“You think I won’t cut you?” he said.
“Oh, shove it up your ass,” she told him.
Flake stopped dead, stood still again, his mouth open.
“Come on already!” said Goldmunsen as he passed.
“Did you…?”
“Come on!”
What could Flake do? He followed the two of them, seething. Lighting the way with the flash.
Now Kathleen felt the ground grow spongy under her feet. The mosquitoes swarmed and harried her. The noise of the frogs and the water bugs grew louder—screaming loud all around her. Then there was a spark in the blackness, a ripple of glitter: The flashlight’s beam had struck water.
Kathleen felt a jolt of fear. Here they were. The swamp. She swallowed. God, this sucked. She wished it would just be over.
Another step—and her foot sank into bog. The cold water seeped in over her tennis shoes, soaked her socks. She stopped, standing in muck up to her shins. There was nowhere else to go. This was it. This was the end of it.
A shudder went through her. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, defiant and resigned. A mist of flies and mosquitoes settled around her head but she didn’t even bother to try to chase them off. Let them have her. Why not? Her life ought to be good for something.
She stood and stared out across the expanse of water. There was open sky above and some moonlight though the moon was low. She could make out the shapes of reeds and cattails. She could make out the shifting water, the reflection of the stars. All of it—everything—blurred by her tears.
She shook her head at the night, frowned bitterly at it. What the hell good was any of it anyway if no one loved you? Christ, maybe she should’ve asked a man to abandon her like her father had or beat her like her husband had or lie to her like her lover. Maybe then, you know, if she’d asked him for it, he’d’ve been faithful and kind and true just to spite her. Just to throw her for a loss. Who the fuck knew? Who the fuck knew anything anyway?
She shivered again, getting cold. Jesus, let them do it already. What the hell was taking them so long?
She turned around to face the bastards. But she had marched so fast there at the end that they were still lagging behind. Goldmunsen was just coming down the slope, just galumphing down on his bowed ape legs with one dangling ape arm swinging, the other clutching his gun. Another day, another murder for Goldmunsen, that’s how he was. And Flake was pulling up to the left of her, hanging back from the water to keep his shoes dry. Bouncing on his toes there, looking like he was just about to blast the fuck off from pure psycho energy. He trained the flashlight on her. His face was glowing in the light, glowing with anticipation. His mouth was corkscrewed into a little smirk at the thought of what would happen to her now.
The two of them—Goldmunsen and Flake: just like the rest, bullies and cowards. They pissed her off, every goddamned one of them.
“Look at you fucks,” she burst out. She hated that she was crying in front of them but she couldn’t stop. She was too scared and miserable to stop. “Look at you.”
The two murderers actually obeyed her, actually glanced at one another like the idiots they were. She’d’ve laughed if she could’ve worked herself up to it.
“If I was you I’d be ashamed to breathe it’d be such a waste of air,” she said. They stared at her. Anger twisted her face. “Come on, already, you dumb fucks. Shoot me for the love of Christ. What’re you waiting for? I’m sick of the sight of you.”
Flake could hardly believe his ears. He gaped at her, gaped at Goldmunsen. He couldn’t get his mouth shut, that’s how shocked he was.
“All right, that’s it!” he said finally. With a muttered curse, he shifted the flashlight from his right hand to his left. Now his right hand was free to pull his switchblade out of his pocket. He snapped it open. “I’m…I’m…I’m gonna cut her.” He could barely get the words out.
Kathleen sneered at him, him and his switchblade. “Oh yeah, big fucking man,” she said.
Flake started toward her. But Goldmunsen had had it with Flake. This had been a long day for poor Goldmunsen. He’d already been through this whole business once already with the bitch’s husband. Twice to the killing place in one day and nobody was even dead yet. Well, that was enough. Enough of Flake, enough of this whole business.
“Hold it, Flake! Just hold it!” he said.
The tone of his voice made Flake hold up. He stood at the edge of the water. He glared hate at the woman in the swamp.
“Just stay the fuck right there,” Goldmunsen said. “And keep the goddamned flashlight steady. Let me get this over with. Christ.”
