Hunting Dixie

by James, Harper

  When she got to the road she threw the axe back into the trees. After the incident with the kids at the cabin she knew it wouldn’t help her chances of hitching a lift. But the name Liverman she held onto, found a special place inside her to keep it, a place of darkness and pain, of hatred and thoughts of revenge. Which wasn’t like her at all. But they’d broken something inside her. Then she sat on a stump at the side of the road.

  First up was a newish Toyota with two middle-aged women in it, their animated faces visible through the windshield as they talked and laughed. The driver slowed when she saw Guillory jump up from the stump and run out into the road to wave her down. They both craned their heads forward, mouths half open, temporarily quiet as they stared at her as if some roadkill had suddenly jumped up in front of their car. The passenger caught sight of her face. She gripped the driver’s arm. Shook her head violently. The driver put her foot down again, swung the car around her.

  After a while she heard another car approaching. It sounded like it was really shifting. She leapt to her feet but didn’t jump out in front of it this time. Waved her arms like she was marshalling an aircraft. A single guy was driving. He didn’t even slow. Kept his eyes front as if he hadn’t seen her. She dropped her arms. Stared at the side of the guy’s face as he drove past. Then did a double take. It was the guy who garrotted Evan. Jackson Delacroix. No way was it a coincidence. Something was going down, somewhere nearby. Guys like him don’t just give up.

  She was still standing staring after the car when she heard the sound of another vehicle behind her. She spun around, saw an old pickup driving slowly towards her. She jumped right out in front of it this time waving her hands above her head. The driver stopped. He leaned out the window. He was eighty if he was a day.

  ‘I need you to follow that car.’

  She ran to the passenger door, pulled it open.

  ‘Whoa, there,’ the old guy said.

  ‘I’m a police detective.’

  ‘You don’t look like no detective to me.’ He leaned back to bring her into focus, get a better look at her. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Long story. We haven’t got time.’

  His face creased into a smile, showing her a couple of yellow front teeth.

  ‘You might not have any time.’ He jabbed at her with a twisted, bony finger. ‘But I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘Have you got a phone?’

  The old guy cocked his head. She almost heard him thinking—Phone? I just know I’ve heard that word before.

  ‘Call the police department. They’ll verify my identity.’

  ‘Got a badge? I thought you de-tec-tives had some kind of gold shield.’

  She closed her eyes for a couple of beats until the urge to pull the stupid old fool out of his seat passed.

  ‘I don’t have it with me. Either follow the car on my say so, or call the police department. Please.’

  He smiled again.

  ‘That’s better. Maybe you should’ve tried that earlier.’

  She wanted to scream as he muttered something else about you young people. She jammed her hands into her pockets to keep them away from his tortoise neck. Waited while he fished his phone out of his pocket. Her heart sank when she saw the relic that was state of the art in the early nineties.

  ‘Got the number?’

  She reeled it off.

  ‘Whoa. Not so fast.’

  She gave him the first two digits, stopped.

  ‘Come on, what’s next? I thought you were in a hurry.’

  She gave him the next two digits. Instead of tapping them in the guy banged the phone hard on the steering wheel. He peered at the display. Did it again.

  ‘Don’t know what’s wrong with this thing.’

  She bit her tongue.

  ‘Okay. Seems to be working now. What was that number again?’

  She gave him the next two digits.

  ‘No, no, start from the beginning.’

  She found herself closer to losing the will to live than when she’d been beaten by the pedophiles. They got the whole number in eventually. He satisfied himself it was really the police department and not a trick, got put through to Ryder.

  ‘She doesn’t look like that now,’ he said when Ryder described her. ‘She might have before somebody went and drove over her face with a tractor.’ He laughed which turned into a hacking cough. Then spat a large gob of phlegm out the window. He passed the phone across to her.

  Ryder’s voice was a mixture of confusion and relief.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on. We were setting up an exchange. The three million in exchange for you. But you escaped?’

  She took him quickly through the events of the past few days. The stunned silence grew deeper as she went on. They were wasting too much time. They had to get going or it would be too late.

  ‘What it means is Chico set up an exchange when he hasn’t got anything to trade.’

  ‘So he’s planning on taking the cash and—’

  ‘That’s not all. I’ve just seen Delacroix’s brother drive past. I don’t know how, but he’s got to be on his way to the same meeting.’

  ‘‘Where are you?’

  There was a loud crackle in her ear. She looked at the display. It was still connected.

  ‘Bang it on the door,’ the old guy said.

  She looked at him and he nodded. She banged it gently on the door.

  ‘Harder than that.’

  She hit the door with it again, put it to her ear. Nothing. She looked at the display. That was completely blank now as well.

  The old guy shrugged.

  ‘Always works for me.’

  She resisted the temptation to throw it hard at his head—see if that worked—and ran around to the driver’s side.

  ‘Shift over.’

  She climbed in. Pushed him across the seat with her hip. He grumbled but shifted anyway.

  ‘Don’t drive too fast. I don’t like to drive fast. Don’t trust women drivers neither.’

  The rest of his complaining disappeared out the window as she floored it. She’d give him something to complain about.

