Jack Be Nimble: Tyro Book 2

by Ben English

  “You don’t even know what time it is?” asked Alonzo. “It’s after three AM, Jack. Merrick wasn’t lying when he said people have been out looking for you guys.”

  Jack dialed nine-one-one, then handed the phone to Alonzo. It was getting harder and harder to make clear decisions, and he need to concentrate on completing one thing at a time.

  He sent Mercedes down to the main street to flag down the police when they came, then checked Alonzo’s bandages again.

  “What did you do to the other guys?” Alonzo asked. The old cocksure tone hadn’t yet begun to return, but Jack could tell he was pissed.

  Quickly, he explained.

  “So that was just like out of a strategy book, then.” Alonzo gingerly touched his cheek. “Isolate, strike first and hard. I’ll have to loan you more books, for the next big fight we get into.”

  Jack thought about that for a moment. Isolate.

  Strike hard.

  Finish Merrick, strike for the head.

  Tactically, it was simple, agreed the voice, smugly. Imagine what you could do if you really knew what you were doing?

  “I’m going to need to learn all kinds of things,” he muttered to himself, as he carried the first aid kit around to the poolside doorway. Merrick was probably fine. His brother still sat at the water’s edge, fascinated by its surface. Jack wondered if he’d given in to the urge to try a taste.

  The letters forming Mercedes’ name had begun to drift, now that the old filter and heater had turned back on. Chemically speaking, Jack had stopped time. Slowed the molecular speed of the surface water down, temporarily.

  The solid mass was already beginning to collapse as the reagents in the filter began to break up the long guar molecules. The filter would be a loss, but it was due to be replaced. Jack would take care of that just as soon—

  Merrick was gone. So was the baseball bat.

  Mercedes would be just about to the road by now.

  Jack pounded back through the office at a dead run, barely slowing enough to dodge onto the redwood deck. At the base of the hill below him, where the pines and oaks marked the edge of the park, he thought he saw motion. Sprinting down the incline, he lost his balance and skidded on his knees across the grass. Cursing himself, Jack shoved up vertical again. His breath sounded preternaturally loud and close in the dim light under the trees. Jack ran faster than common sense and the darkness warranted.

  There were no lights in Founder’s Park. No illuminated sidewalks, no glimmering fountains. The footpaths were rough-cut stone slabs, irregular, flat, and sharp; perfect for catching your foot wrong and inducing a lawsuit. Any kid in Forge knew better ways to move through the park, especially in summer, when the greenery was in full bloom and created tunnels and passages unseen from the outside. While not overgrown, the park’s tall bushes and natural hedgerows made for fantastic hide-and-seek during the daytime, often followed by wonderfully vivid nightmares involving chainsaw-wielding psychopaths, if your parents were complete idiots and allowed you to watch certain kinds of movies. Jack wished he had parents, even of the idiot variety. His imagination didn’t need any cinematic assistance to fill the park with demons and worse.

  Michigan Avenue ran alongside the park’s far edge. Surely Mercedes was there by now, waving down a car or a passing log truck. There were lights at the street, and she’d be safe. Merrick was most emphatically not behind her, rising up out of the dark green with that damn bat.

  With any kind of luck, the police were there already. And weren’t the two of them due just a little bit of luck?

  Founder’s Park was the wrong name for it, anyway. It had been the site of the city’s elementary school until a fire gutted the building, and the area with the jungle gym, swing sets, and monkey bars was still called the lower playground. Jack weaved through it now, tambark chips crunching underfoot. He stumbled upon the aluminum bat between the slides and the merry-go-round, and his heart went cold.

  Jack took the bat.

  He was following Merrick’s path. Moving through the park exactly the way the older man would, quite naturally and easily following the footsteps of a psychopath. That he hadn’t consciously decided to take the same route was an idea he found more chilling than the fact that now he’d created a second set of his own fingerprints on the cursed thing.

  Worse, the discarded bat was proof that Merrick was between him and Mercedes. He ran, heedless of noise, as fast as he was able, again holding nothing in reserve. His feet found the old, original entry to the school, and Jack pelted down an ancient double-broad sidewalk, through the deep, velvety-green darkness between two rows of mossy, knurled oaks whose overhanging limbs creaked and refolded far above him, like steepled fingers busy with prayer. The cement was cracked, canted, and skewed, but mostly worn smooth. He did not slip.

