Sweet Dreams
Page 172

“Fuck!” Tate barked.
“I take it we got no support from the Carnal PD,” Wood noted, his voice vibrating with anger.
Tate’s eyes went to his friend.
“Got your .38?” Tate asked Wood and Wood’s eyes narrowed on him.
“Tate,” he said, his voice gentling.
“Didn’t want to leave the house armed, Jonas would see. Need a gun, Wood,” Tate stated.
“You think –?”
“I asked,” Tate cut him off, “do you got your .38?”
Wood sucked in breath. Then he jogged to his office. By the time he jogged out of the office to Tate’s Explorer, Tate was behind the wheel, the SUV was idling.
Tate’s head turned to him when he swung in.
“Got it?” he asked.
Wood handed over the .38 and Tate noted Wood had a nine millimeter. Tate took the .38, released the clip, studied it a split second, jammed it back in and then leaned forward so he could slide the gun in the back waistband of his jeans.
Then he put the truck into reverse and sped backwards out of his parking spot in front of the garage.
* * * * *
Lauren
He’d cleaned the knife of my blood on the mattress and then cut the length of my hair off with it, cutting it at my shoulders, getting started, the rest would go later, I knew. He was shoving my hair into a new baggie when it happened.
The door flew open and Jim-Billy was there.
I was so shocked, and thrilled, and hopeful, thinking Tate would come in next, my whole body bucked, apparently violently because, surprisingly, the rusty pipe my hands were tied to at the radiator pulled clean away from the wall.
“What the –?” Dalton gritted out, getting up, whirling, armed with the knife.
It hurt like hell, pain slicing through the wound at my side, but I had to get up, I had to get out of there. I sat up, yanked the gag from my mouth, leaned double and went for the ropes at my right foot.
“He’s got a knife!” I shouted but I did this over a gun blast.
I looked up and saw Dalton go back, blood pouring from a wound in his middle.
Then Jim-Billy was skidding on his knees, stopping at my left foot, he put the gun down clumsily and then his fingers were on the ropes.
“We gotta get you outta here, Laurie,” Jim-Billy said, slurring only slightly, calling my attention from Dalton, who had his back to the wall and his hand to his middle, blood seeping through his fingers, his face pale, his eyes blank, his body beginning to slide down the wall. “Get your other foot free, darlin’.”
I went back to work on my foot as Jim-Billy got the left one untied. Then he shuffled over to my right one, pushed my awkward hands away and worked that one.
I was free and Jim-Billy grabbed my hand, straightening and beginning to pull me up with him, when Dalton was suddenly there. Dalton hit Jim-Billy in a flying tackle, Jim-Billy and Dalton went careening to the side and I fought through the pain and instead of falling back, I pushed to a crouch, one of my hands going to the wetness at my side. The other one reaching out toward Jim-Billy’s gun.
“Go! Go! Go!” The last “go” Jim-Billy uttered ended in a grunt, Dalton rolled off of him and I saw his knife jutting out of Jim-Billy’s belly.
“No!” I screamed.
“Go,” Jim-Billy whispered, I stared into his pain-filled eyes and hesitated.
I looked at Dalton whose eyes came to me.
I was in no shape to help Jim-Billy. I had to find help.
I had to get to Tate.
I stopped reaching for the gun, found my feet and ran.
* * * * *
Tate
“Simpson,” Tate muttered into the cab.
“What?” Wood asked.
“Jane Simpson,” Tate kept muttering.
“Tate… what?” Wood bit out.
“Jesus, f**k, Wood, you remember that girl, she was ahead of us in school, two, three years. Whole town was talking about it. She got knocked up. Then she started dating that guy from Ouray, he was here, forget, working on an oil rigger or somethin’. She moved back to his town with him then she got killed and he got life for doin’ it.”
“Oh f**k. Yeah,” Wood replied.
“She was blonde. Blue eyes. Like her kid. Remember her kid?” Tate asked.
He felt Wood’s head turn to him in the dark. “The Simpson place.”
“Old one lane track. Not paved. Remember it only ‘cause Amelia’s kid went missin’. Cops formed search parties, we went through these hills. I found him by that track, wondered what it was, stayed curious and looked it up when I got back to the station. The Simpsons left it to their daughter and it went to the kid when she was murdered. He never paid taxes on it and the government seized it but never did anything with it. They let it sit. Fuck, no one would know it was even there, they didn’t know to look for it.”
“You remember where it is?” Wood asked.
“Yeah, call Deke, Bub, get everyone headed there,” Tate ordered and Wood moved to pull out his phone.
Even so, he asked, “You that sure, Buck? Pullin’ the boys, focusin’ in one direction?”
Tate had lived by his gut a long time, not only on the hunt or as a cop but also on the football field. You looked at someone running at you, you needed to take them down, or you were following a receiver running a play, you had to go with your gut about which way they’d bolt to avoid you or which way they’d turn to catch a pass because you sure as f**k didn’t want to go the other way. Tate couldn’t say he picked the right direction every time but he didn’t make the All-America team two years in a row picking the wrong direction.
“Get everyone headed there, Wood.”
“Gotcha,” Wood muttered then said in the phone, “Bub, Tate’s thinkin’ it’s Jane Simpson’s son. The Simpson place. Get the word out…”
And Wood talked as Tate drove.
Fast.
* * * * *
Lauren
I was running down the hill, my entire side had gone passed pain and felt like a ball of flame and I knew he was after me. I could hear him crashing through the wood behind me. We both were injured but he knew these woods. He’d already caught me once. He knew them.
And I didn’t.
But they were Sunny’s hills and Tate found people for a living.
He’d know.
He’d know.
He’d know to look for me here.
Pray God, he’d know.
“Help!” I shouted, hoping they were out looking for me and someone would hear. “Help! Help! Please, please, please help me!”