The Hunted

by James Phelan

  Five guys. With Barb’s husband there were six.

  “Now,” Seabass said, “we didn’t bring guns along.”

  “You’re on my land,” Squeaker said in a loud voice that carried in the air. “And this is my guest. Be on your way.”

  “Now, now,” Seabass said, taking his hands down. “Whose land?”

  “Mine. And my ma’s before me.”

  “I think you’ll find all this belongs to Barb,” Seabass said, then pointed over to Barb’s husband. “And Gus.”

  “They don’t own shit—she takes and bullies, and we’re not standing for it!” Squeaker kept the rifle steady.

  “We?” Seabass said, his arms out. “Who’s we?”

  He looked around the cabins and trailers. Heads disappeared behind windows.

  “Who’s we!?” he yelled.

  Squeaker was silent but she held the rifle firm.

  “I got this,” Walker said to her, moving between her and Seabass, his eyes on the guys in front of him.

  “You were told to leave this place,” Seabass said. He stood up straight and tall. He’d had some coffees and a stern talking to since Walker had encountered him last. “You hard of hearing or just plain dumb?”

  “See,” Walker said, “that’s the problem.”

  Seabass said, “How so?”

  “We don’t want you here,” Walker said. “You heard the lady.”

  Seabass smiled. “We? Lady?”

  “Me. Susan. That’s two.” Walker looked at him and lowered his voice as though he was about to whisper an embarrassing question. “Seabass, you can count to two, right?”

  “You had your chance, Walker, when she saved you back at the bar,” Seabass said, red in the face as he flushed with anger. “And you screwed it. Now we’re gonna fix you good, hear? And then we’re gonna screw this little lady thing, see if she really does squeak.”

  Walker twitched involuntarily as he felt the surge of adrenaline.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking a couple of steps toward Seabass. His leather steel-capped boots were steady in the mud. His well-worn jeans had plenty of stretch and movement. His T-shirt, flannel shirt and lined leather jacket were all loose enough for the action that was coming.

  Seabass looked behind him, grinning to his cohorts, then turned back to Walker.

  “Thanks?” Seabass said. His grin remained. “For what’s coming? We’re gonna burn you both in that shit trailer, you know that? You be thankful then, city boy?”

  Walker smiled.

  “You bring that shiny knife with you again, bub?” he said, taking another step into what was now arm’s reach of Seabass.

  The guy grinned again as he brought the knife out. The blade caught the lights of the trailers, which glinted off scratches from the wear and tear of grinding and sharpening on steel and stone.

  Seabass’s smile lasted for just one more second.

  In the moment that followed, the knife was pushed up through his Adam’s apple, through the cartilage of the esophagus, through the vertebrae and out the back of his neck. He fell to the ground, Walker’s hands already moving with him to his right, to the next closest guy, who was still looking at his falling leader. Walker kicked him square in the groin. On his way down the guy’s head connected with Walker’s quickly rising knee. Lights out.

  The other older guy turned and ran for Seabass’s car as Walker set upon the two younger ring-ins. They both rushed him as they realized he was coming at them, the shock of seeing their comrade with a knife through his neck overtaken by a primal do-or-die urge to fight.

  Walker wasn’t planning on doing any more killing tonight. Not these young guys. There was no reason to. They were big, muscled by hard work, maybe spending their days clearing forests and eating plenty of basic protein, but they’d been called into something they knew nothing about. They weren’t armed, they were merely there to be counted. Background. A wall of beef, to intimidate the outsider. Unlike Seabass, who’d drawn a knife against a well-trained killer. If you drew a knife in a fight, you had to expect consequences, but these boys were just attendees.

  Walker kept them at arm’s length. The two of them matched him in height and weight but what these guys didn’t have in equal measures with Walker was a decade of hardened combat training and experience. One had served in the Marines, Walker soon saw from his stance and fight moves, so he was dealt with first.

