by Jack Lively
Which was exactly what I had been waiting for, some momentum. When a person gets his body into motion, it becomes really hard to change direction, or to adjust for leverage. Motion commits weight transfer, and the guy had committed. That is because one of the effects of crystal meth is to make the user physically over-reactive. The guy hadn’t stepped forward so much as leapt ahead of himself.
Too fast out of the gate, too late.
I stepped out of his line, swiveled back at him and came in at a new angle. The guy tried to adjust his balance, get in the right place, at least to defend himself. He was wide open, like a rabbit caught in headlights. My hand was ringed in steel. My armored fist was pure kinetic energy, and slammed into the side of his head, just to the right of a swastika tattoo on his upper cheek. There was a cracking sound. Either his skull breaking, or the handcuffs clashing. I didn’t care which.
The guy went down.
Another lesson from fight club, no pause, no let up, no delay. Only relentless aggression will save you from being beaten to a pulp by some protein powder-guzzling Navy Seal Green Team warrior. And like a good pool player, you have to always consider the next shot.
The next shot was the next guy in line. This one had a full-on illustration of Adolf Hitler tattooed from belly to neck. Hitler was snarling and holding up his arm in a Sieg-Heil Nazi salute. The guy was reacting defensively, throwing his hands in the air to block a face strike. No real experience. I was already in motion, allowing the strike on the first guy to spin me at the second guy.
I came in fast, got down below his raised arms and punched into his groin with my left elbow, throwing a hell of a lot of energy into him. I felt my elbow sink into soft flesh, stopped only by slamming into his pelvic bone. The guy screamed sharply, in a high-pitched voice. He curled over and jerked back. Hands dropped to protect his bruised genitals, which left his face open to whatever I wanted to do to it. I wanted to cave it in, to destroy it. I twisted as I came up, put my steel-cased fist straight into his mouth. The cuffs punched through his front teeth, which shattered into the back of his throat. He fell back against the wall, choking and coughing.
Two down, one to go.
Looked like the third guy was less of a coward than his friends. He was not panicking, yet. He was right in there, coming at me with his arm cocked back. The fist was coming in, a good shot, aimed straight at my nose. I turned away in time and took the punch on my cheek. The guy followed up with a knee aimed at my chin. It was an acrobatic move, requiring him to push off his left leg, throwing all of his momentum into the knee strike.
Which I blocked, grappling with his leg and taking control of it. He tottered, a look of surprise on his face. I tossed him back. The guy scrambled and lost his balance, slammed into the door. I was up on the balls of my feet. The hatch to the cell door window was open. I could make out a widened eye looking in.
The guy went for the door, he wanted out. I grabbed his belt and held him. I said, “Too late.”
The third guy’s head was shaved on the sides and the back, but long on top, in some kind of Neo-Nazi pony tail. It was like a ready-made handle. I gripped him by the hair and lifted his face so I could see it. The guy was grimacing, mouth in a clenched rictus from the fear and the speed.
He said, “Please.”
I said, “No.”
I smashed his face into the cell door window, right into the frightened eye of the watching guard. The guy slid off, leaving a bloody smear on the glass. But I had not let go of him. I did it again, this time using my full weight and leverage to bash his head against the stainless steel sink. He took the edge on the bridge of his nose, which made a crunching sound as the cartilage was pulverized. Then I did it again, three times more in quick succession. With each hit the sound was more wet, less solid, more like slamming a bag of fleshy bones into a boulder. Then I dropped him, letting the Nazi flop between the sink and the toilet.
Three down. Maybe twenty seconds.
I looked around. The first guy might have been dead, I wasn’t totally sure, and since I didn’t care, I didn’t bother to check. Same with the third guy. Maybe alive, barely, but no guarantees. Number two was on his ass, against the wall. He was trying to spit out shattered teeth. Groaning and wriggling. I said, “Don’t get up, don’t make any noise and you might make it to daybreak. Then you can worry about teeth, and the future of eating.”
He stopped moving.
