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She then let loose of the slide, chambering another round. She stuck the pistol and extra magazines into her bag with everything else, then dropped in the plastic case, slamming the door shut.
—
Maggie McCain climbed into the Land Cruiser and with effort put the now heavy canvas bag on the front passenger seat. Tires squealed as she quickly backed out of the garage.
When she slid to a stop in the alleyway and looked up through the snow that now fell steadily, she could not believe her eyes. The entire second floor was engulfed in flames. And the flames were quickly spreading to the third floor.
The sirens were getting louder.
It’s all too little too late.
Poor Krystal . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by her work cell phone ringing. She tugged it out of her pocket, looked down—and gasped.
The screen read KRYSTAL G.
That’s impossible!
She’s . . . she’s . . .
After a moment, the call went to voice mail, and a moment later Maggie touched the message icon that appeared on-screen.
Over the speakerphone, a Latin male’s voice, with a siren growing in the background, growled: “I told those putas to keep their fuckin’ mouths shut. Now I’m tellin’ you, bitch—”
Her heart raced. She dropped the cell phone as if it also were on fire.
She put her hand over her mouth, staring at the phone on the floorboard until its screen dimmed and went dark.
She looked out the windshield, her mind starting to spin as she watched the flames.
That was the guy . . . Ricky?
He’s here! And knows my number!
He has to know about Mary’s House. . . .
What else is on Krystal’s phone?
Her mind flashed with the scene of the burning kitchen and the girl, lifeless on the floor in a pool of her own blood.
The sirens screamed closer.
She shook her head, trying to clear it.
She jerked the gearshift into drive and floored the accelerator.
She frantical
ly slapped at the door panel, finally finding the window switches. The right front and rear windows both went down at once. Bitter cold air blew into the SUV.
She felt as if she were going to start shaking, from both the chill and the fear, and forced it back.
She then reached down to the floorboard, grabbed the cell phone, and threw it. It went out the front window, disappearing into the thick snowflakes. Then she hit the switches again, putting the windows up.
As she skidded to a stop at the end of the alleyway, an enormous red fire truck filled the windshield. Engine 11 flashed past, its siren wailing and emergency lights pulsing in the falling snow.
Crying, she dug the Baby Glock out of the bag while watching the fire truck make a right turn onto her street.
