The Town (Rob Stone Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  He knelt on the rear seat and watched the two men digging. Both had their back to him and it had been exactly as he had imagined. One of the men would chop and hack the ground, breaking it up and the other would step forwards and dig out the loose soil. They had got the hole pretty deep. Approaching three feet. They were in a clearing within a copse of pines. The moon was yellow and low in the sky, casting a dull light and moon shadows across the open ground.

  Stone got out of the car and placed his feet gently on the ground. He glanced across at the ignition and saw that there were no keys left in it. Maybe they weren’t so amateurish after all. And then, as he watched the two men dig, their backs still to him he decided that maybe they were. He crept forward, reached for the knife and opened the blade with his thumb. The grave looked substantial as he got closer. The thought of lying in it, lost forever, another dead man for his mother to endlessly mourn made him flash with anger. All he’d done was ask if a guy was okay. Watched a weak person humiliated and worn down by a bully. Gone over the street to ask if he was all right. No more than twelve hours ago. And they’d tried to run him out of town ever since.

  Stone stepped closer to the guy with his back to him, the nearest of the two, he ducked low, whipped to his left and slashed with the knife. The blade sliced cleanly through the man’s hamstring and he dropped instantly, falling into the grave, the tendon in spasm and pulling both ways like elastic, disappearing deep into the muscle. The man screamed and a stream of blood spurted ten feet over the trunk of the sedan. Waning and pumping in time with his heartbeat. He writhed and screamed and the clearing echoed in his agony. Femoral artery. Already the man was closer to death than to life.

  “Hello cupcake,” Stone smiled at the other guy. “Nice to see you so soon.”

  The guy flinched, tripped over the lip of the grave, dropping his shovel, then got back to his feet. He was over six feet tall and at least two hundred and twenty pounds. A lot of it was on his waist, but he had arms like an orang-utan. A long reach and biceps to match. He got his fists up to fight and edged around the grave. He glanced down at his companion, but the man in the hole was screaming less and struggling a lot less. He was already on the cusp of where life meets death. No going back, only the certainty of death and the unknown beyond. Like standing at the shoreline and glimpsing the deep water before you leapt.

  The man edged a little closer. His fists still up and his feet shuffling forwards. Stone waited until the man was further away from his own shovel than Stone was to the dying man’s. When he estimated the exact point, he bent down and picked it up. He hefted the weight, feeling it in his hands as he smiled. The guy stopped, glanced at his own shovel, but Stone’s was already scything through the air towards his knee cap. The blow was sickening. Wet and crunching. It took the cap right off, held on now only by skin and a little gristle. The man hollered as he fell, but to his credit kept his guard up. It didn’t do any good against the next blow, or the one after that. His right arm was broken and hanging by sinew and skin, blood pouring from the wound.

  Stone looked at the man in the grave. He was breathing slowly, but he was also slipping into unconsciousness. He noticed his watch on the man’s wrist. He bent down and caught hold of the man’s arm. There was no resistance. He unclipped the watch bracelet and its overlapping safety clasp and slipped it back over his own wrist. The man’s arm dropped limply in the loose earth.

  “That’s better,” he said, then looked at the other man who was whimpering and rocking his head in pain. “Who ordered you to kill me?”

  The man gritted his teeth together, nursing his arm with his left hand. “Go to hell, you bastard!”

  “What is it you don’t you want people to know?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “I can take you to a hospital,” Stone said. “You just have to tell me. Which brother ordered you to kill me? We’ll go to the state police, or the FBI. Tell me what you know and they’ll protect you.”

  The man looked down at his mangled arm and hesitated. He seemed to be weighing up his options. “You have no idea what’s going on,” he said, his teeth clenched in pain. “It’s all fucked up.”

  “Tell me,” Stone said. He stepped closer and squatted on his haunches, dropping the shovel a few feet away. “Give me the keys. They’ll patch you up, save the arm. Maybe the knee.” The man was wavering. He nodded towards his pocket and Stone gripped his left arm as he retrieved the keys. He let go and stepped back a pace. He needn’t have bothered, there was no fight left in the man. “Just tell me what’s going on out here.”

  “I need protection. Take me to the FBI and I’ll tell them. But either do that, or finish me now. Don’t fucking leave me.”

  “Okay,” Stone said. “But tell me first, who ordered you to kill me?”

  The man looked up at him. His face disappeared in a cloud of red mist and the contents of his skull hit Stone in the face. The gunshot followed, resonating around the clearing. Stone fell backwards, wiping the man’s blood and matter from his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He rolled onto his side and scrambled behind the car. He waited momentarily for another shot, but it didn’t come. Which told Stone that the person doing the shooting was a skilled marksman waiting for an opportunity, or that they had already gone. He slid himself into the car and shuffled along to the driver’s seat. Still no second shot. Now would be the time to put rounds through the door or glass. He got the key into the ignition and started the engine, hit the headlights and slotted the shift into drive. He spun the car around, looking for an opening in the trees and saw the tyre tracks. Still no second shot. And as he found the track out and got the speed up to forty or so, the car bouncing wildly on the rutted track, the lack of shooting bothered him even more than the fatal gunshot.

