A Desperate Place for Dying

by Scott William Carter

  "And you followed me here?"

  "Naw. Saw you following Brother Jer. Couldn't tell who you were, but I knew you were following him. I got Wall and hightailed it out here. Glad we did."

  Gage shook his head. He still felt dizzy. "I just don't get it. How can you go from serving your country to serving a lunatic fringe cult?"

  Monahan raised the butt of his gun as if to smack Gage again, then stopped. He laughed derisively. "Man, you really want to get killed, don't you?"

  "Do I have a choice in the matter?"

  "Nope," Monahan said. "It's the how and the where that's the only question. Something I never had much choice about when I was in the army. And when the country elected that Satan-loving nigger, I knew I needed to get on God's side in a hurry. I knew words were no longer enough."

  "So this is all about a black man in the White House?" Gage said. "You watch Fox News, don't you?"

  "I don't watch no liberal bullshit news. I get my truth from one place—the Bible. Okay, enough questions." He handed Gage's Beretta to Wall. "You watch him good until I get back with the others. If he tries anything, anything at all, you shoot him. Got it?"

  "Yuh," Wall said. That was what the word sounded like, a deep rumble halfway between "Yeah" and "Yep."

  "It speaks," Gage said.

  Monahan, grumbling under his breath as he trudged up the stairs, said, "And if you have to shoot him, do it in the gut. So he dies real slow."

  When Monahan was gone, Wall moved to the foot of the stairs, facing Gage, arms crossed and staring with the same vacant expression he might have used to stare at empty space. Maybe that's what Gage was to him. Empty space. Whatever brain capacity Wall actually had, Gage could see that he wasn't a complete idiot. He'd moved to block the one way out of the room. Thorough. You had to like that in a giant.

  "Want to play some cards?" Gage asked.

  Wall didn't even blink.

  "Maybe some poker?" Gage said. "It could be a while. Might as well pass the time in an enjoyable way."

  It may have been Gage's imagination, but he thought he saw Wall's frown, obscured by that smog of hair, deepen ever so slightly.

  "We could make a game of it," Gage said. "If you win, I stop talking. If I win, you let me go."

  There was nothing. Gage wasn't even sure if the words were penetrating Wall's thick head. Gage's options were pretty limited. He'd managed to get a little wiggle room in the tape, but it wasn't much, not enough to get himself clear without a lot of struggle—and Wall certainly wouldn't just sit there and watch while Gage freed himself.

  His one saving grace was that Wall hadn't bound his legs with tape, only his arms and chest. And since it was a folding chair, there was a chance that he could get the seat to fold down if he could just get to his feet—allowing him a tiny bit of maneuverability if he had to go hand-to-hand with King Kong. Or feet to hand, as the case may be. His odds of surviving a physical encounter were not statistically significant, as pollsters liked to say, but it was better than just waiting around to die.

  In the left pocket of Wall's faded blue parka was a distinctive rectangular shape—one that gave Gage an idea.

  "Look," Gage said, "you look like a bright guy, Wall. Let's just level with one another. They're going to shoot me when they come back. We both know it. All I want is a last cigarette. Is that too much to ask?"

  Wall stared blankly.

  "You and I both know," Gage continued, "that it's spelled out in the Bible pretty clearly—Matthew 7:11. The condemned sinner hath the right to a last solitary smoke. I can show you the passage, if you want to grab me a Bible. You got one on you? What's that in your pocket there?"

  This, finally, got a response out of Wall—a very subtle, and probably involuntary, twitch of his left arm.

  "I thought it looked like cigarettes," Gage said. He tried to make himself sound as pleading and as pitiful as possible. "Come on, be a pal. Just one cigarette. It's the Christian thing to do. You don't want your conscience gnawing at you. Just a couple puffs before they come back. Please?"

  For a tense few seconds, Wall showed no visible sign that he'd even heard, much less considered Gage's request. He was an immobile, furry tree, casting his enormous shadow over his seated prisoner. Then, with the slow but steady movement of an ocean liner changing course, Wall reached into his pocket with his free hand—the other holding Gage's Beretta—and retrieved a package of Camel's cigarettes. The cellophane-covered box looked as small as a matchbook in his palm.

