“Why would I give a rat’s ass about any of them?”
Crawford looked deeply into the other man’s eyes. Or tried. They were impenetrable. Dead. There was nothing behind them. He understood now that’s why he’d had such an instantaneous aversion to him. His eyes were soulless. The loss of a beloved woman, or friend, or relative wasn’t behind his vendetta. Merely greed for money. And power. That’s what really got Otterman off—playing with people’s lives. “My mistake,” Crawford said. “You wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. I gave you credit for being human, when all you are is a criminal, getting back at me for blowing away your business partner.”
“It took me years to win that cocky little bastard’s confidence. Years more to establish a monopoly with him. Then you came along, and ended it in a five-minute gunfight.”
“Actually it was seven minutes.”
Otterman caught the coin in his fist and banged it against the table again. “Seven minutes that cost me millions of dollars.”
“Gee, that must’ve cut deep.”
On the last word, Crawford gave the rung of Otterman’s chair a hard shove with his foot and sent it over backward. Taken off guard, Otterman’s index finger contracted around the trigger of the .357. The shot sounded like a cannon and blasted a hole through the roof.
As Crawford lunged across the table, he grabbed the fork from the tin plate and, following Otterman down, plunged it into the side of his neck. He’d aimed for the carotid, wasn’t sure he’d hit it, so he pulled the fork out and stabbed him again, and a third time. When arterial blood spurted, he pushed off him and wrestled the pistol from his right hand.
Otterman’s eyes weren’t so soulless after all. They were now wild with panic as he dropped the infernal coin and, with both hands, futilely began trying to stop the geyser of blood from his neck. The dropped coin rolled across the floor on its edge, then got lodged in a crack between the uneven planks.
Crawford aimed the pistol down at him. “Just so you don’t go anywhere while you’re dying…” He shot him in the kneecap. “Courtesy of Deputy Sheriff Chet Barker.”
Crawford was deaf to Otterman’s gurgled screams as he went over and got the switchblade off the floor. He used it to cut through the knot holding the gag around Conrad’s head.
“Good work, son,” he panted as he spat out the handkerchief.
“You all right?”
“Roughed up a bit, but basically okay. I think my wrists are bleeding.”
The fishing line had dug deep into the flesh, breaking the skin. As gently as possible, Crawford cut through the binding, then freed Conrad’s feet from the legs of the chair, and helped him to stand up.
As he shook feeling back into his hands, Conrad said, “My dog and pony show last night did you some good, huh?”
“It did me a lot of good.”
Crawford saw the flash of pride in Conrad’s eyes even as he snorted with self-derision. “Got me kidnapped, although I put up more of a fight than he let on. I guess it’s true what he said. I could’ve made some sounds to warn you of what you were walking into, but—”
“He would have killed you without blinking.”
Conrad laughed. “I’d be no great loss. I kept quiet because I had to see for myself that one of those assholes outside hadn’t killed you. I wanted to make sure you were okay. For a few minutes there…” Then he shocked Crawford by pulling him into a hug. It was clumsy, awkward for both of them, but it counted. They thumped each other on the back.
As they broke apart, Conrad smiled up at him, and Crawford saw tears standing in his father’s eyes.
Then Conrad’s gaze suddenly snapped to Crawford’s right. Realizing in an instant what it must signify, Crawford reacted, bringing the pistol up as he spun around. There was an eruption of gunfire.
Otterman never felt the bullet that finished him.
Nor did he hear Crawford’s anguished cry. “Dad!”
Chapter 33
Holly followed the caravan of official vehicles as far as they would allow. By the time she reached the turnoff, designated by the now well-known sign, the road had been barricaded and only personnel with official business were being allowed beyond it.
Even some law enforcement officers with no specific reason for being there were prevented from going farther, and they began unsnarling the traffic jam caused by converging vehicles. The congestion had made it difficult for ambulances to get through. No one Holly asked knew the number or nature of the casualties for which the ambulances had been called.
She and spectators drawn to the emergency had parked along both shoulders of the backwoods state road. There she paced, clutching her cell phone, willing it to ring. She had called Harry, Sessions, and Neal in turn, leaving voice mails for them.