by Arno Joubert
The mortician strained and heaved, and then the car picked up speed and scraped over the edge of the cliff, bashing into the rocks below. The mortician grunted, satisfied, then lit a cigarette, walked to the edge of the cliff, and peered down.
Neil bounced to his feet, bolted to the man, and then grabbed him in a neck lock before he had time to turn around. “What’s your name, cowboy?”
The man struggled, but Neil tightened his grip around the man’s neck. “You’ve got five seconds left before I snap it off.”
“What? Who . . . who are you?”
“Neil Allen.”
“That’s impossible. You’re dead, I saw it with my own eyes.”
Neil pursed his lips. He was wasting precious time. “What’s your name, cowboy?” he asked again and heard the man choke beneath his grip.
The man spat a few strained words, and Neil released his grip slightly. “Mac . . .” he stammered. “Mac McAllister.”
“Who was in the car?”
The tall man squirmed and bucked beneath Neil’s grip and then relaxed, his attempts to free himself utterly futile. “Nobody.”
Neil tightened his vicelike hold.
“Two fricking Frenchies, man,” he spluttered.
“Why?”
McAllister swallowed, trying to pull Neil’s arm from his neck. “An alibi for Chris.” He tugged on Neil’s forearm again, to no avail. “To fake his death.”
“Chris?”
“Andy’s kid,” the guy stammered.
Neil thought about this. Fitch wanted to fake his own son’s death, but why? He shrugged and let go of the mortician and then kicked him in the back, hard. He had wasted too much time already. Fitch would have to answer to him personally, after he found Alexa.
The man tried to recover his balance on the edge of the cliff, his arms flailing, but he was no tightrope walker. Neil ambled closer and peeked over the edge as the mortician fell over. The man bounced against the rock wall, his hat tumbling off as his head smashed into the side of the mountain. He heard a soft thud as the man crashed into the riverbed far below, close to the wrecked Chevy.
Neil spat out the front tooth that had come completely loose and then wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He slipped his backpack off, pulled off his jacket and T-shirt, and unstrapped the bulletproof vest, inspecting the damage. Three slugs were lodged in the front of the Kevlar vest and another in the back. If Fitch had been a better shot, he would have aimed for his head.
He fumbled in his backpack, grabbed a notebook, tore out a page, and then quickly scribbled a quick note:
I’m okay, but they took Alexa. I’m heading off to the refinery to find her. I’ll meet up with you at the Ocelot Inn. -Neil-
He folded it up and stuck it beneath a rock on the ground. Bruce was on his way; they would track the GLD signal and find the message soon enough. He strapped the vest back on, slipped the T-shirt over his head, and pulled on the backpack as he scanned the surroundings. He jogged into the forest, determined to find Alexa.
Bella sniffed the ground, following Neil’s scent to the rock on the ground.
She scratched around the rock, hoping to find something tasty. When there were humans around, there usually was food to be found. She sniffed at the piece of paper beneath the rock and then scratched at it to release it.
A gust of wind got hold of it, and she watched as it blew over the edge of the cliff.
Another cat sauntered into the clearing, noticed Bella, and growled viciously. White tendrils of mucus foamed from its mouth. It leaped toward Bella, snarled, and then started circling the female ocelot.
Before Bella could react, it leaped again and sunk its incisors into her neck. Bella yelped and rolled onto her back, kicking at the undersides of the vicious beast, trying to get it off her.
The wild cat bit into her ear, tearing away a chunk before Bella could kick herself free.
The large cat snarled at her and then turned around and sauntered away.
Bruce glanced up, the light from a pale moon trying its utmost to penetrate the thick fog around them. He was cruising past the refinery for the third time today. They had been refused entry into the facility, and Laiveaux could only secure a search warrant by the following morning. The dense fog wasn’t making the search any easier.
Bruce had ordered his men to concentrate on a search grid closer to town, while he and Voelkner searched along the perimeter of the refinery. He glanced down as the two-way radio on his lap hissed.
“Major, we have some major activity at the outer perimeter of town, over,” Rosh’s voice crackled over the speaker.
