Chapter 13

 

4:47 P.M.

The sun had fallen below the tree line and the woodland twilight was dying away.  It would be dark within the hour.  Knife in hand, Porter paced the living room, increasingly agitated and less communicative.  At each circuit he stopped to peer out the door.  Richard tried to remember something about the stages of normal hostage situations---as if there were any normal hostage situations.  His intuition told him that when Porter finally came to a decision, things would move quickly.  They were helpless, but he could at least try to delay things and let Guidry know as much as possible about the situation.

"Harold," he said, trying to speak loudly enough for Marta to hear, but calmly enough not to arouse Porter's suspicion.  "Who's going to believe three adults were overcome by gas at this time of day?"

Harold stopped his pacing and turned a blank look at Richard.

"We shouldn't talk about this, Mr. Carter," he said, glancing sideways toward the couch as if to signal that they shouldn't upset Jill.

Richard wished there were some way to let Jill know there were others outside waiting to rescue them.  He could only imagine what she might be going through.  Their eyes met, and he would have winked at her encouragingly, but Harold was watching him.

"There'll be evidence of what really happened:  tape residue, staple holes in the door, bits of plastic, even some bruising where you tied us up.  If you try to disguise it---well, there's nothing more incriminating than a staged accident.  I'm trained in crime scene investigation, Harold.  I know this.  Besides, sanitizing the scene just proves premeditation."

"Don't," said Porter, holding up his free hand as if to ward off Richard's words.  "No more talking."

"You don't want Mrs. Carter to suffer.  I know that."

Richard had little hope of changing Porter's mind, but he determined to buy as much time as he could.

"You're wrong, Harold.  Asphyxiation is a terribly painful death.  The urge to breath is overpowering . . . like when you get the breath knocked out of you.  Harold, we'll all die struggling to breath and choking."

Harold turned to Jill.  "You ain't gonna feel nothing, Miss Carter.  I promise."

There it is.  He's made up his mind, thought Richard.  Come on, Ron!  Do something!

"My wife your friend, Harold," he said.  "How can you kill her baby?  She'll hate you for that, Harold."

"I'm putting the baby in the car . . . wrap it up real warm," he said nodding his head rapidly to trying to reassure Jill.  "I done told you that."

Jill stared wide-eyed, shaking her head vigorously.

"They'll find it real quick.  I promise," he told her earnestly.

Richard tried to hide his elation.  Guidry could take Porter as soon as he put Mirabelle in the car.

Porter came over and bent down.

"I wouldn't choke nobody to death like they done David," he whispered so that only Richard could hear.  "There's a bunch of gas in the kitchen now.  I'm going to open that basement door leading down to your furnace and then let it out.  You all won't feel nothing."

Richard's mind raced.  If Porter loosed the gas there was no way that Guidry could act quickly enough to stop an explosion, but if he let Harold know that the house was surrounded he might hold them off until the house blew up killing everyone including Mirabelle.

"You don't want to do this, Harold."

Porter looked at him grimly.  It was just a matter of time.  But how much time?

Richard pushed the one connection that might make him pause.

"I know you admire my wife.  It must be tearing you apart to have to do this to her."

It was all he could do to force some kind of sincerity into his voice as he tried to pull off the deception that he really could empathize with the pathetic little egoist who was about to kill his wife and daughter.

"I'm gonna get the baby ready now," said Porter.

"Wait!  There's something you haven't thought through."

Porter shook his head.  "There ain't no other way.  This is the only thing that will work."

"It won't work, Harold.  Listen to me."

Harold turned his back and went to Jill.

"It won't work, Harold!" Richard called desperately.  "It won't, and I'll tell you why."

Porter ignored him.

"I'm going to take your baby out to the car, Miss Carter."

He took Mirabelle from her and continued softly, "I'm real sorry, but you understand why I gotta do it.  And don't you worry none.  It won't hurt.  I promise."

He carried Mirabelle across the room and calmly opened the basement door.

Richard heard the furnace ignite.  When the thermocouple heated sufficiently the blower would kick in, sucking air from the cold air return by the front door.  He realized that if the return had been by the back door, gas would be pulled down from the kitchen.  Just then the fan kicked on.  He thought he smelled gas and looked fearfully toward the kitchen.  The plastic bulged slightly, but he saw no gaps.  Then he noticed the fillet knife Porter held.

"Wait!" he shouted as the man approached the barrier.  "We've already made you for what happened out at the Hendrichs place."

Porter paused and turned.

"You're on tape, Harold," he improvised.  "You know how careful Marvin was.  He had a surveillance camera in the barn . . . near his meth lab.  We have a definite ID on you."

"No.  You would of done arrested me."

"We spent all afternoon looking for you.  There's a warrant out on you."

Porter didn't answer.

"It's true.  Don't you see?  No matter what happens here, you are not going to get away with it."

Porter slowly shook his head.

