Holding Their Own XV: Bloodlust

by Nobody, Joe

  Given the odds, he reasoned that while armed only with the pistol in his belt, he wasn’t going to win any gunfight. His only option was to hide until they gave up their search. He would sneak away into the forest and live to fight another day.

  But where to hide?

  A eureka moment then flashed through Blackjack’s brain. The reason why he had fallen into this trap was going to save him. There was a way out of this mess.

  Crouching low, he skirted around the dozer and headed for the middle of the enormous shed. His secret weapon was there, a structural feature known only to Whipsaw and his son.

  Near the back wall, Blackjack paused, scanning behind him to make sure no one was close. A machining bench stretched between him and the opposite wall, tools, air hoses, and a series of welding tanks blocking any view.

  Reaching down, Ketchum pulled away a sheet of plywood from the dirt floor. Working with his hands, he carefully scraped away three inches of loose, sandy soil. Sure enough, the root cellar was still there.

  Whipsaw’s words came back to Ketchum as he cleared away the film of dirt covering the rustic opening. “There was an old house here when your grandfather bought this property. Years later, when we tore it down to build on this spot, we found this root cellar.”

  “Why would anybody build such a thing?” the young Ketchum had asked.

  “Tornados? Nuclear fallout? An underground storage area for crops? A secret place to hide valuables? Who knows. When I was a kid, building a bomb shelter was a common thing. Maybe that’s why it was constructed. Anyway, I’m going to cover up the door and leave it here, but I don’t want you playing in there. It’s old and dangerous, and with all of the heavy equipment moving around, it might cave in.”

  Ketchum was sure the gold he sought was hidden inside. He would duck in that pit and wait for Bishop and his hired guns to give up and go home. Then he could retrieve his treasure.

  It took all of his significant strength to pull the planked wood door open, its rusted hinges making enough noise that Ketchum cringed. Keeping his flashlight low, he scanned the small interior before going in.

  With only the top half of his body now above ground, he began smoothing out the small piles of dirt with his hand, hoping to eliminate evidence of his excavation. Then straining from the weight, he aligned the plywood cover with the edge of the trap door, and gently lowered both pieces to close the entrance. He prayed that it would be difficult to detect in the darkness.

  While he waited, Ketchum chanced his flashlight and scanned the interior of the small room. Disappointment came quickly, only cobwebs and rotting timbers illuminated by his beam. “Where in the hell did the old man hide the gold?” he hissed.

  His vexation was quickly set aside, however, as the wooden doorway above his head groaned under the weight of a boot. They were right above him now. In a flash, Ketchum’s pistol was in his hand, his anxious eyes staring up at the opening, ready to blast away despite knowing it would be his last act.

  Then it was quiet again, Blackjack finally chancing a breath a few moments later.

  The underground closet didn’t harbor any precious metals, and now it was beginning to feel more like a tomb. How long would it take Bishop and his men to leave? How many minutes would pass before he looked elsewhere on the property or gave up altogether? Blackjack could feel the timber walls starting to close in on him. He wanted to get out of there.

  In the end, he easily justified his decision. The men above had passed right over his hide. Why not crawl out of this hole and sneak out behind them? If they had left someone behind to guard the door, so be it. He had a much better chance of dealing with a single sentry than being discovered down in this pre-dug grave.

  Up he climbed, pushing gently on the door, opening it less than an inch. With limited vision, his other senses went on high alert, straining for a telling sound or smell. He held his position for about a minute before he was convinced that Bishop’s team had indeed bypassed his position.

  Boldly, quickly, Ketchum pushed on the door until he could crawl through the opening. Then, bent at the waist, he hustled for the building’s entrance.

  Bishop’s team had searched the entire garage except the last bay, and his frustration was beginning to build. Where in the hell was Ketchum? There was no way they could have missed such a large pile of shit, even in the darkness.

  Spinning on his heels, Bishop heard something behind them. Again, a faint noise sounded inside the garage. It had to be human. Or did it? Surely there were chipmunks or raccoons or other wildlife nesting here.

