Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy

by Bodhi St John

  With that, Bledsoe bent over Shade, put one outstretched hand over Shade’s heart, and gave a slight nudge. Winston felt the electric shock jolt through his hands and up his arms. Winston automatically recoiled and nearly cried out, but Shade’s body jerked and his eyes flew open. He coughed twice, rolled onto his side, and proceeded to throw up vast amounts of water mixed with his last meal.

  “See?” Bledsoe called to the couple in the boat, who were still at least thirty or forty yards away. “No problem!”

  The man waved again as his wife turned their little boat away from the dock and revved up the engine. “All right!” he called. “Enjoy the afternoon! Play safe, kids!”

  Winston considered yelling after him, asking him to call for help. Perhaps he should have, but he remembered how the Portland police had helped Bledsoe back at Old Town Pizza. Winston himself remained a wanted terrorist, and he feared that if the couple tried to interfere, Bledsoe might simply do away with them, too.

  When the retching passed, Shade slowly pulled himself into a sitting position and gingerly touched the back of his head. His fingertips came away stained with red, but Winston could see that he wasn’t losing much blood on the dock.

  “Did you kiss me?” Shade asked hoarsely.

  “Shade—”

  “Just tell me the truth.”

  Winston sighed, overwhelmed with relief that his best friend was alive and still had his sense of humor intact. “I gave you CPR.”

  Shade pulled a face and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No wonder I threw up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Winston said. “You’re still a frog.” He looked up to find Bledsoe scowling at them. “You didn’t use Little e. You just…touched him.”

  Bledsoe smirked. “What? This thing? I told you. This is for chimpanzees.” Then he studied Winston more closely. “Oh! You don’t know. You haven’t figured out…”

  Bledsoe laughed and shook his head.

  “What?” replied Winston, unwilling and unable to keep the frustration and resentment from his voice. “Excuse me for having no experience with being an extraterrestrial freak. I can’t just touch people and bring them back from the dead yet!”

  “His heart was stopped, that’s all. You still had another two or three minutes before permanent brain damage set in.”

  “Remember that,” muttered Shade. “When we get out of this, you can’t go around telling people I was brain damaged.”

  “You just banged yourself unconscious,” said Winston. “I’ll tell them whatever I want.”

  “Fair,” said Shade.

  “Oh, boys,” Bledsoe interrupted. “Entertainment like this is hard to come by when you’re a public employee, but I really do have better things to do.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree,” said Winston.

  Bledsoe scooped up Winston’s backpack, rummaged through it, and exclaimed, “Ah, there it is! Well, that’s one. I think we still have enough time today to head back to the doughnut shop and get the other piece. You can show me where it is.”

  On top of everything else, Winston found himself resenting that Bledsoe had been the one to save Shade when he couldn’t. His resentment notched even higher when Bledsoe tucked Little e into Winston’s backpack, slung it over his own shoulder, and withdrew a pistol from the shoulder holster under his jacket. Almost as an afterthought, Winston noticed the silencer attached to the end of the gun barrel.

  “What’s that for?” Winston demanded indignantly. “You’re not going to kill me.”

  “That’s true,” said Bledsoe.

  “You’re going to kill me?” squeaked Shade. “Right after you saved my life?”

  “Nah. I need you as leverage to make sure your buddy here stays compliant, because if he gets out of line, then I’ll kill you.”

  “That’s a relief,” Shade muttered to Winston. “Right?”

  “Totally,” Winston replied. “So, what’s the gun for?”

  “I’m going to shoot one of you in the leg to slow you down,” Bledsoe said. “Just trying to decide which of you would be better. You’re both equally annoying.”

  Shade’s expression, already pale from having been half-dead, turned even more ashen.

  “Shoot me,” he said, facing Bledsoe.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Winston. “Shoot me. I’ll heal faster.”

  “I’m used to playing with injuries.”

  “If your mom finds out I let you take a bullet for me, she’ll dissect me like a worm in biology class.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Shut up!” cried Bledsoe. “You two want to play games? Fine.” He pointed the gun back and forth from Winston to Shade. “Eeny…meeny…miny…”

  “Mo!”