"Think about it, Harold.  Could you live with yourself if you did something to . . . Mrs. Carter when it wouldn't do you any good?"

"Shut up!  You're lying!  You're just making all this up to confuse me."

"I'm trying to keep you from making a terrible mistake, Harold."

"You ain't got me on tape.  Why would he put a camera out there and make a record of hisself going in and out of his little drug factory?  He wasn't very smart, but he was smarter than that."

"None of that matters," said Richard desperately.  "I'm just telling you that we know how you really got burned---about how the underground lab really blew up---how you faked everything.  Harold!  Stop!  You're going back to prison no matter what you do here.  There's no way you can get---"

"I told you to shut up!" shouted Harold, looming over him and punctuating his words with slashing motions of the filet knife.

Tears filled his eyes and he began to sob.

Mirabelle was quiet, but her face had turned deep red as she expelled all her breath.  She inhaled at last and then launched into full-fledged tantrum.

Harold, matching her impotent fury, picked up the table lamp next to Richard and hurled it across the room.  As it shattered against the wall, he kicked over the coffee table and then kicked it again and again, half-grunting, half-whining in frustration.  Breathing heavily, he stepped over the wreckage of the table and went to the door, seemingly deaf to Mirabelle's howls.

He peered cautiously out the door.

"Half of the department's out there by now, Harold," said Richard.  "They're hiding out there, Harold.  Waiting for you."

"The best thing for you to do is---"

"Give myself up?" finished Porter sarcastically.  "I done told Miss Carter that I ain't going back."

"It's the only way, Harold.  You haven't done anything all that bad so far."

"You're not a very good liar, Mr. Carter," he said softly.  "Ain't nobody out there." 

Richard wondered what was keeping Guidry.  Then he realized that Harold had probably sealed plastic over the back door to contain the gas.  He tried to imagine what Ron would do given the changed circumstances.  He though he knew.

"You know it's true, Harold.  If not, why do you keep looking out the door?"

Harold ignored him.

"Why do you keep looking through the front door, Harold?" he repeated for Guidry's benefit.

Porter seemed not to hear him.  He couldn't afford to let the man disconnect.

"It's not too late Harold."

Porter frowned in concentration.  Without making eye contact, he nodded slowly.  Then he walked deliberately to the kitchen doorway.  To Richard's horror, he ripped away the sheeting.

"He's done it, Marta!" yelled Richard.  "Tell Ron!  The gas is coming in.  No time!  There's no time!  Hellfire!  Hellfire!"

Porter gaped at him, blinking rapidly.  Then his head whipped around toward the door.  He rushed over and pulled aside the curtain.

Glass shattered a split second ahead of the reverberating crash of a high-powered rifle from outside.  Porter melted to the floor as if all his bones had suddenly dissolved, his head bouncing on the floor with a sickening sound.  It lolled to the side, it's slack features facing Richard.  Blood slowly oozed from a small spot above his right eye.  Mirabelle, momentarily shocked to silence lay still on the dead man's chest.  Harold's arm slowly slid away from her and fell to the floor producing two audible thumps that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent house.

The furnace fan mercifully kicked off.

Suddenly everyone was frantically trying to move.  Jill got to her feet, tried to hop toward Richard, but fell headlong, twisting just in time to avoid falling of her face.  Behind her, Raven struggled to break free and fell to the floor.

"Get us out of here, Ron!" shouted Richard as he struggled to break free of the duct tape.  "The gas is filling the whole house.  It's going to blow!  Hurry!  Hurry!"

Jill chewed at the tape on her wrists.

Raven wriggled helplessly on the floor.

Richard managed to stand.

"Marta!  Tell them they have to get in here!  We can't move!  Hurry!  Hurry!"

Jill gave up on the tape and scooted toward Mirabelle who still lay on Harold's dead chest.

With the chair strapped to his back forcing him to bend forward, Richard staggered toward the kitchen doorway.  Once there, he used his body to swing the chair repeatedly against the door facing, getting nothing for his efforts but a shooting pain where the tape cut into the crook of his elbows.  Coughing as he breathed in the choking propane, he swung again and again, ignoring the pain in his desperation.

Just as the chair finally disintegrated, Guidry burst through the front door.

Richard jumped up and down and flung his arms until the pieces fell away.  Ligatures still held his elbows, however.

Shug lumbered through the door. 

"I can get Jill out," shouted Richard.  "Get Mirabelle and Raven out of here!"

Guidry had already picked up Raven.  Because of her elaborate bonds, her arms and legs were contorted awkwardly.  She squinted in pain as he adjusted her weight and maneuvered toward the door.

"You sure you got your wife?" shouted Shug, as he helped Jill to her feet.

"Yeah," he said, hurrying over.  "Stand up and lean over my shoulder, Jill."

She shook her head.

"Don't argue with me, dammit.  We've got to get out of here."

