Thin Gray Lines Page 18

  He retreated to a rear corner.

  After a quiet moment, Randall perked up and made eye contact with Chito. The look of alarm on Chito’s face meant he’d understood correctly. He jumped to his feet.

  With more fear and anger than any of them had mustered to that point, Chito screamed, “No, Jorge! We’re stuck in here with you!”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Olive sat with the pilot at the kitchen table, applying hydrogen peroxide to the gash behind his ear. It stung him badly — she could hear the substance fizzling on his wound — but he bore it with grace. Perhaps being only half-conscious helped.

  She cleaned his hands and face with a cloth and tried to clean some of the blood off his neck, but it kept oozing and soaking into his shirt and jacket.

  He vomited onto the table and stared a while at the small puddle as if unsure where it had come from. Olive cleaned it up without a word.

  “I’m so sorry, miss.”

  “Don’t be. You’ve been attacked.” She rinsed the cloth off in the sink and left it there. “I’m impressed you made it to the house. Lord knows I couldn’t have.”

  “Are you Princess?” he asked again, then held up a hand. “Nope. I remember now. Your mother.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not playing coy. Tell me.”

  “Her codename.” His eyes became more lucid. “Is Galahad your father, then?”

  “No. My father’s name is Rodger Tanner.”

  The pilot laughed. “First and last names aren’t usually how we do things in this organization.”

  “What organization is that?”

  “It’s just…” The pilot shifted in his seat, blinking and sitting straighter. “I’m having a hard time squaring that Princess is your mother.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  She sat down, frozen by the praise.

  “I took one look at you and thought, this has to be Princess. You’re like a painting come to life.”

  “You’re not well,” she said.

  He took her hand with surprising deftness, gentle but firm. She didn’t pull it away.

  “I’m very susceptible to flattery,” Olive said. “Please don’t abuse that.”

  “You don’t like your mother, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He’s off taking care of a problem.”

  “The reason for the distress signal?”

  At the slightest tug of her hand, he released it and sat back, eyes closed.

  “We’re on the same side, you know.”

  “I don’t know much of anything.” Olive folded her hands. “What will you do now?”

  “I need to go to a hospital, but I can’t leave that plane much longer. I’m expected to land at my destination, same as scheduled. Keeping up appearances.”

  “But your head. You could—”

  “Pass out at the controls and die in a fiery crash?” He opened his eyes again. “Yes. That’s a concern.”

  They shared a worried silence.

  “You don’t know how to fly a plane, do you?” he asked.

  Olive laughed. “No. Heck no. I’m a real estate agent.”

  “How fast a learner are you?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Not fast enough.”

  “If I can stay awake, I’ll chance it. You couldn’t make me a strong pot of coffee and part with a thermos, could you?”

  “Of course I can.”

  Her chair screeched against the wood floor as she got up and set to making coffee. She pulled a bag of ground beans out of her mother’s secret hiding spot. “This is my mom’s special coffee. She hates American coffee.”

  “She hates you, too.”

  She looked back, only half-believing what she heard. He wasn’t mumbling and incoherent. He looked at her intently, eyes pinned on the truth he’d somehow seen.

  “She hates you because you’re beautiful.” He inclined his head. “You know you don’t deserve that. At least, I hope you do.”

  Olive held a rounded scoop above the coffee filter, hand trembling. “I don’t know about that.” She dumped the scoop and counted out four more.

  “You have to get away from them, or they keep you small forever. They keep hurting you until they die. And then they live on as the voice in your head. You have to kill that, too.”

  She avoided eye contact by looking for a thermos in the cupboards.

  “You could come with me,” he said. “Keep me awake. Maybe start new. I’m quite wealthy.”

  “I’m not the type, but that’s a kind offer.”

  She filled the coffee maker with water and set it to brewing. “I’m in love with a man who works on the farm. Randall.”

  “Ah. Lucky man.”

  A bang in the distance sounded much louder that the rhythmic banging they’d heard before.

  “Was that the shotgun?” the pilot asked.

  The bang sounded again, then again.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Do you have a weapon?” The pilot braced himself to try and stand.

  “My dad likes to hunt. He has guns.”

  “Listen.” He held up a finger. “It’s stopped.”

  Olive started shaking all over and leaned on the counter to keep from falling down. “Oh, God.”

  “God, indeed,” the pilot said. “Your mother is not to be trifled with.”

  They sat in silence and watched black coffee fill the pot. The pilot stood and took some careful steps, testing out his legs.

  “You don’t think…” Olive said.

  “They had it coming. Remember this?” He pointed to the gash behind his ear. “But if you need to get out of here, my offer is serious and without strings. You can call for your man later.”

  “Thank you. You’re an incredibly nice person for a drug smuggler.” It suddenly occurred to her that any noise from the DC would’ve awoken Randall. If it hadn’t, then the gunshots would. “I have to go.”

  Olive threw on her coat and shoes in her room and dashed past the pilot out the door.

  Her feet padded across the hard-packed ground between the house and the collection of older outbuildings that included the bunkhouse. Randall wasn’t in his quarters. Olive even checked Moses’ room and the worker dorm, but the place was completely empty.

