by John Hart
An hour after midnight, he went inside.
He wouldn’t touch her yet, but wanted to smell her hair and her skin, to feel the heat of her neck on his face. He stood by the bed, looking down. She was on her side, her lips slightly parted. Leaning close, he studied the line of her nose, and of the lashes, dark on her skin. He breathed deeply, but her hair smelled unclean, and her breath was slightly sour. He would have frowned, but she woke unexpectedly: a shutter-snap of wide eyes and the shadow-pink of an open mouth. For the first time in his life, Reece froze, utterly panicked.
He was ruining it!
The stare held for half a second, then Reece turned and ran, the girl screaming loud enough to shatter every thought he’d ever had.
* * *
I heard the scream, muffled by the house, but definitely in the house. It went on so long that even Chance stirred, which was more than I’d been able to manage in all the long hours we’d been caged.
“Hey, buddy, are you with me?”
He rolled onto his side, coughing up a lung. “Don’t touch me.” He found his hands and knees, his forehead against the floor. “The hell is that sound?”
“We’re not the only ones here.”
“Here? What here?”
Chance sounded out of it. I thought he was. He crawled a foot or two, and got his back against the wall. Cracked lips. A heat-swollen tongue. He tried to focus, but the room was dim. He saw the cage, though, and the tables. “Take it easy,” I told him. “You were locked in a hot trunk for most of a day.”
I saw the memories when he got them back, a parade across his face, nothing pretty. He put his palms over his eyes, and pushed hard. “What is this place?”
“A house. I don’t know. Isolated.”
“I heard a woman.”
“I know.”
“She was screaming.”
“You’re all right, man. Take it easy.”
He blinked at me, bloodshot. “Is there water?”
I shook my head.
“What’s that about?”
He meant my fingertips, torn and bloodied. I pointed at the place where sharp-edged bolts secured steel mesh to the steel frame. “A tool kit might have been better.”
There was blood on metal, dried black.
Chance stared for five good seconds, then closed his eyes for so long I thought he’d checked out or fallen back asleep. When he spoke, they were still closed. “I don’t know what to say to you. How can you even look at me?”
“Just take it easy.”
Chance shook his head. “I called you. He told me to do it, and that’s what I did.”
“How about we worry about this cage and all that scary shit out there. How about that?”
“He can kill me. I don’t care.”
“He had a knife at your neck. I’d have made the call, too.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He said it softly, but was looking at me, at least. I slid across the cage, and leaned against the same wall. “So that’s it? You’re officially a pussy? Got a membership card and everything?”
“Don’t joke.”
His mouth was open, his eyes glazed. If he had reserves left, I couldn’t see them. “Chance, buddy. Listen…”
I got no further than that. The outside door swung open, and our kidnapper stepped inside. He had a revolver in one hand, and a wild look on his face, red-eyed and swollen, like he might fly apart.
“Back the fuck up! Back up!” He pointed with the gun. “You! Come here! Not you. The little one.” I started to rise. He thumbed the hammer. “I said back the fuck up! You! Now!”
He unlocked the cage, and Chance stepped out like he didn’t care, or couldn’t. His eyes were down, both hands at his sides. The little man locked the cage, and up close like that, I saw more of the crazy in his face. Something had changed. He was off the rails. He pushed the barrel into Chance’s chest, backed him away from the cage.
“Hey!” I rattled the door. “Hey, asshole!”
“Shut up. It’s ruined.”
“The hell are you doing?”
“I don’t want them!” He shoved with the gun. “Anger. Regret.” He swung the barrel into Chance’s face. The blow staggered him; he bled. “I don’t deserve to feel those things! I don’t want to carry them!”
He hit Chance again.
I said, “Shit! Shit!”
