Locked Doors - Crouch Blake (читаем книги онлайн .TXT) 📗

Her wound started to bleed again as she trudged down the dirt road.  The closer she got to the house the more lightheaded she became and the deeper the cold bored into her.  She wondered how she’d lasted this long, felt a brief tinge of pride.

Live oaks massed behind the saltbox, blocking a view of the sound.  But eastward the dunes were just low enough to offer a glimpse of the sea—shinyblack in the strong moonlight.

She neared the house.  An old sailboat foundered in weeds on the edge of the marsh, like something washed up after a hurricane, stripped of sails, its hull cracked.

A Dodge Ram gleamed in the yellow porchlight, parked parallel to the garage, “BOATLUV” on the license plate, a fishing rod holder mounted to the front bumper, the rods standing erect in their PVC pipes.

Beth climbed five brick steps to the front door.

Moths loitered above her head, bouncing off the porchlight, over and over like maniacs.

Nausea hit her but there was nothing on her stomach.

Through slits in the blinds, she saw the shadow of a man lying on a couch, blue light flickering on the walls around him.

Beth opened the screen door and knocked.

The man did not move.

She banged on the door, saw him sit up suddenly and rub his eyes.

He staggered to his feet.

She heard his footsteps coming.

The front door opened and a whitebearded man gazed down at her through glassy eyes.  He cinched his robe and she smelled gin when he said, “Do you have any idea what time…”

He rubbed his eyes again, blinked several times, and squinted at her, Beth crying now, the warmth of his home flowing out onto the porch, reminding her what safety felt like.  The man saw the blood pooling at her feet, traced it to the hole in her stained and ragged lingerie.

She heard audience laughter on the television.

Cold blood trailed down her leg.

“Help me,” she whispered.

Her knees quit and she fell forward.

He caught her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her inside.

61

RUFUS pushed the Generac Wheelhouse into a corner of the death chamber, fired up the soldering gun, and proceeded to fuse the no. 4 copper wire to the copper plating on the chair’s front legs, the room filling with the sweet sappy odor of the melted alloy.

When the soldering was done, he took the hacksaw he’d found in a corridor near the alcove, and cut two four-foot lengths of no. 4 copper wire from the dwindling coil.  With a hammer, he beat out the ends of the wire until they were flattened enough to fit into the two legs of the generator’s 220 volt outlet.

Behind the toolbox he found Maxine’s contribution to the project—a homemade skullcap.  She’d taken a North Carolina Tarheels baseball cap, cut up one of her thin leather belts, and sewn the pieces into the sides so the buckle could be tightened under the condemned’s chin.

Maxine had drilled a hole through a square-inch of copper plating and put a brass screw through it.  She’d then superglued a square-inch piece of sponge to the copper plate, removed the button from the top of the baseball cap, and bolted the electrode to the inside so it would rest flush against the condemned’s head.

Rufus grabbed one of the four-foot copper wires and hammered its other end so that it had enough surface area to accept a screw.  He drilled a hole through it, then took both the wire and the skullcap and sat down in the chair.

Unscrewing the bolt that fastened the electrode to the cap, he slipped the copper wire onto the brass screw, tightened the bolt back into place, and grinned.

He now had his own personal electric chair, and though he had doubts about whether it could actually deliver a lethal jolt, it would certainly be fun to try.

Rufus came to his feet.

His side was hurting again.

He walked upstairs to tell Maxine that everything was ready and see if Luther had come home.

Charlie Tatum was sobering up fast.  He set the broken creature down on the soft leather sofa where he’d been drifting in and out of sleep for the last two hours, and called out to his wife down the dark hallway:

“Margaret!  Come out here!”

The woman was still unconscious.

Charlie knelt down on the carpet and straightened the lingerie so her nipples didn’t show.  He lifted her satin chemise to see where all the blood was coming from.

The wound was located just above her hipbone, like a small black mouth, open with surprise, blood oozing from its corner, down the woman’s side, and onto the leather sofa.

“What in the world are you yelling about, baby?”

Margaret emerged from the hallway and stood in her flannel nightgown, a woman with heft, her dyed red hair in turmoil, sleeplines down the right side of her face.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, pointing at the empty tumbler and the half-empty bottle of Tanqueray sitting on the driftwood coffee table between the sofa and the television.

“Just put your glasses on, Mag,” he said.

Margaret pulled a pair of thick-lensed frames from the patch pocket on her nightgown, slipped them on, and gasped.

“My God.  What in the world happened to her?”

“You tell me.  She just knocked on the door.  When I opened it she said ‘help me’ and fainted right into my arms.”

Margaret moved a step closer across the carpet.  She turned on a stained glass lamp sitting on an end table.

“Is that blood?” she asked.

“Yeah.  She’s got a bad cut right here.  And her arms and legs are all torn up.”

“I’ll call nine-one-one.  Or should we just take her to the medical center?  I’ll drive.”

Charlie lay his ear against the woman’s heart, her mouth.

“No, she’s breathing.  Just tell them to send an ambulance.”

While Margaret called 911 from the adjacent kitchen, Charlie leaned in close to the woman on his sofa and spoke in a low and calming voice into her ear.

“You’re safe now.  An ambulance is coming and they’re gonna take good care of you.”  Charlie felt her burning forehead, then held her swollen shattered hand.  “Just hang in there, okay?  Everything’s gonna be fine now.  You came to the right house.”

Margaret walked in from the kitchen, sat down on the end of the sofa.

“Ambulance is on the way and they’re also sending a police car since I told them she might’ve been attacked.  What do you think happened to her?”

Charlie shook his head.

He stared at the television for a moment, then reached for the remote control and turned it off.

The woman stirred.

Eyes opening.

Wide with fear.

“Remember me?” Charlie asked.

A nod.

“You’re safe now.  The ambulance is coming.”

There was a knock at the front door.

“That was fast,” Margaret said, rising from the sofa.

“See, there they are,” Charlie whispered.  “Lightning quick.”

As Margaret reached to open the front door she said, “Wonder why they didn’t use the siren or the lights?”

Charlie was staring into the woman’s glazed eyes when Margaret opened the door.

He said, “We’ll come see you in the hospital tomorrow, maybe bring you some—”

Margaret emitted a strange gurgling sound.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at his wife.

She turned slowly.

Faced him.

Standing in the open doorway, stunned, face gone pale as sand, sheets of blood flooding out of the long dark smile under her chin.

“Mag!” Charlie shrieked, coming to his feet, leaping awkwardly over the coffee table as his wife went to her knees and fell prostrate across the carpet.

A man with long black hair stepped into the lowlit living room as the sound of distant sirens grew audible.

Charlie lunged at the intruder who simply held fast to the ivory-hilted bowie, letting the old drunken sailor impale himself with his own inertia, the carbon blade turning, riving its quiet devastation inside him.