  Cupping Gage's gun under his armpit, Wall pulled out a cigarette. He stuck the unlit cigarette in Gage's mouth; the paper stuck to Gage's moist lips. His heart was pounding, but Wall had not given him an opening yet. He watched Gage steadily, but he did not seem overly worried that Gage might try something. Gage concentrated on looking helpless and pathetic, the perfect picture of the weakling ready to die.

  He just needed a momentary lapse. A split second of opportunity.

  The gun still cupped in his armpit, Wall put the cigarette pack in his pocket, and this time pulled out a red Bic lighter. He flicked it on and extended the flame. He was still too far away. That arm was like the Golden Gate Bridge. What was Gage supposed to do? Bite the man's fingers? By the look of them, it would be like biting into petrified wood.

  That's when Gage realized he needed to create the opportunity. When the flame was almost to him, he flicked the cigarette up, as if he was trying to reach the fire, and deliberately dropped the cigarette onto the floor.

  "Oh crap," Gage said. "Clumsy idiot."

  Wall gave him a look that might have been a look of death—had it varied at all from his normal look. There was a gut-wrenching few seconds when they two of them simply stared at each other, Gage doing his best to look as meek as possible, the moment stretching so long that Gage was sure that his gargantuan companion had seen through the ruse. He was now probably contemplating whether it would require two hands, or only one, to crush Gage's skull.

  Then, with what might have been a growl, Wall leaned down to pick up the cigarette. For just a second, the back of that enormous head was only a few feet from Gage. He saw the beginnings of a bald spot in that forest of hair. This was the chance he'd been waiting for. He had to time it just right.

  When the head was coming back up, tilting upward, the big troll nose coming into view, Gage used every ounce of strength he had to thrust himself forward, bending at the waist and pushing off with his feet to get as much forward momentum as possible. There was just enough slack in the duct tape.

  Everything depended on him hitting that nose just right. The head butt was tricky business. Aim wrong and he'd do more damage to himself than to his target. The key was to make sure that strongest part of his head—the top of his skull, above the forehead—made contact with the softest part of his victim's, the nose and cheeks.

  It wasn't a perfect hit. It wasn't even a great hit. It was impossible, in a seated position, without being able to tighten his abdominal muscles and curve his body in quite the right way, to deliver the blow effectively. But he did make contact. And he made contact mostly in the right place, his skull to Wall's nose.

  There was a crunch, like a ball of wet newsprint smacking against concrete. The vibrations of the impact shuddered down Gage's spine. Stunned, Wall staggered back, still hunched at the waist, groping at his face with both hands. That was when Gage felt the searing pain lance across the top of his head, and then a tendril of blood trickling down his forehead and his cheek. He must have caught a bit of Wall's teeth.

  The room spun like a merry-go-round, spinning, tilting. There was no time to get his bearings. He had perhaps a second before Wall recovered enough to stand upright, and then the jig would be up. Blood blinding his left eye, Gage rocked himself violently forward and sprang onto his feet, the metal chair legs screeching against the concrete floor. He was bent at the waist like some ridiculous pantomime of a hunchback, arms taped behind the chair. His bad leg burned as if it was on fire, but he ignored the pai
n.

  Wall, moaning, looked up at just the right moment. Blood poured from his nose, staining his beard. His eyes flared wider just as Gage brought his head down again, as hard as he could, this time with the advantage of gravity and forward momentum. Chin tucked low. Stomach tightened. All his power focused on a spot in the front center of his skull.

  This time he got it exactly right.

  The sickening sound was even worse than the first time, like a hammer on gravel as all that cartilage shattered. Wall dropped instantly, a giant rag doll sprawled at the foot of the stairs.

  The room spun and rotated wildly around Gage. His vision momentarily went black. He lost his balance and crashed into the wall, bounced off it and landed backwards on the stairs. Fortunately, this also managed to snap the seat of the folding chair up, giving him added wiggle room to work on freeing himself from the tape.

