“Pay attention, Princess. I want you to hold your arm as far away from your body as you can. It’s for your own good, believe me. If you can keep it far enough away, you might lose no more than your hand and forearm.”
I realize I’m clenching and unclenching my own hands. Why else would they have freed my hands except to use them in the same way?
Whatever self-control Caitlin still possesses is fast draining away. Her face is so pale that even the cigarette burn has lost its redness.
“We don’t know the name!” I scream at Brody. “Torturing us won’t change that!”
“You don’t know it,” he says with calm assurance. “But I’ll tell you what I think. I think she winkled the name out of Sexton but kept it from you. She knew she couldn’t trust you not to use it as currency to buy your father back.”
Could he be right?
“Your arm,” Brody says patiently, trying to penetrate Caitlin’s now-infantile terror. “Hold it way out to the side, like this.” The old man extends his left arm, then tilts his head far in the opposite direction and covers his eyes with his other hand. “You don’t want your face spoiled any worse than it already is, do you?”
As Randall Regan tests the trigger, a three-foot jet of fire spurts from the pipe in his hand, roaring like an overfilled propane barbecue grill erupting into flame. Royal motions him farther back.
Regan backs up until he’s twenty yards away from Caitlin, then squares the cylinders on his shoulders, preparing to fire. “I’m going to walk it up from the floor.”
“Try to keep it off her legs. I want her able to talk, at least, after the first blast.”
My field of vision tunnels down to Caitlin’s face: the fresh burn scar on her cheek, the abject terror in her eyes. I half expect her to faint, but after five or six seconds, she slowly lifts her right hand and holds it away from her body. As the pilot jet roars softly, I say a silent prayer: For God’s sake, give him a name, any name at all—
Regan’s finger crooks into the trigger guard.
“Gates Brown!” Caitlin screams. “His name is Gates Brown!”
After so much tension, these two simple words silence the room as surely as the arrival of a stranger.
To my surprise, Brody holds up his hand to stop Regan from firing. Caitlin is sobbing softly, like a broken woman. “Gates Brown” seems to have triggered some association in Royal’s mind, one he can’t quite place. I only pray that he’s not as big a baseball fan as John Kaiser’s radioman in Vietnam. Of course, his son-in-law might be—
“She’s lying,” Regan says. “Look at her. Let me do her, Brody. It’s the only way to know for sure.”
“Quiet,” Royal snaps, watching Caitlin with suspicion. “I remember that name, Randall. Gates Brown …”
Sweat glistens on Regan’s face. “She’s lying, I tell you!”
When Brody ignores him, Regan fires another blast downrange, filling the tunnel with a hellish flare. The burning oil flies thirty yards in the air, then hits the concrete floor and slides along it like a fiery flood until it meets the wall of rail ties.
“Goddamn it!” Brody shouts. “I said wait!”
Regan refuses to meet Brody’s eyes. “She’s not gonna tell you without the fire.”
Picking up the fire extinguisher, Brody hurries down to the wall and sprays the base of the blaze that Regan unleashed, but the foam does little to smother the napalm-like mixture. After a few more attempts, he sets down the silver canister and walks back up to Caitlin.
“Are you playing me, girl?”
“No. Gates Brown visited Henry Sexton in the hospital, and he signed the deputy’s book. The man had to show his driver’s license. I’ll bet Forrest Knox can have somebody check that.”
As Brody reaches into his pocket for his cell phone, a staccato series of bangs reverberates through the house above us. The ceiling muffles the explosions, but they’re clearly gunfire.
“Son of a bitch,” Regan curses, trying to shrug the straps of the flamethrower off his shoulders. “Time to bolt. We’ll take them with us. The Rover’s in the garage.”
“Stay where you are,” Brody says, watching the ceiling like an astronomer trying to decipher unexpected celestial movements. “It’s too late to run anyway.”
“But—”
“Shut up, damn you! Listen.”
CHAPTER 94
HENRY SEXTON FELT like he was trapped in a childhood nightmare, so slowly did his body obey his brain. The gunfight had started in the hall, as soon as Sleepy Johnston tried and failed to respond to a question called by one of the guards to “Lee”—who now lay dead out by the road. Sleepy had already fired half a clip, crossing the hall to another bedroom as he did, trying to get a clean shot at the men at the end of the dark corridor. A man had screamed down there, and Henry hoped he’d been hit, but he couldn’t be sure.