Flake hesitated, still trembling with outrage.
“Come on!” shouted Goldmunsen. “Remember what Mr. Hirschorn said. No diddly-shit now, let’s go.”
Hirschorn’s name decided it. Flake breathed down his anger. “All right, all right,” he muttered. “Shit.” He jerked the flashlight up until the beam caught Kathleen full in the face. She flinched at it, holding up her hand. Then she squinted straight into it, still sneering at them through her tears. Flake couldn’t understand it: How the hell could Goldmunsen just take that shit from her? How could he just let it go and kill her without wiping that sneer off her face, without making her scream for mercy?
But Goldmunsen didn’t care a fart about the look on her face or what she said or whether she screamed or anything. He just wanted to take her out and get this over with. In fact, he gave a little snort of admiration for her.
“You got more balls than your old man does, I’ll say that for you,” he told her.
Then, with one smooth motion, he lifted his gun and aimed it squarely at her chest.
And Jim Bishop leapt at him, flying out of the darkness like a panther.
Fifty-Eight
He had cut it too close. Even running as fast as he could in the darkness, he had found the swamp only then, only at the last possible moment. There was no chance for ambush, no chance to plan his attack. He just leapt, hoping to reach the ape-armed gunman before the bastard pulled the trigger.
He did—he did reach him—with an instant to spare. He slammed into the thug’s midsection and the Glock fired. There was a spurt of flame angled up at the sky. The bullet went wild. Tangled together, Bishop and Goldmunsen went sprawling into the mud.
For a second, Flake froze. Completely surprised, he stood staring, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other. He saw the two men struggling with each other, rolling over and tearing at each other. He could hardly understand what it was he saw.
Then he did understand. He charged toward the fight. He tried to fold the switchblade as he ran. He couldn’t. He threw it away. He dug into his shoulder holster. Fumbled out his Glock.
He was there, right on top of the battle. Bishop rose up—rose up over Goldmunsen’s fallen form. For that moment, he presented a perfect target. Flake, not a yard away, pointed the Glock at Bishop’s forehead.
Bishop shot him. He had snapped Goldmunsen’s gun from his hand. He had come up, looking for the second man. Found him—right there, right in front of him. Flake was just taking aim when Bishop opened up, sweeping the gun barrel across the little thug’s torso, squeezing off shot after shot. Three crackling explosions in the night. Three bullets in the psycho’s chest. The jolt of it made Flake stagger, made his hand go loose on the gun before he could fire back. But in the next instant, he tightened his grip again, ready to pull the trigger.
Bishop raised his weapon and sent another round into Flake’s face. The thug’s features exploded, and his body collapsed under him. He was dead on his back in the mud. The flashlight in his left hand landed on top of him, lay on top of him, shining up at the black-and-red mass where his face had been.
Now Goldmunsen heaved up under Bishop and sent the smaller man flying.
Bishop rolled on the soft earth. Sprang to his feet. He tried to bring the gun to bear in the darkness. But Goldmunsen was too fast. He unleashed a side-kick, caught Bishop’s wrist. The G
lock spun free, lost in the night.
And Goldmunsen kept coming. Turned sidewise by the kick, he drove his right fist straight into Bishop’s jaw. Bishop had no time to block or dodge. It was a full hit. It sent him reeling backward. There was no pain but the force of it stunned him. Before he could get his feet under him, before he could even think, Goldmunsen struck again. Crouched low, he stepped forward and, with all the strength of his ape arm, he powered his left fist into Bishop’s solar plexus.
Bishop grunted as the air rushed out of him. He doubled over. He couldn’t think. A moment of helpless anger, frustration. Then Goldmunsen lifted his right fist high in the air and hammered it down on the back of Bishop’s head.
Bishop’s brain was knocked blank. He felt himself drop to one knee, felt himself topple over onto his side but that was all he understood of it.
He lay there in the leaves and mud. He saw Goldmunsen step to Flake’s body. He saw Goldmunsen bend down, reach down for Flake’s gun. Vaguely, he understood that this was the end of things, that he had to get up or he’d die.