  The voice came from the drainage tunnel. Although none of them had noticed, the waterfall emerging from the drain had slackened from a torrent down to a stream. A drenched man stood in the tunnel mouth. Despite his sopping slacks and polo shirt, Winston recognized him as Agent Smith. He held an aged, red coffee can before him in one hand. Atop this, he rested the bottom of his pistol’s grip, almost as if firing at a practice range.

  Bledsoe twisted and brought his own gun up and around.

  Agent Smith fired.

  26

  Downtown Showdown

  Smith’s aim was perfect. The shot took Bledsoe below his right collarbone, punching him backward just as his own gun went off. The deafening crack-crack of both weapons made Winston cringe. A white puff of concrete bloomed on the wall to Agent Smith’s left, well over his head.

  Bledsoe’s back struck the dock. His gun tumbled free, bounced once over the dock’s edge, then vanished into the Willamette with a small splash.

  The sudden change of circumstances and loyalties left Winston baffled, but he realized that now was not the time to ponder FBI politics. Only three things mattered: Shade and both artifacts. Moments ago, he thought he’d lost all of them. Now, he had a second chance.

  Smith tucked his gun back into his shoulder holster and, still clutching the coffee can, stepped down the iron rungs set within the concrete retaining wall. Halfway down, he jumped onto the dock and jogged to Winston and Shade.

  “Are you two all right?” he asked.

  Winston only nodded.

  “I was dead,” Shade said hoarsely. When Smith eyed him curiously, Shade added, “I got better.”

  For a strange, calm instant, the quiet sounds of distant motorboats and traffic filtered to them as the dock bobbed and creaked softly on the river. The ebbing stream pouring from the tunnel opening bore no resemblance to its former raging strength.

  Before Winston could ask the FBI agent what would happen next, Bledsoe moaned and tried to roll onto his left side. His face contorted in pain, and he reached for the bullet wound. Blood slowly blossomed from under his jacket across his white shirt.

  “Smith…” he groaned through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Smith said quickly. His wide, scared eyes betrayed the stern set of his jaw and low determination in his voice. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but we need to—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Bledsoe said.

  “Who are these kids?” Smith asked. “What’s really going on?”

  Bledsoe surveyed the agent for a long moment, then looked away and slumped.

  “Fine,” he sighed. “Just help me up and call an ambulance. I’ll tell you everything.”

  He reached out a shaky hand toward Smith.

  The agent squinted, his eyes flicking from Winston to Bledsoe’s wound and back to the outstretched hand. With obvious pain and exhaustion, Bledsoe lowered his arm.

  With a small nod, Smith set the red can on the dock out of everyone’s reach and approached Bledsoe.

  “First things first,” Smith said. “Are these people actually terrorists?”

  Bledsoe sighed wearily. “No.”

  The admission surprised all of them. Perhaps that was what distracted Winston from seeing Bledsoe’s intent so
oner.

  “He’s not tied to any known organizations,” Bledsoe added as Smith knelt beside him and placed a supporting hand under his uninjured shoulder. “Of course, now you’re tied to him.”

  An ominous edge in Bledsoe’s tone made Smith pause. Only then, as Bledsoe’s hand started forward, did Winston see the danger.

  “Get back!” he yelled as he reached for Smith. The agent was too far away, though, and Bledsoe moved with a speed none of them expected. His fingers locked around Smith’s ankle. It wasn’t direct skin contact, but through a thin, wet dress sock, it might as well have been.

  Smith’s entire body went rigid. His eyes bulged. His mouth hung open in an expression of agony and made choked, gurgling noises. His feet kicked uncontrollably until, a second later, he collapsed next to Bledsoe. Winston saw steam rise from the man’s skin. Bledsoe released him, but Smith continued to jitter and spasm in fits. Bledsoe got to his knees, now breathing hard, and faced the boys. A tight smile did nothing to soften the wrath in his expression. Already, Winston saw a blue glow filtering softly from beneath Bledsoe’s shirt, spreading outward from his wound.

