Cat & Mouse

by Jason Vanez

  The ladies' was big. Six cubicles, only four sinks in a row at the back wall, though. There were at least five wall-mounted air fresheners. Above the sinks was a long mirror, and above that a pair of windows with frosted glass, only the top quarter of which opened. Jimmy jumped up onto the counter housing the sinks and thrust open one of the letterbox-like windows. He would fit, but it wouldn't be graceful or speedy.

  He threaded a leg through first, then his head and shoulders. And when he tried to force his chest through, there he jammed, with his right knee rammed into his shoulder.

  He wiggled side-to-side, forcing his torso through slowly. Below him was a wooden walkway attached to the outside wall. It ran out of sight around the curve both ways. Way out there was some field that looked like a black lake in the dark, but below and all around the immediate area was an actual black lake. Some kind of pond with floating lilies and coloured lights set into stone towers that rose three feet out of the water. He remembered that the rear of the Services had a Japanese garden, and this pond must be part of it.

  A noise jerked his head left. Ten feet away another window in the wall opened. The gents' toilet. This time the entire window opened and one of the big men stuck his head out, saw Jimmy, and started to climb out.

  Jimmy cursed. Of course they would have checked the gents' first, but he hadn't counted on the crappy window in the ladies'. He couldn't go back because the other guy was probably waiting outside the doors, and he would never get out and onto the walkway before the bearded guy.

  The guy was out in just seconds. Jimmy tried to suck his torso back inside, but he was stuck. Fear washed over him as he realised he would never be able to block or dodge a gun or knife attack from this position.

  "I'll pay you twice what your boss is paying," he pleaded, genuine fear in his chest. The guy rushed towards him in the dark, causing the walkway to bounce and rumble like thunder. Jimmy wanted to scream for help, but knew no one would hear. The motorway was loud even at this time and distance, and there was nothing but open land ahead of him - anyone who heard from either the entrance or the smoking shelter would not be able to pinpoint the source of the noise, figuring it was way off in the fields.

  "You're mine, asshole," the big guy said, right below him now. He reached up and Jimmy saw blackened teeth, and a whiskey-drinker's nose. But he had no knife, no gun. Instead, thick hands grabbed his neck and pulled. The pain was terrific, but Jimmy felt his body come loose, rather than his head. He slipped free from the tight grip of the window frame, went upside down, and a second later splashed into cold water. The guy had literally thrown him overhead, he realised.

  Jimmy knew the bearded goon would be coming in after him, unless he had a gun - but would a man with a gun have yanked him out of the window like that? Even as he contemplated this, he thrust his feet into the mud and launched himself out of the water. It was only as deep as the middle of a standing person's thigh. His upper body broke free, and then he felt a tremendous weight crash against him, forcing him back down, back under.

  Submerged, he clamped his limbs around the torso of the bearded goon on top of him, his legs locked around the waist in a figure-4, tight. He bucked, twisted, felt himself rising, felt his knees sink into the mud as he gained the upper position.

  Now he sat astride the man like a rider on a horse. The goon was face-down. He tried to buck Jimmy, shake him off, but Jimmy leaned and rolled with the thrashing, and stayed upright.

  The goon thrust his arms into the mud and arched his back, trying to raise his head above the water, but the black surface lapped inches out of reach.

  Until Jimmy grabbed his ginger hair and pulled, bending the man's spine and neck as no muscles of his own could. The pain must have been bad, but when the man's face broke the surface, he seemed to care only that he could breathe fresh air.

  "Who sent you after me?" Jimmy shouted down into the face that was pointed right up at his own, inches away. Staring straight up, the man's eyes were filled with moonlight that clearly showed the terror in them.

  No answer. Jimmy released the man's hair and under he went again. More thrashing, but it did no good. The man tried to get to his hands and knees, but Jimmy leaned forward, submerging himself, and grabbed and yanked at the wrists, forcing the guy flat again. Once more he leaned back with a handful of ginger, pulling the face free. The goon gulped heavy lungfuls of night air.

  "Last chance," he yelled down into the face, their foreheads inches apart.

  "I don't know," the man spluttered back.

