Page 140 of The Instruments of Darkness

Olin turned to Antoine.

“If it’s been dead that long,” he said, “how come we didn’t smell it before now?”

Antoine heard a noise from behind him, like a big animal breaking through the undergrowth.

“The hell was that?” asked one of the women. Her name was Cass, and she carried a semiautomatic rifle on one shoulder. She was already antsy because her boyfriend Lars had yet to return from his scouting mission at the old property on the Michaud land and Antoine was having a difficult time persuading her not to go after him. Now she slipped the rifle and flipped the safety while Antoine removed the automatic pistol from his belt, both of them moving in the direction of the disturbance. Antoine tossed aside the rag, but the smell didn’t strike him as any less strong, even though they were leaving the dead skunk behind. It was different, maybe, but—

“Clear the camp!” he shouted. “We got a propane leak. Wake anyone who’s sleeping and start—”

And the first of the incendiaries exploded.

ELLAR MICHAUD’S ARM DIDN’T hurt much as yet. He’d felt it break as soon as he landed and knew it was a bad one, but for the present the shock was insulating him from the pain. He heard Antoine Pinette shouting about a propane leak, which confirmed what a smart son of a bitch he was. The noise of Ellar’s fall had attracted attention, but if he tried to stand, he’d make himself a target; if he remained where he was, any flashlight beams would pass over him. Anyway, it wouldn’t be long before Pinette and the others had more pressing problems to occupy them.

Although Ellar had been bracing himself for the explosion, it came sooner and louder than he’d expected. A wash of heat and flame rose from the camp, expanding as it went. Ellar felt it scorch his face and watched as the trees caught fire like great matches igniting. Moments later detritus descended on him as the wreckage from the camp, driven high into the air, came down on the forest. Ellar curled into a ball and put his right arm over his head to protect himself. A heavy object landed inches from his chest. When he opened his eyes, he saw a spiked shard of metal, about three feet in length and two inches in width embedded in the dirt. Aline would have said that the entity was looking out for him because he was doing its work. At that moment, Ellar might not have disagreed.

The rain of debris eased, but there was no longer any point in Ellar remaining where he was. A fire was blazing where the first device had gone off, illuminating the ground on which he lay, and soon he would be visible to anyone who glanced in his direction. But for the present, the occupants of the camp were still recovering from the shock of the first blast, and the second was imminent. A woman was screaming. Ellar knew that pitch. It was the sound of someone dying in pain.

Now the rest of the propane tanks exploded, this time closer to where Ellar was lying. The sudden light, noise, and heat were beyond anything he had ever experienced, and he was momentarily deafened. He was also convinced that, even at this distance, he was in danger of dying in the conflagration, so once more he made himself as small as he could while the woods grew bright as day. More metal and rubble came down, but Ellar only heard it land because his eyes were squeezed shut. Then the hard rain ceased, leaving only the crackle of burning. The woman, whoever she was, had stopped screaming, but other cries replaced hers. Ellar heard moaning, and a child weeping. He hadn’t realized there might be children in the camp. It had only been adults out there until now. One of Pinette’s women must have brought a kid with her—or more than one, because their kind were promiscuous. Ellar felt the mildest sense of regret, but no more. A child had no business being around a place like that, filled with guns and criminals. Some harm was bound to come to them, one way or another.

Ellar could make out people stumbling amid the smoke and flame of the ruined camp. He got to his feet, picked up his duffel with his good hand, and slung it over his shoulder. He checked the area around him to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything that might alert investigators to the likelihood of the explosions being non-accidental, but the spot looked clear. True, the decoy skunk might cause problems, assuming Pinette or any of the others involved in that discussion remained alive to point to it, but an investigation would still struggle to lay the blame at the Michauds’ doorstep, whatever accusations might be thrown around. Anyway, with luck the fire might reach the skunk and burn it, too.

And Ellar had an alibi: his sisters would swear that he’d been at the house the whole time. As for his fractured arm, accidents happened. It wasn’t the first break he’d suffered, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The injury would serve to strengthen his alibi, because his sisters would confirm that he’d fallen earlier that evening, but was too stubborn to get it attended to. A man with a broken arm wasn’t going to be in any state to attack an armed camp.

Ellar cast one last glance at the conflagration before heading south toward the creek, and home.

CHAPTER XCV

The first explosion saved my life. Eliza Michaud jerked the barrel at the sound of the blast, sending the shot over my head to shatter the darkened window behind me. She pivoted to her left and fired the second round at Louis. It missed him and hit a tree, but I heard him swear as a shower of splinters erupted from the trunk. By then Eliza was retreating into the safety of the forest, beyond the reach of the light. She’d need time to reload, which would be our chance to take her.

Before I could move, another shotgun blast came from the ruined window over my head, nearly bursting my eardrums, but this time the firing was directed at the woods. Flattened as I was against the side of the house, I couldn’t be seen by whoever was inside, but they were trying to prevent Louis from going after Eliza before she could reload. There came the distinctive sound of a shell being racked and the shotgun roared again. I couldn’t see Louis, which meant he was lying low—always a good policy when someone turns a shotgun on you—but I couldn’t stay where I was. It wouldn’t be long before Eliza rejoined the fight, and my crouching against the white wall of a house while bathed in a halogen glow would not be conducive to a long and happy life.

A second explosion came from the north, this one bigger and louder than the first, and a ball of flame rose over the trees. Hoping that it might further distract the shooter, I duckwalked to the back door, found it unlocked, and eased it open. I was in a kitchen, which extended into a living area, the TV visible beside one of the front windows. There was no apparent connecting door from the kitchen to the room with the shooter, so I’d have to get to the living room and come in behind them.

A chunk of plaster erupted from the wall opposite, reducing a vase to fragments. Someone else inside the house had drawn the shooter’s fire. It had to be Angel, coming in from the front. Despite the ringing in my ears, I picked up the sound of footsteps crunching over broken glass. The shooter was moving to tackle the new threat, and I moved with them. I reached the archway leading to the living room as a woman inched her way forward, the barrel of the pump-action roaming for a target. I let her take five more steps so she presented a clear target. Only then did I speak.

“Don’t move,” I said. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

Even with her back to me and her face concealed, I could tell she was weighing her options. They were only two: she could do as I said or she could die. I hoped she’d take the first. I never wanted to shoot another woman—or a man either, if it could be avoided.

Slowly, she lowered the shotgun.

“Set it down,” I said.

She did as she was told. Only when it was on the ground did I move in. I pushed her flat on the floor and searched her, but she had no other weapon. Angel arrived while I still had my knee in her back.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Check upstairs.”

I turned the woman onto her back. She possessed the hard features of a Dorothea Lange subject from the Great Depression. This was Aline Michaud.

“Mattia Reggio,” I said. “Where is he?”

Her mouth moved, but only to form enough spittle to shoot into my face. I wiped it off. From where I knelt, I could see the underside of the kitchen table. A pink mound was lodged there. I thought I knew what it was: Mattia Reggio leaving his calling card, consciously or unconsciously. Perhaps he had known he might be about to die.

I returned my attention to Aline Michaud.

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