by Tom Pitts
After he hung up, Jason yelled into the empty night. No echoes came back from the open fields. He kicked the dirt and gravel at his feet until a dry brown cloud rose up in the headlights. He threw the phone down and ground it and stomped it with his heel. He kept at it until the cell was shattered, its casing flayed away, exposing its tiny green circuit board broken in the dirt.
When he reached the car, he saw writhing, the kid pushed up against the far window, straightening his legs to shove at the disturbance. Juliet sat inert in the front, but the back seat was full of activity, legs kicking, fists pounding. He saw the woman’s arm flailing uselessly at Bomber’s back as he crushed her like some predatory beast. Jason opened Bomber’s door and yanked him back by his leather jacket. Bomber’s head cracked against the car frame as he was extricated from Impala.
He dragged Bomber across the gravel and spun him around. He caught the look of surprise on Bomber’s face before he began to pound down on him with his fists. Bomber’s size didn’t matter now, Jason was atop him, pummeling his head. Bomber’s face began to puff, swell, and bleed. And Jason kept on punching. Bomber tried to speak, tried to plead, but Jason kept hitting him, feeling teeth crack and cartilage flatten, with both fists now, clasped together for power and weight. He kept going till he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Dennings and Carson were flying over the Davis viaduct when the phone sounded. At first, Calper reached for it, but he realized it wasn’t his ringtone. Gary’s phone was ringing.
The cell was in Gary’s hand as he studied the map. The call jarred him. Not bothering to look at the ID, Gary swiped accept. “Hello?” Gary’s voice was winded, even though he sat still.
“Mr. Carson? This is Deputy Castillo from the Sacramento Sheriff’s Department. How’re you doing?”
“How can I help you, Sheriff?”
“That’s usually my opener.”
The detective was taking his time, speaking slowly. Gary gulped back air to conceal his impatience.
“We stopped by your house this evening and there was no one there.”
“My house? Why? Did something happen? Have you heard anything?”
“No, I’m sorry. The situation is the same. It was a welfare check, Mr. Carson. We wanted to make sure you were all right.”
The comment hung and Gary listened to the wind from outside whistle back through the phone.
“Are you all right, Mr. Carson?”
“Am I…No, sir—or detective, or whatever—I’m not. My wife is still missing and you motherfuckers haven’t told me shit. It’s been hours now and I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“Where are you, Gary?”
Gary looked out at the endless acres of rice paddies the viaduct straddled. Dark with no pinpoints of light. “Do you have any new information or not?”
“I’m sorry. Like I said, at this time—”
Gary said, “Please call me when you do,” and hung up.
Calper waited until he’d set the phone back on the seat. “That the same buffoon who was at your house?”
“Yeah,” Gary said. “Why the hell would they be checking on me?”
“They want to make sure you’re safe and, more importantly, secure. They don’t like vigilantes out there trying to do their job.”
“Is that what we are? Vigilantes?”
Calper squinted in the other direction, even though the darkness afforded no view. He said, “With a little luck, yeah.”
Juliet had stopped him from killing Bomber, he was sure of it. He looked at him now, his hulk down in the gravel. Bomber lay twisted over, his hands covering his face, coughing blood and snot into the dirt.
“Get up,” Jason said.
Bomber made no effort to get up. He began to sob, but managed to choke out, “Fuck you.”
Jason kicked him hard in the ribs and thick breath coughed out of him. “Fuckin’ get your fat ass up and get back in the car. If I leave you here, I ain’t leaving you alive.”
Bomber stirred, first getting on all fours, then, limb by limb, forcing himself upright. When he was on his feet, he straightened his back and looked Jason in the eye. His face was meaty and pounded out of shape, his teeth chipped and broken, hard to discern the damage because of the thick blood collecting between his lips. His nose was pushed off to the left with dirt from the road helping clot its flow. He swayed like a drunken sailor on deck in a sea storm.
