“We’ll take him with us,” Jennie said quickly.
“To hell with that.” He glanced around. “Where’s the cell key? Lock him up!”
“He’s just a kid, Mal. Besides, I don’t want to worry about what they’ll use him for next. Let’s bring him with us, and maybe we can shake him out of this. Or at least learn more about these goddamn things.”
His finger still put pressure on the trigger as he scanned the floor for the key. He didn’t see it, but then he noticed the handcuffs clipped to the belt of the unconscious Detective Hope. He knelt, set the gun aside, grabbed the handcuffs. Jennie reached through the bars and clutched the boy by the front of his shirt, holding tight as she dragged boy and door toward her—just enough that Malcolm could snatch at the boy’s wrists and close the handcuffs around them. The boy cursed and spat, and Malcolm smashed him in the head with the butt of the gun.
The kid dropped, alive and somehow still conscious, but barely able to focus.
“Fine. We take him,” he said.
Jennie turned the boy over, grabbed him by the handcuffs and the seat of his pants, and hauled him to his feet.
A uniformed police officer staggered into the hallway from the back office. Blood streamed down the man’s face. His left arm seemed bent in wrong places. The cop collapsed, revealing Alfie behind him. The Irishman had a bullet wound in his shoulder and blood on his face and clothes, but Malcolm didn’t know how much of that blood belonged to him.
“Tell me where Maggie’s body is,” Alfie demanded, chest heaving with ragged breaths.
“You know I won’t do that,” Malcolm said. “If you were in your right mind, you wouldn’t ask.”
Alfie’s face contorted with pain and effort, as if he fought himself on the inside. “I don’t want to kill you people. Tell me and you can go.”
“Go to hell.”
“The woman, Violet,” Alfie went on. “Where isshe, then? Has she taken your mother’s corpse somewhere else? How far have they gone?”
Malcolm understood then. This was why the Morák had sent Alfie and the boy in now instead of waiting for nightfall. They were afraid Violet had taken the body, that she was driving on without them, and that they would never be able to find her in time.
“I don’t know where they are,” he lied.
Alfie sneered. “You’ve arranged to meet. You promised to bring your mother’s body home. You won’t break that promise.”
“No, I won’t.”
A gunshot echoed through the hall. Alfie stumbled forward, dropping to his knees.
Violet stood behind him holding a gun that matched Malcolm’s—another weapon dropped by a dead or wounded cop.She looked pale, but her jaw remained grimly set. He doubted she’d ever shot a man before, but she wouldn’t allow this to unravel her. It didn’t surprise Malcolm to see how much backbone she had, but it looked as if she might have surprised herself.
“Malcolm, we need to go now,” Jennie said, hoisting the thrashing boy off the ground by the cuffs and the back of his pants. “Come on, Violet! Front door!”
Violet darted up the hall toward them.
Still on his knees, Alfie reached for her as she passed. Malcolm shot him. The bullet tore through his left side and Alfie toppled backward, twitched, and didn’t move except to open his mouth and moan.
They didn’t look to see if he still lived, or if any of the police officers were still alive. They ran through the front desk. Malcolm spotted a cop crouched behind the desk, but the guy barely seemed to notice them. Jennie held the thrashing boy. Violet flung open the door, and they ran out into the rain.
“The funeral home,” Malcolm said, wondering how many hours, how many minutes, before sunset. Whatever head start they could manage, they needed every second.
Violet pointed west. “Down that way. But we have no wheels. The bus ran out of gas miles outside of town.”
Malcolm tucked Detective Hope’s weapon into his rear waistband and looked at his sister. The boy had stopped thrashing in her arms and she had set him down on his feet, but she held him by his shirt collar. He lowered his chin and glared up at Malcolm as if he thought he could boil blood with a glance.
“Steal us another car, Jen,” he said. “Knock the hell out of anyone who tries to stop you. Pick us up in front of the funeral home.”
Jennie gripped the back of the kid’s shirt. “What about him?”
“Put him in the trunk,” Malcolm replied. “He’s too dangerous any other way, and we’re gonna have our hands full.”
Jennie hesitated, fighting either with the logistics or her conscience. Practicality won out—what other choice did they have?She grabbed the boy by the shoulder and the belt, then hoisted him over her shoulder. “Don’t fight me, Benjy. If I have to hurt you to save you, I will.”