  She ran toward the DC and slowed when she saw her mother leaving by the side door, lit by a single motion-activated lamp high up. She tried to close the door properly, but the thing kept falling open.

  “Those bastards,” she said in her mother tongue.

  Iris kicked a slippered foot into the door, and it bounced off the jamb again, back into her foot.

  She marched away toward the house, spotting Olive thirty feet off.

  They stared at one another.

  “Did you kill them?” Olive asked.

  “Go back to the house.”

  “Did you?” Olive asked in tears. She ran at her mother. “Did you kill Randall?”

  Before her mother could answer, rage overtook Olive, and she watched as her own fists flailed at her mother who jumped away after repeated blows.

  There was a brief moment of alarm, her mother staring at her in quaking fury and disbelief, Olive wondering what she’d just done. But the dam of pent up anger had burst. Olive lunged at her mother again, fists raised. Iris dodged her, and Olive slammed into the side of the building.

  She lunged again.

  Her mother cracked the barrel of the shotgun into her temple, sending her careening to the ground.

  Sobbing, eyes going cloudy with tears, she got back to her hands and knees.

  “Stay down,” her mother ordered. “You have the brains of an ant. About as much sense as that boyfriend of yours. You little slut.”

  “Is it because I’m prettier than you?” Olive felt her defiance burning her tears away. She reared up on her knees. “All this time, could it be something so petty? Is that why you’ve always hated me?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t care about that.” Her mother’s gaze flitted away to the ground then back to her. “I hate your stupidity. I hate your weakness. You can’t even survive here with a cushy life and parents who have to buy a house for you to make a sale.”

  Olive put a hand on the wall and got up. “It’s not true. Old man Phillips hired me to—”

  “Phillips did what I told him to do. Like everything else, your father thinks it was his idea.”

  Iris watched her, clearly expecting to savor her reaction.

  Olive wiped her eyes. “I think when you’re mean to a little girl, you don’t let her get strong. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a mother who was soft and kind and loving. Maybe with a mother like that, I’d be stronger.”

  Iris stared at her blankly, then chuckled. Her mirth grew to a roaring peal of laughter.

  Olive’s fists balled again, her lip curled, and the world grew small, centered around her mother’s ugly laughing mouth.

  “You’re not my mother!” Olive screamed.

  She flew at Iris and this time had the sense to reach for the shotgun, but her mother was stronger, and she couldn’t quite wrench it away. So, Olive pulled her mother close, flexed her hand into a claw and raked it down Iris’ face.

  Iris hissed in pain and dropped the shotgun, then reared up, all ten fingernails aimed at Olive’s soft face. Olive screamed in agony as he mother tore at her skin, then screamed harder in pure hatred at a mother who could take such obvious pleasure in harming her child. She searched with her nails for her mother’s eyes.

  “You little slut,” Iris said. “You little whore.”

  “I hate you. I hate you. I hope you die!”

  “Hey,” a voice shouted from far away. “Hey!”

  The pilot jogged toward them unsteadily as Olive and her mother grappled. They screamed in mutual agony before relenting. Olive felt wetness on her face, and a hand came away red. She howled and slammed her bony fist into her mother’s face, determined to see her bleed just as much.

  Iris boxed her ears with looping shots from the sides, but Olive took them, clamping her hands around Iris’ throat. Her mother’s surprise emboldened her, and she squeezed harder.

  “Stop! Stop!” the pilot yelled. He got between them and easily pushed them apart.

  Iris bled from the nose and mouth now, snarling and spitting.

  “Enough you two,” the pilot said. “This isn’t good for anyone.”

  Just when Olive thought it was over, Iris wheeled clockwise, picked up the shotgun by the barrel, took a hop and swung it like a baseball bat.

  Olive ducked, but the stock made a sickening crack above her.

  The pilot fell stiff on his side and rolled onto his face. The thermos of coffee tumbled from his hand.

  “I… I…” Iris came closer and gaped at the man. “He’s not moving. Oh, Christ, he’s not moving.” She poked him in the ass with the muzzle. “Move. Move!”

  “You killed him,” Olive whispered.

  “I did not.” Iris knelt and tried to find a pulse.

  “You just killed him.”

  Iris turned the gun on Olive.

  “You’re going to shoot me?”

  “No,” her mother said. “I’m out of shots.”

  Olive took a step closer. “You would do it.”

  “I’m tired of this.” Iris took a swipe at Olive’s face with the muzzle, but she ducked away. “I didn’t kill your boyfriend. I didn’t kill anyone!” she yelled. “Well, maybe him.” She spoke softly and nodded at the ground. “But that was an accident.”

  “Where is he? Where’s Randall?”

  “He’s somewhere safe for now. I’ll let Arlo deal with him when they get back.”

  “I know what that means.”

  “Well, aren’t you smart.” Iris looked at the back of the pilot’s head, nodding herself. “The workers did him in. Jorge, Chito. They did this.”

  “Where’s Randall?”

  “Why? So you can let him out? I don’t think so.”

  “Let him out, or I will tell your drug smuggler buddies that you killed their pilot. I hope they kill you.”