  Chapter 83

  EVAN JUMPED OUT OF the back of the van, kicked the tire angrily. The GPS jammer wasn’t anywhere he could find it. All he could do now was wait. He got back in the cab on the passenger side to give his legs more room. The seat tipped forward under him as he sat on it, made him realize he hadn’t checked under the seats. He got out again, flipped the seat up to reveal a storage area underneath.

  The jammer wasn’t in there either. But something else was. A hard-plastic case about eighteen by twelve inches, the sort of thing contractors carry their tools in.

  He popped the latches. Did a double take.

  No jammer and no drill either—just a take-down, bolt action sniper rifle, its component parts neatly arranged in the laser-cut foam interior.

  Jesus Christ.

  He took out the components one by one. In the lid was the barrel, the bolt and a suppressor plus a number of short magazines. In the bottom was the main body of the rifle with the stock, a small bipod and a telescopic sight already attached. Everything was black metal, no fancy walnut stock or unnecessary frills. It was designed to do a job. Shooting people from the rooftops in an urban war zone came to mind.

  Assembling it took less than a minute. Extend the stock, sliding it out on twin rails until it clicked firmly home, slot the bolt into place, insert the barrel and tighten up the nut and he was ready to go—and he’d never laid eyes on one before. With no practice at all you’d get it down to twenty seconds. Breaking it down again was even quicker. He closed the lid, snapped the catches shut.

  If he’d been wearing a hard hat and a high-viz jacket as he walked down the street or through the mall with it swinging casually in his hand nobody would’ve given him a second glance. It was a scary thought.

  It also wasn’t much use to him in the present circumstances. Designed for long-range ki
lling, it wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice for a close-combat firefight.

  In the distance he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. He ran quickly into the trees, hid the case in the undergrowth behind the biggest one. One that he’d easily remember for the future. If he ever got the chance to come back. Then he walked back out again pretending to zip himself up.

  ***

  A SENSE OF FOREBODING swamped him, the back of his neck suddenly cold, as the SUV pulled off the road and came to a halt by the van. Chico climbed out, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his coat. Unless Guillory was in the trunk, he was alone. Evan’s stomach clenched.

  ‘Where’s my partner?’

  ‘Which one?’

  Evan frowned.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You mean Kate? That’s her name isn’t it?’

  Evan nodded, not seeing where this was going.

  ‘Or Diego?’

  ‘Diego? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care.’

  ‘Really? How did you get away from him?’

  Evan hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was mention Jackson.

  ‘I thought so. You don’t want to say.’

  ‘What does it matter? We agreed to trade the three million for Kate.’

  Chico shook his head, a smug smile on his lips as if to say you’re missing the bigger picture here.

  ‘I think it matters a lot. More than all the rest of it, in fact.’

  He brought his hand swiftly out of his pocket. Evan expected to see a gun, didn’t expect a can of pepper spray.

  The surprise cost him a split second. And a lot of pain.

  He raised his forearm to protect his eyes, turned away at the same time. But Chico was a half second ahead of him. And a half second is a very long time when someone’s spraying OC in your eyes.

  His face felt as if it had been pricked by a thousand white hot needles. He wanted to tear the skin off down to the bone. His eyes burned, his vision a sea of red. Involuntary reflexes kicked in, screwed them tightly shut. Plunged him into a world of blackness.

  He let out a startled gasp, sucking the gas into his mouth. His throat went into spasm. The gas hit his lungs. The coughing started, wracking his body. Like broken glass caught in his throat. Over and over and over.

  Chico put his foot on Evan’s butt, pushed him over. He hit the ground like a felled tree. Then Chico was on top of him, knees hard in his back, fingers wound into his hair, pulling back his head.

  ‘Lie still or I’ll empty the can into your face.’

  Evan couldn’t see a thing, his eyes stinging, streaming. But he could sense the can held inches from his face. Smell it. He’d taken one quick squirt. He was as good as blind. He pictured Chico giving him another longer blast. Jumping out of the way as he thrashed blindly. Then stepping back in for another squirt. In, out, in, out. Again and again until the can was empty.

  He lay still. Let Chico cuff his hands behind his back with a pair of riot cuffs.

  He lay on his back staring unseeing at the sky. Feeling like a giant, sightless grub unearthed by a garden shovel, all white and hairless. Exposed. Vulnerable. Waiting for the blow that would cleave him in two. Not knowing when it would come, only that come it would.

  After a while the coughing fit subsided. Breathing came easier, less painful. He tried talking.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  A blow came out of the nothingness above him. Something hard, metal. The gun he’d been expecting before the pepper spray. He felt it now, the barrel under his chin.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Who, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Diego, who do you think? The Pope? The President? Idiot.’

  Evan tensed, waited for the next blow to come. But Chico didn’t try to hit him again.

  ‘I have no idea. Where’s Kate?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  At first Evan thought he was mimicking his own answer. But then, just as a blind man’s other senses compensate for his lack of sight, Evan’s temporary blindness seemed to lend him a better ear for the nuances of a man’s voice.

  Chico genuinely didn’t know where Guillory was.

  ‘You haven’t got her?’

  ‘She got away that first day.’

  ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘You set up this exchange knowing you had nothing to trade.’

  He couldn’t see him but he sensed Chico nodding. Imagined a satisfied smirk on his lips.

  ‘You be sure to let me know next time you’re in town for a poker game.’

  The words washed straight over Evan’s head. He was thinking about Todd, the man with the military-grade sniper rifle in his van and Guillory’s locker number in his wallet. The man with only half a head who he’d dumped in the river, taking his secrets to his watery grave with him.

  ‘Hey!’ Chico jabbed the gun harder into Evan’s chin.

  ‘I still don’t know where Diego is or anything about him.’

  ‘Ah, but I think you do.’

  Chico’s voice was soft now and Evan wished his new-found hearing would desert him as quickly as it had come, forsake him so he couldn’t hear the sadness in Chico’s voice that it had come to this, the quiet determination to see it through nonetheless.

  The barrel of the pistol was suddenly gone from under his chin. He saw in his mind’s eye an image of the cut under Carly’s breast and knew what Chico had pulled from his pocket to replace the gun.

  ‘And I know you’re going to tell me all about it.’

  Chapter 84

  GUILLORY GRINNED AT THE high-pitched keening noise the old guy was making as they took curve after curve on two wheels, gunning it on the straights in between. The engine screamed in protest and the pickup’s traction in the curves was pitiful. But they were gaining on the car in front.

  They rounded another curve and she saw it up ahead. No more than a hundred yards away. She shifted down, hit the gas. The car ahead disappeared around the next curve. When it came into sight again she’d narrowed the distance down to fifty yards. The old pickup shook and rattled as they ate up the remaining gap yard by yard.

  ‘What you gonna do when you catch him?’ the old guy shouted over the engine noise.

  ‘Stop asking stupid questions and get down on the floor. The guy is probably armed.’

  She found an extra burst of speed from somewhere, pulled alongside the other car. She turned and looked across. It was definitely him. Jackson turned his head. They stared at each other in a mad game of eyeball chicken. Then Jackson began to pull away. She jerked the wheel right. Her front bumper nudged the rear bumper of the other car, the pickup’s extra weight pushing it sideways.

  The old man let out a squeal, pushed himself back up into the seat.

  ‘I told you to get down.’

  ‘No way I’m getting down there while you’re driving straight into the side of him.’

  She swung the wheel again. The two cars bounced off each other. The old man leaned over. He took hold of the wheel. Tried to straighten it. The pickup rocked back the other way.

  ‘This ain’t the movies. You’ll kill us all and wreck my pickup too.’

  A hundred yards ahead another sharp bend curved away to the right.

  ‘Let go the wheel. I can’t steer.’

  ‘Not if you’re going to drive into him.’

  They wrestled with the wheel, four hands clamped tightly to it as if it was the last lifesaver on the Titanic.

  ‘Let go.’

  She turned her head to give the old man the full force of her bellow. She grabbed hold of one of his wrists, tried to prise his hand off the wheel. It was as if the bony old fingers had fused together around it.

  ‘Slow down. Pull back in behind him.’

  She turned to the front again. Saw a car coming around the curve towards them. Less than fifty yards away. The old man saw the expres
sion on her face. He turned to look.

  ‘Holy shit.’

  She hit the brakes. The old man let go of the wheel. With the opposing pressure of him pushing it to the left suddenly gone, she steered it hard right. The front end turned in sharply. Caught Jackson’s car much harder than before, pushing the rear end onto the shoulder, bouncing the pickup back into the left lane. The nose of the approaching car dived as the driver braked. Guillory threw the pickup to the right. Not fast enough. The approaching car caught it on the rear fender. Spun it sideways. Jackson’s car righted itself, disappeared around the curve with the pickup following broadside on.

  The pickup kept on sliding. Crossed both lanes, then slid off onto the far shoulder. Bounced across the rough ground until the front end hit a tree. The hood buckled and pranged open. The engine died.

  Before she could move, the old man leaned over and pulled the keys out of the ignition, stuffed them into his pants pocket.

  ‘Let’s see you get ‘em now.’

  Chapter 85

  SITTING LIKE A MALEVOLENT goblin astride Evan’s chest with one knee on each shoulder, Chico tightened his grip in Evan’s hair, held his head still. Evan felt a sharp stab of pain. Recoiled as the tip of the filleting knife broke the skin underneath his ear.

  ‘Did Diego ever tell you anything about my past?’

  The burning in Evan’s eyes was slowly subsiding. They still streamed with water. But he was able to open them briefly before the stinging closed them again. He opened them now, stared up into Chico’s demented face.

  ‘No. I never met him before the other night.’

  Chico ignored him as if he hadn’t answered.

  ‘When I was a young man, a boy really, the Patrón of the local hacienda hung my father from a tree. Balanced him on my shoulders. It was something he’d seen in a movie—Once Upon A Time In The West.

  ‘My father died, of course, when I couldn’t take his weight any longer. Then they beat me, left me for dead. But I didn’t die. I caught the Patrón eventually in a whorehouse in Mexico City. Skinned him alive. Not all of his skin, of course. Just until he died.’