night.
Hart wasn’t thinking much about that, though. He was feeling keen satisfaction in the success of the car trick. That he was about to kill two human beings meant nothing to him, nor did the fact there’d be some pleasure in the death of Michelle, who’d shot him, or of the policewoman, who’d tried to. No, this nearly sexual pleasure he felt was due only to the approaching conclusion of a job he’d begun. The bloody deaths of two women happened to be that resolution but, to him, it was no different from that glow he felt when he gave the last fine-steel-wool buff to the lacquer on a cabinet he’d built or dusted herbs on an omelet he’d fixed for a woman who’d spent the night.
Of course, there’d be consequences from the deaths. His life was about to change and he understood that. For instance, the cop’s colleagues would go all out to find her killer. He even wondered whether her kin—husband, brother or father—might take the law into their own hands, if the local investigators didn’t do a very good job finding Hart, which he suspected they wouldn’t.
But if and when the cop’s husband, say, came after him, Hart would create a plan to deal with that. He’d execute it and eliminate the problem. And feel just as satisfied with the symmetry of conclusion as he was about to now, when he fired the fatal bullet into her body.
Hart gingerly tried the knob. Locked. The voicescontinued, unalarmed. Hart pointed to himself and his good shoulder.
Lewis lowered his mouth to Hart’s ear and whispered, “Your arm?”
“I’ll live with it. When I’m through I’ll drop down on the floor and give covering fire. You come in over me and take them out.”
“They have guns, you think?” Glancing toward the door.
“Why take knives if you’ve got guns? But we oughta count on one of them having a piece.”
Lewis nodded and gripped the shotgun, eyed the safety. The red button showed.
Inside, the talking continued, casual as could be.
Hart stepped back, glanced at Lewis, who held the muzzle of the Winchester skyward and nodded. Then, hunched down like a tackle, Hart sped forward and flinched as his right shoulder connected with wood. With a loud crack the lock popped and the door flew inward, but stopped only a few inches inside. Hart gasped as his head slammed into the oak and he stumbled back, stunned.
The door had hit some barricade.
Inside the bedroom the voices stopped instantly.
Hart shoved the door again—it moved no farther—and then snapped to Lewis, “Push, help me. Push! It’s blocked.”
The younger man dug his feet into the carpet but the door wouldn’t budge. “No way. It’s blocked solid.”
Hart looked around the hall. He ran to the bedroom next door, to the right, and pushed his way inside. He searched the room fast. It had a French door leading toa deck outside. He kicked this open and looked out, to the left. The deck was thirty feet long and the bedroom where the women hid opened onto it as well, via a similar French door. There were no stairs off the deck. They hadn’t escaped this way; they were still inside.
Hart called for Lewis to join him. Together they stepped out onto the deck. They moved to the first bedroom, stopping just short of the windows, which were closed, shades pulled or curtains drawn, and it seemed that other pieces of furniture had been pushed against the windows as barricades. The French door, beyond the end of the windows, was curtained as well.
Considering how best to approach the assault, whether the woman would be holding her Glock toward the hall or window, barricades, escape routes—for the women and for Hart and Lewis . . .
Lewis was eager to move but Hart took his time. Finally he decided. “You go down to that door. I’ll stay here and kick this window out and try to push that dresser or table, whatever it is, out of the way. I’ll fire. They’ll focus on that. Then you let go with a couple rounds.”
“Crossfire.”
Hart nodded.
Hart wasn’t thinking much about that, though. He was feeling keen satisfaction in the success of the car trick. That he was about to kill two human beings meant nothing to him, nor did the fact there’d be some pleasure in the death of Michelle, who’d shot him, or of the policewoman, who’d tried to. No, this nearly sexual pleasure he felt was due only to the approaching conclusion of a job he’d begun. The bloody deaths of two women happened to be that resolution but, to him, it was no different from that glow he felt when he gave the last fine-steel-wool buff to the lacquer on a cabinet he’d built or dusted herbs on an omelet he’d fixed for a woman who’d spent the night.
Of course, there’d be consequences from the deaths. His life was about to change and he understood that. For instance, the cop’s colleagues would go all out to find her killer. He even wondered whether her kin—husband, brother or father—might take the law into their own hands, if the local investigators didn’t do a very good job finding Hart, which he suspected they wouldn’t.
But if and when the cop’s husband, say, came after him, Hart would create a plan to deal with that. He’d execute it and eliminate the problem. And feel just as satisfied with the symmetry of conclusion as he was about to now, when he fired the fatal bullet into her body.
Hart gingerly tried the knob. Locked. The voicescontinued, unalarmed. Hart pointed to himself and his good shoulder.
Lewis lowered his mouth to Hart’s ear and whispered, “Your arm?”
“I’ll live with it. When I’m through I’ll drop down on the floor and give covering fire. You come in over me and take them out.”
“They have guns, you think?” Glancing toward the door.
“Why take knives if you’ve got guns? But we oughta count on one of them having a piece.”
Lewis nodded and gripped the shotgun, eyed the safety. The red button showed.
Inside, the talking continued, casual as could be.
Hart stepped back, glanced at Lewis, who held the muzzle of the Winchester skyward and nodded. Then, hunched down like a tackle, Hart sped forward and flinched as his right shoulder connected with wood. With a loud crack the lock popped and the door flew inward, but stopped only a few inches inside. Hart gasped as his head slammed into the oak and he stumbled back, stunned.
The door had hit some barricade.
Inside the bedroom the voices stopped instantly.
Hart shoved the door again—it moved no farther—and then snapped to Lewis, “Push, help me. Push! It’s blocked.”
The younger man dug his feet into the carpet but the door wouldn’t budge. “No way. It’s blocked solid.”
Hart looked around the hall. He ran to the bedroom next door, to the right, and pushed his way inside. He searched the room fast. It had a French door leading toa deck outside. He kicked this open and looked out, to the left. The deck was thirty feet long and the bedroom where the women hid opened onto it as well, via a similar French door. There were no stairs off the deck. They hadn’t escaped this way; they were still inside.
Hart called for Lewis to join him. Together they stepped out onto the deck. They moved to the first bedroom, stopping just short of the windows, which were closed, shades pulled or curtains drawn, and it seemed that other pieces of furniture had been pushed against the windows as barricades. The French door, beyond the end of the windows, was curtained as well.
Considering how best to approach the assault, whether the woman would be holding her Glock toward the hall or window, barricades, escape routes—for the women and for Hart and Lewis . . .
Lewis was eager to move but Hart took his time. Finally he decided. “You go down to that door. I’ll stay here and kick this window out and try to push that dresser or table, whatever it is, out of the way. I’ll fire. They’ll focus on that. Then you let go with a couple rounds.”
“Crossfire.”
Hart nodded.
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