  It was slow going. Wiggling, jerking his shoulders, straining back and forth, the tape began to give. His head felt as if it had been run over by a train. His right knee felt like a bag of hot rocks. His body was torqued at an unnatural angle, his back spasming uncontrollably, the hard edge of a stair cutting into his cheek. Blood from his head wound trickled into his eye.

  All the while Wall didn't move or make a sound, tiny streams of blood spider-webbing the floor beneath his face. A blow like that could kill a man, especially one whose nose had already most likely been broken. He might have been dead. Then again, he might rise at any moment and shoot Gage in the face. Not that Gage needed it, but that thought lent even more urgency to the moment.

  Gage's struggle with the tape seemed to last an eternity, but in reality, when he finally managed to get one of his arms free, he knew it had been a minute at most. When the last of the tape ripped free, the chair banged to the floor. Gage stumbled toward the stairs, his head still spinning, then remembered his gun. He pried it from the bigger man's fingers, thought of checking Wall's pulse and decided against it, because whether he was alive or not, Gage was still leaving, and made for the stairs again. He stopped when he saw the red Bic lighter that had flown free of Wall's hand. On impulse, Gage grabbed it, too, nearly toppling over when a spell of dizziness engulfed him.

  Stupid. If he died for a Bic lighter, he'd never forgive himself. He didn't even smoke.

  The stairs were a war all on their own, his bad knee refusing to carry any weight. Each step was an excruciating hop. Where was his cane? He hadn't seen it down there. If he got out of this mess, he'd have to buy one that attached to his belt with a cord—that way he'd never lose it, and he could make a fashion statement at the same time. Halfway to the top, gasping for breath, shirt soaked, blood stinging both eyes, he had to stop. An image of Zoe, alone, sleeping on a threadbare cot, strangely rose up in his mind, a foster home maybe, or some seedy apartment of somebody she barely knew. It was her future if he died in this miserable church basement, this Bible bunker for nut balls and religious zealots who twisted their religion to fit their warped view of the world.

  Another desperate place for dying. He could smell the desperation all around him, a different kind of desperation than the kind that hung over the Barnacle Cove motel, to be sure, but a desperation all the same, tinged with fear, suffused with a frantic need, shrouded in darkness and death.

  This was not his place. He may yet die in desperation—he felt it himself, his own special variety—but it wasn't going to be because his body gave up on him.

  Not here. Not now.

  His body was moving again, and this time he walked on both legs. Either the pain in his bad knee was gone or he ceased to feel it. Reaching the top of the stairs, he squeezed past the secret door into the little library, then limped into the hall. He heard the door to the right, at the end of the hall, open wide—and there they were.

  The men. Monahan in front. A half-dozen men in blazers and ties, their faces rough and unforgiving, behind him.

  Chapter 19

  Most of the men were unknown to Gage, but there was one, toward the back, a freckled kid with curly red hair, who looked familiar. Gage had seen him somewhere before. He had no idea where.

  There was an instant when Gage and Monahan locked eyes, everyone freezing in their spots, a heartbeat of two, and then guns were being drawn. Gage's Beretta was up and firing before anyone else freed their guns from the pockets of their jackets. His clip had fifteen rounds. He emptied half of it there in the hallway, the explosions deafening in the enclosed space, plaster flying, the wooden door splintering, a mirror inside the open bathroom cracking, not aiming so much as trying to give himself cover as ran for the other end of the hall. For the door to the basement.

  Spent shell casings clattered against the wall. He heard one man cry out. Monahan? He didn't dare look. He must have made quite a sight, this lumbering clumsy mass of a man bumbling his way down a narrow hall filled with orange doors.

  Then bullets were piercing the air. A window to his right shattered. A painting of a farmhouse at the end of the hall crumpled and fell to the floor. He dodged to the left, into the open door to the basement, and stumbled down the wooden steps, crashing in a heap at the bottom on the dusty concrete. His heart was like the rumble of a locomotive in his ears.

  He was up in a hurry, his forehead throbbing, sweat stinging his eyes, knowing he had only a moment to get to the exit and reach the outside world. How long had he been on the floor, gasping for breath? A second or two? He limped past the lawn mower and kicked his way through a pile of cardboard boxes, lunging for the outer door.