  Walker halted the ex-Marine’s advance by stomping on his foot. The forward momentum carried the guy into Walker, and while he was quick, Walker was quicker. Walker parried the flailing arms out of the way, then elbowed the other guy—who had advanced into their space—before dealing a devastating uppercut into the sternum of the Marine. It was probably Walker’s favorite move of incapacitation; his signature move, if he had to pick one. A fast and hard blow to the point where nerves cluster. Not so hard as to leave permanent damage, but enough to shut things down for a day or two. The guy was down in a fetal position by the time his comrade fell over him, a quick three-punch combo to the face knocking him out cold.

  A gunshot rang out.

  Squeaker, with the rifle. She’d shot the driver’s-side mirror off Gus’s gleaming pick-up and now stood, rifle tucked into her shoulder, eye at the scope. It had been a deliberate shot, and she was ready for more. Then Walker saw why.

  Barb’s husband had a pistol in his hand. A shiny snub-nosed .357 revolver was now aimed clear out the open driver’s window, a finger hooked through the trigger guard.

  The other older guy stopped at Seabass’s car, clearly realizing that the keys were on a corpse in the mud by Walker’s feet.

  “How good are you with that thing?” Walker asked Squeaker, not taking his eyes off the men ahead.

  “Better than most,” she replied, the rifle steady in her hands.

  “Keep on them.”

  “Yep.”

  Walker approached Barb’s husband, Gus. “You want to harm Susan?” he asked him.

  The older man was silent. His eyes darted from Walker to Squeaker to Walker again.

  Walker took the out-held pistol from him, breaking three of Gus’s fingers in the process. Gus screamed, and Walker used the heavy pistol to smash his nose, pulverizing the cartilage. Gus shut up, stunned into silence, the shock taking over, and blood began to pour.

  Walker opened the car door and dragged him out, landing him on his hands and knees in the mud, then pushed him over onto his back with his boot.

  “Don’t . . . shoot . . .” Gus said.

  “Hold your nose with your good hand,” Walker said to him. Then he turned to the older guy by the other truck and called him over. “You came here to kill. You’re lucky this is all you’re getting. Clear?”

  Gus nodded.

  “You help your pal here back to town, or wherever it is that you people call home,” Walker ordered. “You walk. The whole way there. Got it?”

  Gus nodded.

  Walker kneeled down to Gus and spoke quietly. “You see me?”

  Gus nodded, pinching his nose, blood pumping over his mouth and chin.

  “You mess with Susan here, or anyone on this plot,” Walker said, “and I’ll come for you. Got that?”

  Gus nodded again.

  “Right.” Walker put a heavy hand on Gus’s chest, applying more and more pressure. “Charles Murphy. Tell me what you know.”

  “Noth-nothing,” Gus replied, all nasally. “He’s out there, somewhere. That’s all I know.”

  “Bullshit. Barb wouldn’t get so riled up and send you idiots out like this if it were nothing.”

  Gus was silent, until Walker cocked the revolver, a big mechanical clonk that echoed in the quiet night.

  “He’s trouble for us,” Gus said, “or he was. Was trouble.”

  Walker said, “What’s that mean?”

  “He tried to stop us. Shut us down. Couple years back, when—when he got home. Barb worked something out with him.”

  “What was that?”

  “We left him
alone—we don’t go into his area no more, and he leaves us alone.”

  “He wanted to shut you down on what?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Crystal?”

  “Meth,” Squeaker said, standing next to Walker, the rifle loose in her grip. “These idiots run it around here. Murph took to them after they messed up the lives of a couple of childhood friends of his.”

  “That’s right—and it’s all I know. He’s gone,” Gus said. “Over a year, not a word. Hell, he might have moved right away, interstate. I don’t know!”

  Walker turned to Squeaker. “Go get our bags from your truck—we’ve got a new ride.”

  Gus said, “No, you can’t—”

  “What?” Walker looked down to Barb’s husband. “Your old lady gonna breathe fire at you?”

  Gus was silent.

  “That’s what I thought,” Walker said. He eased off the hammer on the pistol and lifted Gus by the lapels of his jacket as though he were as light as air, and said close to his face, “You remember everything I said.”

  Gus nodded once again.