“Why’d you have to go and do that, man?” His voice raspy with phlegm and barely corralling the sobs. “I thought we was friends. That was fucked up. Look at me. Fuck.” He touched his nose and shook away the blood from his fingers.
Jason tightened his eyes and stepped into him. “Get in the back seat. If you touch that bitch again, I’ll fuckin’ finish the job.”
Calper exited the freeway and Gary pointed directions using the map on his phone. Calper searched where he guessed the horizon would be, hoping to see headlights or taillights, but only saw what was illuminated by his own high-beams. They raced along the straight road toward the intersection.
“All right, all right, all right, I see it,” Calper said as he neared the crossroad and slowed the Taurus.
Gary craned his head left to right, hopelessly searching the darkness. “There’s nothing here. Did we miss ’em? You think it was a mistake?”
Calper didn’t answer. Quiet as a hunter, he shut off the engine and opened his door, not bothering to shut it. Using his phone as a flashlight, he searched the roadside in front of them.
Gary got out and called after him. “Can’t we call whoever you talked to? Find out if they moved? Maybe they got another signal?”
Calper squatted, examining something in the gravel lining the edge of the asphalt.
“What is it?” Gary yelled out.
Calper poked at the metal debris with his finger. “It looks like a phone. Or at least it was a phone. We won’t be getting anymore signals from them.”
A Shell gas station, a Chevron, a McDonald’s, and a Jack in the Box. The fueling stations were open, but only walk-up service at the thick bulletproof window. The food mart portions long closed for the evening. McDonald’s was dark, but Jack in the Box still had its drive-through light on, blinking mindlessly into the late night. They sat like predators, recessed in the shadows near the back of the parking lot of the Chevron, watching the few cars pull up to the pumps and leave. Not one of them suitable for taking. Not big enough to accommodate them, or not vulnerable enough to overtake. The moment would come, Jason thought, soon.
Across the street at the Shell, an older model Honda CR-V tooled up to the pump, its driver a young bearded man with thick glasses. They watched as the man walked up to the bulletproof glass to prepay for his gas, watched him take out his wallet and pay with cash, dropping it in the heavy metal tray the cashier slid out for him.
Juliet leaned over to Jason and whispered, “We’re running out of time.”
He brushed her comment away like an errant mosquito, but he cracked his door and picked up the Sig .45 from the car’s seat. Before he crossed the street, he flipped up the hood on his sweater and zipped it up to his neck. He knew the security cameras would catch all his actions. With the pistol tucked into his outer denim, he approached the man, gesticulating with his left hand as though he were asking directions.
The bearded man cocked his head, confused by what the stranger was saying. “Sorry?”
When he was close enough, Jason showed him the gun and told him to shake his hand, the left one. The pantomime confused the man. They waited for the gas to complete pumping, then both got in the vehicle, the man driving and Jason in the passenger seat. Jason directed him to the Impala sitting behind the Chevron’s food mart, then told the man to turn off the car. Jason snatched the keys from the ignition and, with a sharp poke in the ribs with the barrel of the gun, instructed the man to climb into the back seat and shut the fuck up.
“Put your seatbelt on,” Jason said.
It must’ve sounded like such an odd request, because the man didn’t move. He looked terrified by Jason, the gun, and the idea that his life expectancy was suddenly diminished by a cruel twist of fate, a chance meeting, bad timing.
Jason repeated himself and, this time, the man complied with his hands shaking to the point he could barely complete the request. Jason climbed out of the CR-V but kept the barrel of his gun trained on the man.
“Now don’t fucking move. I’m two feet away from you. If I see you try to move, I’ll shoot you. No way you’re faster than my aim. I’m fucking good with this thing.” He held up the Sig again to underscore his point. The man wasn’t going to run; he looked too scared to move.
Jason stepped to the Impala and tapped Bomber’s window with the barrel of the gun and motioned for him to roll it down. Bomber did, cranking it down with wide turns, wincing in pain.
