Binge Killer

by Chris Bauer

  “Let’s go, team,” I said, rousing my charges. Tess and Fungo sprang to all fours. We’d stay on this side but get closer to the blacktop, so we could better see what was in front of the agents as they walked, and scope out the direction they were headed. I let my guys pull me another twenty yards then—holy shit—

  My night goggles picked up someone, a sliver of white, a shirt under a dark jacket, pressed against a tree, both arms raised shoulder high, both hands with guns.

  Linkletter. An ambush, going down now.

  49

  The crunch of twigs underfoot and the tamping of damp, cushiony leaves from an infinity of autumns: Randall heard their approach. He’d broken a sweat again in the crisp night air, his adrenaline coursing, warming him from the inside like brandy from a St. Bernard. He was on fire now, breathing harder, hot, ready, eyes straining to see, waiting for someone to pass on his left. One flashlight beam entered his line of vision close in and right where he wanted it, left and forward of the tree he was behind. The beam pulled its owner ahead; Randall hazarded a peek. Beam number two moved in behind number one, a few feet farther away, both pursuers unaware of Randall’s presence behind Anthracite Acres tree number five thousand or so, with no clue how badly this oversight was going to turn out for them.

  He stepped out, quickly walked the few paces separating them, came up from behind and raised the Rhino high because the first guy was huge, stuck it in his ear and pulled the trigger.

  Boom, one head destroyed, chunks of skull and scalp traveling as far as the owner of the second flashlight forcing him to wipe blood splatter from his eyes with his fingers. Agent Two raised his gun. Too slow; Randall fired the Rhino again.

  Boom. The glancing shot disintegrated the agent’s ear, dropped him like a cuff from a gorilla, slapping him sideways against a tree. Unconscious, the agent slid down and slumped forward, bleeding onto the shoulder of his Kevlar vest.

  Randall checked out the dead guy with his penlight, the man’s head cut nearly in half by the single shot that traveled through one ear and missed coming out the other because of its upward trajectory. He reached the other victim, a bloody mess and out for the count, but still breathing.

  This was the one. This was who would give Randall the jollies he was looking for. He slapped the agent’s face, woke him just enough to have him realize Randall had stuffed the barrel of a big firearm into his mouth. No comment from the bleeder, his mouth a bit too occupied at the moment. Ohhh baby, Randall had the feeling, was getting all righteous and pumped and hard, his hand wrapped around the agent’s neck, wanting to see this guy’s eyes pop out when he pulled the trigger, wanting to watch his life drain right the fuck out of them, right here, right now.

  Here we go, loser, here it is, time to meet your maker.

  Randall shoved the gun barrel farther down the agent’s gagging throat, his finger tightening on the trigger, Randall’s delighted, grandfatherly smile the last thing this asshole would see—

  Crack-ack-ack, bullets zipped by Randall’s head, taking out chunks of the tree behind him. He shoved the writhing agent down face-first into the undergrowth, scuttled behind a tree.

  “Fucking cunt bounty hunter! Where—the fuck—are your dogs—”

  He heard leaves rustle just before teeth sank into his wrist, short, sharp, savage teeth that grabbed and shook his arm like it was a sock monkey, ripping off the sleeve, pulling the arm down to dirt level, the pressure threatening to separate his hand from his arm and his arm from his shoulder. The rest of Randall went down with it. The Rhino was no longer in his palm, sent elsewhere by the dog’s ferocious shaking and a clamped mouth that tightened the pressure. Randall raised the other gun, shoved it between him and the dog, pressed the barrel into the dog’s ribs, was gonna blow this demon bulldog bastard away—

  The next bite was to his groin, with instantaneous pulses of pain radiating like nerve damage from a dentist’s drill. This dog was the bruiser, its mouth large enough to grip his junk and his upper thigh at the same time. Sharp teeth were about to puncture his scrotum; any further movement and he’d lose some important body parts. The second gun dropped from his hand.

  “Sit—the fuck—up, Linkletter,” a woman’s voice said, “nice and straight, but don’t try to stand. And try not to rile up my dogs any more than they already are. They’ll stay attached to you until I tell ’em to back off. You are now officially our bounty. I’m dialing 911 for an ambulance.”

