Just then Amory St. John groaned. He jerked up, then fell back. He groaned again, then opened his eyes.
“Oh, God,” Sally shrieked, “there’s blood in his eyes. James, you hit him that hard?”
In those precious seconds when all of Amabel’s attention was focused on Amory, Corey leaped from her left side, a lovely training move taught at Quantico, her right fist going right into Amabel’s side, her left fist straight into her neck.
Amabel turned, but not in time. The gun went spinning out of her hand.
Corey said, “I’m sorry, Sally,” then hit Amabel square in the jaw. She crumpled to the floor.
Amory St. John groaned again.
“Corey,” Thomas said, “please say you’ll marry me. Like a reformed smoker, I’m now a reformed sexist. I’ll become a feminist.”
Sally laughed from sheer relief. Quinlan told Thomas to stay where he was on the floor. He rose and shook hands with Corey and hugged Sally to his side. “Now we’ll just wait for the cavalry to arrive.”
“1 smell smoke,” Thomas said, stiffening as he sniffed the air. “Jesus, Quinlan, there’s smoke coming from under that door.”
“It’s the kitchen,” Sally said, dashing to it.
“No, Sally, don’t open it. It’ll just suck the flames in here.”
Amory St. John moaned again and lurched to his side.
“God, more flames,” Corey said. “Someone’s set us on fire. Jesus, the old folks have set the place on fire!”
“I’ll carry St. John. Corey, you get Amabel. Sally, can you help Thomas? Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Whoever set the fire will be waiting for us,” Sally said. “You know it, James.”
“I’d rather risk being shot than burn to death,” he said. “Everyone agree? There’s no other way out except through the kitchen, and the door’s already burning. It’s got to be the front door.”
“Let’s go,” Corey said, as she shoved the SIG-sauer in her belt. She heaved Amabel over her shoulder.
Quinlan, with St. John over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry just like Corey’s, kicked the cottage door open. The sun was just rising, the dawn sky streaked with pink. The air was crisp and clean, the sound of the ocean soft and rhythmic. It was a beautiful morning.
There were at least thirty people standing in front of the cottage, all of them armed.
Reverend Hal Vorhees shouted, “Throw down your gun, Mr. Quinlan, or we’ll shoot the women.”
Well, damn, Quinlan thought. At least the old folk hadn’t automatically shot them down when they’d come out of Amabel’s cottage. All the bravado about preferring a gunshot to a fire-was bullshit. Nobody wanted to die. Now they had some time-at least he prayed they did.
Quinlan nodded to Corey. She threw his SIG-sauer right at Reverend Hal Vorhees. It landed close to his feet.
“Good, now lay that madman down, Amabel next to him. We don’t care what happens to him. He’s evil and a blight. He’s nothing more than a filthy traitor. He made Amabel turn on us. Come on now, the four of you come with us.”
“We’re going to a church service, Reverend?” “Just shut up, Mr. Quinlan,” Hunker Dawson said. “A helicopter will be arriving in just about five minutes, Hal,” Quinlan said after he’d dropped St. John to the ground, landing him in the middle of Amabel’s daffodils.
“We called the FBI office in Portland from Doc Spiver’s cottage. Sheriff David Mountebank’s deputies will be here soon as well.”
Actually the deputies should have been here long ago. Where the devil were they?
“No, we took care of the deputies,” Gus Eisner said. “Come now. We don’t want to waste any more time. You’re lying about that helicopter. Besides, it don’t make no difference. You’ll be gone by the time the Feds arrive.” “You’ll never get away with this,” Sally said. “Never. Don’t you have any idea at all what you’re dealing with?” “Look at us, Sally,” Sherry Vorhees said. “Just look at all these nice old people. We wouldn’t even kill mosquitoes, now would we? Who would deal with us? Why, there’s nothing to deal with. I’d invite them all in for some of the World’s Greatest Ice Cream.”