Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,142
one Neala told you died? He didn’t, but he’s a retard. They keep him locked in a bomb shelter under the property, so they can use his powers.”
“Neala?” A plea now, Rhys begging her to tell him this was another of Adele’s lies.
Neala’s pain hit Hope again, knocking her back into Karl’s arms, her eyelids fluttering, seeing Neala step toward Rhys, her lips parting in an apology that Hope heard, over and over, in Neala’s thoughts, but wouldn’t reach her lips. Then, behind her, Adele spun, grabbing the gun from Lily’s hand.
A scream. A shot. Neala staggered, eyes rounding, that apology stuttering in her head, desperately trying to find a way out, and then the chaos, the sweet, sweet chaos . . .
“Neala!” Rhys shot forward, grabbing her.
Hope tried to focus, but the chaos was so sweet, so perfectly sweet . . .
“Call an ambulance!” Rhys shouted.
It wouldn’t help. Hope could feel Neala’s life seeping away, her terror, chaos thundering all around, then a young man’s voice yelling, “Niko! Niko!”
Footsteps pounded across the patio stones.
“Niko! Men—” Panting, gasping for breath. “Armed men. Guns. Hugh saw them. They’re—they’re all around—”
A scream cut him off. Then another.
Niko’s voice rose above them. “No! It’s all right. They aren’t here to hurt us. Stay calm. Everyone stay—”
A shot. A crack. The peppery smell of tear gas. A long, keening scream. Then the smoldering pit of chaos detonated.
FINN
* * *
FINN GOT HIMSELF and Robyn close enough to see what was going on, but they couldn’t hear it. He’d sent Damon for that. Damon hadn’t been pleased; he wanted to watch over Robyn. Finn could have pointed out that if they were attacked, there was nothing Damon could do, but that would be cruel. Instead, he told Robyn they’d need to get closer, so they could listen in and, at that, Damon decided he could handle eavesdropping duty.
They were still in the small strip of woods bordering the property. Finn had caught a glimpse of Solheim, patrolling the fence. He was sticking to his post, though. His only task now was preventing Finn and Robyn from leaving.
As for who Solheim and the others really were and how they got here and where Madoz was, those were questions for later. With cell reception and the route to his radio blocked, he was on his own. As he watched the drama unfolding in the distance he had a feeling that being alone might be a good thing. Bringing in the law could turn a touchy situation into a tragedy. If Robyn was right, Adams and the others operated outside the law for good reason.
Adams, Marsten and Rhys stood in a garden between a cluster of four houses. Finn counted six people with them. There could be more standing at the perimeter, but his angle wasn’t good, the houses partially blocking it.
He could clearly see Adams and Marsten, and that was the important thing. Together with Rhys, they were bookended by men with rifles, but those weapons dangled, a perfunctory threat. The only other gun he could see was held by a dark-haired girl, pointed at a young blonde whose face he’d never forget.
That face was now bloodied and battered, which brought a smile to Finn’s lips. He felt a twinge of guilt at that, hearing his mother admonish him against ever taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. But it was a very small twinge.
Clearly Adele Morrissey’s crimes had been exposed and now they seemed to be negotiating to turn her over to Adams and Marsten. And though they didn’t seem to be in immediate danger from the commune people, he had to get a warning to them about these guys.
At a movement, he glanced over to see Damon jogging back. Perfect timing. He’d get a report on the whereabouts of the fake police squad, then—
“They’re going to stone her!” Damon called, still running.
“Stone?” Finn said.
“A stone what?” Robyn said, popping out from behind the binoculars. A sheepish smile. “Sorry.” She paused, then said hesitantly, “Is Damon back?”
Finn nodded. Her gaze traveled past him, searching for some sign of Damon. Disappointment flickered through her eyes, so sharp it was like an ice pick, a breathtaking jab of empathetic pain.
“Finn?” Damon waved his hands in front of Finn’s face. “Could you stop staring at my wife and listen to me?”
Finn thought he heard a bite in Damon’s voice, but when he glanced up, the ghost just looked impatient.