  Randall grimaced, the pain of the impacts to his wrist, arm, shoulder and groin debilitating. No parts of his offended body were detached, broken or separated, but the pressure of two nasty sets of canine teeth to his arm and groin remained a warning of what would happen if he didn’t pay attention.

  He wheezed, gasped for air, but as batshit crazy as this was, he was still able to detach, able to look on the bright side. One dead FBI agent, another one maimed bad enough that he was a short-timer. Randall was bruised, yet he’d survived. And all his pursuers were now present and accounted for. An okay outcome, he decided, under the circumstances, for the moment at least.

  And the take down was by a woman. That meant he still had a chance.

  50

  My forty-five was drawn. I repositioned a dropped flashlight with my foot so it showed the top half of my prone bounty. Two ambulances were on their way. I did my best to give the dispatcher our location, in woods close to some quiet road behind some other woods behind the bowling alley. Good luck with that, the dispatcher’s sigh indicated. She wanted me to stay on the line. I told her I was a bit busy and dropped off.

  FBI agent McQuarters was dead. Agent Van Impe was incapacitated and drifting in and out, bleeding badly from a head wound. Linkletter’s status was whatever I wanted it to be, and the reason I hadn’t put the phone away. I wanted to text Vonetta, but I was still deciding what to say.

  Bounty neutralized was correct.

  Bounty dead sounded so much better.

  I was seriously thinking of terminating this asshole right here, after seeing what he’d done. And he was being coy about it.

  I tucked the phone in a pocket, would text Vonetta later, instead caressed some keychain fuzz in passing, my fingers in the general vicinity.

  A lie. I needed the fur. This wolf in sheep’s clothing made me nervous.

  “The name is Isaacs, miss,” he said, laying on his side and gasping. Fungo’s mouthful of his balls had significantly reduced his air intake. “Howard—Isaacs. I’m not, unnhhh, whoever you think I am. I have ID, a license to carry, just let me get it…”

  Bullshit. It was always a case of mistaken identity in this business. Although saying he had a gun permit was a little different.

  Still not buying it, what with these two FBI agents shot to shit and all.

  His free hand twitched. Fungo growled, repositioned his bad dog self on his groin to reemphasize the importance of keeping still.

  “Right about now,” I said, glancing at the mess that had been Agent McQuarters, “I have no reason to give a shit what your name is. And my dogs are here to remind you that you have every reason to shut the fuck—shut the fuck—shut the fuck…”

  Shit—deep breath—grab the fur—

  “—shut the fuck, suck-a-dick, dick-suck, dick-suck—”

  The word torrent blasted through my lips, twisted my tongue, wouldn’t stop, the poorest of timing…

  “—dick-suck, sick dick, suck a ducky, duck duck GOOSE—”

  I gripped the fuzz on my belt loop. I squeezed the keychain tight, determined to keep myself together. Nice doggie… cute doggie…

  “… that you have every reason—to keep—your fucking mouth—shut,” I said, finishing.

  Linkletter calmed himself, was sizing me up, staring at the death grip I had on the keychain. I shoved my hand into my pocket. It didn’t want to stay there, my upper-cutting fist jamming against the denim from the inside, tenting my jeans. But still in evidence big-time was my drawn forty-five.

  My bounty’s anxious
breathing slowed, his look turning smug. He was about to address my lapse, which would be a big mistake. How big, I was eager to find out.

  “You’ve got—Tourette’s—tics—I take it? Verbal, physical, and—”

  Fungo growled, breathed hard through his nose, growled louder.

  “—incurable, unnhhh, last I heard.”

  It was mostly a question. My answer was a cold stare, still sizing him up, his exposed wrist and arm bleeding, was he still a threat…?

  This emboldened him. More smugness.

  “Yes,” he said. “Must be tough, a disease like that, being a woman. Assuming that’s what you are. Whatever’s tenting your pants isn’t helping your cause.”

  Wrong reaction, asshole. We were done here.

