Part 10

Frank Doyle didn’t like the countryside. He always felt a city was better suited for crime. Now he sat in Tom Stone’s great stone room. He did not take off his boots or his coat, and two men in black leather jackets stood by the door, and the rest of the army waited outside. Tom sat across from Frank, and Ironwood and three of his men stood behind him.

“Why all this, Stone?” Frank pointed at the men, and drank coffee Helen brought.

“Because you are trespassing.” Tom smirked.

“This is a simple takeover, Tom. It doesn’t have to come to this. I don’t want blood. Blood gets expensive, and it shines a light where you don’t want one.”

“I’ve been saying the same thing.”

“Look, Tom. I’ll let you run the place as is. You’ll just be a handler. You get yours. You are of age, too. You’ll be comfortable as a salaryman.”

Tom smiled at the insult.

“I respect you, Frank. I do. But you need to respect all the blood I spilled to own this hill. I made this rock what it is now.” Tom shook his fist. “My soul is bathed in blood, and that costs more than a few dead city rats.” Tom gave Frank’s men a smirk.

“Hmm.” Frank nodded. “I see.”

“I don’t think you do. Here.” Tom dropped a black duffel bag on the table. “It is the insurance money I got for murdering my own son.”

Tom’s eyes met Frank’s. Frank searched his face, trying to determine whether he was telling the truth. Then he looked at Tree. Tree nodded.

One of Frank’s men opened the bag.

“It’s another two million. That’s the last offer you’ll hear from me. I’m giving away my dead son’s worth and my grandchild’s future. That’s how much I want peace. If you don’t take it, we’ll all die here tonight.”

“Hmm,” Frank grunted. “I appreciate it, but it’s not enough.”

Without waiting for any more words, Tom’s bullets rang out, splintering the table. Frank fell down dead. Tree’s men shot the other two while Tom pulled the pistol from under the table. Frank shivered on the floor, blood seeping into the dark hardwood.

“I told you, this ground is soaked in blood I spilled. And, by the way, that bullet in your chest is the one you couriered over the other day,” said Tom, and shot Frank through the face.

Frank’s men shouted outside, and bullets tore through the walls of the house. Helen fell. Tom crawled to her, but a shot through the heart had killed her, and blood poured over her dress. He screamed as bullets whipped past. A single bullet tore his cheek open. The shooting continued, but the bullets stopped striking the house: Tree’s riflemen above the pasture were slaughtering the city crew. The heating-oil tank exploded. The blast wave shattered all the windows and hurled Tom against the wall. Glass and twisted, burning metal struck one of Tree’s men. The guns fell silent as burning oil engulfed the side of the house.

“Tom,” shouted Tree.

“Evan. Get Luna out,” he pointed to the panic room, and Tree nodded to one of his men.

“Let’s go, Tom.” Tree tried to pick him up. The flames were moving fast up the walls and toward them.

“I can feel my heart has been torn loose inside my chest.”

“You should have been wearing a seatbelt, my brother,” said Tree, hiding his tears. Tom Stone smiled and then agony came over him. He screamed and spat blood.

“You are the best of us, Evan. Look after all of them. Look after the girl. She is true Stone blood. Bring her up right. Leave me here with Helen.”

The flames were coming close, licking the ceiling of the lodge.

“I’ll take care of the girl. She is strong. She will make a fine Stone.”

“Yes. Now, run, my brother,” said Tom, and Tree ran out just before the smoke and flames filled the hallway and the front door. Tom Stone looked at Helen and cried. The last thing he saw was Luna outside screaming, and Tree stopping her from running into the flames. Then the house collapsed.

***

Tree worked on brake pads and Luna rode Biscuit in the yard. Buster, tied to his pole, sat in the dirt and drooled. Luna put down the toy, and walked into the chicken coop. She kicked at the chickens and watched them fly a few feet. She laughed. “You stupid chickens,” she grunted. Then she jumped and landed on one of the chickens so it wouldn’t move. The chicken clucked. Luna pulled out the pocketknife, and swiftly sliced off the chicken’s wings. The chicken screeched. She threw the wings on the ground and watched them twitch. She laughed. She grabbed the chicken by the legs, dragged it out of the coop, and threw it at Buster. The dog jumped, his jaws snapped, the chicken’s bones snapped, and the chicken was dead. Luna watched Buster tear up the trembling body. Tree cried.