Chance fell to his knees, blood dripping. He climbed slowly to his feet, still no expression. Heatstroke, I thought. Concussion. The little man hit him again, twice with a fist and again with the gun. Chance fell into a shelf; metal clattered. The barrel swung in—back of the head—and Chance went all the way down, every cord cut. The little man kicked him in the ribs, the face, then went back with his other foot, kicking and grunting as all that regret and anger found a place to go. “Not! My! Fault!”
“Leave him alone!” I yelled. “Damn it! Leave him alone!”
“Shut up or you’re next!”
“Chance!” I beat on the mesh, but nothing changed.
The guy had a lot of anger left.
A lot of regret, too.
* * *
Afterward, Reece stared into the mirror, sweat on his face, still breathing hard. There was a glitter in his eyes he’d never seen, a shiftiness that looked dangerous. He was moving too fast. That was the problem.
“Goddamn it, X.”
Had he ruined the girl?
It was the only question that mattered. He’d risked everything for her. He’d looked for so many years, been so patient …
“What patience?”
He punched the wall, the look on his face a sarcastic, angry sneer. He was supposed to give her time to settle, months, if need be. He’d been ready to wait that long, or even longer.
It was X’s fault.
X was in his head.
Reece pulled at his hair, then forced a deep breath.
Two sides.
Every coin.
Lonnie Ward was dead. No real loss; he’d been a convenience. And X would die in hours. Once he was gone, there’d be no one left alive who knew Reece or what he was or where he lived. The thought was like a breath of air. Reece had money. He was still young. Maybe a fresh start was the way to go. Kill the boys. Kill the girl.
A clean slate.
Reece closed his eyes, and tried to see the future. It was cloudy, and cloudy was frustrating. So he went to his secret place, and watched the girl. She’d crawled under the bed, and pulled the blanket with her. Reece couldn’t see much. He chewed his lip until it bled. The taste of it surprised him.
He didn’t like that she was under the bed; he couldn’t see. How long would she stay there, and how would she be when she came out, ruined or resigned or something else?
Maybe she did not have to die.
Or maybe she did …
* * *
For me, it was all about Chance. I’d dragged him into the cage as the man who’d beaten him so badly stood by and watched, his chest heaving as sweat ran down his neck. He’d said nothing at all, just locked the cage, and left.
Son of a bitch.
Motherfucker.
I still didn’t know if Chance was all right. He was on his side, arms folded to cushion the ribs, his eyes closed. He didn’t speak, but his face was better than I’d thought. Blood, yeah, but none of the cuts were deep. I used my shirt to clean him up.
“Gibs.” It was a whisper.
“Yeah, man. I’m here.”
“That kind of sucked.” His eyes stayed closed. His lips twitched.
“Dude, are you smiling?”
“I don’t know. My face hurts too much to be sure.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“I couldn’t find a tool kit.”
That made no sense. I thought again, Concussion. Or shock.
Then he opened his hand, and showed me what looked like a pair of scissors, curved at the tips, some kind of surgical clamp.
Chance’s voice was very soft. “It’s
called a hemostat.”
He seemed so certain and calm I thought maybe I was the one in shock. “How in the world do you know that?”
Another smile, very faint. “I saw it in a magazine once. Medics in Vietnam…”
“Chance, Jesus…”
“Much better than your fingers.”
43
Jason waited for someone to take him to X, but no one came to his cell or even into the hall. The world was stillness, dark thoughts, and dead silence. Like most inmates unfortunate enough to be awake in the middle of this particular night, Jason was thinking of the execution. He knew enough to visualize the way it would go down. At eight o’clock, three corrections officers would remove X from his cell, walk him the length of death row, and down a short hall to the execution chamber, where thick, leather straps at the wrists and ankles would secure him to the chair as the final two straps crisscrossed his chest, shoulders to hips. One officer would shave his head as close to the skin as possible, as a second prepared the sponge and bucket of salt water, placing those items beside the chair. The third officer, the most senior, would adjust the headpiece to assure a proper fit and maximum conductivity. Every preliminary step was designed to further that end: the salt water and sponge, the bare skin and the cranial cap lined with copper mesh. Those steps wouldn’t take long, maybe twenty minutes.