  Hurry, Jack. Whatever the older boy planned for Mercedes, he didn’t feel the need for a baseball bat.

  Ahead, a scream. No; a shout. Jack vaulted the fence at the edge of the park, and found Mercedes white-faced and cursing before a warily circling Merrick. The girl saw him first, and Jack threw her the bat without thinking.

  Merrick was beyond words. His hands shook, and his breathing had a new, high-toned whistle to it. As Mercedes caught the bat, he spun towards Jack. “Good.”

  His smile came with a mouthful of blood, and Jack couldn’t tell if his teeth were missing or just covered in gore and night. Rust-colored streaks fouled his shirt. Jack dared a glance at Mercedes, saw no visible wounds. The blood seemed to be Merrick’s.

  As if reading his thoughts, the older boy chuckled, low. “It’s all mine, for now.” He looked at Mercedes, who held the bat up, though loosely. Merrick spat a gobbet of something dark at her. “Can you imagine what it’s going to do to your daddy?” He hawked and spat again. “Going to do to him, there in his hospital bed, when they tell him all the things what got done to his little girl before she died?”

  Jack started to move, but Merrick was quicker, and closer to the girl. He rushed her, and for a split instant Jack saw the football star again, charged with that same beautiful economy of movement and extraordinary precision that swept down halfbacks during high school games. He was Merrick, and he was unbelievably fast.

  Jack saw something else. He watched Mercedes come to perfect balance a split second before she sidestepped low, under Merrick’s hands, and came up fast around his side, swinging the bat. It connected solidly with the back of his head, and the sound was like an ax cleaving a watermelon.

  Merrick staggered forward, touching one knee to the blacktop. He clapped one hand over his eyes, as if to keep them from leaving his head, and rose, raging.

  Headlights winked in the distance. The light was too far to touch them, yet.

  Merrick howled, and the sound echoed back from the town’s old stones. He swore, blinking furiously. Blood and snot and tears rolled off his face.

  Mercedes raised the bat again. She was still within arm’s reach. “I thought you couldn’t look any worse,” she said. She leaned in, swinging the bat for his knees, arms, legs, and chest, and laughed—actually laughed—as he stumbled away.

  Merrick looked at the approaching headlights, and sobbed. It was a sound Jack had never heard before, never expected to hear, and it was filled with desperation and fury and impotence. Merrick bulled in again, this time slapping the bat out of the girl’s hands. He got a loose handful of her hair before Jack collided with him, low and from the side, and his breath whooshed from his lungs in a mist of blood.

  Jack kept his feet under himself, and pushed with all his strength until Merrick’s back found a fence post. The impact, solid through the other man’s body, jarred Jack’s entire frame.

  He shoved off and backed away. Merrick sagged to the ground, eyes wide, gasping soundlessly. He can’t catch his breath, Jack realized. Merrick struggled weakly, expression full of panic. The whites of his eyes glistened, pale and opaque against the light heralding the coming car.

  Mercedes was s
uddenly holding his hand, and as Jack turned fully towards her she began crying softly. By the time Merrick managed his first, wheezy breath, the car had arrived and Mercedes’ grandfather was at her side. Sean Lyons was there, too, holding some kind of short-barreled shotgun. Both men smelled of strong coffee and nervous relief.

  After one look at the situation, Lyons stepped over to Merrick and helped him into a sitting position. He then stood well back and aimed the shotgun carefully between Merrick’s legs. “Don’t move, son. I don’t want to litter.” Lyons’ eyes never left his wheezing target as he used his phone.

  It took the police another fifteen minutes to arrive, but when they did turn up they disembarked in force. Jack had no idea Forge employed so many lawmen. The town’s solitary ambulance showed up and collected Merrick, who somehow acquired a two-car escort to the hospital, then had to return for the attacker still treading water in the pool’s surge tank. While adults in uniform puzzled over how to extract him, paramedics gave proper first aid to Alonzo and the two men that had been trapped downstairs in the dark. Exposure to the soda ash left both breathing painfully, barely able to see through blood-filled eyes.