Shug scooped up Mirabelle and held open the storm door as the two men struggled out with the women.  Guidry angled through the doorway, carrying Raven awkwardly, one arm supporting the small of her back and the other under her shoulders.  Richard followed, Jill draped over his shoulder, trying to figure the best way to fall when he inevitably lost his balance on the way down the stairs.

Behind them the furnace kick on again.

Guidry was half way to the sidewalk when Richard took the first step down.  Shug was close behind, Mirabelle cradled against his chest.

Everyone remembered what happened next a little differently.

Richard was still on the stairs when a huge hand slammed into his back, hurling him to the yard below.  In the hurricane wind of flying debris he saw Shug, Mirabelle tucked in the bend of his right arm, flying headlong like a fullback diving for the goal line.  As if in slow motion, the big man twisted in mid air and landed heavily on his back some fifteen feet out into the yard, Mirabelle cradled safely on his huge chest.  Beyond them he saw Guidry and Raven tangled together at the base of the nearest tree.  Then he and Jill were tumbling across the leaf strewn rocky ground like dice thrown on the gaming board.

He came to rest lying across her, winded, but apparently unhurt.  Then he felt her convulse violently beneath him.  He tried to move, but couldn't.  Guidry came over, dragging his left leg and grasped him by the shoulder and roughly rolled him off her.  Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear anything over the ringing in his ears.  He knew that some deadly missile hurled by the explosion had found her its random victim.  Richard watched fearfully as Guidry forced his fingers under the tape wound around her head and managed to tear it in two. 

"Where's my baby?" she gasped when he peeled it from her mouth.

As if in answer, Mirabelle began to let the whole world know where she was.

"Shug's got her.  She's okay," said Guidry as he tore away the tape securing Richard's elbows.

As he went to loose Raven's ligatures, Richard sat up and surveyed the scene.  The ringing had subsided to background noise.  Jill chewed at the tape on her wrists and looked anxiously toward the sheriff.  Shug lay face up, eyes open, and shaking his head, gently patting Mirabelle's back.  Beyond them shadowy forms ran down the hill toward the house.  Richard removed the tape from Jill's wrists and ankles.  Somewhere back toward town he heard the still feeble siren of an approaching fire engine.

When he picked up his daughter Shug struggled to sit, wincing in pain.

"You okay, Boss?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, I just separated my shoulder.  I'll live.  How's everybody else?"

"Okay, I think."

"Give me my baby," said Jill, scrambling over.

Jill examined her fearfully.  Finding no wounds, she breathed a prayer of thanks.  Then she bent to kiss Shug on the cheek.  Standing, she began to pace, rocking Mirabelle and cradling her close.

When Guidry finished untying Raven she peeled the tape from her mouth.

"There's no fire?" she asked.

"Explosion blew away all the oxygen, I guess.  It's the way they put out fires in the oil---"

Whoomp!

Concussion knocked them all to the ground.  Gasoline fumes and propane had found a source of ignition.   

Flames lit the rubble beyond the oddly intact front deck.  Within in minutes tongues of fire leaped into the dark sky, casting the bare limbs of the surrounding trees bright orange.  The county fire department could only pour water onto the ruins to prevent the fire from spreading into the surrounding woods.

"We've lost everything," said Richard as he wrapped his family into his arms.

A young fireman draped a blanket around them.  Jill pulled it tight and leaned her head on his shoulder.  Mirabelle snuggled against her breasts.

"It's only stuff," she said.  "Not our life, only stuff."

Guidry came over holding out the cell phone.

"I called your friend back.  Thought you might want to let her know everyone's all right."

Jill took the phone quickly.

"Yes.  Marta.  We're okay.  We're all okay."

She held her hand over the phone, listening to Marta's reply while mouthing a silent "Thank you."

The adrenaline was washing away now.  Bruises and a shoulder sprain announced themselves.  Richard listened, marveling at his wife's youthful resilience and realizing how lucky he was.  Her buoyant mood as she and Marta exchanged excited accounts of what had happened was the same he had experienced as a teenager after surviving a firefight in the squalid streets of Mogadishu.  They had all been lucky.  The randomly cast net of fate had spared them.  That it had spared them all was a miracle.

He listened, luxuriating in the sound of her voice as she promised to call back once they were settled in somewhere for the night.  Perhaps it was youth that allowed so quick and such total recovery and celebration.  He wished to share it, but he knew the odds.  You could only sidestep so many shots before one caught you.  Every run on luck eventually ended.

Jill clicked off and smiled at him as she rocked Mirabelle in her arms.  She unbuttoned her blouse, rearranged the blanket as cover, and then nursed their child.  Richard surveyed the scene again.  Shug was on his feet and limping around like the old man he was.  Shane had arrived and was sitting beside Raven holding her to him.  They could have been war refugees or a primeval clan settling in for the night.

Beyond, almost past the illumination from the flames, Guidry, head down, walked uphill into the darkness.

"Where is he going?" asked Jill.

"He's trying to get away from Harold Porter," he said.  "I hope he can."