by Paul Heatley
Something connects in Ike’s terrified brain. The voice. There is a familiarity in it. He knows it. He knows the man talking. “I know you,” he says. “I know who –”
Something connects with Ike’s skull, now. It’s hard, and it’s cold, and Ike knows it is a gun. He trembles; he cries out; he almost pisses his pants. Tears roll down his face. He starts sobbing. He doesn’t care.
“You just don’t know when to fuckin’ stop, do you?” the voice, the familiar voice, says. The gun clicks. Ike doesn’t understand what it means, doesn’t know much about guns, but he knows it can’t be anything good.
Ike starts shaking his head, begging again, between sobs now, his only recourse. “I won’t print the story,” he says, tasting snot. “I promise I won’t print the story. I won’t print it, I won’t. I’ll delete it. I’ll delete the whole thing. I won’t print it –”
“Jesus Christ, will you shut him up already?” says the other man, the one who hasn’t spoken yet. Ike isn’t listening as closely now, but if he were, he reckons he probably would have recognized it, too.
“Gladly,” the first man says.
“I’ll delete the story. I won’t print the story, I swear, I swear, I –”
“Damn right you won’t.” He pulls the trigger.
CHAPTER 1
Tom Rollins is on his way to Mexico. To Guaymas. He’s in Texas currently, heading for the border. The urn containing the ashes of Alejandra Flores, of her and his brother’s unborn child, are to his right in the footwell of the passenger seat. Safely tucked in so it doesn’t roll. Tom won’t let it out of his sight.
It’s a long way to go to Guaymas, but he doesn’t have the radio on. He doesn’t want music. Right now, he isn’t listening to anything but the wind that whips by past his open window. His thoughts are focused, and he wants to keep them that way. All the way to Mexico. The pendant that hangs from his rearview mirror, the skull-faced visage of Santa Muerte, dances in the warm breeze that blows through. He glances at it, just once, and it brings remembrances that tighten his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, make his eyes flicker to the urn one more time.
The car is a Ford, dark blue in color. He bought it cheap, in cash, from a dealership back in New Mexico a couple of days ago. A week after he last saw his father, his stepmother, his brother. Anthony, his baby brother, was trying to take a swing at him at the time. They had differing views as to what should be done with Alejandra’s ashes. Tom knows – knows – that she wanted to be taken back to Mexico, to be spread on her home soil. Anthony disagreed. Anthony wanted to go against her wishes, to keep her atop his mantelpiece or on his windowsill like some kind of ornament.
Tom took the urn. He knows it’s the right thing to do. He has to honor her. If his brother won’t, he will. More than that – though he won’t admit it out loud – it is Anthony’s fault she is dead. Tom feels this, feels the bitterness that comes with this knowledge. She died because of Anthony. Because of the trouble he got himself into, and then because he couldn’t keep her safe.
Tom’s eyes go to the Santa Muerte pendant watching over him. He remembers Alejandra’s words when she gave it to him.
She’ll keep you safe.
In war. She was to keep him safe while he was overseas, in a desert hell, taking shots from insurgents. She did her job. Tom is still alive. He’s still safe, relatively.
Alejandra needed Santa Muerte, not him. Alejandra needed to be kept safe. Needed to be kept alive.
Tom stayed low after he took the urn. Got rid of the car he’d been driving, traveled on foot to a cheap motel in the middle of nowhere. A lot of people were looking for him. The CIA, for a start. Tom went AWOL from his black ops squad, and they weren’t happy about that. Now, after recent events, certain illicit elements of the FBI are looking for him, too.
Senator Seth Goldberg, however, has said on television that he’d like to shake the hand of the man who saved his and his family’s lives, and those of his entire congregation, not to mention everyone else present in that part of Dallas that day.
His brother is probably looking, too. Hot on his trail, though he should have found the trail quickly went cold. Tom stayed in that motel for a week before he bought the Ford, then stayed there another couple of nights before continuing on his journey. Anthony will not find him; Tom is confident of that. Tom was always the one who paid more attention to their father’s after-school lessons in survivalism – in tracking and in covering one’s tracks. His time in the army only further compounded his existing knowledge. Anthony has never been in the army. He’s barely held a job. He’s been in jail, but that’s hardly the same thing.
It’s hot in Texas. It’s hot in New Mexico, too, where he has spent most of his time recently, but it’s a different kind of heat here. Oppressive. Dry. Almost as soon as he crossed the border, his shirt clung to his back with sweat. He glanced in the mirror and saw beads pop on his forehead. The open window doesn’t help, but it’s better than keeping it up. It wasn’t like this in Dallas. Tom is keeping his distance from Dallas. His face might still be fresh in people’s minds there, even with his newly grown beard and his hair longer than it’s ever been before.
He spent yesterday in Lubbock, with Cindy ‘Shriek’ Vaughan. She didn’t sound surprised to hear from him when he called to tell her he was coming. “Would you believe I’ve been expecting this call?” she said.
