Slaughter - Lutz John - Страница 21
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Quinn started the car and turned the air-conditioning on high. He didn’t drive away immediately, though. After a minute or so, he goosed the Lincoln and made the tires squeal. He wanted to be sure Bud Peltz saw them leave.
“Something not ring true to you?” Fedderman asked.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure if it matters, except to Maria Peltz.”
“You think Peltz might be abusing her?”
“Or she him,” Quinn said.
“He’s got a temper,” Fedderman said, watching Peltz move toward his apartment like a condemned man, “but he controls it.”
“Let’s hope his wife controls hers,” Quinn said. “That woman reminds me of a stick of dynamite.”
Fedderman said, “Notice we’re both more concerned that she’s going to do him serious harm, rather than the other way around?”
Quinn said, “That oughta tell us something.”
PART TWO
This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate
undertakings.
—SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet
22
Iowa, 1991
As Jordan Kray watched, the propane explosion obliterated the only house he’d ever lived in. Shingles and wooden splinters flew. Chimney bricks and large sections of the house became airborne and arced away from the fiery explosion in all directions. No one could live through the blast and the inferno.
They were dead. His family was dead.
For a moment he saw a flame-shrouded dark figure that might have been his mother running, flailing her arms. Or he might have imagined it. She was dead when he saw her; she had to be.
Another figure, that he knew wasn’t a mirage, was hurrying toward him, still absently lugging the fire extinguisher. Ben the bus driver, lucky to be alive. Ben was forty pounds overweight, most of it in his gut, and could run only so fast. But despite his slowness afoot, his fear had helped to propel him outside the radius of death caused by the propane blast.
Also outside the reach of the explosion, Jordan found himself wondering about the effects of what he’d done.
Was he detached? Already? No. He definitely wasn’t detached. And he wasn’t horrified or in shock. Maybe he should be both those things. Instead he was being observant and reasonable. Analytical and curious.
He was aware that others might assume that his calm silence was a symptom of shock. Well, let them.
What he’d planned had worked. He was proud of that but knew he mustn’t let anyone realize it. He put on his mental mask. Its expression was one of disbelief and disorientation rather than accomplishment.
What would the house look like later, inside its burning walls? How would the walls and what was left of the wiring and plumbing look? There was a steel I beam running the length of the basement. Would it be melted? Or would it withstand heat and explosion long enough to prevent the house from collapsing into the basement? And what about the heating vents? Had the flames found them to be an easy route through the rest of the house?
The firefighting books Jordan had read in the library were accurate and useful. The precautions, when read and interpreted from a different point of view, provided instructions from hell.
The bus was far enough onto the road shoulder to make room for a fire engine, a red-light-festooned chief’s car, and several pickup trucks. What there was of the local fire department. The lead vehicles had their lights flashing. None of them sounded a siren. There was no point. The firefighters could see for miles and it was just them and the fire that was drawing them like a magnet.
Ben and Jordan returned to the bus. Ben, looking at the kids in the rearview mirror, fastened the emergency brake and said, “We might as well watch what happens from here and stay outta the way.” He opened the bus’s front and rear doors, then switched off the engine and air conditioner. In the sweltering heat and silence, several of the kids raised the bus’s side windows. A welcome breeze played down the aisle.
Jordan hadn’t counted on this. It was his tragedy and he wanted to see it close up. Nobody saw him dash out through the bus’s rear door and run across the tilled field toward the burning house until it was too late. Then everyone pointed and yelled. Ben the bus driver said, “You all stay put now,” and struggled out of his seat and left the bus.
One of the volunteer firemen noticed Jordan approaching and jogged out to intercept him. Jordan changed the angle of his approach to the burning ruin that had been his family home.
The fireman was in good physical shape and closed in on Jordan while Ben kept him from retreating. They both tackled him and brought him down, knocking the breath from him.
“It’s okay,” Ben kept repeating. “It’s okay, Jordan.”
Both men were breathing hard. Jordan tried to talk but was too winded.
“The kid’s family was in that house,” Ben said
The firefighter coughed and spat off to the side. Said, “I know. He’s one of the Krays. I seen him around.” He patted Jordan’s shoulder.”
All three of them lay quiet for a few minutes, working to breathe.
“How many of your family were inside, Jordan?”
“All of them, I think. Everyone but me.”
“Shit!” said the fireman.
Ben rested a hand on Jordan’s shoulder and kneaded his flesh, as if a good massage was what was needed by someone who’d just lost his entire family.
“You okay, Jordan?”
“Yes. I want to get closer and look.”
“Look at what?”
“My mom and dad, Nora my sister, Kent my brother . . .”
“You can’t help them now,” the firefighter said. “They’re in a better place.” He looked up at Ben and the other firefighter who’d come over to stand by them. “He tried to save them. Even with the fire.”
“Jesus!” the other firefighter said.
Jordan looked from one to the other. What better place were they talking about?
That was when Jordan suddenly recognized the first firefighter. Riley something. He was a deacon at the church Jordan and his family had attended exactly twice, before his mom and dad had declared themselves atheists.
“A brave lad,” the second firefighter said.
“Couldn’t keep him on the bus,” Ben said. “Not after he realized his family’s house was on fire.”
“Brave is right!” Riley said. “Inspiring!”
23
New York, the present
Charlie Vinson, on the first week of his new job, seemed to be doing well. He’d established his position as supervisor without obviously angering anyone or making any enemies. At least it seemed that way to Charlie. It wasn’t easy to make cold call sales, even for a well-established firm like Medlinger Management. Not only had they successfully managed their clients’ investments for twelve years; a year ago they had expanded and moved operations to their present high-end address in the financial district.
With the new offices had come the necessity of more employees and someone to supervise them. So they sent out a corporate headhunter, who had accomplished something of a coup by luring Charlie Vinson away from McCaskill and Cotter Enterprises. Charlie harbored the very pleasant feeling that everyone involved was going to be happy with the move.
He didn’t think anyone from the firm was still around, among those who, like Charlie, were standing and waiting patiently for an elevator. There was no conversation as the knot of half a dozen people grew to over a dozen. Everyone stood silently with their heads slightly tilted back so they could watch the digital numbers above the elevator doors indicate that two of the four elevators were on the rise.
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