  I moved in close, pulled him to his feet with the dogs still attached, positioned the barrel of my forty-five under his chin, right about now extra glad I hadn’t called or texted Vonetta, because Mr. Linkletter’s status was about to change. Fungo and Tess growled through their clamped teeth, sensing my disgust, my anger, my new endgame…

  “You’re a sick, sick fuck, Linkletter. No reason to prolong this. I earn my bounty either way. You’re outta here, you prick…”

  Tess squirmed, whined; something distracted her. Same with Fungo, which made him disengage—

  The ground beneath me rumbled like a subterranean jackhammer attacking the soles of my boots. My gun discharged as the forest floor tilted, separated, a crevice opening and snaking outward. The crevice widened, me straddling it, my hands groping as I lost my footing and slid down into it, my gun AWOL, no fur, no grip, my fingers ripping the bounty’s shirt open like it was a bodice, then slipping past his belt, his pants leg, his shoes. The crevice broke off, and a black pit opened, swallowing me and everything around me, the floor rippling out like a shaken blanket while it skidded below the surface and folded in on itself, dragging nearby trees, earth and rocks along with it. I didn’t lose consciousness, was instead aware of my surroundings and what was happening on my way down, and keenly aware when I bottomed out, buried up to my armpits in loose, hot dirt and rocks, and composting leaves layered with wild animal piss and feces. And whatever was happening wasn’t done. More dirt and rocks cascaded until another section of hardwoods tilted and separated from the shelf that was the forest floor above me. It rumbled downward, dropping farther into the abyss than where I was. The second slide settled, mist and dust trailing its descent, the dust rising until it dissipated. Left behind was a cleaved wall of earth with one large section darker than its surroundings. In the darker section was an exposed cave.

  I was in a sinkhole big as a schoolyard. It dropped off into a second sinkhole like the deep end of a huge swimming pool. And it was warm down here. I bent each knee, moved each leg in loose dirt that had too much give to it, with no leverage to push against to extricate myself. Below the waist felt fine, felt good to go, ready for me to climb my ass out of here. I freed my right arm, checked out what I could see of it, some cuts on my hand but nothing major. My luck ran out with my left. The slightest movement sent a jolt of pain up to my elbow, reminded me what the arresting cops had done to it when I was sixteen. Where it was broken and how badly, I didn’t know, but a tangle of agitated nerve endings turned my stomach, making me think it was a compound fracture. I gritted my teeth; it couldn’t stay where it was if it was bleeding. I lifted my arm out of the debris, owww, motherfuck did that hurt—

  No broken skin on it, no bleeding; a snapped bone or bones somewhere in my forearm. Plus my mangled fingers and knuckles were mangled yet again. How many broken, no idea—

  I was pissed, more like nuclear-option angry, but at least I was alive.

  My dogs… my bounty…?

  I saw nothing side to side, rocks and stones and branches still settling. Some heavy breathing started up nearby and was on the move, a dog panting, coming my way. Except maybe it wasn’t a dog. The breathing got heavier the closer the animal got, creeping me out. I had only one fist to defend myself, damn it. One arm, one fist, and thirty-two original teeth if it came to that, and close in I could do considerable damage with my mouth if I could get my subconscious to quiet the hell down—

  “—fisty feisty pressured gas, ruptured ass, tangled arms, pressed hams, damn it spam it, damnfuck you ass-fucks to hell!

  “—tattoo…”

  The beast moved to within inches of my head, sniffed away at my mouth, no growling or snapping or biting, just checking me out. Then it nuzzled my shoulder, nudged my good hand, licked my sweating face, and got back to the heavy breathing again.

  “Good boy, Fungo.”

  Fungo dragged his wet nose across my cheek, tucked his head into my shoulder. I rubbed his face and ears. “Glad to see you too.” He whined and whimpered, was so happy he was about to mount my head.

  “Sit. Sit, boy, sit…”

  Fungo didn’t sit, instead looked past me, turned ornery. He growled, snarled, and snapped, then he hunkered down, ready to spring. He vaulted my shoulder. I heard ripping and tearing sounding as bad as a lion on a felled wildebeest. If Linkletter was down here with us, whatever was left of him Fungo was now shredding it.

