The Evil That Men Do Page 21

  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.

  Chapter 46

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.

  “Did he tell you why I was let go? About the explosion at the office?”

  “Anger issues. That was how he put it.”

  “I loved being a cop. I loved working for the bomb squad. I wouldn’t blow up the office. Marshall kept pushing me, and pushing me, from the first day on the job when he told me about my past. My parents never told me about that. I didn’t know about it until Marshall did a background check on me.”

  That didn’t make sense to Donne. The hatred had been in Hackett for as long as Donne had known him. But maybe that hadn’t been hatred of the Donne family. Maybe it was the hatred of his parents for forcing him to live with them.

  Hackett’s hands were shaking now. Something about Jason Marshall had set him off.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “Jill.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My wife, she’s . . . The party . . .”

  Hackett pressed his hands to his face and shook his head.

  “It wasn’t me who set the bomb in my office,” he said. “It was Jason Marshall. He hated me too. He wanted me out.”

  The words cut through Donne. The conviction in Hackett’s voice worried him. What if Hackett wasn’t lying? And Susan was still with Marshall. He’d saved her husband, but at the same time, he’d left her in danger.

  Donne’s gun dropped to his side as a chill ran through him. It was exactly the opening Hackett needed.

  Before Donne could raise the gun again, Hackett lurched forward and tackled him into the mud. He hit Donne twice in the ribs as they splattered to the ground, and Donne almost passed out. An explosion of pain thrust through him as his lungs exhaled the last of the air in his body.

  Mud caked his face as Donne sank deeper. His clothes were heavy and he couldn’t swing his arms. He was stuck. Hackett hit him twice in the stomach, rabbit punches, so fast that Donne hadn’t even had time to feel the first when the second connected. Donne tried to gulp air but tasted only mud. He was going to drown there.

  And he felt the fight going from him. He wanted to let go, get the whole thing over with. Die right there.

  Hackett caught Donne across the chin with a right cross. He screamed something out, but the mud muffled it. Something about family.

  Donne’s family.

  He couldn’t let go. People needed him. There was only one way out—to fight back. To reach inside and find the last ounces of strength and use it. Ignore the pain in his legs and wheel back with his knee and drive Hackett’s balls right into his stomach. He swung his knee up as hard as he could and found his target. Hackett grunted and coughed. The blow hurt him enough that Donne could roll him off and sit up.

  Donne opened his mouth and inhaled, gulping air down as if he’d just been underwater. As the air filled his lungs, so did pain. Could his lungs pop like an overinflated balloon? Was that possible? Donne closed his eyes and focused on the air instead.

  He was caked with mud. He must have weighed an extra twenty pounds. Behind him, back toward the destroyed building, Donne heard sirens. They were close.

  He found his gun in the mud, picked it up, and wiped the mud off it and onto his shirt. He pointed it at Hackett.

  “Sit up,” Donne said.

  “Just kill me,” he said. Hackett was covering his crotch and writhing on the ground. The rage had gone out of him with one blow. Or so Donne thought.

  The hand that wasn’t covering himself swooped out from beneath him, catching Donne in the ankle. A sharp pain shot through him, and his brain registered the knife that had been jammed in his leg. His already injured muscles contracted hard around the wound, Donne went down on one knee, and the gun went off.

  Hackett didn’t make a sound. He sank softly into the mud.

  Donne pulled the blade from his leg, grunting as he did so. It was hard to pull it out, as if his body didn’t want to give it up. It slid out, inch by painful inch. Blood spilled from the wound with each tug until it finally gave way. Pressing his right hand against the opening, Donne limped up the hill away from the river. Away from Hackett’s body.

  The building still burned. EMTs surrounded Franklin Carter, checking his vitals and his injuries. An ambulance careened around the corner. A few onlookers turned to face Donne, taking a step back when they saw the gun in his hand.

  He should stay and see if Franklin was okay. He should explain things to the police.

  But he didn’t. Before anyone approached him, he managed to get to the car, start the engine, and pull out onto the road. He was sure someone took down the license plate number.

  It didn’t matter.

  His sister came first.

  ***

  Bitch won’t get far.

  Jason Marshall undid his seat belt and pushed the passenger door open. He glanced in the rearview mirror to check his face. A large gash crossed his forehead, blood dripping from it. His left arm didn’t work right, he noticed as he tried to wipe the blood away. He tried to lift it, but it barely rose past his waist. That was probably why Susan had been able to get out of his grasp so easily.

  Marshall picked up his gun. Then he got out of the car and slammed the door shut. His legs felt okay. He felt like he could run. First, though, he needed one thing.

  The money.

  The duffel bag had bounced around during the accident, but it was undamaged. And heavier than he expected. He checked his watch. He still had time.

  He slung the bag over his right shoulder and jogged off in the direction Susan had run.

  Chapter 47

  Susan always hated horror movies. The women always ran the wrong way, or worse, stopped running altogether and tried to hide. But that was exactly what she did. She hurt too much to run any farther. It seemed like she’d taken the brunt of the car accident, even with the air bag.

  Her plan was to get home and lock all the doors. She was only a block away, after all. But she couldn’t run hard; the wound at her side burned and bled more with each step. Once she got into the backyard of the gigantic brick home she ran behind, she found the closest bush. She pushed some of the branches out of the way and slid underneath and lay flat on her stomach, looking out over the yard. She pressed her right arm tight against her side, trying to slow the bleeding and relieve some of the pain.

  The yard was pristine. A picnic table with an open umbrella was aligned near the back of the home, a large aboveground pool fifty feet to the left of that. The smell of freshly cut grass made her want to sne
eze. She was hiding from someone trying to kill her, and the setting was a fucking Norman Rockwell painting.

  Watching the corner of the house where she’d run moments earlier, she caught the shadow first. Jason Marshall came around the corner, slowly, holding a gun. He was holding on to the money too, the duffel bag awkwardly hanging from his shoulder. He surveyed the yard.

  Calm, cautious. There was blood on his face, but he was walking without a limp. Both the bag and the gun were on his right side.

  Her muscles tensed in fear as he turned his head toward her. She prayed that he wouldn’t see her, that it wasn’t her time to die. But she also knew Marshall was good. Every instinct told her to just get up and run. But she ignored them and froze, tried to sink deeper into the ground. All she wanted was to be invisible.

  Marshall took a step toward the bush and stopped. Susan kept her eyes on the gun hand. That would be how she’d know. If he raised his gun, he’d found her. And she’d be dead.

  ***

  Donne saw the car as soon as he hit Upper Mountain Road. Smoke drifted up from the engine and the back door was open. He accelerated up to the wreck and put his own vehicle in park.

  As he got out of the car, his left leg almost gave way. Not sure which hurt more, his lungs or his bleeding leg, he did his best to ignore them both. No time to even try to slow the bleeding. He instead limped over to the accident.

  No one was in the car. And since the onlookers and emergency workers weren’t around it yet, it must have just happened. Donne saw blood on the console, and his heart lurched. Blood on the passenger seat and the dashboard. Blood everywhere. Was it hers?

  They had to be close. Donne checked the gun to make sure it was ready to be used. Sure, it had gone off once earlier, but it had also been caked in mud.