  Together, Jack and Mercedes showed the officers the pool area, describing the night’s events up to the attack. They kept explanations simple. The sheriff, Mort Ross, took their statements together, then separated them in different parts of the pool building and repeated the process. While Alonzo wanted to talk, Sheriff Ross waved him aside. “Easy, kid. Your ma’ll be here presently to take you to the emergency room. I’ll see you there if we need you to file a report.”

  Two deputies pried Kyle Dremel away from the poolside and began feeding him coffee as fast as he could stand it. He’d acquired a shiver, and couldn’t look at anyone directly.

  The trophy mess in the main office was swept to one side but not cleared out, and Jack made use of the coffee machine for everyone who looked like they needed it. Mercedes stood by her grandfather and Lyons. When Alonzo’s parents arrived, solemn and serious, the sheriff met them at the door with a kindly, sad smile.

  Jack had always liked Sheriff Ross. The balding, mustached man was the father of two daughters Jack had shepherded through swim lessons, and he’d always watched the progress of his girls with interest and a kind word for Jack. Ross treated him somewhat like an adult, even allowing Jack to talk him into signing the girls up for swim team.

  Tonight proved to be nothing like that.

  The sheriff motioned for one of his men to bring Alonzo near. “You’d best think twice about letting your boy spend time with Jack Flynn.” He didn’t even bother lowering his voice. “Nothing good will come of the two of them together. He’s an influence. Mark me.”

  Alonzo threw Jack and Mercedes a long look before leaving with his parents. On his way out, he handed Mercedes her duffel bag. “I think all your stuff’s in here.” He accepted a quick, light hug. “Sorry.”

  Suddenly there weren’t as many police in the room as before. Three deputies remained near Jack. Like the sheriff, all were close relations of the Dremel family.

  Jack found himself wishing, oddly, that Sean Lyons still held his shotgun.

  It had to be getting close to sunrise, but the darkness rested overhead, without seam or crease.

  Sheriff Ross looked out the window at the pool, at the dissolving Jell-O, and shook his head. “Town didn’t used to be like this. Some things don’t belong. Jack?”

  He’d never heard that particular tone in an adult’s voice. Was he supposed to respond?

  The sheriff removed his hat. “Hell, I don’t even understand what I’m looking at, here.” He gestured at the water, but glared at Jack. “Just doesn’t fit.”

  Everyone seemed to be waiting for the sheriff to continue; Jack kept his mouth shut.

  “But this sort of thing,” the sheriff sighed, “We’re seeing more and more of this, past few years.” He nodded at the pile of wrecked trophies and awards.

  “Past few years, the town’s gotten itself a dangerous element.” His eyes came to rest on the floor nearby. The pool of blood still looked shiny and wet.

  The sheriff carefully stepped around the blood. “When a boy starts to come into a man’s strength, sometimes he feels like he’s got to do certain things.” He looked carefully at each of them. Jack read wariness and caution in the sheriff, and something else. Was that cunning?

  “Jack, you hunt, don’t you?” asked the sheriff.

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ve heard you’re a good shot with a rifle. You ever kill anything up close?”

  Sean Lyons spoke, fracturing the tentative confidence building between Jack and the sheriff. “What is this? Ross, what the hell are you doing?”

  Sheriff Ross hesitated, his face beginning to redden even under the colorless light. “It’s known as a chain of evidence. Now, Jack—”

  “Don’t answer him, son.” Now Lyons spoke up. “You’ve listened to both their accounts; it’s clear what happened. I’ll ask again, what are you doing?”

  The sheriff turned to the older man. “Not clear, not clear at all.” He indicated Mercedes. “The girl will never testify. Idaho operates under an interstate compact law for minors that witness crimes like what we’re looking at here. Unless she can produce ‘overwhelming, compelling evidence’, then the Interstate Compact on Juveniles states that she is to be remanded to the custody of her legal guardian as fast as due process can gets its ass in gear.” He shifted his gaze to her grandfather. “We’ll make sure the young lady gets on a plane this morning, is that clear?”