  Squeaker tossed their packs into the cab of the Tahoe, and Walker got into the driver’s seat and buzzed the seat adjustment button all the way back. Every trailer in the clearing had their lights on inside, and heads were at the windows, looking through curtains at the night’s show.

  “And tell Barb,” Walker said out the window as he selected drive and heard Squeaker crash into the seat next to him and shut her door. “If I hear she’s making a fuss, I’ll be back, and I’ll use your butt to wipe that shit she calls make-up right off her face.”

  22

  “Where should we be headed?” Walker said as he drove. They were back on the B-road that had led up to the clearing. The Tahoe rode fast and smooth, and the headlights’ bright white beams cut the night. He kept to the speed limit and headed east.

  Squeaker said, “North. Take the next major exit and head north where it hits Highway 63.”

  “What’s north?”

  “Missouri.”

  “Right.”

  “That, and a whole bunch of stuff. They won’t come looking for us to the north.”

  “They?”

  “Barb and Gus.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be looking for us in a hurry.”

  “You don’t know them, Walker.” Squeaker looked out her side window for a stretch. “People around here don’t soon forget.”

  They drove to the two-lane highway, then cut through a low forest either side and headed up into the hills. A low fog was rolling into the valleys but they were soon out of it.

  When they passed a sign that said “Salem, 10 miles,” Walker asked, “How far?”

  “Through Salem,” Squeaker replied. “Keep going. Thayer is over the border. Route 63 cuts right through it. Probably another twenty, twenty-five miles past Salem.” She leaned across and looked at the dash. “You can stop there and gas up. Then keep north.”

  “North. You seem specific.”

  Squeaker watched him for a moment and then sighed. “Okay,” she said. “Murphy was seen in Willow Springs by another cousin of ours. In town for supplies, he’d said.”

  “So, he might be near there,” Walker said.

  “He might.” Squeaker paused, watching out the window, then said, “Is that what you’d do, if you were him, hiding away with your family?”

  “Do what?”

  “Go to the nearest town for supplies.”

  Walker smiled. “Probably not.”

  “Right. But people there might know him.”

  “They might. It’s worth a shot.”

  “And we can stay there the night. We’ll be fine there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve been there once. And besides, what Gus, Barb’s husband, said back there, about meth and Murphy? They no longer peddle their crystal across the border. I’m pretty sure Murphy had a hand in that.”

  “How would Murphy have got them to do that?”

  “Ah, let me check in my butt,” Squeaker said, making a show of putting her hand on the back of her jeans. “Nope, no answers there.”

  Walker smiled. He liked Squeaker more and more with each mile. And he got the sense that he’d like Murphy just the same.

  “He tried to shut them down,” Squeaker said. “Barb and Gus. After he got out of the Navy and found his two best friends on the pipe, in some crack den. He busted the legs of a few local dealers. Then Barb and all, they came after him, like they did with you tonight. Only Murphy was at it for months, and they were at him for months, hunting him through the woods. He’s got a family, you know? Young’uns, two of them. Maybe three by now—at least that’s what I heard from that last sighting.”

  “His file didn’t mention kids. Or a wife.”

  “Murphy’s real private. Like, real private. Anyhow, he tried to run Barb and her crew out, and he failed, and in the end he made a deal with the devil.”

  Walker looked at her.

  “Another group now controls things up there over the border. With the meth. Murph had a hand in them heading south to the border as their new demarcation line, and he brought them in, worked to get them established as . . . well, muscle, I guess.”

  “Hence Barb’s not his biggest fan,” Walker said, slowing as the bright white lights of the expensive pick-up highlighted a deer and her fawn ahead.

  “Good eatin’,” Squeaker said, as the animals sauntered across the road. The rifle was between her legs, the butt on the floor and the danger end pointed straight up.

  “I’m sure we’ll find a burger joint on the road.”

  “What—you’re a pacifist now?”

  “Nope,” Walker said, easing on the gas and going around the mother and child. “You never saw Bambi?”

  Squeaker gave a muted little laugh, deep for a person her size. After a moment she spoke, all trace of laughter gone. “You had to kill him, right?”