Bruce grabbed the radio. “What type of activity? Over.”
Rosh hesitated for a moment. “A roadblock is being set up by Harvey and his merry band of misfits, over.”
Harvey hadn’t been helpful when Bruce requested him to join the search for Alexa. Why the deputy was setting up a roadblock was a mystery.
If only Alexa hadn’t refused to wear her GLD, she would have been much easier to track down. Zachary Cohen, Alexa's biological father, had developed the device. She had stopped wearing hers ever since finding out that her dad had blackmailed her to save his own life. The watered-down version was now selling commercially as a GPS unit. Bruce could understand that it would bring up some bad memories, but the girl needed to be practical.
The refinery grounds were brightly lit up and quiet, with no obvious activity. Bruce drove past the grounds, heading east toward town. He scanned the road to the left and right and then slammed the steering wheel in frustration.
Voelkner tapped his shoulder. “Look, over there,” he said, pointing excitedly.
Bruce reduced his speed to a crawl. He noticed glimpses of light moving deep inside the forest, like a man walking with a flashlight, shining it haphazardly, searching for something. He surveyed the sides of the road with a powerful Mag-Lite, straining his eyes to make out any discernible shapes in the haze and shadows cast by the trees beside the road.
The Humvee’s headlight bounced over a shadowy figure a hundred yards ahead, and Bruce accelerated toward it. A person was plodding toward the main drag. He walked into the road and lifted his arm, shielding his eyes with the other arm. Bruce swerved as the man walked in front of the Hummer and narrowly missed him.
He shot past. His pulse accelerated as he ripped the wheel to the right, pulling the handbrake, bringing the vehicle around with smoking tires. Alexa? The shape was right, but she was unrecognizable. Still, it had to be her.
He skidded to a stop on the grassy shoulder, shoved the door open, and bolted toward her. She was a mess. Her hair was caked with blood, face beaten up, eyes swollen.
He grabbed her by her shoulders as she sagged to the ground. Her clothes were torn and filthy and wet. She wore one shoe; the other foot only had a sock on it. She had a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Her wrists were raw and bleeding; she had obviously been tied up. Bruce tasted bile in his mouth as he was overcome by anger and disgust. He swallowed hard. He needed to stay calm and focused. Find out the facts. And then make somebody pay.
“Jesus, Alexa, what did they do to you?” he whispered, unable to control his trembling voice.
She looked up at him and he recognized her green eyes. “Get Dr. Ryan,” she hissed through gritted teeth and nodded toward the forest. “He’s back there.”
Bruce nodded and dispatched Voelkner to fetch the doctor.
Alexa tugged at his sleeve. “I need to get to the hospital, my insides are killing me.”
Bruce’s heart hammered in his chest. He had never seen Alexa like this. Sure, she had been injured before, but she was a wreck. Bruce picked her up gently and loaded her into the front seat of the Hummer, where she curled up into a fetal position, hugging her legs and rocking back and forth. Voelkner dragged the old man into the back seat and then slammed the door.
“He hurt me, Daddy,” Alexa whispered as Bruce sped toward town.
Bruce didn’t know what to
say. He was afraid, fearful for his daughter’s future, and then enraged. This mixture of emotions was unfamiliar to him. This was going to change everything.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
“Fitch,” she sobbed.
Bruce ground his teeth. He now had a target, something to work with. His mind raced. He needed to get Alexa to safety, get her patched up as best he could, emotionally and physically. He glanced at her. He needed to hurry.
Up ahead, Bruce saw strobing blue lights through the haze. He slowed down and stopped a hundred yards from the roadblock. Harvey ambled toward the car, his head cocked to the side, questioning. He noticed Alexa in the passenger seat as he came closer and drew his weapon, pointing it at Bruce.
“Please get out of the vehicle and place your hands on the hood,” Harvey shouted.
“Not going to happen.” Bruce shook his head, keeping his hands firmly on the wheel.
“We have orders to arrest Alexa Guerra, the woman in the car next to you. Do not obstruct justice, mister.”
