7th Heaven - James Patterson [32]
Steven wanted to keep denying the wordless terror that was flooding his mind — but he couldn’t block it out anymore. These kids were going to kill them — unless, somehow . . .
“I don’t want to shoot you, lady,” Pidge said. “Drop all the way to the floor. You, too, buddy. Hurry up now.”
Steven got to his knees, pleaded. “We’ll do what you say. Take it all,” he said. “Take everything we have. Just don’t, please, don’t hurt us.”
“Good attitude,” Pidge said, shoving Sandy Meacham to the floor with his foot, standing behind her as her husband lay facedown on the Persian carpet.
“Hands behind your backs, if you’ll be so kind,” Pidge said. He took a reel of fishing line out of his back pocket, wrapped the monofilament fiber tightly around the Meachams’ wrists. Then he tugged off their shoes, stripped off Sandy’s socks, and began winding fishing line around Steven Meacham’s ankles.
“I’ll let you in on something,” Pidge said. “Actually, we’re not fraternity types like Scotty.” He tugged down Sandy’s elastic-waisted pants and underwear in one motion. Sandy yelped.
“Where’s your safe, Mr. M.? What’s the combination?” Hawk asked.
“We don’t have a safe,” Meacham said.
“Hawk, go back upstairs,” said Pidge. “I’ll keep these folks company.”
He slapped Sandy’s buttocks playfully, laughing as Meacham cried out, “There’s some money inside the humidor on my dresser. You can have it. Take it all!”
Pidge turned up the TV volume to high, balled Sandy’s socks, jammed a woolen gag into each of the Meachams’ mouths. As Sandy whimpered and squirmed, he slapped her buttocks again, this time almost tenderly; then reluctantly, Pidge tied her ankles together with the fishing line. That done, he broke the neck of the second bottle of Cointreau against the mantelpiece. He poured liquor on a pile of newspapers by the upholstered chair, into a basket of yarn, doused the Meachams’ hair and their clothing, Meacham shouting against the sock in his mouth, starting to gag.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Pidge said, reasonably. “You could drown on your own vomit. That would be nasty, bud.”
Hawk came down the stairs into the living room, a cigar in his mouth, jangling a lumpy pillowcase.
“Swag,” he said, grinning. “About five grand in the humidor. Oh, and I got a book.”
Pidge bent to Sandy Meacham, who was moaning half naked at his feet. He twisted the diamond rings off her fingers, then shouted into Steven Meacham’s ear.
“What is it you people like to say? Living well is the best revenge? Well, enjoy your revenge. And thanks for the stuff.”
“Ready?” Hawk asked.
Pidge finished writing the inscription and capped the pen.
“Veni, vidi, vici, bro,” Pidge said, lighting matches and dropping them where he’d poured the Cointreau.
VOOOOOOM.
Flames flared up around the room. Smoke billowed, darkening the air. The Meachams couldn’t see the two young men wave good-bye as they left by the front door.
Chapter 43
THE SMELL OF BURNED FLESH hit us before we crossed the threshold into the smoking ruins of the Meacham house in Cow Hollow. It had once been an architectural masterpiece. Now it was a crypt.
Arson investigator Chuck Hanni stepped out of the shadows to greet us. He looked uncharacteristically tired and grim.
“My second job tonight,” he explained.
“The first one was like this?” Conklin asked.
“Nope. Meth lab explosion,” Hanni said. “Victim was blown out of the house and into the back of her pickup truck.” He shook his head. “Now this is exactly like the Malone fire.”
We followed Hanni into what was once the Meachams’ living room. I imagined the space as it once was — the cathedral ceiling, the massive fireplace, and the mirror above the mantel. Now it was all smoke-blackened gilt and carbon-streaked marble. The bodies were lying close together in three inches of black water, flat on their stomachs, hands curled in a pugilistic attitude, the result of tendons tightening