Jason leaned in. “All right,” he said to all of them, “we’ve got ourselves a car. Let’s get what we need and move fast. We need to be on the road. Juliet, get over there and make sure that fucker doesn’t move.”
She opened her door and scooped up her phone, purse, and other items littered on her lap.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Jason said.
Bomber frowned at the man in the back of the CR-V and said, “What about him? What are we going to do with him? There ain’t enough room for all of us in there.”
Jason turned and looked at the man, then squinted into the Impala, as though he was recalculating. He looked again at the CR-V, and back into the Impala. Linda shivered between Bomber and the kid. The confused look tightened on Jason’s face.
“Just fuckin’ dump him here. Give him a smack and leave him,” Bomber said, his words barely forming, the broken teeth causing him to lisp.
Jason didn’t answer him, his thoughts too busy ricocheting in his head.
“C’mon, Jason,” Bomber seemed to be pleading with him. “We can take both cars, take ’em back out to where we just were. Get rid of ’em both and leave this piece of shit.”
Juliet was already in the passenger seat of the CR-V, leaning into the back and saying something low and mean to their new hostage. Jason still leaned into the Impala’s back window, but his head swiveled between the two vehicles one last time.
Bomber said, “C’mon. We ain’t got room for everybody.”
“You’re right,” Jason said. “Somebody’s got to stay here.” He held up the .45 to Bomber’s face and fired. The bullet tore through his cheek and punched out the back of his head.
The cannon blast emptied the car of any sound and a fine red mist floated down over Linda and the boy. It felt warm on her neck and she fought the urge to vomit again.
Russell looked wide-eyed at the back window. It was pasted with blood and brain matter, and in the upper left corner was a perfect hole, hardly visible in the painting of gore.
The cashier heard the blast and reached to lower the volume on his radio. He leaned forward in his booth and scanned the parking lot. He pressed himself against the glass and tried to see around the corner of the building but couldn’t. When no other noise followed he sat back, reached for his radio’s volume, and lit a cigarette.
Bomber sat motionless with his head back and his eyes and mouth still gaping. The blossom of blood on his cheek began to flow as the seat behind him turned red from the exit wound.
The three looked at each other, all of them surprised by the power of shot and the deafening roar. Their ears buzzed and there was no other sound.
Jason felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, squeezing the gun tight in his hand. It was Juliet saying something to him. Her lips moved but the buzzing was too much. He couldn’t make out what she said.
Finally, over the ringing, he heard her say, “Let’s go.” And they did.
Chapter Sixteen
In springtime, exhaustion melted into an anxious ennui. Nervous energy possessed Maureen from the pre-dawn hours. She filled her mornings with menial chores, frantically shifting from room to room, mid-task. Laundry and dishes and sweeping and vacuuming and dusting and when lunchtime hit, there’d be clothes strewn across the couch and a broom on the floor and a sink full of dirty water. She’d stop working and burn her energy pacing, thinking, tugging at her auburn hair.
It made Jason wary, like he was trapped in the house with someone new, someone he didn’t know. It was easy when she slept, but now she’d eye him, tell him he was doing things wrong, spend what felt like hours explaining how to do things just so. How to rinse a plate, how to brush his teeth. He didn’t want to listen, he only wanted to play. What was wrong with Mommy now, he wondered. Had he done something wrong? She snapped at him and sometimes sent him to his room for timeouts that lasted hours, Mommy forgetting about his punishment while she moved on to another new chore.
He thought maybe it was the doctor’s fault. She wasn’t like this before they started going the appointments, before Daddy made them go. He’d spend the quiet timeouts lying flat on his bedroom floor with his cheek pressed to the carpet, peering under the door, half-hopeful half-dreading the shadows of her footsteps approaching his room.