One of the guards was peering in again, trying to see. I couldn’t tell which one, skinny or big. The beam from a flashlight was playing along the floor, picking out the would-be killers in their various stages of bad shape. The light coming in the cell door window needed to pass through the blood smear, bathing the cell in a red ambience. It looked like a circle of hell. I guess the guard didn’t like what he saw, but there was not much that he could do about it. The light went off, and the little hatch closed over the window.
I waited for something to happen, but nothing did. They were probably in some kind of panic. This had not gone according to Plan A. I doubted they had a Plan B. I guess sending in the boys from 1488 was usually effective for prison assassinations. For now, it looked as though they were going to leave me in there with the casualties.
Which suited me just fine.
I could hear the number two guy breathing. I said, “Are you planning on being a problem?” I saw his head shake, no. I stepped back to the bunk bed and stepped on something hard, the pair of handcuffs. I slipped them into my front pocket, I already had the key. Then I lay down on the bunk and closed my eyes. There was no way of knowing what the morning would bring, so I figured it was time to get some shut-eye.
Eighteen
A couple of hours later I opened my eyes from an excellent sleep, well rested and feeling good. It was one of those waking moments when a vivid dream begins to recede almost immediately, leaving behind only a faint outline. The only thing I kept from the dream was the sensation of being underwater at night. When you do your first solo night dive, navigating at thirty meters all alone in the black, the saying is that you ‘see the witches’. In this case it was not a witch, it was the pale figure of a white shark, swimming in the gloom alongside me.
I heard the scuffle of keys in the lock. The cell was a horrifying sight in the weak daylight. Two of the bodies lay motionless, in awkward positions. The guy whose face I had caved in was snoring through his brand new dental configuration. Heavy mouth breathing through the missing front teeth made a high pitched whistle. The jaw line looked bad. Puffy and bruised.
The cell door had opened quietly this time, with only the slightest jingle of keys and a minor scrape of steel on steel. They were coming in cautious and prepared. One guard entered, followed by two more. They wore full riot gear and carried Remington Breacher shotguns with the pistol grip. The face shields were dark, making the guards faceless. They moved in short crab-like steps. I stayed in the bunk. I figured they would have bird-shot loads, and I didn’t want a face full of bird-shot. I figured they’d give me that if I gave them half a chance. So, I stayed quiet and pretended to be asleep, lying on my side with eyes opened just enough to see.
The first guy had his gun on me point blank. The Breacher is a dull-looking weapon on a good day. Up close like that, the hole in the barrel was cold and indifferent, utility gear for shredding flesh. Grim and efficient. The other two guards started dragging out the casualties. When the bodies were gone, the first guard in became the last one out. He crab-walked backward, never lowering his aim, until the last moment, when he stepped into the hallway. Another guard closed the door, and I was all alone again.
A good chance to get an extra hour of sleep. In the end, I got two.
A new guard came this time. Fresh on shift. He looked around the cell, at the various blood stains. He said, “What the fuck.” Then he looked at me. “Let’s go.”
I said, “Where to?”
“Police came to get you.”
I stood up. The guard cuffed me. Then we moved out o
f the cell.
The detective was waiting in an interview room. A table and two chairs faced each other. A window looked out to the corridor. The detective sat in one of them. The younger cop had called him Jim, radio call sign thirteen. He spoke to the guard. “Take the cuffs off.”
The guard said, “Not sure that’s a good idea, detective.”
“Just do it.”
The guard shrugged and removed my handcuffs. I sat down in the chair and put my hands on the table. The detective looked at me, then at the guard, who walked out the door and closed it. Then he looked at my hands. The right one was bruised on the knuckles. Using the handcuffs as brass knuckles had been a painful workaround. Particularly the part when I punched into the Nazi’s head. Skulls are hard.
The detective said, “What happened there?”
I looked up at him. I said, “You know how it is. Breaking through flesh and bone is hard work.”
He said, “I told you what would happen you play it tough.”