  10

  Stone had to best guess his way, but he started with simply heading downhill. The car was an old Ford Taurus with worn velour seats and a plastic dashboard of the same quality as the trays separating chocolates in a selection box. But it had a three-quarter tank of fuel and seemed to be well maintained mechanically. He could get to Portland in three or four hours. The FBI had offices in Portland, and given the incidents and peoples’ versions of what was happening in Abandon, the FBI would seem to be the next logical move.

  Logical.

  But why did Stone feel only the desire to return to Abandon? He knew that within four hours he could be reporting everything he’d heard to a state police officer and within an hour after that, even given the lateness of the hour, be having coffee and an interview with an FBI agent and putting the wheels in motion. But would he? So far all he really had was hearsay and coincidence. He had no proof. He had some slashed tyres and some cut rope. He had two men who had abducted him, but he’d killed one of them. And he’d be hard pushed to prove self-defence. In his own mind it was kill or be killed, but a jury may say different. A jury may say he should have simply run into the woods. And then there was the unexplained death of the second man. While in Abandon he had witnesses to say he had beaten up on a man in a bar. He didn’t have much else. Maggie? She’d been beaten, but would she tell law enforcement that? Most probably not. Deborah had been threatened, but she would see herself as stranded and unable to stand up against her employer and landlord. Her options were limited. If she crossed the Conrad brothers and they remained the status quo in town she would know what was in store for her. Stone would not be able to count on her. Not yet.

  The more he thought about what he had to take to the FBI, the more he felt he needed to arm himself with more information.

  Or he could simply turn and run. He was alive. That was a pretty good result. Why push it? Why risk being a part of this thing?

  And there it was. He needed to know, and he needed to help. That was all he could come up with as he drove down the mountain roads.

  All the reason he needed.

  It took an hour to get near to Abandon. The town had one road in. That road went on to a large lake Stone had earlier notice
d on a map. He supposed that was where Maggie’s husband went fishing. The last time she’d seen him. The road wound halfway around the lake and merely stopped. From the map it looked like it had been the plan to join up to another town called Jackson some thirty miles away. This plan looked to have failed and Jackson, about the same size as Abandon was now only reachable from Abandon by a mountainous route of approximately one hundred miles. It would have made sense to join them by road, these two towns were certainly remote. They would have benefited from trading with each other throughout the nineteenth century and could have shared schools, medical and sheriff facilities in more recent times. Both were close to a hundred miles from the nearest interstate. Although Jackson was closer to decent looking two-lane than Abandon.

  Stone looked at the luminous dials of his watch. It was a little after two am. He was over the drink drive limit – he hadn’t intended on driving tonight, but the beer at the bar and the few generous measures of bourbon with Maggie at the hotel had mounted to more than he’d usually drink. He wasn’t used to it and his head felt thick and heavy. Or maybe it had something to do with whatever had hit the back of his skull, or the foot in his face at the hotel. Although he did not imagine for a moment that he would encounter county police or the local sheriff at this time in the morning, or in this location, he thought it might make more sense to get off the road until daylight. He could also do with thinking events through. Besides, he was wired from the adrenalin and caffeine from all the coffee at the diner.

  The road was wide enough for two vehicles, with a solid yellow line down the centre for most of it. It wasn’t a road for overtaking because of the many bends, and occasionally there would be yield signs and the line would disappear completely, making it narrow for two vehicles to pass. But Stone had not seen another vehicle yet. Along the verge for much of the road was a strip of gravel for drainage and then a few feet of verge made up of mainly mulched pine needles, limiting the grass from growing. Every now and then the forest would clear a little. Stone slowed the Ford down and looked out for a small clearing. He found a suitable one, passed it, but stopped and reversed back, then eased the big car over the gravel and the verge and manoeuvred until he was facing outwards. He lowered the window a few inches so he could hear outside the vehicle, then switched off the ignition and everything went black as the headlights faded. He sat back in his seat and took off the seatbelt. His eyes slowly adjusted to the night and after ten minutes he could see the road, the trees all around him and a few stars through the canopy of trees. He hadn’t expected sleep to come to him so soon, but as he laid back, slumped a little in the seat, he didn’t fight it and soon was sleeping peacefully for what seemed the first time in an age.

  11

  The town was deserted. Abandoned. Stone parked the big Ford in front of the hotel and looked up at the windows on all three floors. The curtains were all drawn back, but there was no sign of anybody within. The ground floor curtains were all drawn closed. He had left his bag on the doorstep last night, it was no longer there.

  Stone climbed the steps and rung the bell. He looked around the street. A single-cab pickup truck drove slowly past, but the driver was more concerned with lighting a cigarette and did not look up from the road. It crawled along and pulled to the curb outside the mini-market. Stone turned back to the door and tested it. It was locked. He knocked, paused a beat then knocked twice more. He stepped back and looked at the windows above him. No movement.