The nighttime was the worst time. Jason’s parents’ fights continued unabated. His father would stay in his study till Jason was put to bed, then he’d venture out to criticize Maureen for any slight, real or manufactured. He’d egg her on, taunt her, mock her, and when she reached a schizoid static, nearly frothing, he’d retreat into his study and listen to the smashing of plates, the hurling of ashtrays, and the long baneful wails into the night.
Jason couldn’t confront his father about this, tell him the nightly exorcisms were bleeding into his day. His father had a way of listening without hearing. He’d nod and smile to himself while the boy tried to form his words then make Jason feel foolish and small for even coming to him. How could a boy know what’s best for his mother? Father knows best. That was the mantra. Father knows best.
Calper and Gary peered across the dashboard for any sign of a car and saw nothing. Hurling forward on the backcountry roads, Gary gripped his knees, praying softly under his breath. Praying for Linda, praying for headlights, any kind of sign.
Calper noticed his lips moving and said, “We’ll get her. Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure your wife is safe.”
Gary’s mouth rose into a breathy oval. He tried to speak, but disbelief kept him from forming the word. Finally he said, “How?”
Calper didn’t answer. He aimed the Taurus back toward the freeway. They rolled across the overpass toward the few lights they saw. A cluster of gas stations and fast-food joints sat huddled against the prairie darkness.
“Why are you stopping? Do we need gas? Shouldn’t we keep looking?”
“We are looking.”
Calper threaded the rental through the businesses and hit the brakes.
“Look. Behind the Chevron. Is that the car?”
Gary’s dread hollowed into a dry lump pushing up against his ribcage. In the shadows culled from the arc lights and well-lit pumps sat the Impala. No mistaking its dull green and dirty windows. Inside was murky and dark. There was no way to tell if the vehicle was occupied.
“Get down a little,” Calper said. “Farther. Get your head down by the dash.”
Calper reached below his seat and pulled a Walther PPK .380, racked the slide, and set the gun back down on the seat beside his thigh. He wheeled the car through the station’s farthest entrance, allowing the headlights to settle on the Impala.
“It’s empty,” Gary said.
“It looks empty. I can’t tell for sure.” With the car in park, Calper stepped out, cradling the Walther in both hands. He crept up to the Impala carefully, keeping the sights trained on the windows. As he neared, he saw the sleeping figure in the back seat. With the windows opaque with grime, there was no way to tell who it was.
>
Then he noticed the misted red rear window. The sleeping person lay too still. With the gun still in his right hand, he reached for his cell and thumbed the flashlight app. The scene in the back seat was confirmed. He figured this was the one called Bomber. Barry Posiltwine. His head thrown back and his mouth hung open, eyes staring sightless at the torn fabric on the car roof, a dark coagulated lump on his left cheek. Calper stepped around and saw the quarter-sized hole that’d been punched through the rear window and knew that Bomber was dead. The others had gone.
He wondered why the police weren’t here, and he stepped back to look at the cashier. It took him a few steps before the line of sight opened up. He saw the cashier leaning up against the booth, trying to see Calper, probably curious about why the Taurus was parked at an off angle. Calper turned and walked back to his car and the cashier sat down once again.
“What is it?” Gary asked as Calper turned the key.
“She’s not there.”
“You sure?”
Calper nodded. “Nobody is. Except the big guy. Remember him?”
“Why didn’t you talk to him?” Gary’s voice urgent, high-pitched like a child’s.
“He’s dead. Somebody shot him in the face.”
The idea sent shockwaves through Gary. Someone dying didn’t seem real. His mind had been fighting against the possibility. He didn’t know how to connect it to Linda. He couldn’t connect it. The pit reformed in his belly and bile rose up in his mouth.
“Shouldn’t we call the police? Isn’t this a lead? They’ll help now. They have to.”
Calper turned out of the parking lot and headed toward the on-ramp. He didn’t look at Gary as he spoke. “You want to spend the night answering questions you don’t have the answer to? You want to watch them scurry around and worry about some dead drug addict while your wife is still with the killers? No. I say we keep moving. Find them first and get her back.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”