Redemption Road(93)

“He’s at the farm, now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you came to me, why?”

“Because after twenty years driving all kinds of people into all kinds of situations, I’ve learned to trust my feelings, and those feelings tell me that was a bad place, ma’am, a dangerous, bad place and not right at all for a gentleman like Mr. Jones.”

“It’s good of you to worry. I mean that. But, Adrian Wall’s no danger.”

“The old man thought that, too, so I figured it might be the case.” The big head tilted, the thick hands twisted white. “But, then there was the car.”

*

The car.

Elizabeth turned out of the drive.

Gray, he’d said. Two men.

That was bad enough: a gray car with two men, parked at the end of Adrian’s drive. It had to be the same, first at Crybaby’s house, now at Adrian’s. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

They left before I dropped the old man, but I think I passed them later.

Later?

Like they were going back.

How far?

Three miles, maybe. Edge of town, and driving fast. That’s why I asked if you were police. ’Cause it wasn’t right, is all. The car. The way they looked at us. ’Cause they were fast moving at the old man, and ’cause something about ’em just scared me.

They worried Elizabeth, too. William Preston had a dark streak. She’d sensed it at the prison, and on the road above Crybaby’s estate. He had the wrong kind of interest in Adrian Wall. Prison guard. Ex-prisoner. It wasn’t right. There was an arrogance there, not just complacency but the unmistakable sense of easy violence. That’s what thirteen years of cop told her, that someone like Preston had no business anywhere near a man as fragile as Faircloth Jones.

Not after dark.

Not on an ex-con’s burned-out farm.

Elizabeth’s lights split the gloom as she drove. Tarmac. Yellow paint. In the darkness beyond, houses ghosted past, flickers of gravel and light, cars in silent drives. She was alone on the road, just her and the wind and the last line of bruised sky as full night descended. She crossed a wide creek, then crested a final hill before the road flattened and the farm road snaked in from the right. She made the turn—tires drifting—and saw the fight from a distance, not sure exactly what it was: a car in the drive, figures moving in the slash of her lights. Two men were on the ground, Adrian fighting with a third. Fifty feet closer, she saw that fighting was the wrong word. Adrian swung again, and the man went down with Adrian on top, his fists rising and falling and slinging red. The ferocity of it was so extreme that even parked and close Elizabeth sat frozen. Adrian had no expression, the face beneath his fists so pulped and bloody, it barely looked human. She saw Crybaby, motionless, another man down and crawling. For a second more she sat transfixed, then spilled from the car, knowing only that someone would die if she didn’t do something.

“Adrian!” she yelled, but he didn’t react. “You’re killing him.” She caught an arm, but he ripped it free. “Adrian, stop!”

He didn’t, so she drew her weapon and struck his head hard enough to drop him in the dirt. “Stay down,” she said, then ran to Faircloth Jones and gently rolled him. “Oh, God.” He was unconscious and so white he looked bloodless. She found a pulse, but it was irregular and thin.

“What happened to him?”

Adrian dragged himself to his knees, head low as he stared at his hands, at the split knuckles and bits of teeth wedged under the skin.

“Adrian! What the hell happened?”

His gaze slid to the second guard, Olivet. He was on his belly, still crawling. Four feet away, Preston’s gun glinted in the dust. Adrian staggered to his feet and stepped on Olivet’s hand as it reached for the gun.

“He happened.” Adrian picked up the gun and pointed it at Preston. “William Preston.”

“That’s Preston? Jesus, Adrian. Why?”

“He was torturing Crybaby.”

“Torture? How? Wait. Never mind. No time for that. We need a hospital, and we need it now.” Elizabeth cradled the old man’s head. “It’s bad.” She leaned into his breath; could barely feel it on her cheek. “We need to go now.”

“Take him.”

Elizabeth looked at Preston. The face was broken a dozen different ways. Blood bubbled at his lips. He was unrecognizable. “What about him?”

“Call an ambulance. Let him die. I don’t care. He’s not riding with Crybaby.”

“Help me, then.” They got the old man in the backseat of Elizabeth’s car. His head lolled. He weighed less than a child. “Come with me.”

Olivet moved again, so Adrian put a foot on his neck. “I’m not finished here.”

“Adrian, please.”

“Go.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but Faircloth needs a hospital, and he needs it now.”

“Go on, then.”

“We need to talk.”

“Fine. You know the old Texaco east of town? The one on Brambleberry Road?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me there.”

Elizabeth took a final look at the scene, at beams of yellow light and the two guards, down and broken. “Are they going to die?”