I looked him in the eyes and said, “I didn’t play it any way. They sent three guys to kill me. It didn’t work. That’s all.”
The detective let out a small laugh. “You serious?”
I said nothing.
He gave me a dead-eyed look, then he turned away. “Shit.” The detective’s mouth was a horizontal line. He looked tired, which made sense. It was early. The guy had come out here first thing.
I said, “It was two of the guards who arranged it, if you want to know. One of them was a big guy with tattooed forearms, a whale and a shark. The other was his buddy, slim with an ill-fitting uniform, like he’d been fat once and lost weight suddenly.”
He said, “A skinny fat man.”
I said nothing.
The detective glanced at the guard, who watched us through the glass. He licked his lips. Then he said, “I’m Jim Smithson, Detective, Port Morris PD. I just need to ask the question, okay? Where you were last night, between five and six p.m.”
I said, “Up on the old fire tower.”
Smithson nodded as if a ritual exchange of passcodes had been accomplished. “Fine. That’s all I needed you to say. Lucky for you that’s what another person says, and she carries a lot more water around here than you do. Lucky for you, she came in. That and the GSR tests came back negative from the lab, confirming the presumptive. So, you’re good to go, Mister Keeler. On behalf of the Port Morris Police Department, I apologize for holding you. We are just doing our job.”
“Who fingered me, was it an anonymous tip?”
His eyes closed and he looked away as he spoke. “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”
I said, “What about the girl I was with?”
“Miss Chapman was released last night.”
I wondered what Chapman had told the investigators. Had she admitted to being at the Beaver Lodge last night, or did she lie and tell them she was somewhere else? If so, where. Those were questions that I kept to myself. It occurred to me that they might not have even questioned her.
I said, “So you think that’s it?”
“That’s it.” Smithson stood up. He looked like he could use a caffeine intravenous drip, and maybe that wouldn’t be enough.
I said, “Sit back down. That’s not it, detective.”
He stood with his hand on the chair. “What?”
“Sit down. We’re not done here.”
Smithson wavered, but he sat back down.
I said, “Guy named Deckart. Has a sidekick name of Willets. At least those are the names they gave me. Do you know them?”
“Any reason I should?”
“Yesterday, those two were following Jane Abrams and her friends, and from what I understand, they were pursuing a campaign of intimidation against them.”
He said, “Who is Jane Abrams?”
I said, “Don’t be funny.”
“I’m not being funny. Who is Jane Abrams?”
“The woman killed at Beaver Falls Lodge.”
Smithson smiled, as if he’d managed to trick me. “And how would you know anything about Beaver Falls Lodge?”
I said, “I’m not playing. You’re the cop, do your job. I didn’t kill Abrams, you know that. So quit delaying. I’m giving you information that can help you find the people who did. Maybe you want to take notes and write this down, so I don’t have to repeat myself.”
Smithson rapped his fingers on the table between us. “Why would this guy intimidate her?”
I said, “I don’t know. Fact is that they did. I said write it down.”
“What?”
“What I’ve just told you. Write down the names, if you don’t have them. So you can look into it. Do your job, Smithson.”
“What do you know about my job?”
“Detective, you might get shot tomorrow, or wind up eaten by a killer whale, who knows. Shit happens. If you write down the pertinent facts in a case, I assume that the person coming after you might find them useful. If nothing else.”
Smithson dropped his gaze and licked his lips. Patted his pockets and pulled out a small notebook and a cheap pen. He flipped open to the first page. I repeated the names, Deckart and Willets, Gavin the prison guard. He wrote them down dutifully, in the unschooled handwriting of a ten-year-old child. I said, “You got it now?”
“Yeah. I got it.”
“Good. You’ve been forewarned.”
Smithson met my gaze unsteadily. “Forewarned for what?”
“For whatever’s going to happen.”
The detective motioned to the guard, who opened the door. I waited with Smithson in the processing room while the duty officer hunted around in the back. After a minute or two she came out with a sealed cardboard box. She sliced through the tape with a utility knife. My jacket and the laptop bag were there, untouched, along with my wallet and change. I had wondered if the detective would be curious about the laptop, but he showed no interest.
