Redemption Road(94)

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Elizabeth struggled with the answer. Adrian seemed cold and untouchable and every bit a killer. He pointed the gun at Preston, and she hesitated: lawyer in the back, half-dead prison guard bubbling in the dust. Would Adrian do it? Pull the trigger? She honestly didn’t know.

“Time’s wasting, Liz.”

Shit.

He was right. Only the lawyer mattered. “Brambleberry Road,” she said. “Thirty minutes.”

Elizabeth reversed down the drive and sensed Adrian’s stillness as he watched her go. She braked at the tarmac and in a swirl of dust saw him dragging Olivet by the collar, over the gravel and into the gloom, heading for the same gray car.

She waited for a shot that didn’t come.

Behind her, the lawyer was dying.

*

Adrian propped Olivet against the front tire, just behind the burning lights. He was hurt, but nothing like Preston. That meant a broken orbital and bloody nose. Maybe a cracked rib, based on the way air whistled past his teeth. Adrian had seen worse, experienced worse. He put the muzzle against the guard’s heart and used just enough pressure to keep him upright. The man was crying.

“Please, don’t kill me.”

The words put an unfeeling twist on Adrian’s face. How many times had he begged, only to be cut again, beaten again? He thumbed the hammer and thought about blowing Olivet’s heart through an exit wound the size of a grapefruit.

“I have a daughter.”

“What?”

“A daughter. She’s only twelve.”

“That’s supposed to save you?”

“I’m all she has.”

“You should have thought about that before.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t know the warden. You don’t understand.”

“You don’t think I know the warden?” The night darkened as Adrian loomed above the guard. “His face. The sound of his voice.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Were other prisoners killed? Others besides Eli Lawrence?”

“I’m sorry about the old man. He wasn’t supposed to die. None of it was supposed to be like this.”

“Yet, it is. You tortured Eli. You tortured me.”

“I did it for my daughter. We needed money. Child care. Medical stuff. I was going to do it just the once, one time, and that was it. But they wouldn’t let me go. The warden. Preston. You don’t think I have nightmares? That I hate my life? Please. She’s everything. She’ll be all alone.”

A girl. Twelve years old. Did that make a difference? After all he’d suffered, Adrian had two of the five men responsible and could cut the number to three. Preston dead. Olivet, too. That would leave the warden and Jacks and Woods. If he moved fast enough, he could kill them, too. Tonight. Tomorrow. Temptation was a burn, and though Eli chose this time to be silent, Adrian knew what Eli would say if he decided to speak.

Let the hate go, boy.

Freedom. Fresh air.

That’s enough.

It’s everything.

Here was the brutal irony. Adrian had never killed anyone. Not as a cop, not in the yard or on the cellblock. He’d pulled thirteen hard years and had more reason than most to kill a whole host of men. But, he felt the old man out there, the yellowed eyes and patience, the simple kindness that had kept him alive when any other man would have lain down and quit.

Don’t do it, son.

But, the gun didn’t move. It pressed so hard against Olivet’s chest Adrian felt the man’s heart beat against the metal.

“Please…”

The trigger tightened under Adrian’s finger. It was too much, too many years. It had to happen, so the trigger had to move. Olivet must have seen the decision in Adrian’s eyes, for his mouth opened, and in the stillness of that final moment, of the long, hard second that would be his last, a noise rose in the darkness beyond the field.

“Sirens,” Olivet said. “Police.”

Adrian turned his head and saw lights far away. They were blue and thumping and moving fast; but he had time if he wanted it. A minute. Ninety seconds. He could pull the trigger; take the car.

Olivet knew it, same as him. “Her name is Sarah,” he said. “She’s only twelve.”

*

Elizabeth passed the cops two miles over the bridge, but didn’t slow. They blew past her in the other direction: two patrol cars and an unmarked unit she swore was Beckett’s. They were moving fast—maybe eighty on the narrow road—and she knew they were going for Adrian. At speed like that there had to be a reason, but stopping or turning was not an option. Nothing mattered but the lawyer.

Reaching back, she found his hand. “Hang on, Faircloth.”

But no answer came.

She flew through town and hit the hospital parking lot at speed, the slick tires squealing as she bumped over the curb and rocked to a stop at the emergency-room door. Suddenly, she was inside and yelling for help. A doctor materialized.

“Outside. I think he’s dying.”

The doctor called for a stretcher, and at the car they lifted him. “Tell me what happened.”

“Trauma of some kind. I’m not sure.”

“Name and age.”