Tom went to her apartment.
“I like the new look,” she said, letting him in. “Very hirsute.”
Tom grunted. “I’m sure you can guess why.”
“Oh, I’ve been reading all about your recent exploits,” she said, smiling. “Should I be hailing you as a national hero, Mr. Rollins? Seems everyone else is.”
“Not everyone,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Cindy went to her computer, sat down with one leg tucked under herself. “I figured.”
“You said, last time, that you can forge documents, create new identities.”
“I’m not sure I said that second part.”
“I read between the lines. I watched you work. I have faith in your abilities.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Rollins.” She winked at him. “What’re we talking here – new driver’s license? Passport?”
“Yes, and yes.”
“You’re going overseas?”
“I’m crossing a border.”
Distracted suddenly from these memories, Tom sees something up ahead. Cars parked in the middle of the road. Flashing lights. Looks like an accident. So far his journey has been uneventful, the road mostly devoid of other vehicles. He slows in preparation.
When he gets close enough, he can see what’s happened. A crash. Looks like two cars were racing each other, both of them pointing the same way, the direction Tom is going in. The one on the wrong side of the road has sideswiped the other while overtaking. Tom sees the passenger-side wheel has popped, causing the driver to lose control, to swerve across the road, hit the other, cause his front end to buckle. There are skid marks on the road where the two cars, entangled, have dragged each other forward, the drivers’ feet slammed down on the brakes.
The Highway Patrol is present. Tom can see them on either side of the crash, one on the left and one on the right, directing traffic. On the opposite side of the crash, there are two other cars waiting to get by. The road is blocked, and they have to go onto the desert, directed by the patrolman waving them on.
The drivers of both cars are unharmed. Tom spots them standing way off to one side, sheepish, heads bowed and hands clasped, while another of the patrolmen admonishes them, questions them, takes their details. It could have been worse, Tom knows. There could be blood baking on the asphalt right now.
Tom gets close. There is a plain black baseball cap on the passenger seat. He brushes the hair back off his forehead, pulls the cap on. He’s already wearing sunglasses. Wants to cover as much of his face as possible.
The patrolman directing traf
fic on Tom’s side motions him to stop, points where to go. When he sees Tom’s window is open, he calls, “Take your time – it’s rough there.”
Tom nods, drops a gear, makes his way slowly round the crash. The uneven surface below rocks him side to side. Stones scrape the bottom of his car. He can hear sand thrown up by his spinning wheels. He goes slower. Hits a big rock, judging by the almighty thud he hears underneath, from the front, throwing him forward. Tom grits his teeth, expels air through flaring nostrils, is glad to get off the desert sand and crawl back up onto the road. The patrolman on the other side, seeing him emerge, tips the brim of his hat, salutes him. Tom raises a hand to wave in response. He drives on. Puts distance between himself and the crash scene.
It’s far behind him when the knocking starts. Tom isn’t sure he hears it at first. Thinks it might just be something carrying on the wind. But then he starts to feel it, the way the car jerks in his grip. The way it shudders. The knocking gets louder.
Tom remembers the thud as he circled the crash, briefly crossed the desert. “Shit.” Whatever it is, he’s going to have to check it. There’s no way he’s going to make it another seven hundred miles with something knocking under the hood of his car.
There’s a sign for the next town. He has to turn off for it. Brenton, ten miles. This is not a detour he wants to take, but it is necessary. He manages to make it eight before smoke starts billowing out from the front of the car, from under the hood, obscuring his view through the windscreen. The engine dies.
Tom pulls to the side of the road, doesn’t attempt to restart the engine. It would only cause more damage. He takes a deep breath, remains calm. Gets out of the car. It is no cooler outside than it is in. The smoke, at least, is settling. It is not billowing out as it was.
Hands on hips, he looks up and down the road. There are no cars coming. He wipes the sweat from his face, flicks it onto the road, half-expecting it to sizzle. He waits until the smoke dies to a faint rising wisp, and still nothing has passed him. Nothing he can wave down, nothing to give him a tow.
In the distance, through the haze in the air, he thinks he can see Brenton. It’s not too far. He could leave the car, just pick up a new one, but it looks like a small place, doubts it has a dealership. There’s bound to be a garage in Brenton, though. Somewhere that can fix him back up, send him on his way.
Tom kicks a stone off the road. “Well, fuck.”
He reaches into the car, releases the handbrake, takes it out of gear, and starts pushing.
GET WRONG TURN NOW
About the Author
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Paul Heatley left school at sixteen, and since then has held a variety of jobs including mechanic, carpet fitter, and bookshop assistant, but his passion has always been for writing. He writes mostly in the genres of crime fiction and thriller, and links to his other titles can be found on his website. He lives in the north east of England.
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Copyright © 2021 by Paul Heatley
BLOOD LINE is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.