“Not going to happen,” Bruce shouted. “Either you let me through and allow me to get her proper medical attention, or I shoot my way through.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Harvey asked, motioning at Alexa with his gun. He lowered his weapon and walked closer. His eyes widened in shock when he saw her beat-up frame. He spun around, waving his arm. “Clear out,” he shouted at the men behind the barricade. “Open the road, we have a medical emergency.”
They pulled their squad cars onto the side, allowing Bruce to pass. He stamped on the accelerator and sped down the blacktop with screeching tires.
Five minutes later, he screeched to a loud stop in front of the clinic, picked her up from the seat, and carried her inside, her blood dripping on the polished linoleum floors. Wide-eyed bystanders looked on in shock, covering their mouths with their hands.
“Who’s in charge?” he shouted.
A short man with a goatee ran up. “I’m Dr. Klein. What happened to her?”
“I need a bed and some anesthesia,” Bruce barked.
“Put her in the gurney. We’ll take it from here, sir.”
“Bugger off. I want a bed and anesthesia. I’ll clean her up. Nobody’s touching my baby.”
Bruce looked up as he heard a soft rap on the door. “Come in,” he called.
He stood at the sink, brushing the final flecks of coagulated blood from his arms. Alexa was in an induced coma. She had two broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, internal hemorrhaging, and lacerations and bruising over most of her body. Most of the scars would heal over time. But not all of them.
He’d had to stitch her up; eight stitches to the face, twenty-five in total. Painstaking work to do properly, but overall he was satisfied. He patted his hands dry and glanced over his shoulder as Voelkner shuffled in.
Voelkner saluted stiffly, casting a furtive glance at Alexa. “How is she, Major?”
Bruce shook his head. “Not good, Lieutenant.” He tossed the bloody towel in the trash can. “But she’ll make it,” he said, checking Alexa's blood pressure.
Voelkner nodded, flicking his eyes between the injured soldier and Bruce. “We’ve located the sergeant’s body,” he said, almost apologetically.
Bruce looked up from the monitor. “Where?”
Voelkner lowered his eyes to the ground and dug his hands into his pockets. “A couple of miles from the refinery.” He lifted his eyes and looked at Bruce with a frown. “We received his GLD position, but I was waiting for you to finish up. I’m sorry, Major, but I won’t be able to do it on my own.” The man looked embarrassed.
Bruce studied Voelkner for a while and finally nodded. “I understand. Let’s go.”
Bruce slowed the Hummer down and made a sharp left onto the side road that Voelkner had pointed out. After bouncing over the rocky road for a minute, Voelkner pointed to the clearing. “Their rental is parked up ahead.”
Bruce nodded and drove into the opening between the trees. “And the body?”
Voelkner sighed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. He opened the door. “It’s in the ravine below.” He slipped out of the seat and sauntered to the edge of the cliff. “There’s another car down there as well.”
Bruce followed him to the edge and glanced down. A muddy river flowed lazily far below. The fence next to the edge of the precipice had been ripped out of the ground and was dangling off the side of the cliff. He could see a body sprawled on the ground far below and the remains of a burned-out car.
He turned around to face Voelkner. “Get me the climbing gear.”
Voelkner nodded and trotted to the Hummer.
Bruce squinted; he could barely discern the shape of the body. He noticed something move close to the body.
Voelkner returned with the harness. He attached it to a climbing rope and peered down. “How far do you think, Major?”
Bruce shrugged. “Three hundred feet, give or take twenty.”
Voelkner nodded and coiled the rope on the ground. He counted to thirty, tied an alpine butterfly into it, and attached a clip to the knot. Next, he attached the clip to a winch on the Hummer.
Bruce climbed into the harness and dragged the winch cable close to the edge. “Okay, let’s go.”
Voelkner pressed a button on the remote, and Bruce lowered himself over the edge. He rappelled down the edge of the rock face and a minute later landed lightly on the riverbed below.
