What also made no sense was the peculiar feeling of calm that enveloped DeMarco when he stepped inside the barn. So cool inside, so dark. He hadn’t parked his car in here in years, hadn’t opened the door except in daylight, to pull out the lawn mower or get one of his tools. He liked the strangeness he felt now, the slow sense of dreaminess, as if he could die in slow motion here and let all the past slip away from him, all mistakes quietly swallowed by the darkness.
Inman shoved him toward the rear of the Stratus. At the turn, DeMarco told himself. That’s where to do it. He knew exactly where the machete was, thought he could grab it even in the darkness. On a long plank shelf behind the car, he had long ago laid out every tool he owned, always returned each tool to the same place after its use. Nearest to him now were the power tools, the circular saw and the portable jigsaw, the sander and power drill in its plastic case. Then the hammers, the ball-peen and claw and the rubber mallet and the roofing hammer. Then, organized in boxes of various kinds, all of the smaller items, nails and screws and tapes and cords.
On the far edge of the shelf he had mounted a vice clamp, and below it, hanging by a leather thong, was the machete he infrequently used to hack down the weeds that grew alongside the garage. The weeds were three feet high now and bent double by their own weight, but if he could get to the machete, he would put it to use tonight. When he made the turn around the rear fender, he would have his only chance. Three powerful hops—not pretty but maybe effective—then he could yank the machete off its nail with his bound hands, spin and swing with all his strength and, with luck, disembowel Inman with a single stroke. Then, since Inman would probably have just enough juice left to lash out with his own knife, DeMarco would more than likely drop beside him, and they could lie there looking at each other until the lights went out.
DeMarco shuffled toward the rear of the car. He remembered Bonnie suddenly and for a moment wondered where she was, but then he let the question go and only thought about the machete. He was calm now but looking forward to the explosion of crimson rage that would occur when his hands seized the machete and he pivoted and swung. He could see it all clearly now, and even the thought of his unavoidable death filled him with a deep peace.
He let the back of his hands brush against the cool side of the fender. One step around the rear of the car and then he would go.
Inman’s hand clamped down on his left shoulder and suddenly the blade was against his throat. “Easy now,” Inman told him.
DeMarco’s sense of peace dissolved. He had no options now. He had thought that he wouldn’t mind dying, but he wanted to die while doing something productive, such as eviscerating Carl Inman. Now Inman was shoved up against him, pushing him sideways against the rear bumper, back in control.
Inman put a hand on his shoulder and drove DeMarco headfirst into the trunk. It all happened in an instant, and even as DeMarco tried to roll over to kick at Inman, his legs were seized and crammed into the trunk, the trunk lid came down hard and fast, and the darkness was complete.
DeMarco lay very still. Kicking against the trunk lid was useless. His only chance now was to somehow get the tape off his mouth, then somehow chew through the tape binding his wrists. He had four hours to accomplish it. No doubt Inman had searched the duffel bag DeMarco kept in the trunk, found only the sneakers, socks, chinos, and sweatshirt. But had he searched the little compartment on the side of the trunk, where DeMarco kept his father’s old Harrington & Richardson .22? The cylinder held only three good bullets, the first three loaded with birdshot. But three loads of birdshot in the face would work nicely to improve Inman’s countenance, then three .22 longs to the heart would improve his demeanor. DeMarco’s only regret was that he would have to wait four hours to pull the trigger.
He heard the driver’s side door open. Next he expected to feel Inman’s weight settling onto the seat, then he would hear the engine turn over. Instead there was a soft thud and a grunt, then another thud. Then silence for ten seconds or so. DeMarco held his breath and listened.
The scrape of a key at the trunk. The lid popped up and was lifted open. A man was standing there looking in at DeMarco. Smaller than Inman, slender, smiling, the rubber mallet in his hand.
“You okay?” Thomas Huston asked.
DeMarco cocked his head.
“I’m glad,” Huston said and closed the trunk lid atop him.
Fifty-Nine
All DeMarco could do was listen. Scraping and clinking noises, something metal knocked off the shelf to clatter on the floor. More scraping noises. Then silence. Five full minutes of it. Then the tick of the key going into the trunk lock again, the click of the lock springing open. The squeak of the hinges as the lid was raised.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Huston said. He spoke softly, half leaning into the trunk. “And I’m sorry that I’ll have to leave you like this for a while. I just need to talk to you now. Can we do that? Can I trust you to just stay where you are for a minute and talk to me?”
After a moment, DeMarco nodded.
“Thank you,” Huston said. “Just lie still for a second.” Gently, he peeled the tape off DeMarco’s mouth.
“Now you listen to me,” DeMarco began.