  It wasn’t Linkletter, it was McQuarters. Or at least the top of Agent McQuarters’ head, a few feet behind me to my left, his body buried but presumably still attached. Fungo was separating strips of bleeding scalp and chunks of gray matter from inside and out of what was left of McQuarters’s exposed skull. Kee-rist was Fungo bringing it.

  “Fungo. No. Stop, boy. No… Fungo—”

  He abruptly stopped. The moon exited the fog and brightened the pit, creating shadows. In the moonlight I got a better sense of our surroundings. The sinkhole’s diameter was maybe a hundred feet across. Above us I saw the rim, the din of the night sky behind it. Something was up there, struggling on all fours on the lip of the hole.

  “Tess. Tess puppy. Good girl—”

  Thirty feet distant it raised itself, stood tall on two legs, blotting out the moon. The silhouette of a person. Shit.

  Linkletter peered at me in the pit.

  My good arm swept the surrounding dirt and sod and rocks, warm but not hot. Nothing within reach, no guns, no phone, no flashlight, nothing. And nowhere to hide the trapped, exposed upper third of my body. I was as defenseless as McQuarters’s head if Mr. Linkletter had a weapon. What he did have was my flashlight.

  The beam steadied, blinded me as bad as a searchlight, then it panned to Fungo. Fungo snapped and jumped, looking for a way up and out of this massive sinkhole three stories below the surface.

  “Whew,” Linkletter called, loud enough for my benefit. He coughed, an exaggerated, guttural hack that ended with him doubling over to expel a stream of deeply summoned, mucous-laden expectorant. In my head now—

  “Mucous,” squeaked through my pursed lips.

  “—lucas pukus bazooka mcdufus.”

  He ignored my chatter and blotted his brow with the jacket sleeve that was still intact, the other gone from Tess’s takedown, that arm exposed. “That was certainly interesting, wasn’t it?” he said, touching his throat. “Christ, my skin’s still hot; a powder burn. Wow. I dodged a fucking bullet at close range. Un-freakin’-believable. Some real déjà vu going on here—”

  He scanned the hole with the flashlight, surveyed its height, depth, and contents. I took advantage of the sweep of the light and did the same. The view from here, scoping out the walls of dirt and jagged rock that led up to a ledge too far out of reach, was scary; a very big hole. I was lucky to be alive. But looking up from the bottom of what could become my own grave, the condition felt temporary. Our graves, I reminded myself. Fungo’s, mine, Tess’s also, painful for me to think, figuring that ship had sailed and left her tough doggie body somewhere down here with us in the sinkhole debris. And it was getting hotter down here.

  “You know, you and I aren’t that different,” Linkletter said, going for chummy. “I’m looking for someone, you’re looking for someone. We’re both aff
licted, you with your Tourette’s, me with my cancer. But the violence… now that’s the turn-on. No different for you as a bounty hunter, except you keep your demons bottled up. You don’t want people to see the freak you really are. You send the dogs out to do your violence for you. Am I right?”

  Linkletter, amateur psychologist and self-prescribed demon emancipator.

  My message: “Bite me, psycho.”

  “Would if I could, sweetums,” Linkletter said, “but I need to still do some sleuthing, and cozy up to some unsuspecting female taint over drinks at the bowling alley.” He made a grand gesture of brushing off nonexistent debris from his shoulder. “’Course, a change of clothes and some Band-Aids from my car would help…”

  I had to sell him on closing out his visit to Rancor right here, then take his show somewhere else, somewhere less dangerous for him.

  “There are more feds, Linkletter,” I managed, my voice projecting, me going for calm, but fedletter, bedwetter, and lewdletter queued up in my head, my epiglottis and throat muscles all dancing in anticipation of a release. I squeezed it back down with a snort and a gaaack.

  I regrouped, breathed deeply, exhaled. “You for shit-shit-SHIT!-sure know there’s more feds nearby. No reason to hang around in a town full of senior women with them on your tail. Be smart, get a head start—dogfart! appletart!—on them. And us. Because when we get out of this hole, we’re coming after you…”

  “You’re funny,” he said, his chuckle validating his opinion. “A one-woman giggle fest. Sorry, leaving Rancor doesn’t do it for me. Not until I find a former girlfriend. So let’s do this. Some free association that points me in the right direction. Will only take a minute.”