The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  But I didn’t even know what to look for; I’d never seen the man. He’d sure as hell seen plenty of me, though, and had the photos to prove it.

  I looked over at CJ and barely recognized her. Bags under her eyes, worry lines on her forehead—it was like seeing a different person. The gash on her head looked like it was starting to swell.

  “That cut on your head is getting worse,” I said. “We need to have it looked at.”

  “Yeah. Maybe Bill can recommend a good doctor. Or better yet, maybe he can have a look himself.”

  “I mean it. Seriously.”

  CJ took a deep breath, and I watched her get control of herself, start thinking again. She turned to me and said, “Why is he chasing us?”

  “Because we know too much.”

  “It can’t be that,” she said. “He started snapping those pictures the minute you got to Corvine, before you even knew he existed.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t know about me.”

  “How could he?”

  “Warren must have given him a head start. He had to.”

  “But Warren didn’t know you came here, right? Let alone that you’re onto him.”

  “I didn’t think so, but somehow he had to...” Then it hit me. “Son of a…”

  “What?”

  “That damned box.”

  “You’re losing me, Pat. What box?”

  “The box of belongings I took from my mother’s house after her funeral. The one with the necklace in it.”

  “How did he know what was inside?”

  “I dropped it. Everything fell out, and he tried to help me pick it up.”

  “And you think he saw the necklace then?”

  “I know he did. It was right there, right in front of him. Damn it! I should have known. The way he started grabbing at the stuff, the way he was staring at me.”

  “But do you actually think he’d put a hit on you because of it? His own nephew?”

  I looked at her. “We’re talking about protecting his career, his wealth, his public image, the only things that have ever mattered to him. He’ll preserve those things at any cost. Look what he did to an innocent three-year-old boy. A child!”

  She looked down at her hands, clenched them together, then brought her attention back to me. “And if there’s a hit on you, then there’s one on me, too.”

  “I think that’s a given.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “It was a mistake to come here. We put ourselves right under his nose. We’ve got to get as far away from him as we can, fast as we can.”

  “That’s if we can,” she said. “The guy’s like a ghost. He seems to know where you’re going even before you do. How does he do it?”

  “My God,” I said.

  I pulled onto the shoulder and hit the brakes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Damn it.” I said. “Why didn’t I think of this?”

  “Think of what? What the hell are you talking about, Pat?”

  I got out of the car. CJ did the same and followed me, watching my every move, as I knelt, ran my hand under the bumper, then pulled out a small metal device. Held it up. “Here’s how.”

  CJ stared at the tracking device with a sickened look.

  “He’s going to have to work harder if he wants to find us now,” I said, and hurled it as far as I could into the brush behind me.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  My mother found me in time and called for help. I never could figure out why. It would have been much easier to let me die, then claim she’d found me that way. It would have solved all her problems.

  She told the authorities I’d been troubled for years and was gradually turning more self-destructive. Then she threw in the struggling single mother bit for extra measure. It worked.

  The story went something like this. I’d gotten hold of her prescription pills after she’d stepped out for a moment. When she came back, she found the place trashed and me passed out on the floor. All true, of course, except she left out the most important detail: what she’d really been using the pills for all those years. I didn’t bother arguing with her story. I had no fight left in me. She had won.

  I spent weeks in the psychiatric ward at Black Lake Memorial undergoing extensive counseling for my supposed nervous breakdown where they warned me about the dangers of abusing drugs.

  “Valium is highly addictive,” the doctor told me.

  It might have been the only time I ever laughed during the whole experience. I didn’t tell him that thanks to my mother, I’d been addicted to Valium for years—living like some junkie, only I’d never known it, alternately overly sedated or in the throes of withdrawal.

  For a long time I beat myself up, asking how I couldn’t have known. But I ended up making peace with it. My mother had kept me locked within a strictly controlled environment where she could bend reality in any manner she wished. The brainwashing had started while I was very young, and as long as nobody on the outside challenged it, and as long as she kept me isolated, I remained in the dark, never stood a chance of finding the light.

  When I returned home from the hospital I was a changed person. I’d been to the bottom, and in that process, finally got to see what was left.

  Nothing.

  I was tired of keeping secrets, tired of being the victim, tired of my mother and all her lies. She knew it, too, and kept her distance. We barely spoke a word to each other throughout the summer.

  Soon September came, and thanks to Warren, I was out of there. I went off to college, finally freeing myself from hell, the one she’d owned and operated. As the years wore on, I had less and less to do with her, and as that happened, she continued losing the hold she’d once had on me.

  But not all of it.

  I could travel to the far ends of the earth, off the planet, even, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Her ghosts still lingered, always would; they’d become a part of me. That’s the most tragic thing about child abuse and its effects—they never leave, just take on another form. The abuser goes on living as if nothing has ever happened while the victim pays the price.

  And that’s the biggest lie.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  It seemed as if the Texas Plains were becoming the backdrop for our lives and perhaps the saddest of metaphors: a never-ending road. Muted shades of brown flanked both sides of a dusty blacktop, one that seemed to go nowhere.

  Just like us.