  He knew he looked terrible – bloodied, muddied and thoroughly dishevelled. He needed a shower and change of clothes, he needed to take a look at his face and the egg-sized lump on the back of his skull. There was nowhere else in town where he could get himself straight and he needed to get his bag and clothes back. He walked around the side of the building and peered through a gap in the curtains. Still no movement. Now he was worried about more than clothes and a bag. Now he was worried for Maggie.

  He walked around the back of the hotel and into a yard which by the looks of it accessed the kitchen. This door was locked also. He could see inside the kitchen where a range and large preparation table took up most of the space. There was also a deep fat fryer, a microwave and a shelf full of pots and pans. It looked quite a professional set-up for such a small place, but then Stone remembered the busy Sunday dinner she put on for the older people in the area. He supposed the summer months were busier too, but somehow started to doubt that the Conrad brothers encouraged more people into the town than was absolutely necessary. Or perhaps there was ignorance in numbers. Maybe things went unnoticed to day-trippers and tourists.

  Stone wasn’t about to break the doors down just yet, but he continued around the building and entered a small walled garden via a solid wooden gate. Maggie was sitting on a swing chair, rocking gently, a bundle of cloth held to the side of her face. Stone watched her for a moment. She stared at the ground in front of her, a thousand-yard stare. She saw nothing.

  Stone coughed as he approached. She looked up, startled. Was there a look of relief? Stone was not entirely sure.

  “Well, I didn’t expect to see you again, Mister Stone.”

  “Are you hurt badly?” he said, perching down next to her on the swing chair.

  “Enough,” she replied curtly. “Running out of ice.”

  “They’re not coming back, Maggie.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But someone will, Mister Stone. Someone will for sure.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said. “I’ll get your bag and coat. So you can leave.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said. “Not yet, at least.”

  She looked at him, took the wet cloth away. Stone saw that her face was black and blue, her eye socket cut badly. “Why the hell would you want to stay here?”

  “Because someone’s telling me I can’t.”

  She laughed. “Silly boy!” she scoffed. “Silly, foolish boy.” Maggie only appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, but she was attractive and had looked after her looks. Stone was barely a decade younger, but he felt as if there was a gulf of age between them. She felt like an aunt to him. Perhaps she was older than she appeared. She placed a hand on his knee and rubbed. “Go home, Mister Stone. Forget everything you’ve seen or heard here and go live your life. Your foolish little life. Climb your mountains. Or buy that motorcycle. Find a cheerleader to massage your ego. Or heaven knows what else. But go now. You will not get another chance. I am sure of as much.”

  Stone looked down at the ground and noticed the glass and the almost empty bottle of bourbon. Beside these was a single, but large bottle of pills. Or rather an empty glass bottle with a prescription label.

  “How many have you taken, Maggie?” He nodded towards the ground.

  “Enough, thank you,” she paused. “I miss Peter so much.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Mister Stone, what is it with you and putting that nose of yours in other people’s business?” She slurred the words a little. “Just go, forget Abandon and don’t ever come back.”

  Stone got out of the chair and caught hold of her under her armpits. He pulled her to her feet, she was slim but there was no strength in her, she was almost a dead weight. He shook her and her head lolled from side to side, her eyes glazing over. “Maggie!”

  She didn’t respond and he ducked his head, pulling her over his shoulder and letting her loosely drape over him. He squatted down and picked up the pill bottle, tucked it into his pocket as he made his way out of the garden and out through another solid wooden gate, exiting on the other side of the entrance and front door. He made his way carefully down the steps and got her into the rear seat of the Ford. He had no idea of where a medical facility was and knew Maggie did not have enough time for him to get back on the interstate and find the nearest town with a hospital, besides he wouldn’t even get a cell phone signal for almost an hour. He backed out, floored the throttle and took the car up to sixty down the main
street. The sound resonated off the valley and echoed, but still there was nobody in the main street to hear.

  Stone pulled across the road and swung into the parking spaces in front of the diner. He got out, leapt the steps and crashed through the double class doors. Deborah looked up, startled at the entrance, almost spilling the jug of coffee. Two men sat at separate booths. Both looked up and stared.

  “I need a doctor!” Stone shouted. “Quickly! Tell me the best place to go!” Deborah frowned, she saw his battered face, the matted blood in his hair, but it seemed a little dramatic. Stone looked at her blank expression and quickly drew the same conclusion. “It’s for Maggie, the lady from the hotel. I need a doctor, fast!”

  She put down the coffee pot and hurried over. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked.

  Stone caught her by the arm and hustled her out of the door and down to the car. “A lot of booze and a lot of pills,” he said. “She tried to kill herself.”

  Deborah looked through the window, then looked back at him somewhat accusingly. “She’s been beaten up!”