  Winston wanted to help Smith. At least they should call an ambulance. But there was no time, no way to make Bledsoe back down and let them breathe. Unless…

  As if reading Winston’s mind, Bledsoe’s hand whipped toward Winston’s backpack, which had fallen between them when Bledsoe fell. Winston lunged for it a split second later. They both ended up holding a shoulder strap. Winston pulled. Bledsoe kept his grip and had just enough presence of mind to pull back.

  As Bledsoe committed his weight and leaned back, Winston let go.

  Almost comically, Bledsoe went over backwards. He landed awkwardly on one arm and rolled onto his back. Even though he was healing quickly, the jarring of his gunshot wound wracked him with a flash of agony. His lips peeled back and his eyes squeezed shut. Winston moved to get his feet under him and seize the moment, but Shade was faster.

  Not wasting time with trying to stand, Shade kicked his legs up, rolling over his own backpack and shoulder, and emerged in a crouch. From there, he launched straight at Winston’s backpack. Before Bledsoe could react, Shade had the bag trapped under his arm and was rolling away from Bledsoe before the man could get a hand on him.

  That bought Winston enough time to stand above Bledsoe’s head and press one foot down onto his wounded shoulder. Bledsoe gasped and snarled as the pain pinned him to the dock.

  As Winston saw his enemy supine before him, memories of the last two days filled his mind, and all Winston could hear was the sound of Bledsoe’s mocking laughter in his ear. This terrible man had been about to shoot Shade. He wanted to imprison and torture all of them. Most of all, Bledsoe had been the force behind his father’s leaving.

  “Do you have any idea,” Winston hissed as he twisted the sole of his shoe atop Bledsoe’s wound, “what it’s like to have your father taken away from you?”

  Winston’s fingers hooked into fists. Shade came up behind him and helped to slip Winston’s pack back on.

  “Winston?” Shade said quietly.

  Part of Winston could tell that his friend was trying to pull him back from the ledge, but he was nearly beyond thinking. At the end of almost two days of being on an adrenaline-spiked roller-coaster ride, Winston felt exhausted, confused, and enraged. He still felt his father’s withered grip on his arm as he croaked, “I should have died sooner.” That ancient, sad mummy of a man…his father. That was Bledsoe’s doing.

  “Yes,” wheezed Bledsoe. His lips curled into a sneer. “Second Battle…of the Marne. 1918. I know…exactly…what that’s like.”

  Winston and Bledsoe stared at each other for what felt like minutes. The man’s face was upside down from Winston’s perspective, which made him even less recognizable.

  I know exactly what that’s like.

  Did he? Winston’s mom had described Bledsoe as broken, but Bledsoe would have been very young in 1918, maybe only a toddler or a baby.

  Just as Winston had been when his dad left.

  Like a stone tossed into the river, Winston’s anger vanished with barely a splash, leaving only a few dissipating rings to mark its passing.

  “Here,” Shade said as he set the coffee can into Winston’s hand. It was surprisingly light, less than a pound, although something bulky and metallic rolled about inside of it. “Dude, we gotta go. And the FBI guy is still breathing, but he needs help.”

  Winston nestled the can into the crook of his arm as he noted the shallow rise and fall of Smith’s chest, although the agent’s eyes remained shut. He backed away from Bledsoe and closer to the triangular dock’s point. Shade stayed close beside him. Bledsoe made no move to come after them and only kept one hand on his wound as he winced and groaned.

  Winston chanced a look back at the receding fishing boat.

  “Help!” he cried out after it. He nudged Shade. They both cupped their hands around their mouths and shouted as loudly as they could, “HELP!”

  Across the water, the man in the boat turned to them. Both boys waved their arms and continued yelling. Winston saw the man trade a glance with his wife, then point at the boys. Slowly, she started to bring the little boat around to face them. The craft’s engine grew louder as the woman opened the throttle to accelerate.

  “We can borrow their phone or something,” Winston said.

  He used the moment to lower his pack onto the dock. The coffee can refused to fit. He knew Shade’s bag was even more crammed with stuff. Wanting to keep his hands free, he had no choice. Winston started to pull out his jacket, spare jeans, and other odd bits until the zipper would just close over the can and Little e’s wrist guard. He threw his backpack over his shoulders, knowing his mom would probably freak about wasting good clothes if she could see him. Of course, she couldn’t see him and might never see him again. That was why he had to—

  “Winston!” cried Shade.

