She hugged him. “It’s so cool! Bring it with.” And held it out.
Merritt stood away from the girl. “You hold on to it.”
She frowned. “But...”
He said, “You all go first.” He picked up the keys to the deputy’s car and handed the Buick’s to Shaw. “A half mile up the road, on the right. I nosed her into some juniper and forsythia.”
“No, Daddy, come with us!”
Merritt said, “We’ve gotta be smart about this. Trick ’em. You hike out through the woods. I’ll start up the car, drive it back and forth, like it’s stuck. You drive to Millton and send back the cavalry.”
“Jon, no!” Parker said.
“It’s all going to be fine. When I left prison yesterday, this guard, he said I was a lucky man. Well, he put it a little different. But he did say ‘lucky.’ And I am. Luckiest man in the world.” He cast a look to his daughter. “Hey, Han, come here a minute.”
Merritt stepped to the corner and Hannah joined him. He bent down, his mouth close to his daughter’s ear. He whispered. As he did her face grew still. Then he stepped back and watched her, his own expression one of uncertainty. After a moment she hugged himand she too whispered words that were also inaudible to Shaw and Parker.
Merritt joined Shaw and they distributed weapons. Shaw took the Glock, Merritt the shotgun, and he placed the revolvers and extra ammunition into the backpack, which he slung over his shoulder.
The men shook hands.
Merritt walked to his former wife, hugged her and kissed her cheek.
“Daddy, please...” Hannah tried one more time.
“All good, Han.” He laughed. “There’re only two of ’em. Against me? They don’t stand a chance.”
85
Lying in a clearing on the hill overlooking the cabin, Moll wondered how long it would be until their reinforcements arrived. Three more men, three more guns.
He scanned the scene, the barrel of the long Winchester, the gun he loved like kin, easing back and forth as he sighted along the porch. The moon was low and lopped in half, but it provided some light. Enough to shoot by.
A glance down. His phone showed the time, but there was still no signal. That wouldn’t last. Marty Harmon had told him the power to the local cell tower could only be cut for so long.
He let the gun sit on the sandbag he was using for a shooting rest and sprayed Benadryl on his arms and neck.
He scanned the cabin again, Kristi’s car, her body...
A crack of twig behind him. He turned, pistol ready.
The men Harmon had sent to help finish the job.
Desmond had led them from where they’d parked, next to the Transit, on a nearby logging road. Beside his partner was a heavyset redhead of about fifty and, behind, two men who seemed to be in their late twenties. They were all dressed in dark clothing, jacketsand chino-style pants, tactical gear lite. The younger ones toted long gray plastic cases.
Moll had known Dominic Ryan for years. The man had hired him and Desmond a few times to make some bodies and dispose of them. And he’d also hired them to dispose of bodies that Ryan’s men themselves had made.
Crazy thing, this present job: Harmon hiring Moll and Desmond to kill the girl—along with her mother and Merritt himself, making it look like a revenge murder-suicide. Then, out of the blue, Merritt pays Ryan to find out if there was an open hit. Ryan jumped at the chance and called Moll, who put Ryan and Harmon together. It became a joint venture, which it needed to be because the missus and the kid took off. A four-hour job turned into this mess.
Moll stood, looked over the young coworkers. The bony pair had sneery faces, even when they weren’t sneering, and Moll could imagine them looking forward to beating people for late vig payments and protection money.
Moll thought again about the Irish rebels in a past life.
“The Rising of the Moon.” Ah, that was the song.
Moll and Harmon had decided that since the murder-suicide fiction would no longer work, they’d create a new scenario: the killing of the family would look like revenge for one of Merritt’s past cases. Maybe one of those ganja crews, maybe one of the corrupt county officials he’d brought down. Ryan would get some confidential informants to leak the word. Maybe one of the Irish kids had some weed and they would plant it here. Point fingers at the Jamaicans. Shaw would die too.
Dawndue...