The exterior siding of the building was faded red in the daylight. I squinted. Smithson tugged at my elbow, pointed over to the side of the driveway. A Ford F-150 pickup truck was parked, two tires off the road. Leaning against the hood was Lavinia Stone Chandler, Chief of Police, Chilkat Tribal Authority. Otherwise known as Ellie.
Ellie waved.
I turned to the detective. He was looking at her, then at me. “See you around, champ.”
Smithson walked to the unmarked Explorer parked in a reserved diagonal slot. I walked over to Ellie. She had a thumb hooked into the belt hoop of her jeans. She looked well rested.
She said, “Just a guy, huh?”
Nineteen
The Ford rumbled hungrily. Alaska rolled by. Ellie glanced at me across the front bench. The glance turned into a searching examination which made me self-conscious. The t-shirt was torn and bloody. I had the jacket balled up on my lap. My hands rested on it, knuckles bruised, dried blood in the nails. The jeans were salt-encrusted with significant blood stains. It is no easy task to smell yourself, but even so, I could smell myself, and it smelled bad.
We made eye contact. I shrugged.
She said, “Let’s go to my place, get you cleaned up. Then we can go to the New York cafe, if you like bagels.”
They had not bothered feeding me at the Port Morris Correctional Facility. Not even a tray of prison food, with a boxed drink and a plastic spork. Yesterday’s lunchtime burger seemed like the distant past. A long way off, in more ways than one. Made me glad that I hadn’t stopped at the third bite.
Ellie’s place was northeast of town, about a mile off the paved road. Not far from the fire tower.
The pickup truck bounced over the trail until a large cabin came into view around a turn. It was an old house, built in another century, from wood and stone. The tenons and mortice joins were roughhewn but precise, put together by experienced and knowledgeable hands. The house was set facing south, with a rise on the southwestern side. It backed into the woodland that I figured stretched up all the way to the fire t
ower.
When we came inside, Ellie made me take off my boots at the door. She showed me to the bathroom, tossed me a towel and shut me in. I was left with my dirty self, and there was nothing to do but clean up. I removed the few items in my pants pockets. My wallet, and the handcuffs and key I had ended up with at the prison. I laid all that up on a shelf above the sink. Then I removed the various layers of textile that had once been clothing. The t-shirt peeled off painfully, in three pieces. The shower was very hot, the water pressure strong.
Ellie had a large collection of bathroom products lined up on the tiled shelf inside the shower. The products came in many colors and odors, mostly in tubes and bottles. Like magic potions. I tried all of them, one after the other. Some had mysterious functions that escaped me, like skin exfoliator, and body butter. There were various shapes and sizes of ocean sponge. This all happened through a thick mist of steam. After the wet part, the towel was dry and absorbent. I figured that’s what a five star spa experience must be like.
Ellie knocked at exactly the right moment, when I was wondering what to do next. I put the towel around my waist and opened the door. She carried a pile of clothing, neatly folded, one on top of the other. Jeans, button-down plaid shirt, socks, underwear. She said, “It’s all clean. Bob’s stuff. He won’t mind if you take it.”
I said, “I hope not. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Bob.”
She said, “Wrong, Bob’s a pussy cat. It’s his mom you have to worry about.”
Ellie held out a black garbage bag. I looked at it, then at her. Then I understood. I said, “The old stuff?”
Ellie nodded and closed the door. I saw a pair of electric beard clippers on the shelf above the sink. I figured Ellie’s son Bob wouldn’t mind. It was time the beard came off.
I came out of the bathroom a new man. Clean shaven, wearing clean clothes. Felt pretty good. But I was a hungry man. Luckily Ellie had made the correct decision regarding the bagels. Better off going for bagels in the real New York City than in a Port Morris cafe. She was in the kitchen making an omelette. Coffee was hot and black in a pot on the counter.