  The events of the past few days were catching up to me, and I could feel my mind and body quickly approaching overload. Now our lives were in more danger than ever, all because of a note and a necklace.

  We drove on.

  “We can’t go back to Telethon,” CJ said. “That’s the first place he’ll look for us. It feels like there’s nowhere else left to run.”

  I sighed. The Road to Nowhere was getting longer all the time.

  About ten minutes later, I noticed CJ looking at me funny.

  “What?” I said.

  She sniffed. Sniffed again. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

  I took a deep breath through my nose, and smelled something burning. “Oh, no,” I said. “No, damn it, no!”

  I drove onto the shoulder, pulled to a stop—and as soon as I did, smoke began to drift from under the hood.

  “Just when you think it can’t get any worse…” CJ said.

  “It does.”

  We both got out of the car. I popped the hood and jumped back as a stinking cloud of smoke boiled out.

  “I don’t believe this,” CJ said, leaning against the car, crossing her arms and shaking her head. Then she kicked a little dirt.

  I knelt and looked under the car. A puddle was already forming on the ground. I stuck my finger in it, took a whiff, looked at CJ. “It’s the radiator. We need to get to a service station.”

  “There’s nothing for miles around here,” she said. “Where will we go?”

  “Maybe we can flag someone down for help,
” I said.

  “But what about Bill?”

  “Just make sure the safety is off on your gun.”

  CJ took the gun out of her purse.

  And we waited.

  About ten minutes later, we saw a car coming, off in the distance.

  “It’s a patrol car,” CJ said, looking ahead and looking relieved, her hand over her forehead to block the sun.

  The wind had picked up again, and the air was thick with dust. I squinted as the green and white sheriff’s vehicle rolled toward us.

  CJ stowed the gun in her purse, then began flagging him down. She glanced over at me. “It’s the deputy from the diner!”

  The car slowed down, came to a halt. The deputy leaned over toward the passenger window.

  Before he could say anything, CJ said, “We’ve broken down. Can you get us some help?”

  “The nearest service station is up in Boulevard,” he said. “It’s a good fifty miles from here.”

  I roofed my hands over my face to shield it from the blowing dust and dirt, tried to speak over the whistling wind. “Can you call them for a tow?”

  “No point,” the deputy shouted back, also pitching his voice over the forceful winds, “Jim Shemple’s closed on Wednesdays. It’s his fishing day.”

  CJ threw her hands up and said, “You’ve got to be joking.”

  The deputy shook his head.

  “What can we do?” I asked.

  Another strong wind came rushing through, blowing sticks and dirt in our faces, and nearly forcing CJ off the road.

  “I could drive you there,” he shouted. “We might get hold of his nephew, Jessie… he lives just a few blocks from the station. He tows for Jim. But it’d be best if you come with, just in case we can’t find him.”

  I gave him a nod. “That would be great. We’d sure appreciate it.”

  “Hop in, then,” he said.

  We piled into the front because the back was filled with all his gear. CJ sat next to the deputy, and I got in after.

  “Thanks so much for the help,” CJ said once we were on the road. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

  The young man kept his eyes on the road, nodded, smiled politely.

  “Something was leaking from a hose,” CJ continued. “It might be an easy fix if we can find the mechanic.”

  Then I glanced over at his waistband, and something immediately caught my attention.

  Both of his holsters were empty.

  I heard what sounded like the slide of an automatic handgun clicking into place, then cold steel on the back of my neck.

  “Gawd a mighty, this conversation’s as dull as dishwater,” Bill Williams said. “How ‘bout we liven things up some?”

  CJ gasped.

  The car kept rolling.

  The gun’s barrel slid from the nape of my neck to the soft spot on the back of my head. I felt the burn in my stomach.

  “So nice to finally meet you folks,” Bill said with a thick southern drawl, now moving the barrel over to CJ’s head and teasing her curls with it. I could see him in the rearview mirror, all big grin and cold, cold eyes. “Although, I kinda feel like I already know y’all. And I guess in a way, I sorta do.”

  He returned the gun to me, pressing the barrel deep into the back of my neck; I clenched my teeth, then swallowed hard.

  “Hey, sport,” he said to me. “Mind handing me the little lady’s purse? And don’t try nothin’ foolish or I’ll throw a quick bullet to your brain. It could get messy.”

  I lifted the purse over the seat to him.

  “I thank you kindly,” he said, then shook it around so he could view the contents. “Well, lookie here. Missy’s got herself a gun. I love me a woman who ain’t afraid to shove some steel around.”

  The deputy kept his attention on the road; his grim expression told me he was fighting back his own anxiety.

  Bill tilted his hat back with his other hand. “You know, funny thing happens when you pull a radiator hose out ever so slightly. Eventually, thing’s gonna give out, car’s gonna overheat.” He grinned, exposing teeth the color of too many cigarettes. “Got that done while I seen the car parked out front. C’mon, y’all didn’t think I was that dumb, did ya’? That I’d just let you scurry on down the road? Merrily on your way?”

  We answered with silence.

  He gave the gun a shove against the back of my head. “I believe I just asked a question.”

  I shook my head.