  "Last chance, I swear. Look where the fuck you are. Nobody will find you rotting out here. Who sent you after me?"

  "Don't know. Swear. Colin's boss. He must know."

  "How many of you are here?"

  "Three. Three. Capture you. That's it."

  "And my son?"

  Right then the man's eyes changed. For a moment the terror and pain were cast aside, replaced by a confusion that told Jimmy everything. He knew the man had been told not about a son, but a daughter. If his family had been mentioned, it could only be because they were part of the plan. Which meant they were in danger, too.

  He did not want to kill this man. He did not know this man or what story he had been told about Jimmy. For all Jimmy knew, this guy was a vigilante who believed he was capturing an escaped murderer. But he could not foresee a way of incapacitating the guy so he could get to his wife and child.

  He saw no other choice.

  He let go of the man's hair. He rode out the struggling. He waited a full minute after air bubbles flickered the black surface of the pond and the thrashing ceased. Then he unwrapped himself and stood. The body floated up, face-down.

  He felt along the man's length, under the chest, inside the legs. He was looking for a weapon or a wallet. The man had neither, but he did own a small hand-held radio. Jimmy yanked it free and tried to turn it on. Dead, like the owner. Not waterproof. Cheap, something kids might use for fun, with low range and few channels. Surely this was how the three men - if the number of three wasn't a lie - had been keeping in contact.

  He gave the body a push down and backwards, sending it beneath the walkway. Had to tuck in one loose leg that stuck out. Jimmy wasn't sure how clear the water might look in daylight, but for the next few hours it was dark and nobody was likely to come along to this point of the walkway, and so the ginger goon was gone.

  Then a thought came to him. Three men. He had seen only two, and that was because two had been dispatched to apprehend him in the Services. There was a very good chance that number 3, maybe this Colin, the leader, was right now in Jimmy's hotel room with Maria and Louise as captives. It would be hard for him to bypass the other guy in the Services and get into the hotel room without endangering his family. But there was another way. And it involved getting hold of a working radio. And the guy in the Services had one.

  So Jimmy would hunt his hunters.

  ***

  A knock on the door. The guard opened the door and turned away, started walking along the hallway. He seemed very jumpy about something. Didn't even glance at the man in the doorway.

  "The bitch's top is ripped, but it wasn't me, guys, seriously. She caught the door walking past."

  Einar just stood there, the knife in his hand, a disbelieving smile on his face. Despite seeing a lot of it over the years, he was still surprised by the idiocy of some criminals. How this one had lived so long was a mystery. Then again, if the guy had stared right at him after opening the door, Einar would have slipped the knife into his neck and let him bleed out right in the doorway. As it was, the guard was still breathing, which in a sense meant his stupidity had given him a few more seconds on this planet. Einar stepped into the hallway and fell into step behind the man. He slipped the knife away, already planning something else.

  "She'll probably say I tried something on, James, but I fucking didn't. Fucking lying bitch."

  The guard reached a door at the end of the corridor and slapped its handle down and kicke
d it open. Einar saw a bedroom beyond, and there they were sat side-by-side on the bed. Maria and her little daughter – oh, and the receptionist, a young black-haired girl a skirt and white blouse. For some reason he'd imagined a big lady, middle-aged. They didn't look harmed, only in some kind of shock. The guy was big and filled the doorway, and Einar, peeking over his shoulder, knew they couldn't see him. So when the receptionist instinctively lifted a dangling portion of the blouse that had been ripped at the shoulder and covered her bare skin with it, Einar knew it was because of this guy. He had tried something on with her, which was a big no-no for a man like Einar.

  Einar tapped him on the shoulder. The guy started to turn, and Einar grabbed the nearest shoulder to help spin him directly around. Both hands went into the hair and yanked downwards as a knee drove up, right into the gut. The guy bent with a grunt and Einar forced his head under his armpit, using his right hand to lift his own forearm up, driving the left forearm into the man's throat. Immediately the man started to struggle. Einar jerked backwards, forcing the man to stumble forwards, onto his knees. He tightened his grip.