But he couldn’t get up. His mind was thick and dull. His center was emptied, his strength was gone. All the same, by dumb will, he pressed a hand against the earth and tried. He shifted a knee under him. He started to raise himself.
That was as far as he got. He was caught like that—half-raised on one hand, on one knee—when Goldmunsen lifted Flake’s Glock and brought it round to train it on the bridge of Bishop’s nose.
Bishop looked up, looked into the black barrel of the gun. No chance to get it. He was dead.
Shit, he thought.
Then everything was gunfire. Two slow, shattering blasts. The night quaked with them.
Panting, still lifted on one hand, on one knee, Bishop looked up at Goldmunsen. Goldmunsen looked down at Bishop, his chest heaving. There was an expression of confusion and concern on his hatchet face. He was finding it hard to figure out what exactly had happened.
Then he staggered forward. He went down slantwise, sending up a puff of leaves as he dropped to the forest floor.
Bishop looked up over the thug’s dead body and saw Kathleen. She had recovered the gun he’d lost. She was holding it out in front of her with both trembling hands. Her eyes were wild, her face was mottled and tear-stained and contorted with rage.
Slowly, Bishop looked from her to the thug, back to her again. Slowly, he understood that she had killed him. He nodded. That was good. Better than what he was expecting anyway.
He began to work his way to his feet.
“Don’t you fucking move, you son of a bitch,” said Kathleen. And she pointed the gun at him now. “You’re next.”
Fifty-Nine
“Wait a minute,” said the man on the telephone at the same time. “Let me get this straight.”
Weiss rubbed his eyes. How late was it already? After ten sometime. His office was still dark. The computer was still on. On the screen now, the video of Julie Wyant was playing, the ten-second loop that showed her crooking her finger at the viewer, beckoning. Weiss had started it going and each time he looked at it, looked at her, he felt something clutch his heart, squeeze it. She was out there somewhere. The Shadowman was after her. Every second counted.
“You called me at home at this hour of the night to inform me I have a killer locked up in my maximum security prison,” said the man on the phone. His name was Roger Nelson. He was the warden of North Wilderness SHU. He had a dry, crusty voice, and sounded as if he had lived long and seen much. He also sounded as if he was not very happy Weiss had called. “This may surprise you, sir, but in fact I have a very large number of killers locked up in my prison. It’s generally considered one of my best personality traits.”
“Yeah, but this prisoner—Ben Fry—arranged to have himself locked up,” said Weiss. “He’s planning to break in on a man you’re holding in protective custody, Lenny Pomeroy. He’s going to torture Pomeroy for some information and then kill him. And then escape.”
The woman on the monitor leaned forward, one hand behind her back. She crooked the finger of her other hand at Weiss. Weiss gazed soulfully at her otherwordly expression. He thought she had eyes as deep and searching as any he had ever seen.
Nelson, meanwhile, laughed. “Well, that’s a diabolically clever plan if I ever heard one, Mr. Weiss. It sure is. Only flaw in it, far as I can see, is that it happens to be completely impossible. Have you got any idea what security in our prison is like? Even if any of this were true, which I kind of doubt, he couldn’t do it.”
“He can,” said Weiss, his voice tightening with frustration. “He will.”
“Uh-huh,” said Nelson. “And you know this how exactly?”
Weiss raised his face to Heaven for help but no help came. This was the question he was afraid of, the one he had no answer for. How did he know what he knew? His hunch? His intuition? Even he wasn’t sure.
“I have a source,” he lied finally.
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Good night, Mr. Weiss,” said Nelson.
“Superintendant Nelson…”
“Mr. Weiss,” the warden said wearily, “let me repeat one more time before hanging up very loudly that you and every other tax-paying pain in the ass in the state of California can sleep well tonight knowing that your Department of Corrections is doing everything in its power to protect you from the malefactors under its protection. All right?”
Weiss opened his mouth to answer but there was no chance. Down came the phone on the other end. The dial tone quickly followed.