  Bledsoe had gotten to his knees. Head down, panting, eyes fixed on Winston, the fingertips of his outstretched hand crackled with energy. As blood dripped from his wound onto the dock beneath him, blue sparks started to coalesce and grow brighter within the cup of his fingers.

  He didn’t need Little e, and he wouldn’t die. The man was unstoppable.

  “JUMP!” Winston cried, and they both leaped from the dock.

  ***

  They hit the water with all the grace of dogs diving after a stick. Winston at least managed to go in feet first. Shade must have been thinking of a forward dive and only realized he was still connected to Winston in midair. The result was a flailing, doubled-over mess that sent him into the water knees and face first.

  Only after he was doing something between an overarm crawl and a breast stroke did Winston realize that he was swimming under the weight of a backpack and not feeling terrified about immediately drowning. He had other worries, because, for once, Shade was the one struggling. Winston knew that Shade could swim like a seal and had ever since they were in grade school. Shade habitually swam circles around Winston in pools or ocean inlets when his family would drag him along during summer breaks. For him to look so pained now, and for his movements to be this jerky, could only mean that he was at the end of his endurance — no surprise given that he’d been dead a few moments before.

  “Come on!” Winston called, swimming alongside his friend. “Just for a minute! The boat is coming for us!”

  Winston could see white water breaking across the boat’s bow as the couple headed straight for them. The man leaned forward, head down as he fiddled with a life jacket. But the skiff was still at least a hundred yards out, and the boys had hardly made any progress away from the dock.

  Winston chanced a quick glimpse behind them. Sure enough, Bledsoe was on his feet, backing up and throwing off his suit jacket. He paused, put his head down, ran to the outermost tip of the dock, and executed a perfect forward dive. His palms came together over his head, and he sliced neatly into the river, vanishing
under the surface.

  “He’s coming!” cried Winston.

  Shade flailed even faster. Winston wanted to help him somehow, but he needed both hands just to keep his own head above the water.

  Thankfully, the older couple had a little more speed left in their motor. The wife opened it up to full throttle, and the motor’s growl rose to a shout.

  Winston and Shade kicked and pulled as hard as they could. Bledsoe’s steady splashes grew closer. He watched the boat approaching, saw the bright sparkle of sunlight off its hull, and realized the new danger he’d pulled the couple into. All Bledsoe had to do was touch the boat and he could do to the man and woman exactly what he’d done to Agent Smith.

  The fishing boat suddenly cut its speed, and the man in the bow tossed a red life vest toward the boys. A thin blue rope snaked from the vest back to the boat, and Winston realized that the man had made a makeshift life ring. It landed about twenty feet in front of them.

  “Grab it!” encouraged Winston. “Hurry!”

  Shade gritted his teeth and grunted as if he were dead lifting hundreds of pounds in the gym. He went arm over arm, forgetting any attempt at form, and churned the water into a froth with his legs. A few seconds later, he was on the life vest, tucking it under his arm and hanging on to the rope with one hand as the man began to pull him in.

  Winston stayed behind. He had to keep Bledsoe away from that boat. There was no way both of them could climb into the skiff before Bledsoe overtook them.

  As soon as Shade had the rope, Winston switched to a dog paddle and turned to face Bledsoe. He didn’t have long to wait. The man was only two strokes away, eyes ferocious, mouth still locked in that hateful smirk.

  Winston had just enough time to take one deep breath, lower his hands to his sides, and let himself drop. The river closed over his head, and he fell like a rock.

  Maybe I was wrong, he thought. I could still drown.

  ***

  Winston saw Bledsoe’s black slacks and white shirt pause on the river’s surface, now directly above him. No doubt, the man was confused. Maybe Winston had run out of energy and gave up. Maybe he was trying to fool Bledsoe and sneak away underwater to resurface downstream and have a better shot at getting away. Now that Winston thought about it, that wasn’t such a bad idea.