  Waving to Grim and Kevin, he pointed back toward Terri and Butter. “I think we missed him somehow. Let’s head back,” was the mimed message.

  At that same moment, Ketchum spotted a human form by the door, backlit by the full moon. Raising his pistol, he took aim, but then stopped short. This shape outlined against the inky blackness… this silhouette had quite a shapely figure. Stunned, he just stood for a moment, observing the stranger bend, walk, move… finally realizing he had been watching Terri, his former captive. “What a fucking idiot, bringing his wife,” he hissed.

  Suddenly, his mind began to whir with activity. She was his ticket to freedom, Blackjack realized. With a gun to his wife’s head, Bishop wouldn’t have any choice but to back down. “My, my, my… the possibilities are… intriguing ,” he whispered, a sinister smile turning up the corners of his lips.

  Ketchum charged, now unconcerned about the noise his footfalls were making. He had to get the woman. She meant his deliverance.

  Terri was waiting by the door, drinking in the fresh, country air. Between the smell of the place and Bishop taking his own sweet time finding Blackjack, she had developed a headache and wanted nothing more than to get this night over with.

  Terri recognized the rhythmic swish of a runner, realizing a second later that the sound was streaming toward her. She whirled around, pivoting to get eyes on the source. Her entire body froze, her brain paralyzed with shock, having realized Blackjack’s leering face was boring in on her.

  Overwhelming panic gripped Terri’s mind, the man who had raped and tortured her just feet away from her position. A dozen horrific images flashed through her brain, her pulse skyrocketing.

  That moment of hesitation cost her, the single nanosecond of disorientation having to be processed before her body could respond to the threat. She wasn’t going to make it. The barrel was rising too slowly. She squinted, sure Ketchum’s massive girth was about to bowl her over.

  Out of nowhere, Butter’s oversized frame appeared, the big man slamming into Ketchum’s charge like a missile intercepting its target.

  Striking low, Butter’s shoulder collided with Ketchum just above the waist, knocking the crime lord to the ground in a brutal, bone-crushing tackle.

  Rolling across the floor, the two behemoths separated. Butter had the element of surprise but was weighted down with a heavy pack and rifle. Both men scrambled to reach their feet. Blackjack was the first man standing.

  A vicious kick shot out toward Butter’s head, the blow glancing off his temple but transferring enough energy to make the big kid stagger backward.

  His adversary dazed and wobbling, Ketchum saw his opportunity and went in for the kill shot. Intent to permanently put down the challenger, he charged at Butter with a primeval growl fueled by resolve and grit. He was bigger, stronger, faster, and more skilled than anyone he had ever met. He was Blackjack Jones… and had beaten or killed bikers, crooks, pimps, and thieves.

  Throwing a powerful punch, Ketchum was surprised when his blow met nothing but thin air. His eyes spread wide in bewilderment, as his arm seemed to be caught in some sort of vise, unable to move.

  Ducking under the strike, Butter had stepped into the man and caught his flaying wrist as it tried to recover from the miss. With both of his thick arms, the former wrestler pulled down and twisted on Ketchum’s elbow.

  A howl of agony and surprise came from Ketchum’s throat, his arm feeling as
if it were being torn from his body. Before he could recover, Butter pivoted his hips, threw his thigh into his victim’s leg, and flipped the 300-pound criminal over his back.

  After doing a complete summersault in the air, Ketchum landed hard, a whoosh of air escaping from his lungs. He sensed, more than saw, Butter above him, and in a last, desperate effort, kicked with both legs.

  One of his boots caught Butter in the stomach, the big kid thrown backward by the blow. As he staggered to regain his balance, a shadow appeared above the still-prone Blackjack.

  Terri swooped in, her weapon high in the air. With a strength born of terror, she struck down at Blackjack’s head, butt-stroking her nemesis with all her might.

  Her stock slammed into Ketchum so hard that his head bounced on the ground when it hit the earth. In a blur, Terri raised the rifle and prepared for another blow with a fury that seemed determined to turn his head into mush.

  As she released on a downward thrust, Bishop’s hand caught the weapon and stopped her cold. “We’ve got him,” he whispered. “He’s done.”