  Olive swiped the thermos off the ground and ran for the broken door in the DC. Somehow, she knew that Randall was in the bunker, that he’d been trying to bring up her parents’ money. That he’d done it for her and wanted to run away with her.

  Iris screeched at her. “Don’t you dare!”

  Olive felt her chasing from behind.

  A thrill hit her as she unscrewed the cap of the thermos. She slowed just enough for her mother to close distance then spun and slopped scalding hot coffee in her face.

  Iris reeled, stunned harder than any of Olive’s blows. Olive sloshed more out, hitting her in the side of the face.

  Iris screamed as the hot coffee seared her skin and ran down into her clothes. She clutched at her face, wiggling her head, immobile in agony as Olive dumped every drop onto her scalp and ears and hurled the empty container at her head.

  Inside the DC, her mother’s wails of pain echoed, as Olive felt her way in the dark through the steel legs of the bins back to the control room. It was easy to find with the light still on and the door propped open. A big pallet jack lay on its side, two legs running diagonally across the room. The bottom leg was wedged under an electrical box, keeping the floor hatch shut tight.

  Olive yanked at the handle of the pallet jack, trying to free it, but it was awkward and ungainly. She figured she’d have to get on the other side and push with her whole body to dislodge it.

  As she stepped over the jack, she froze.

  Her mother’s cries had gone quiet. In the silence, slippered feet rushed across concrete behind her.

  She turned too late. The stock of a shotgun slammed into her face, and she fell back, legs tangled on the jack. Iris appeared above, face red with burns and blood, and planted the butt of the shotgun into her forehead.

  The room went black.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Joller disembarked Flight 227 from Denver in Spokane, Washington. He’d heard of the town but never before had reason to visit. The flight attendant called it Spokane International Airport, and he laughed at the “International” part as he walked out of the short B concourse and realized it comprised about half the airport. The morning quietude made it seem all the sleepier. Tired travelers lined up near the baggage carousels like animals at the trough, and he filed in with them.

  Joller spotted enough camo clothing and backpacks on the flight to feel at home collecting a rifle case off the conveyor belt. In fact, the first gun case to ease onto the carousel wasn’t even his. The man who picked it up wore a fleece jacket and dad jeans. Some accountant back from a hunting trip. No one batted an eye.

  Joller’s first impressions of Spokane were positive.

  Once he got his rifle and suitcase, which contained his pistol, he rolled down the linoleum floor to the rental car desks and waited for a tired attendant in a blue polo to process his reservation.

  “We have you in a mid-size sedan, but I can upgrade you to an SUV for only four dollars a day extra.”

  “Do it.”

  “Very well. And will you be taking the insurance?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’ll need you to sign this waiver accepting liability for any damage to the vehicle.”

  Joller rolled his eyes, as he signed the fake name that matched his fake ID, then collected his keys.

  “You doing some shooting?” the attendant asked.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “We grow ‘em fat here. Good luck.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s almost turkey season. Is that why you’re here?”

  Joller bobbed his chin, working up a grin. “Yeah, I’m hunting a turkey. You hunt?”

  “Oh, yeah. When I can.”

  “You might be able to tell me where I can find ammo.”

  The attendant frowned. “Nowhere near the airport. You’d have to head into town.
The General Store is north on Division street.”

  “Anything to the south?”

  “No sir. You’ll have to drive into town. The General Store is your best bet.”

  “Fine. Thanks.”

  Joller walked out to the lot and found his vehicle, stowed his things in the back and tossed his carry-on bag over the rear seat. He drove out of the lot onto a narrow highway, following the signs toward I-90, which would take him into Spokane proper. The highway twisted past basalt outcroppings, looking like big crackling columns of chocolate cake, and headed into a stand of tall evergreen trees.

  A truck passed him on the left, then slowed abruptly to cruise along his side. As soon as Joller clocked the odd movement, the truck swerved hard, and its side mirror blasted through Joller’s window. The rain of auto glass blinded him with a thousand little reflections of the morning sun.

  He maintained control of the vehicle with one hand, but that control was of little use blind. The SUV tires hit something, then spun in the air as they left the road. He braced for the inevitable landing. The vehicle bounced off the tires and turned sideways. The rear quarter slammed into an evergreen tree, launching it into a spin through a watery marsh.

  Finally, he came to a stop, and Joller opened his eyes, hands gripping the wheel, veins throbbing in his forearms.

  “Holy shit. Holy shit.” He shook his head to clear it and accepted what was happening. It was sooner than he hoped, and he’d lost the initiative, but he was happy to get it done.

  “Come and get it.”

  He hit the gas, and the SUV lurched forward. For a brief moment, Joller felt joy, but water splashed up into the grill, and tires struggled to find purchase on the mucky bottom. He turned for the upward slope back toward the road, feathering the gas, but it was no good. He was stuck, exposed like a literal sitting duck in the middle of a patch of wetland.

  The truck that’d run him off the road stopped at the edge of the highway ahead, and four men poured out.

  Joller unbuckled his seatbelt and scrambled to the back, fingers reaching for the zipper of the suitcase before he remembered he had no ammo.