  “Then all I had to do was scoop up this handsome young man—Telethon’s finest—and have him give me a lift to y’all. He didn’t mind much. Well, not sorta.” He poked the deputy’s shoulder with the tip of his gun, flashed the wide, yellow grin again. “Thanks for helping me with my flat tire, son. So much for being a Good Samaritan?” He laughed at his own joke.

  The deputy showed no reaction.

  Bill brought the barrel over to CJ and began stroking her hair again. She flinched, and he responded by jabbing it deep into her neck. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. I felt my pulse pounding into my throat, then something warm and tinny on my tongue. I wondered if it was the taste of fear …or maybe fast-approaching death. I grabbed CJ’s hand and squeezed it, could feel her shaking.

  “Turn here,” Bill ordered the deputy.

  He did, onto a dirt road. The car began to rattle as dust flew up into the air behind us.

  “Where are you taking us?” CJ asked, her voice shaky.

  “Never you mind on that, Missy,” he said, “but not to worry. You’ll find out soon enough. Turn again, handsome.”

  The deputy took a sharp left onto another dirt road. A few hundred feet later, he headed down an embankment and continued on. The farther we drove, the thicker the brush, the rockier the road, and the deeper into trouble I knew we were getting.

  About five minutes later, Bill directed the deputy up a gravel drive and past a large sign that read B&D Meat Processing Inc. I could see the plant ahead; the place looked rundown, like it hadn’t been open for years.

  “That’s right, boys and girls!” Bill said, his voice filled with a peculiar sort of enthusiasm. “We’re taking a little field trip to the Meat Puppet’s Ball. Gonna have us some good times. I can hardly wait.”

  The car pulled to a stop.

  “All righty folks,” Bill said. “Fall out. Now’s when the real fun begins.”

  ***

  He made us line up against a concrete wall, began pacing back and forth, then, as if hit with a sudden thought, said, “Jeeze-us. Where the hell are my manners? Thanks for the help, deputy. You can go now.” Then calmly, he put the barrel against the young man’s head and blew his brains out.

  The blast echoed in my head, echoed everywhere. The deputy dropped to the ground, face down, blood and brain matter staining the wall where he’d stood. CJ began sobbing. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, wanting it all to go away, wanting this to be some bad dream. It wasn’t. It was real. It was hell, and I knew we were next.

  “Okay, friends,” he said, shoving the deputy’s body out of his way with one foot, his voice with an overly enthusiastic kick to it, “here’s how it’s all gonna go down. Y’all get in line, Gossip Girl in front, Wonder Boy behind. Gossip Girl raises her hands just above her shoulders, palms up, and Wonder Boy places his—palms down—on top of hers. Then we move forward. Do not let your hands become separated from one another at any time or you both get dead in a hurry just like our friend here. Understood?”

  Neither of us said a word. CJ was still trembling and crying. I don’t know what I was doing.

  He shoved the gun barrel into my ear. “I said, understood?”

  We both nodded.

  He continued, “Now let’s see how good y’all are at following directions. Move it!”

  With hands joined together, we moved forward until we came to a pair of rusted steel doors. Bill held one open and motioned us through with his gun. Then he marched us down a long hallway with tiled
floors and tiled walls. Our echoing footsteps were all I could hear, apart from the pounding of my own heart.

  We came to another pair of doors. Once through, we moved into what looked to be the main processing plant.

  I don’t know how long the place had been shut down, but a rancid odor still lingered. Row after row of conveyer belts ran along the ceiling, with stainless steel meat hooks dangling from them.

  I took my attention to the far corner and saw two chairs positioned side by side. A roll of duct tape rested on one of them, and directly behind them was a third chair with a pair of semi-automatic pistols on it.

  Clearly, he’d been expecting us, and clearly, he had plans.

  I got that metal taste again, tried to ignore it, instead choosing to focus on how to get us out of this mess. How to survive.

  “Wonder Boy, take a seat,” Bill said. “Missy, you tape his wrists together.”

  CJ and I exchanged timorous glances, then moved forward. I sat while she taped my wrists. She tried not to do a good job. Bill made her sit while he taped her wrists, waist and ankles. Then he checked the tape on my hands. He gave CJ an unpleasant grin and taped me up as thoroughly as he’d done her.

  I stole a glimpse at CJ. Her expression appeared stoic, but she was trembling something fierce. She caught my gaze, and in a split second, reality seemed to hit us both, telling us our lives were about to come to an end.

  But not if I could help it. I looked around for something to use as a weapon. Looked up high along the walls for some heavy or sharp object, one I could possibly force down on him. There were old tools all over the place. The only question was how to get to them.

  “Here we go, kids!” Bill said, interrupting my thoughts. He was standing before us now, grinning, eyes wide and animated: the face of a madman. A killer.

  He said, “We’re going to have ourselves a good old-fashioned double execution. That sound like fun?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But we’re adding a new twist. I’ve done a lot of these, you see, and they get…a little boring. Have to liven things up some, keep myself entertained, you know.” He raised his hand as if taking an oath. “No worries, folks. This ain’t my first rodeo. I’m a pro at this. Won’t screw it up. I’ll do ya’ right. Promise. Scout’s honor. Now here’s what I got planned.”