  "This is an air choke," he said, staring over the man, at the shocked expressions on the faces of the women and the child as they watched. "Restricted oxygen to the brain. Takes longer for unconsciousness than a blood choke. And far more dangerous than a blood choke. Here's why." He cranked the headlock with a jerking motion, hard, his face showing the effort. There was a series of cracking noises, and Einar let the man go. He dropped, clutching at his throat, knees and face planted into the ground. He made a gurgling sound that made the two women on the bed shift and hold each other, looking just as pained as the man on the carpet. Einar stared at mother and daughter as he spoke to the man.

  "That's a broken hyoid bone. Now your airway is in trouble, and asphyxia is on its way. Your life countdown just reached zero."

  Amazingly, the little girl pointed and said, "Mummy, that's that man and he's hurt that other man."

  Einar flapped his arms, annoyed. He grabbed the man's jacket and yanked him out of the doorway, then shut the door. He bent over the wheezing guy and said, "Your life countdown just reached zero." Then he stepped into the bedroom and shut the door, and stood facing the dumfounded women with a silencing finger to his lips.

  Maria held Louise tight to her chest. The receptionist looked frozen, almost doped. Einar was aware that they could still hear the man out there, limbs thumping the carpet, throat wheezing. Maria stared at him, but there was no horror in her face, just that shock. He understood why: the last time she'd seen him, he was thanking her for tea and promising to get her family a new car. He noted a pair of mobile phones on the bedside table amid their packaging, plugged in and charging. New phones, which meant James Marsh didn't have one, wherever he was. Bang went the idea of forcing Maria Marsh to call him and whisk him back with sweet miss-yous.

  "Ronald?" she croaked.

  He smiled at her. Then pulled his Bersa out of his inside jacket pocket. In a whisper, so the guy in the hall wouldn't hear, he said, "Ronald's dead as well, I'm afraid. I'll explain while we wait for your husband to return."

  ***

  Jimmy followed the raised walkway to the back end of the building and hopped a small gate into the smoking area, which was like a small balcony extending over the wild field beyond. Two teenage girls stood at the rail, smoking and tossing peanuts into the grass. They didn't give Jimmy a second glance, even though he was soaking wet and dishevelled. Cautious about where they put their eyes, maybe.

  He went through a doorway. Ahead of him was the eating area. The toilets were now to his left. A quick assessment told Jimmy there were no more than twenty people in the Services, at least that he could see. All the shops bar two of the four eateries - a McDonald's and a KFC, side by side - were closed and only one of those had a customer, some guy tucking into a boxed snack. Everyone else was transitional, moving this way and that around the corridor, either looking for an open shop or heading out because they'd already determined that looking was a waste of time.

  Except for the guy outside the toilets, that was. He stood with his back to the door of the gents, staring outwards as he waited for a pal who wouldn't ever return. So empty was the big cylindrical building that the guy spotted Jimmy immediately and jerked as if slapped. He had been waiting for the door behind him to open, his comrade to exit either dragging Jimmy by the scruff of the neck or with news of his death. So when he saw Jimmy, he immediately whirled and booted open the door to the toilets and stuck his head in and shouted something Jimmy didn't catch. A quick look back at Jimmy. Then he pulled his radio and spoke into it. No response, of course, because dead men didn't talk. The guy then rushed inside the toilet, and Jimmy rushed across into the KFC eating area, stopping for half a second at a wheeled cutlery trolley before moving onwards.

  When the guy barged out of the toilet a few seconds later, he saw Jimmy sitting at one of the tables, mere metres away. Jimmy waved a napkin like a flag of surrender. The guy marched into the eating area, past the guy munching on a boxed snack, and stopped just feet from Jimmy's table. He was tall, about forty-five, with hair that fell to his shoulders and over his forehead, and wore denim jeans and a black motorbike jacket, reminding Jimmy of the coffee bar cowboys of the 60s. The look didn't fit with middle-age. He looked tough yet harmless at the same time.

  "Where's the other guy?" Cowboy said. He had a hand stuffed inside his denim jacket, as if employing that old trick of pretending you were clutching a gun. Unless he actually had a gun. But there were so few people around, he could have shown the weapon to Jimmy without fear of it being spotted. So Jimmy didn't believe it existed. The aluminium table he sat at had a perforated top. He twisted his surrender napkin into a spike and jammed it into one of the holes, then pointed at another napkin laid flat.

