No Time for Goodbye - Linwood Barclay [121]
When the turnoff to Youngstown came, I was hugely relieved, figuring I was more vulnerable, more noticeable, on the expressway. But then, what if the police were waiting for us at the Sloan house? The hospital would be able to tell them where their runaway patient lived, and they’d probably stake the place out. What terminal patient doesn’t want to go home and die in his own bed?
I drove the truck down to Main, hung a left, went south a couple of miles and turned down the road to the Sloan house. It looked peaceful enough as we drove up to it, a couple of lights on inside, the Honda Accord still parked out front.
No police cars anywhere to be seen. Yet.
“I’m going to drive the truck around back where it can’t be seen from the street,” I said. Clayton nodded. I wheeled the truck onto the back lawn, killed the lights and engine.
“Just go on,” Clayton said. “See about your friend. I’ll try to catch up with you.”
I leapt out, went to a back door. When I found it locked, I banged on it. “Vince!” I shouted. I looked through the windows, didn’t see any movement. I ran around the house to the front, looking up and down the street for police cars, and tried the main door.
It was unlocked.
“Vince!” I said, stepping into the front hall. I didn’t immediately see Enid Sloan, or her chair, or Vince Fleming.
Not until I got to the kitchen.
Enid wasn’t there, and neither was her chair. But Vince lay on the floor, the back of his shirt red with blood.
“Vince,” I said, kneeling down next to him. “Jesus, Vince.” I thought he was dead, but he let out a soft moan. “Oh God, man, you’re still alive.”
“Terry,” he whispered, his right cheek pressed to the floor. “She had a…she had a fucking gun under the blanket.” His eyes were flirting with rolling up under his lids. There was blood coming out of his mouth. “Fucking embarrassing…”
“Don’t talk,” I said. “I’m going to call 911.”
I found the phone, snatched the receiver into my hand, and punched in the three numbers.
“A man’s been shot,” I said. I barked out the address, told the operator to hurry, ignored all her other questions, and hung up.
“He came home,” Vince whispered when I knelt down next to him again. “Jeremy…she met him at the door, didn’t even let him come in…said they had to go right then. She phoned him…after she shot me, said step on it.”
“Jeremy was here?”
“I heard them talking….” More blood spluttered out of his mouth. “Going back. She wouldn’t even let him come in and take a piss. Didn’t want him to see me…Didn’t tell him…”
What was Enid thinking? What was going on in her head?
At the front door, I could hear Clayton shuffling his way into the house.
“Fuck, it hurts….” Vince said. “Fucking little old lady.”
“You’re going to be okay,” I said.
“Terry,” he said, so softly I almost couldn’t hear. I put my ear closer to his mouth. “Look in…on Jane. Okay?”
“Hang in there, man. Just hang in.”
43
Clayton said, “Enid never answers the door without a gun under her blanket. Certainly not when she’s home alone.”
He’d managed to make it into the kitchen and was using the counter for support as he looked down at Vince Fleming. He was taking a moment to catch his breath. The walk from the truck around to the front of the house and inside had worn him out.
Once he had a bit of strength back, he said, “She can be easy to underestimate. An old woman in a wheelchair. She’d have waited for her moment. When he had his back to her, when he was close enough that she knew she couldn’t miss, she’d have done it.” He shook his head. “No one ever really stands a chance against Enid.”
I still had my mouth close to Vince’s ear. “I’ve called for an ambulance. They’re coming.”
“Yeah,” Vince said, his eyelids fluttering.
“But we’re going to have to take off. We have to go after Enid and Jeremy. They’re going after my wife and my daughter.”
“Do what you gotta do,” Vince whispered.
To Clayton, I said, “He said Jeremy