again, this time connecting with his thigh. Danny rolled onto his side, held his hands up, enough.
‘Get on your feet,’ the sheriff said. ‘You got ten seconds before I kick every one of your ribs in.’
Danny got his knees under him, then doubled over with a coughing fit until his sight blurred. Whiteside’s hard hand gripped him under the arm, hauled him upright.
‘All right,’ Whiteside said, stepping away. ‘Mr Lee, I would appreciate it very much if you would put your shoes on and accompany Deputy Collins and me outside.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
Whiteside pulled a revolver from the back of his waistband. He cocked the hammer, levelled the muzzle at Danny’s stomach.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you are not under arrest.’
39
SEAN’S HANDS BLED and his shoulders ached. He’d been working at the wood all night, driving the blade in, stabbing, digging, twisting, chips and splinters falling away. By inserting the blade between the edge of the trapdoor and its frame and running it along the length, he’d been able to find where the bolt was located. The door was composed of nine boards screwed from the other sided to a Z-shaped frame. He had considered trying to pry the frame away from the boards, but he knew the blade would break long before he even loosened it. Instead, he concentrated on the area around the bolt. The board it was attached to was no more than a half inch thick, and the wood was old. Not rotten, but not as strong as it had once been. Even so, it was slow and hard work, and blood trickled down his forearms.
Sean had paused a while ago to rest and give Louise the second dose of antibiotics. The first had already seemed to have an effect, her forehead cooler to the touch, her shivering abated. Now she sat upright on the mattress, watching her brother at the top of the steps.
‘You nearly done?’ she said, her voice hoarse.
‘No,’ he said.
After a rattling cough, she asked, ‘When will you be done?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Not for a while yet.’
‘But when?’
‘In a while,’ he said, raising his voice.
‘When we get out, are we going to find Mommy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where will she be?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then where do we go?’
‘I don’t know. We just run, as far away as we can.’
‘But where?’
‘I don’t know. Look, just lie down and get some sleep. I’ll tell you when it’s done.’
She did as he suggested, lay down on the mattress, her hands clasped beneath her cheek for a pillow. Sean felt a tug of regret for getting snippy with her. He dismissed it and went back to work.
A memory crept in from a faraway place in his mind: a lecture from his father, one of the few times Patrick Kinney had tried to communicate with his son. About the importance of hard work. Nothing good in life could be gained without effort. Hard work was how he accounted for his wealth. But Sean suspected it was more to do with his grandmother’s money.
So far he had chipped the wood away from two of the screws that secured the lock to the door. He guessed there were four. All he had to do was weaken the wood around the screws, push up on the door as hard as he could, and the lock would tear away. It had taken a good many hours to locate the first screw, but from that he’d been able to figure out the position of the second. Now he was having trouble finding the third.