  "You let me go," he said, "and that's yours."

  The man took a step closer. He looked around, seemed satisfied that no one was watching, and took another step. "Think you can pay me off, James?"

  "I won't stop you cashing that cheque if you just let me and my family go."

  The guy's eyes flicked to the napkin again. Now the guy was curious.

  Cowboy turned to the guy sat at the table a few metres away and told him to piss off. The guy froze with salad and chicken dangling from his mouth as his brain assessed this setup. Seconds later he was shuffling out of there with his meal. That just left Jimmy, this guy and two young workers in the serving booth, and they had their backs turned as they cleaned up.

  "Maybe I'll just take this as a promise not to break your knees. Now let's go. Outside."

  "Okay," Jimmy said, starting to rise. The man's hand reached for the napkin. Jimmy continued his upwards rise, but now his arm came up faster, curving like a punch, then drove downwards and onto the back of Cowboy's hand, crushing it hard into the napkin. Cowboy grunted in shock and pain, but before he could drag his arm back, Jimmy's free hand slipped under the table and grasped the handle of the dessert spoon that he had rammed right through Cowboy's hand and through a perforation in the table top. He yanked, bending the handle, curling it upwards. Cowboy jerked backwards, but his hand didn't rise from the table. Instead, the table shifted with him, squealing across the tiled floor. He let out a grunt of pain. He reached for his injured hand, but Jimmy was quicker. He slapped that hand down next to the first and drove a second spoon downwards. Same routine. Two seconds and it was all over. Cowboy was moaning, leaning over the table, both his hands flat against the table top, spoon heads sticking out of them, spoon handles caught like fish hooks in the perforated metal on the underside. The man tried struggling once more, but soon gave it up as he realised that he was caught like a link in a chain, and movement gained him only pain as gored flesh was irritated by piercing metal. He looked shocked. Maybe that was pain. Or maybe he couldn't believe this guy had caught him with a move that belonged in a cheap action film.

  Jimmy got up, moved around the table and slid a chair so Co
wboy could slump his ass in it before his legs turned to jelly. Jimmy sat again. He glanced at the two fast food employees, but they were intent on making chrome gleam.

  Cowboy's eyes were bloodshot, his lower lip bleeding as his teeth ground into it. Jimmy had to give the man credit. The pain must be bad, but he was refusing to scream out, call for help. Maybe because the guy wanted to make sure the cops didn't come. Probably knew they would arrive to help him but eventually discover his prints or DNA matched some unsolved naughtiness on their books. His reticence was good: they could talk right here, alone. Jimmy threw a napkin over each impaled hand to hide the spoons sticking up. Cowboy looked funny with little paper pyramids over his hands, but at least he didn't look injured, apart from his pained face. Jimmy just had to hope nobody noticed the blood dripping onto the floor. He tossed another few napkins down there to soak up the fluid.

  "How many of you are here for me?" he said.

  Cowboy's first attempt to speak was a splutter. Spit dribbled down his chin. Jimmy snatched another napkin from the pile on the table and quickly wiped it off.

  "That's disgusting. So, how many?"

  "Just here to talk to you," Cowboy managed to say.

  "Good. Now quite what I asked, though.." The man's head dropped to the table. Jimmy lifted it by his straggly hair. "Concentrate on how silly you feel getting caught by some Hollywood silliness with a pair of spoons and it'll take your mind off the pain. How many?"

  "Not here to hurt you."

  Jimmy slapped one of the spoons, knocking aside the napkin covering it. The jolt caused a moan. Jimmy replaced the napkin. He picked up a butter knife he had also collected. Showed it to the guy. "How many?"

  "Three," the guy said, eyeing the knife.

  Good. Same answer the guy in the pond had given. "Who sent you?"

  "Don't know who. Honest." Jimmy waved the knife. "Honest! Don't know who he is. I got a text off some guy I know. Sent a photo of you, said we had to grab you."

  "And my name and where I was. And that I was with my wife and child." Not questions. Statements. The guy nodded. "You better start talking."