The Lonely Mile(66)

Her father struggled for the I-90 Killer’s gun, which lay on the floor of the basement like some kind of treasure. The idea that the fate of her dad and herself—whether they lived or died—rested entirely on who would be the first to reach a lump of metal not much bigger than her hand was absurd, but, of course, it was no more absurd than everything else that had taken place over the last day-plus.

Carli could see that her dad was not going to make it. He turned his big body, struggling against the effects of momentum, which had been his ally when he was swinging the stick, but which was now, most definitely, his enemy, and the woman was smaller and quicker despite being so badly injured.

The agent reached the gun first as Carli had known she would, blood spurting wildly from her neck, shooting out like a geyser an impressive distance before splattering to the floor. She rolled onto her back and sighted down the barrel at Carli’s dad, and Carli knew he was going to die. And then she was going to die.

And that was unacceptable. This whole impossible nightmare was unacceptable. Carli Ferguson bellowed, the sound rising from deep inside her chest where all the hurt and fear and especially anger were stored. She roared and yanked hard on the handcuffs, pulling them against the metal bed frame with all the strength she could muster from her 105-pound frame.

The pain exploded in her wrist from where the skin had been rubbed raw and the bones bruised by the handcuffs and by Martin Krall during their fight over the steak knife, and still she pulled. The bracelet had been weakened by Carli’s near-obsessive scraping against the cement wall behind her prison bed. She pulled, and it finally snapped.

Carli let out a guttural shriek of pain and rage and spun on her mattress—there was no time to get up—and swung her arm at Angela Canfield as the FBI agent pulled the trigger on Martin Krall’s gun. The razor-sharp edge on the broken, silver handcuff glittered menacingly as it sliced into Canfield’s throat, opening another gash to complement the one she had already suffered. Fresh blood immediately splattered from the new wound, an amazing amount of blood, joining its sister injury in spilling Canfield’s precious fluid, covering Carli, but this time Carli didn’t notice.

She watched in transfixed horror as her dad dove to the right, over her cot and onto the floor, at the exact moment the gun roared; he looked like an Olympic swimmer flying gracefully into the water to begin a race. Except there was no water on the other side, only concrete, and she could see his blood begin to flow as a bullet ripped into his leg.

The Glock bucked in Agent Canfield’s hand, and fire ripped from the barrel. She fell back against the cement basement wall next to the metal bed frame that had been Carli Ferguson’s prison until seconds ago. The agent’s left hand waved in the air, reaching up to stanch the new wound on her neck, but not making it that far. It fell to the floor with an audible thud as she lurched sideways and lay still.

Bill hit the floor on the far side of Carli’s cot and bounced once, his head striking the concrete wall with a sickening thud. His limp body came to rest in the corner. He kicked his legs once and was still. Blood oozed from the fresh bullet wound in his left leg.

And Carli screamed.





CHAPTER 59


May 28, 4:32

THE FBI CHICK WAS alive. Carli checked for a pulse, and it was there. It was weak and ragged, but, for the moment at least, it was there, and she was hanging on. Not that Carli cared one way or the other. This woman, this supposed law-enforcement professional, this traitor, had tried to kill her dad, had shot him twice, and had planned on turning the gun on Carli next, so sympathy for the woman’s predicament was in short supply.

She grabbed the I-90 Killer’s gun, which had fallen on the floor next to the unconscious woman, and then reached into the agent’s leather shoulder holster to take out her service weapon and tuck it under her arm. Finally, she rolled Canfield onto her side and, grimacing with distaste, plucked her dad’s Browning from under the waistband of the woman’s slacks, where she had shoved it after taking it away from her murdered co-conspirator. She was a freaking one-woman armory!

Carli slid each of the weapons along the floor to the far side of the basement. She knew nothing about guns and hoped that one of them wouldn’t somehow go off and blow her brains out. Wouldn’t that be ironic—surviving the I-90 Killer only to shoot yourself by accident! But she had to get them away from the crazy woman, just in case she somehow came back to life like they always seemed to do in the movies.

For the first time since being kidnapped off the school bus yesterday, Carli was thinking clearly. She couldn’t imagine being more frightened, but her dad needed her, and after he had risked everything to save her, she was not going to let him down now. Her nerves thrummed, and her stomach lurched, and she felt as though she had drunk about seven cups of coffee—and was it possible that she had to pee again?—but her mind was clear.

She crawled over the bed to her dad—God, please let him be alive, please don’t take my daddy from me!—and before kneeling next to him to check for his pulse, she had a discomfiting thought. What if this Agent Canfield snuck up on her while her back was turned toward her dad and began strangling her or something?

Carli had seen enough horror movies to know that the bad guy was never truly out of the picture until the credits rolled, and even though the woman seemed barely alive, with blood oozing out of the two massive, gaping gashes in her throat, she didn’t dare discount her entirely. So Carli reluctantly stood up next to her father’s unmoving body—remember, God, I’m still begging you not to let him die!—and walked past the fallen agent’s body to a work bench in the far corner of the basement.