  “No!” she growled, her eyes brimming with rage. She tried again to strike the unconscious man at her feet but couldn’t overcome Bishop’s grip.

  “It’s over,” her husband whispered. It took several seconds before Terri began breathing, even more time passing before she let loose of her carbine. She started crying, hot tears running down her cheeks as Bishop drew her close to him.

  For several minutes, the couple just stood there, sobs racking Terri’s frame as the floodgate of emotion in her core opened.

  “He raped me,” she finally said in Bishop’s ear. “I… I… couldn’t bring myself to tell you before.”

  “I know,” Bishop replied softly, his mouth less than an inch from her ear. “I’ve known for a long time, and I love you just the same.”

  She tried to push away, both hands on his chest, wanting to see his eyes. “You really knew? Diana tried to tell me that you did, but I just couldn’t believe her.”

  “I figured it out. That’s why I set this all up… why Nick and I headed to New Orleans. This bag of human waste needed to go down… to be out of your life forever.”

  As if on cue, Blackjack moaned at their feet, his movement causing Terri to jump back. Horror filled her eyes as she leapt away, her chest heaving up and down as she drew in the air. She turned and ran out the doorway, holding her midsection as if she was going to wretch.

  Bishop nodded to Butter, “Follow her… but don’t get too close. Give her time and space.”

  His beloved wife’s reaction caused Bishop’s wrath to boil over, a savage kick lashing out at Ketchum’s ribs. “Tie him up,” Bishop ordered Grim, his anger straining the limits of his control. “Secure both his hands and legs.”

  The device was called an engine hoist, a configuration of steel bars, hydraulic cylinders, and thick straps. It looked a little like a miniature crane and served the same basic purpose. Its intended use was to allow mechanics to lift heavy motors out of any vehicle. Bishop had noticed the contraption during their search for Blackjack. Now, the bound man was hanging in midair, his 300-pound frame barely testing the stout mechanism.

  A second barnyard find was nearby, Bishop smiling when Grim’s flashlight had crossed this specific piece of equipment.

  Reaching into his blow-out bag, Bishop produced a capsule of smelling salts. Snapping the glass tube, he waved the stimulant under Blackjack’s nose.

  With a snort and moan, the prisoner shook his head. “What the hell,” he croaked, trying to move his limbs. Bishop was patient, standing next to Ketchum, letting the cobwebs clear.

  When sure that his captive’s vision and mind were finally realigned, Bishop began to speak to the dangling man. “This is a Vermeer model 935 commercial wood chipper, complete with a Perkins 50-horsepower diesel engine,” he began, pointing toward the same machine Ketchum had used to shred Terri’s shirt while parked outside Angel’s Porch, and repeating the criminal’s exact words. “Have you ever seen one of these babies in action?”

  Blackjack’s eyes opened wide, his throat emitting a pitiful groan.

  Smiling widely, Bishop continued to quote Ketchum’s next words from the day that now seemed like a lifetime ago. “This is used this to clean up unwanted branches and timber as trees are harvested from the forest. It’s cheaper to shred all the scraps to tiny bits, and they eventually fertilize the soil. This particular model can handle branches up to eighteen inches in diameter. Here, let me show you.”

  Moving to the control panel, Bishop started the diesel engine and then watched Blackjack’s face as the cutting blades began to whirl just inches from his head. “Noooooo!” Ketchum screamed. “Please… no… please… I’ll do anything!”

  Bishop marched back to stand beside his adversary and said, “I’m not sure what to do about you, Mr. Blackjack. I can’t decide whether to put you in feet first… or head first. What was it you said about my wife? How were you going to make that decision when you fed her to this very wood chipper?”

  Bishop then leaned close, wanting to make sure Ketchum could hear his voice clearly over the noisy machine. “I know what my wife would say, you low-life piece of filth. She would tell me to feed you to that machine nice and slow. She would want you to feel it eating every inch of your body. She would clap and cheer with joy as your manhood, the weapon you used against her, was sliced and shredded into scraps of bloody meat.”

  Without waiting for a response, Bishop moved to the hoist, pushing Ketchum closer to the mouth of the chipper. “Nooooo!” he screamed again.