After that, X would have to wait.
At nine o’clock exactly, blinds would be raised at two different windows, one to the outside world, letting in the new day’s light, and one to the observation room so that those present might witness the death. The warden, by then, would be in the execution chamber, and would offer X a chance for final words. Jason had no idea what X might say, only that he would be there to hear those words, and that to X, his presence would matter in powerful, complicated ways that Jason would as soon not consider. As for the other witnesses—the politicians and the families of the victims—Jason suspected that X would die as he had lived, contemptuous to the end.
After last words, the sponge would be soaked in salt water, placed on X’s bare scalp, and secured there by the cranial cap. Water would stream down his face and into his eyes; it would darken his clothing at the collar. A power cable would be attached to the headpiece, as would a dark shroud designed to conceal his face in what Jason considered the final mercy of allowing a condemned man’s last expressions of pain, fear, and despair to be his alone.
Jason had imagined the moment countless times: silence in the gathered crowd, black cloth stirring as X measured out his final breaths. When the moment arrived, 1,750 volts would pour into X’s body, lifting it, and then dropping it. Fifteen seconds later, a second jolt would be delivered, followed by a mandatory five-minute wait and a declaration of time of death.
Assuming everything goes well.
* * *
When they came for Jason, they did so in the dark. Half-blinded by a flashlight, Jason still recognized Captain Ripley. The others he thought were Jordan and Kudravetz. The core of X’s detail. Old-school. They pulled Jason to his feet, and every inch of the journey hurt.
“Get dressed.”
They gave him civilian clothes, and Jason did as he was told. They took him into the hall. Cuffs only. No chains.
“This way.”
Ripley set a fast pace, and they met no one as they moved down deserted hallways, and passed through checkpoints that would normally be guarded. That set off alarm bells, but when Jason slowed his pace, they yanked him hard by the arms. Outside, the sky was clear and dark.
Not dawn.
Not even close.
They drew him along a dim path, cellblock D emerging from the gloom.
No lights on the towers.
No movement.
With each turn, Jason ticked off places they weren’t taking him.
Not the infirmary.
Not death row.
They weren’t taking him to X, and that made the bells sing.
Ripley said, “Six minutes.”
Jason felt the tension, the new tempo. They hustled him toward the admin building, where they passed two guards, down at the gate, and bleeding. Ripley got them through, and locked the gate behind them.
“Shift change in four minutes.”
They rushed through the darkened building, found another guard down at the entrance, and two more on the inside. They moved Jason down zigzag stairs, and into a subbasement hallway that led to a concrete ramp lit by dim bulbs in rusted cages. The big guards urged him up the slope to a parking garage occupied by a single car and lots of dark corners. If Jason wanted to disappear a man, this would be a good way to do it, a quiet, clean kill, then in the trunk and gone. At the car, Ripley popped the trunk. Inside was a spare tire and a jack, a water bottle and a ratty blanket. “Get in.”
“No.”
“Get in the damn trunk.”
“You’ll have to kill me first,” Jason said.
Something primal showed on Ripley’s face. Jason might be injured, but he’d gone toe to toe with X more times than any man alive. Three guards or not, no one wanted to roll those dice. “Okay, tough guy. Back seat, but on the floor.”
“Ripley, no…”
“Shut up, Kudravetz. Get him in. Cover him up.”
Jason didn’t give an inch.
“Get in the car,” Ripley said.
“Where are you taking me?”
“We don’t have time for this.” Ripley drew a revolver Jason had not seen or suspected. Guards did not carry inside the walls. Not ever. “I’ll say please if it makes things easier.”
Jason let the fight bleed out of his limbs—no choice. They got him in the car, down deep in the shadows, beneath a blanket that smelled like mothballs and gasoline. Ripley and Jordan got in front, Ripley behind the wheel. Kudravetz took the back seat, and his face pale white as he stared down in the gloom. “Fuck this up, and you’ll kill us all.”