  Grandpa Max set his jaw. Strength rolled through his shoulders and enormous hands, and at that moment he looked like he’d enjoy nothing more than fitting them around the sheriff’s neck, assuming it could be found, but Max was an adult, and had lived a long time by the rules and boundaries of the adult world.

  “Good. Glad we both understand the law.” The sheriff shifted his attention back to Lyons. “Merrick Dremel is a town treasure. You know who he is. We all know who he is.”

  “Your cousin by marriage, isn’t that right?” There was a twinkle in Lyon’s eye.

  “His family founded this town. The rest of us,” Sheriff Ross frowned, warily. “The rest of us are just orphans, passing through.” His eyes found Jack. “What have you ever done?”

  Jack had to say something. “But you know it was Merrick. You have his baseball bat, you have fingerprints, something. I think that was the same weapon used to hurt Cecilia Montgomery.”

  “You watch too much boob tube, kid. And this bat you both keep talking about, we can’t find it.” He addressed his deputies. “Anybody seen a baseball bat?”

  At the word ‘bat’, Kyle loudly slurped his coffee. His eyes were focusing properly now, but he kept to the corner, nursing his cup. Jack had nearly forgotten he was there.

  “Evidence, we got. We also got no credible witnesses and your word against Merrick Dremel, and which one of you is in the hospital with a concussion and his face all smashed in? I’m seeing assault, malicious harassment, damage to property, reckless endangerment—and don’t think you won’t be tried as an adult.”

  Now Grandpa Max cleared his throat. “What about the Noel boy?”

  Lyons agreed. “When you interview him—”

  “Never clearly saw his attacker,” replied the sheriff. “Came up from behind him at the marina. Attacked him from the rear. Weren’t you at the marina earlier today, Jack?”

  Lyons had enough. With a note of exasperation, he took a step forward.

  Sheriff Ross met him. Behind him, each of the deputies shifted their posture, assuming a slightly different angle behind the sheriff. Jack noticed the policeman nearest Jack even rest his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  The sheriff barely raised his voice at Lyons. “Why are you even still here? Max, explain to this carpetbagger how we keep the peace in Forge. Needs him some educating. Want to flap your gums? Run for office.”

  “Now, kid.” As Ross appro
ached, the deputy nearest Jack produced his cuffs. They looked very bright and cold. “We’ll take you down to the courthouse now, to keep you safe. Lots of books there, you can read up on what a class three misdemeanor is.”

  As if sensing he might run, the three deputies began to box Jack in. Suddenly, he couldn’t think or breathe, which astonished him, and he felt his insides drop away nauseatingly. The tiniest movement was impossible. There was a way out of this, wasn’t there? Shouldn’t there be a little voice right about now, really free with the good advice even if a little irritating…nope, nothing. Got to be something—

  He looked toward Mercedes, and she winked. Smiled, even.

  “You have the right to remain—

  Peace flooded through Jack from head to foot. He fought to keep eye contact with the girl, and she winked again. Jack felt his body relax.

  “Sheriff?”

  “—to remain silent—”

  “Excuse me, Sheriff Ross?” Mercedes pulled something from her bag.

  The sheriff assumed an adult expression. “You need to keep quiet, young lady, or you’ll be charged with obstruction.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know anything about that, but did you just say something about me providing compelling evidence? Overwhelming evidence?”

  Now she had his attention. The sheriff rounded on her, quickly. A ring of keys dangling from his belt swung into a metal chair with the sound of mismatched cymbals. “If you’re playing me, you’ll answer for it.”

  Grandpa Max and Lyons still flanked Mercedes. Max crossed his arms and leaned forward a degree or two, and the sheriff stopped just outside his reach, an expression of self satisfaction hanging lopsided on the lawman’s face.

  Mercedes held up the disposable camera.

  Kyle gagged on his coffee, and swore. “That’s it! That’s it, Mort. They took our picture at the boat dock.” He ducked back into his mug. “Merrick was holding the—”

  “Close your mouth,” said the sheriff, too loudly, and Jack felt Merrick’s presence loom for an instant, unseen, in the wrecked room. Same tone. Same wary impatience. None of the confidence.