  “Seabass?”

  Squeaker grunted.

  “Right,” Walker said. “I had to. A guy like that, doing a show like that with a big knife. He had it coming.”

  “No one will ever say nothin’ about it,” Squeaker said. “To the law, I mean. Be sure of that. It’s all a law unto itself round here.”

  “I get that,” Walker said, and up ahead the Arkansas town of Salem appeared with an all-night truck stop on the highway leading in, and beyond, a row of old streetlights bathing the main street in yellow. It was after midnight and most of the houses on the side streets were dark. “Hungry?”

  “We should push on.”

  “Quick stop,” Walker said. “Besides, Gus and his buddies have the night’s walk ahead of them all the way in the dark.”

  Squeaker stifled a laugh, then said, “Okay. I’m always hungry. I forgot to pack my wallet, though.”

  Walker grinned as he pulled into the truck stop and parked next to a big empty logging rig. He killed the V8 engine via the push button on the dash.

  “It’s on me,” Walker said. “Come on, let’s fuel ourselves up, debrief and plan what’s ahead. Then we gas up the car and head north.”

  “Plan?” she said, leaving the rifle in the footwell and zipping up her parka as they headed into the night. “Hell, that doesn’t sound fun.”

  “It’s an important step,” Walker said, scraping the mud off his boots on a metal bar put by the front door for just that purpose. “You should try it sometime.”

  “You should try living in the Ozarks sometime,” Squeaker countered, opening the door and holding it for Walker to go through first. “You’ll soon find, no matter how prepared you are, things go upside-down, fast.”

  23

  Walker had a hamburger, fries, onion rings, a banana split and coffee.

  Squeaker ordered scrambled eggs, mushrooms, pancakes with syrup, and a bottomless glass of seltzer.

  “All that talk about eating that baby deer,” Walker said, finishing the last mouthful of his burger, “and you didn’
t order meat. And you’ve not eaten half your food.”

  “Yeah . . .” She looked to where she’d pushed her food around with her fork, then up at Walker, holding his gaze.

  There was that fragility again, Walker thought. It was there, not very far from the surface, but usually well hidden, pushed not deep down but aside, as she’d somehow learned, probably the hard way, that it needed to be.

  “I’ve . . .” She looked around. Just the one trucker at a table, another guy at a counter paying for gas, and the two owner-operators. All out of earshot but she spoke in a hushed tone anyway. “I’ve never seen a man killed before. Dead, sure. Accidents and all. But not killed.”

  “Oh,” Walker said, pushing his empty plate to the side. “Right. Sorry. Do you need to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. “I’m trying to forget it.”

  “It was him or me. And if it was me, then it was going to be you.”

  “I know that. I get that. It’s just . . .” Squeaker’s gaze drifted, middle-distance, to Walker’s sternum. He looked down. There was blood there, a splash of it, from where he’d nicked Seabass’s carotid artery. He pulled his leather jacket together nearer to the neck to hide it from view.

  “It ain’t the how or why, Walker,” she said, looking at him. “He had it comin’ and then some. It’s just the sight of it. Up close. So quick. So easy.”

  “It gets easier,” Walker said. “The sight, I mean. As cold as that sounds. When it’s do or die, and when there’s no other choice, and when you know you’re in the right, it gets easier.”

  “Will you do it again?”

  “Probably.”

  “Soon?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Don’t. Not while I’m around. Okay?”

  Walker looked at her. Her sweet face. Young, but tough. Knowing, but worth protecting from knowing too much. “Okay.”

  She nodded.

  Walker got up and paid the bill at the counter. He bought a bag of snacks and drinks to take with them. Squeaker joined him and asked the counter-hand for a quart of whisky. Walker didn’t comment, just added the bottle to the bag for her alongside the snacks.

  “We should find a place to rest,” Walker said, pushing open the aluminum-framed glass door. He did his jacket up as the cold cut around his neck. It was an odd cold, this. Damp. He’d been in far colder climates, but this chill made his knees ache.