Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги онлайн TXT) 📗

Maxine peered over the top of her book.

"Do I look like I have any use for—"

"Oh, no."

"What?" Rufus said.

Luther stood up.

"You don’t think our visitor took it?"

"No."

"Well, do you see it here? I didn’t take it. You didn’t take it. Mom sure as hell didn’t take it."

"Watch that language, boy."

"The fucker"—Luther glanced at his mother—"didn’t walk off."

"Beautiful, were they all chained up when you fed them this morning?"

"Gee, Sweet-Sweet, I don’t remember. I wasn’t really paying attention. What kinda question is that? Of course they were."

"We better go check on them, son."

Rufus and Luther were halfway through the doorway when they heard the dingdong.

The doorbell had been recently wired to a speaker near the stairs and they stared at it in amazement as it dingdonged again.

Beth froze, watching the Kite family emerge into the corridor. She did not move for fear the chain would clink against the stone or they would hear her footsteps. She wondered if the darkness were sufficient to hide her, should one of them happen to glance back in her direction.

The young man, the old man, and the old woman walked up the corridor away from her, guided by the light of a lantern.

The young man carried a shotgun.

The dingdong echoed again through the darkness.

In the orange illumination of the lanternlight, Beth saw them turn and disappear. She thought they had swung around into another passageway until the sound of their footsteps reached her.

They’re climbing stairs.

And knowing she’d found the way out, she crept after them.

58

RUFUS alone answered the door with a bright toothless smile that never faltered, even when he saw the badge. Two men stood facing him on the stoop, the sun in their eyes, just moments from sliding behind the house on its way into becoming a puddle of light in the Pamlico Sound.

The one with the badge was a big bear of a man in a JC Penney’s suit that should’ve been donated to the Salvation Army years ago. His hair was frosting, mustache just as dark and thick and pure as a stallion’s mane. The curly-haired man standing behind the cop looked half his age—mid-twenties, lean and tall, wearing jeans and a pinstripe button-down, with the eyes of a dog who’d been kicked.

The cop closed his wallet, dropped it back into his pocket, said, "Mr. Kite, my name’s Barry Mullins. I’m a sergeant with Criminal Investigations Division in Davidson, North Carolina. Could I come in for a moment?"

"Absolutely."

Rufus opened the door wide and stepped back.

Sgt. Mullins whispered to his companion, "Max, please, just go and wait in the car. It would be—"

Max walked into the house.

Sgt. Mullins frowned and followed.

Rufus closed the door, the three men standing now in the dim foyer, the house perfectly quiet.

"Get you gentlemen a glass of iced tea?" Rufus offered.

Sgt. Mullins shook his head.

"Your wife at home, sir?"

"She’s out running an errand."

Sgt. Mullins motioned to the long living room.

"Let’s have a seat in there, Mr. Kite."

On her way to the stairs Beth stopped and looked inside the room where the Kites had been hammering and jawing and sawing. Tools littered the floor. A bare light bulb burned her eyes, humming directly above what all the ruckus must’ve been about—a rude chair in the final stage of construction, with copper plating along its armrests and front legs, numerous leather restraints, and thick copper wire coiled in the dirt beside it. The thing had an undeniable presence. As the architecture of a cathedral exudes solemnity and peace, its raw blocky masculine design radiated pure malevolence.

Beth shook off the chill and moved on. In the distance she could see where the corridor opened into a larger space. One of the Kites had left a kerosene lantern hanging in a corner to spread its worthless light upon the dirt and stone near the foot of the stairs.

She emerged from the passageway.

She rubbed her bare arms, bumpy with gooseflesh.

The stairs spilled down out of darkness.

Beth peered up, unable to see where they terminated.

And she wrapped the chain around her wrist to keep it from dragging and began to climb, the steps creaking so noisily that she did not hear the whispered footsteps of the old woman creeping out of the shadows behind her.

Sgt. Mullins eased down onto the same ottoman his detective had occupied six days ago during her first encounter with Rufus and Maxine Kite.

The old man lounged comfortably on the flaxen sofa, running his fingers through his cottony coif.

Max King stood by the cold hearth.

"Mr. Kite," Sgt. Mullins said, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. "A week ago, I sent my detective, Violet King, to Ocracoke Island to talk with you and Mrs. Kite about your son, Luther. I understand she came here last Wednesday?"

"Yessir, she did." Rufus smiled. "A lovely little thing, I must say. She met briefly with me and Maxine. Like you said, she wanted to know about our boy, Luther. And I’ll tell you what I told her. I haven’t seen my s—"

"Sir, I’m aware of what you told her. She called me that night. That’s not why I’m here."

Sgt. Mullins motioned to Max.

"This is Max King. Ms. King’s husband. He last spoke to Ms. King on Thursday morning. Late Thursday night, Ms. King called my home and spoke briefly with my wife. My wife is the last person we know of to have had contact with Ms. King. No one has seen her or heard from her since."

"Oh, Lord."

"Now Vik—Ms. King was supposed to come back here and talk with you and Mrs. Kite late Thursday afternoon. Did she?"

"No, sir. We’d agreed to meet with her again after five o’clock, but she never showed. Do you think something’s wrong?"

Sgt. Mullins twisted his mustache and glanced up at Max, the young man’s jowls fluttering against the saltwater in his eyes.

The bare feet of Beth Lancing stopped on the third step. She was squinting up into the darkness at slits of light that framed a door when she heard something like the muffled thock of a knee or hip bone popping.

A leathery hand seized her left ankle and the floor hit her hard in the back, the old woman upon her, face contorted in the lanternlight, black eyes shining through a mass of wild wrinkles that looked hardly human.

Something caught the lanternlight thinly, fleetingly, and Beth heard herself gasp at the cold wet burn that was spreading through her abdomen.

Beth rolled on top of Maxine, grabbing at the old women’s wrists as the soles of Maxine’s orthopedic shoes found her stomach. Beth slammed into the corner, knees turning liquid.

Both women scrambled to their feet, panting. Maxine was just out of reach, blocking the stairs. Beth unraveled the chain on her left wrist, noting the warm red trickle down her inner thigh, the boning knife in Maxine’s right hand, and the weightlessness filling the space behind her eyes.

When Maxine lunged the chain caught her in the mouth. She choked and spit blood, staggered into the wall and dropped the knife.

Beth spun Maxine around and punched her so hard it broke her hand and the old woman’s jaw at once.

Swiping up the knife, she left Maxine unconscious in the dirt and tore up the stairs toward the slits of light.

59

AS Sgt. Mullins came to his feet he said, "Mr. Kite, this is one big old spooky house ya’ll got here."