Weiss put his own phone down. He dragged his palm across his parched lips, thinking.
The girl on the monitor beckoned him, her red-gold hair glistening.
Weiss reached for the phone again.
Sixty
And again, Kathleen screamed, “You’re next, I swear it!”
Beaten stupid, Bishop stood. He swayed on his feet like the mast of a ship at sea.
“Don’t, don’t move, don’t you move!” Kathleen’s voice was raw and hoarse. Night birds fluttered up out of the swamp at the sound of it. Even the chigger of bugs grew quiet.
She took a step toward Bishop. Holding the gun on him. Her teeth were bared in her rage. She was choking on her own sobs.
Bishop stared distantly at her. Stared at the gun. Watched her take another step at him. Saw her face, considered her face. Looked around him, dazed.
Bizarre—it was a bizarre scene. Flake dead on his back with the flashlight shining on his gory mask. The shape of Goldmunsen huddled dead in the outglow. The suddenly quiet night, and the trees against the sky and Kathleen in the starlight coming toward him with the gun. For another second or so Bishop was too punch-drunk to take it in, to understand that she might really shoot him. Then, slowly, he forced his mind to clear. He remembered how he’d treated her, what he’d done to her. He began to realize that, hey, she just might shoot him at that. She just might.
Kathleen thought so too, she thought she just might shoot him too. She sure as hell wanted to. She had shot that other man, Goldmunsen, after all, and she had felt really good about it. If she shot Bishop she thought she would feel even more good. Shooting people seemed to work for her. In fact, she was sick and tired of not shooting people.
She clasped the pistol tight—so tight her hands shook violently. She saw Bishop through her tears.
“You suck!” she said. “You know that?” Her voice almost vanished beneath the sobbing. “I was going to love you. I was going to love you and you were all just…lies. You were just lies. You suck!”
Bishop looked at the gun. At Kathleen. He nodded. It felt like the right thing to do.
It wasn’t. “Shut up!” Kathleen shouted. “Don’t you nod at me! You were just lies. You suck so bad.”
“Look,” he said dully. “You’re right. I did lie to you….”
“Don’t tell me I’m right, you son of a bitch! I was going to love you.” She kept coming toward hi
m. Coming toward him, pointing the gun. She was gripping the gun so hard her knuckles were white. Her trigger finger was white. “And you were all just…lies! How could you be like that? How could you do that to someone? How would you like it if someone did that to you? If I killed you, you’d be sorry, wouldn’t you? I ought to kill you right fucking now, you son of a bitch.”
Bishop winced. This was beginning to give him a headache. Something was anyway. Maybe it was the side of his face, the spot where Goldmunsen got in that punch. His cheek was swelling, throbbing there. Sharp pains were knifing up from it into his skull. Then add to that Kathleen yelling at him. Which he hated—he always hated the part when women found out what he was and got all crazy and started yelling at him. And then add to that the gun—hell, the gun would’ve given him a headache all by itself.
And now…Christ, now there was a new noise. Off in the forest somewhere. Back in the camp. A cough, a pounding disturbance in the wind. Bishop glanced in the direction of it.
Oh hell, he thought.
“Look at me! Don’t you turn away, you look at me, you bastard, I don’t care!” shouted Kathleen.
It was the helicopter, Bishop realized. That noise, that fillip in the wind. It was the Apache. They had started up the Apache.
Kathleen took another step and another and she was really close to him. Close enough for him to see her face clearly in the dark. Close enough for him to see the anger and hurt in her eyes. Close enough for him to grab the gun probably. If he was that fast. If he wasn’t too deadheaded and he was faster than her finger which was already squeezed white and tight against the trigger.
Right now, he was pretty sure he was nowhere near that fast.
Kathleen shook her head sadly. “I’ll bet your name’s not even Frank,” she said. “Shit, I was gonna love you and I don’t even know your name.”
Another jolt of pain went up his skull. He massaged his temple with one hand. He sighed. He really did hate this part. “Bishop,” he said. “It’s Jim Bishop.”
Dynamite Road Page 24