  Voices shouted behind him, at the top of the stairs. So they hadn't come down yet—too afraid he'd take a shot at them. He thrust the door open and started up the steps, the cold air a shock on his warm skin. If he was quick, he might make it to the trees.

  He was on the second step when the wood siding above the stairwell exploded, the crack of the shot reaching his ears a heartbeat later.

  "Hey!" a man shouted. "Hold it right there!"

  The man was closing fast. Knowing he was a sitting duck in the stairwell, Gage took a quick shot into the darkness just to make the man think twice—shooting upward because that's all he could see—and then ducked back into the basement He heard someone lunging hard into the grass.

  Back in the cellar, glancing at the steps leading upstairs, he saw the tan pant leg of one of the men tentatively descending. Gage took careful aim with his Beretta and fired.

  Wood from the stair and cotton from the of the pant leg burst into the air like confetti.

  With a terrified yelp, the man retreated up the stairs. Someone fired a shot blindly into the cellar. He moved away from the doorway. In better circumstances, with a head that wasn't throbbing and with decent lighting, Gage would have been able to hit that leg dead center, but at least it bought him a few seconds. At least they knew he could hit them if he was really trying.

  He leaned on the concrete wall, a few feet from the door, the top of the stairs in his line of sight, breathing deep, trying to think of what to do next. He heard footsteps above. Men heading outside to reinforce their friend? He could charge up the outside steps, hoping the element of surprise would give him the upper hand, but Gage couldn't see anything up there. As far as he knew, the guy was now positioned so that as soon as Gage showed his face, he could shoot him. At least down here Gage could see his attackers coming.

  "Gage," Monahan called down to him.

  So he wasn't dead. Too bad. Gage heard scurrying footsteps on the grass. The winter wind scuttled through the cracked open door, drying the sweat on his face. Every shadow in the dark room took on the shape of a man crouching with a gun. His forehead pounded, a spell of dizziness rocking him on his feet. Steady. He had to be steady.

  "Listen," Monahan said, "this can't end well. You know that. Toss your weapon up here and we'll make sure you get a fair hearing. As God is our witness, you will get to speak your mind before your fate is decided."

  Gage had to suppress the urge to snort. He knew that no matter what kind
of hearing he got, his fate would be the same—six feet under. The problem was, he had no clue how he was going to get out of this situation with any different outcome. They were gathering around him now. He could almost feel the vise tightening. Eventually they'd get bolder.

  He looked at his hands, one gripping the Beretta, another clenched in a fist. He was planning on checking the clip to see how many bullets had left—he figured seven—but his clenched left hand made him realize he was holding something. He opened his palm, staring with bewilderment at the rectangular piece of plastic.

  The Bic lighter. The one he'd gotten from Wall.

  Maybe it was time to take up smoking after all. It was never too late to give some money to Big Tobacco. Of course, he didn't have a cigarette. He'd need to use something else as a substitute—a piece of cardboard, maybe, or the yellowed newspaper there to his left, plastered to the floor. Surely he could roll up that newspaper and use it as a big pipe. He'd go out smoking yesterday's news. There was something almost poetic about it.

  Or he could just light the whole place on fire. At least then he'd be depriving them of the pleasure of killing him.

  When the idea came to Gage, it did so with a cold chill up his spine. Fire. It could give him a chance—a small chance maybe, but it was something. The lawn mower had gasoline in it. Was there a gas can? Yes, he saw a gray metal can there behind the lawn mower itself, a small one with a short metal spout and a wire rim handle.

  "What kind of hearing will I get?" Gage asked, creeping toward the can. He had to make sure he stayed out of their line of sight. "How about we just call the police and let them give me a hearing?"

  "No bargaining!" Monahan cried. "You give yourself up right now!"

  The voice was high and reedy—desperate almost. If Gage didn't know better, he would have thought that Monahan was the one cornered and Gage had the upper hand. Maybe he did, in a way. What were they going to do now? Here he was in their secret lair. They hadn't planned for this.