He slipped out of the harness while examining the screen on his GLD. The signal came from somewhere upriver. He squished through dark mud on the banks of the river. The water was warm, and the dark sand on the river’s edge had an oily sheen to it. A sweet, paint-thinner smell permeated the air.
Bruce trudged upriver for a hundred and fifty yards then stopped and listened carefully. He heard the crows before he saw them. He scooted up a boulder and saw the scavengers sitting on Neil’s body about thirty yards away, some feathers scattered on the ground. Bruce wondered if they had started attacking each other.
He jogged to the body and shooed them away. Neil was lying on his back, his arms and legs spread out like he was trying to make a snow angel. Bruce examined the fresh drag trail. He guessed that Neil had still been alive for a couple of minutes after the fall. His face was bashed in, the skin on the damaged skull gouged clean by the crows, and a small crab crawled from his oral cavity.
Bruce knelt next to the body, put his hand on the dead man’s chest, and made the sign of the cross. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the grizzly task of extracting the body.
He unhooked his backpack, digging through it and hauling out a large tarpaulin. He unfolded the sheet of plastic on the river bed, hoisted Neil’s body over his shoulder, and gently lowered it onto the sheet. He carefully folded the plastic around the body and secured the edges with cable ties.
He carried the homemade body bag back to the rope, unclipped the harness, and wrapped the rope around the bag, tying a Prusik knot every ten inches to secure the body in place.
He gave the rope a yank. “Okay, bring him up,” Bruce called into his two-way radio. The body jerked and then slowly made its way to the top.
Bruce backtracked to the area where he had found Neil, searching for clues or anything unusual. From the corner of his eye, he saw a feline head poke out behind a large rock. The cat jumped onto the boulder and sat there, licking its paws and stroking its head.
Bruce sauntered closer. It seemed tame enough. It sniffed the air as he stretched out his hand to touch it.
He sat down next to the animal. It reminded him of an African wildcat, only slightly bigger. The animal jumped onto his lap and curled itself up into a ball. Bruce scratched it under its chin as it purred contentedly. Another cat came closer.
Bruce glanced at the feathers scattered on the ground. Crows made an excellent meal for the cats. “Come here, big boy,” he whispered to the cat and called it closer. It walked up to him and rubbed its head against his leg; then it brushed by,
trotted to the river, and lapped up some water. A chunk of its ear had been bitten off, and its fur was ruffled from a skirmish, probably from another cat intruding into its territory.
Bruce admired the animal for a while and then scanned the riverbank. He found the oily sheen strange, probably a byproduct from the refinery. His eye caught the reflection from something shiny halfway buried in the sand. He stood up, and the cat jumped off his lap, looking up at him ruefully.
At first he thought it a piece of flotsam, but as he strode closer, he noticed a soft blue glow radiating from the side. It was Neil’s GLD.
He picked it up and slipped it into his top pocket and then strode back to the rope that had been lowered back to the ground by Voelkner. He buckled himself in and pulled his way to the top. The cats looked up at him as he ascended.
Harvey stared out of his office window, his hands folded behind his back. A squirrel bound up the side of a shady oak, and a young couple was walking hand in hand on the sidewalk, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. The blonde guy was wearing a T-Shirt with a large tiger on the back, the words “Fitch Academy” embroidered above the face. It was a peaceful community, and Andy was screwing it all up.
Things had been difficult for an outsider, such as he was; the rituals and beliefs of the Traveler community was way beyond him. But everyone in town displayed an irrational loyalty toward Fitch, which made it even more difficult for him to stay neutral. Of course, the extra money convinced him to cast a blind eye to Fitch’s more mundane practices. But Andy was getting out of control.
There had been an incident a couple of years back that had threatened to topple their budding little empire like a house of cards. Chris got a black girl pregnant, and Andy wasn’t happy. So Andy murdered the girl, tried to pin the murder on his boy, Chris, but the authorities came down on him like a sack of bricks. So Andy had changed his name from Pete Jurin to Andy Fitch. Cost him a crap-load of cash, but Andy had friends in high places. Friends who could give him a whole new identity.