  Moving back to the straps securing Blackjack’s carcass, Bishop spun the man around so that his boots were just above the gaping mouth of the chipper.

  A puddle formed under Ketchum’s dangling body, a stream of yellow urine dripping from his pants.

  Returning to stand next to the condemned man, Bishop pushed down on Blackjack’s legs so that his boots touched the lip of the machine.

  Feeling the vibrations through his feet, Ketchum tried desperately to pull his legs away from the churning blades. White froth spewed from his lips, his eyeballs rolling wildly in his head. A series of short, jerking spasms shook the man’s body. Then, after arching his back, he screeched in pain, a most unnatural sound, followed by a his torso stiffening into an odd position. Afterward, Ketchum’s body went ragdoll limp.

  Bishop stood and studied his captive for several seconds. Odd, animal sounds were coming from the prisoner’s throat, his eyes unable to focus, his tongue hanging from the corner of his lips. There was bloody spittle drooling from his mouth. Yet, Blackjack still breathed. A seizure? A stroke? The Texan’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled a full chest of air.

  Walking calmly to the chipper, Bishop hit a red button and waited motionlessly as the machine whined to a stop.

  As he stood there studying Blackjack’s face, Terri appeared at his side, her pistol drawn and pointing at the man who had caused her so much pain.

  “Terri… stop,” Bishop said calmly. “We’re not judge and jury. We’re not executioners. Trust me, blowing his brains out isn’t going to make you feel any better.”

  “I think it will make me feel pretty damn good,” she hissed, moving the barrel of her pistol against Ketchum’s temple and cocking the hammer.

  “Don’t do it,” Bishop replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is over. Ketchum is going to dangle from the end of a rope, after a trial by a jury of his peers. I will stand beside you and cheer on his last breath if you want. I’ll uncork a bottle of champagne to celebrate if it will make you happy, but that’s the way this must go down. The woman I love, deep down inside, knows what I’m saying is true. End this the right way. Honor what we stand for.”

  “Are you going to stop me?” she asked, her eyes never leaving Ketchum’s empty gaze, her grip so tight on the pistol the barrel vibrated from her exertion.

  “No,” he sighed, then confessed, “I hate him almost as much as you do. It was a
ll I could do not to kill him myself.”

  “Will you still love me if I blow him away, right here, right now?”

  “Yes, of course… always. Unconditionally,” he replied.

  For nearly a minute, Bishop wasn’t sure what his wife was going to do. She didn’t breathe, blink, or show any outward emotion. Only her eyes gave away the rage and pain that boiled inside of her soul. That, and the white knuckled grip on the unwavering 9-millimeter pistol in her hand.

  Then, in a flash, she raised her weapon and exhaled. “You’re right.”

  Without another word, she pivoted and made for the door. Bishop was pretty sure she was going to find a quiet place to wretch.

  With purpose, he strolled outside where Grim and Kevin were waiting. “Get him down,” the Texan said, turning to face his friends. “This is over. Let’s take what’s left of him to Marshal Plummer, and let justice be served.”

  Kevin seemed relieved, Grim showing disappointment. “Are you sure?” the old contractor asked. “I found a water hose… we could spray all the gore off that chipping machine to hide the evidence and be done with this. The rats would surely enjoy a feast of Blackjack sausage.”

  Grunting, Bishop said, “While I like the visual, it’s not going to happen. Get him down, tie him up, and we’ll drop his worthless carcass off at the marshal’s office on the way through Forest Mist.”

  Bishop watched them move to execute his wishes for a moment and then continued to the main office building. He was only mildly surprised to find his wife waiting there. Terri was sitting on a step, Butter standing a diligent watch beside her.

  Turning to the Butter, Bishop said, “Go cut Blackjack’s two bimbos loose. Tell them to get the hell out of Texas and never come back.”

  “You got it, boss,” the big man responded, turning to enter the office building where they were holding Ketchum’s female accomplices.

  Reaching down to comfort his wife, Bishop said, “You did the right thing back there. I know that more than anything in this world, you wanted to destroy him.”