Ripley turned the key. The engine caught.
“Cover your face.”
Jason did, but kept enough of a gap to see a slice of concrete ceiling. The car lurched into motion, turned a tight radius, and angled up a second ramp. When it stopped, he heard steel rumble as a metal door rolled on heavy-gauge tracks. Then they were outside.
“One minute. We’re cutting this close.”
The main gate was brightly lit. Ripley spoke to a guard, and the gate ground open, so massive that Jason felt the vibration. The car rolled forward, and they were through. Jason saw treetops and firelight, then heard the rumble of the crowd. Jordan said, “Jesus, there must be a thousand of them by now.”
In seconds, bodies crowded the car, signs stabbing up and down as people yelled at the car and at each other, a wash of angry faces. Ripley intimidated with the big engine. Short lurches. Hard stops. Some backed off. Others beat on the car. When they were through, the sky opened up, and so did Ripley.
“Pursuit?”
“No.”
“Alarms?”
“Nothing yet.”
They hit the tree line, and blew through it in a boil of gravel and dust. “Kudravetz, let him up.”
Jason got off the floorboards, and held on for dear life. Too much car and not enough traction. When they reached the state road, Ripley pumped the brakes and turned left, rear end drifting until the tires caught pavement. Then it was forty miles an hour, racing fast to sixty-five and ninety. The car looked old, but had the goods where it counted: rock steady on the shocks, engine still eager as they broke a hundred, and reached out for one-ten. Kudravetz was watching him closely, and so was Jordan, both of them wary and ready for anything. Jason thought, Pagans, payback, Darius Simms. Simms was the kind to want his payback in person, to look Jason in the eyes, and say something stupid like, You shot me twice, motherfucker, and nobody does that to Darius Simms …
“How about now you tell me where we’re going?”
Ripley’s eyes flashed in the rearview. “A farmhouse. Not far.”
Wind poured through open windows,
and Jason watched the dark fields and distant woods. More places to disappear a man. He ran scenarios, but none looked good. The speedometer was pegged at one-ten, and Ripley still carried that .38.
“Ten minutes.” Ripley’s eyes, again in the mirror. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
* * *
Nothing marked the turn but a battered mailbox with catseye reflectors that glowed yellow from a hundred yards out. Ripley slowed the car, and turned onto a dirt road in an abandoned field. A hundred feet in, two four-wheel-drive vehicles were angled in to block the drive. “Take it easy, people. No surprises here.”
Where the vehicles blocked the road, two men stood on the hard, red dirt, M16s carried at the low-ready. Maybe ex-military, definitely trained. When Ripley stopped the car, one maintained his position center road as the other came to the driver’s-side window, and shone a light into the car. “Names?”
Ripley shielded his eyes, pointing in turn. “Ripley. Jordan. Kudravetz. That’s Jason French behind me.”
The light stayed on Ripley’s face for five full seconds, then swept the other faces a second time. “Any weapons in the vehicle?”
Ripley handed over the .38.
Slowly, Jason noted.
“Wait for us to move the vehicles, then proceed to the house at no more than fifteen miles an hour.” He straightened, and keyed his radio. “One car, inbound. Four men.”
He got into a Bronco, and the second man got into a Jeep, rocking the vehicles through the ditch line and off the road. Ripley drove them through the gap, and the vehicles rolled back out of the fields, blocking the drive behind them.
Not Pagans, Jason thought.
Not unless they contracted out top-dollar private security.
For a moment, he thought military brass might have sent private contractors to make sure the Bến Hải River massacre stayed well and deeply buried, that General Laughtner’s fear of exposure meant no loose threads could be left to dangle. And Jason felt very much like that loose thread. The dirt track stretched into blackness and scrub, no sign of any house. Maybe the general thought it wasn’t enough to string him out on morphine, then send him home disgraced and shot full of heroin. But that didn’t feel right, either.