With concerted time and effort, he’d managed to traverse the half mile or so of forest separating their cabin and that of their closest neighbor. He’d use the phone to call for help. He’d tell the police everything that’d happened and everything Ink had planned and hope they’d believe he hadn’t killed anybody. He didn’t want to be a gangbanger anymore. He wanted to get his life in order, even if it meant serving more time. Punishing the world for his shitty childhood only insured he had a shitty adulthood, and nothing had been worse than the past week with Ink. It’d shown him that he wasn’t like Ink at all, and no longer aspired to be. He wanted to make his grandparents proud—because if there was a heaven, they were in it.
When he spotted the back of the cabin peeking through the pines, he felt a huge surge of relief. Not only was he tired, he needed a doctor, probably some antibiotics, as well, and he wanted to know he was safe from Ink’s unexpected return. But then he came across the white truck they’d been driving since Ink killed those dads and realized that he hadn’t gone far at all.
He was here at the Rogers cabin.
Why?
This couldn’t be about that bit of fluff they’d seen on the deck. Ink didn’t care about sex; he couldn’t even get a good boner. The bullet that’d jacked up his spinal cord had made him impotent. That was part of the reason he hated Laurel so much—the only part L.J. could sort of identify with. He wouldn’t want anyone to take his manhood away from him, either. But from what he’d seen, whatever happened to Ink, Ink deserved.
So what did his old cellie want here? A hostage? New transportation?
Knowing him, it could be anything.
But what Ink did now didn’t matter to L.J. If Ink had left the keys in the ignition, he was home free…?.
Careful not to make any more noise than was absolutely necessary, in case Ink was on his way back for whatever reason, L.J. slipped around to the driver’s side and opened the door. Sure enough, the keys dangled from the ignition. He could jump in and head for town. Get help. These past two weeks would finally come to an end.
He was about to do just that, but hesitated. With a twenty-minute drive, any help he brought would be pretty damn long in coming. By the time the police arrived, Ink could be done here and well on his way to Canada or somewhere else in the family’s Esplanade, if it was still parked out front.
Unless he was crazy enough to go after Laurel again…
Did he let his old cellie do whatever he was going to do? Or did he try to stop him?
Ink was so dangerous, L.J. preferred to escape unnoticed. But if he was scared, he knew this family had to be terrified.
Deciding to check out the situation to see what was going on, he left the truck and crept around the side of the house, looking in every window that wasn’t covered by a blind.
Most of the rooms were dark and empty. Maybe Ink had already boosted the Esplanade. If so, L.J. could get out of here. But when he came around the house, he realized that wasn’t the case. Probably because they had no close neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers weren’t too cautious about lowering their blinds. They were raised as high as ever on the front windows, plenty high enough for L.J. to see that Ink had two younger girls, the bikini chick and her mother in the living room and was brandishing that damn gun.
Where was the dad?
Maybe he’d already been killed.
Or he wasn’t home in the first place.
L.J. hated Ink, wanted to help the Rogers family. But he didn’t have a weapon. The best he could do was use the bat he’d seen in the garage the last time they were here. His left shoulder was hurt, not his right. Still…did he have the strength to swing it?
“That’s crazy, man. A bat against a gun?” he whispered to himself. He started to turn away, to head back to the truck. But then he saw Ink grab the dark-haired girl by the hair and yank her up against him. The bastard was going to kill her.
Almost without thinking, L.J. picked up a rock from amid the plants at his feet and threw it at the window. He heard the shattering of glass as he ran for the cover of the garage. Then a gunshot rang out. Where that bullet had gone, he had no idea. Maybe Ink had killed the girl. Or maybe he’d shot in the direction of the rock.
The bat was where he’d seen it. He grabbed it and waited, hoping Ink would charge out of the house and head to the Esplanade so he could rush him from behind. But that didn’t happen. Nothing happened. Until several more shots rang out.
“Son of a bitch.” Had he killed them, anyway?
Now that he’d committed himself he was actually eager to fight. He’d wanted to stop Ink when Ink had attacked that real-estate guy. He’d wanted to step in when Ink had shot those four men walking into the cabin. He’d even wanted to keep Ink from going to Laurel’s house last night. He’d had no stake in coming to Pineview, no reason to kill innocent people. It was time he put a stop to his old cellie for good.
Wishing the bat didn’t feel quite so heavy, he lifted it over his right shoulder and peered around the corner. The front window had been shattered; he’d expected that. But as he crept closer, using the darkness and the trees for cover, he saw that the living room was empty. If Ink had killed this family, they were lying somewhere else. And if he hadn’t killed them, L.J. had done all he could.
Tossing the bat aside, he gave up searching for Ink and began to run for the truck.
But he didn’t make it. Another gunshot ripped through the night, pain flared in his head, then he landed on the ground, face-first.
L.J. had thrown that rock? Ink couldn’t believe it. That was gratitude for you. He should’ve let him die instead of removing that damn bullet.
His former cellie was dead now. Ink had shot him twice just to be sure, but it brought little satisfaction. There was no repairing the damage the bastard had done. When he’d thrown that rock at the window, Ink had thought a S.W.A.T. team was coming after him. He’d turned and fired, but then Mrs. Rogers had hit him with a lamp and just about knocked him senseless. By the time he could think straight, everyone was gone—they’d scattered all over the house or run to the same room. He hadn’t bothered to look. He’d fired a few shots in frustration, just to scare the shit out of them, and hurried out to catch L.J. before he could do anything else.
Now it was no use trying to chase them down. For all he knew, Mrs. Rogers had come up with her husband’s hunting rifle or some other firearm and would shoot him if he tried to go back inside. It was best to disable the remaining vehicles and leave. Hopefully, by the time they found help, he’d be finished with Laurel and well on his way to Canada.