Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  Donny Boy suddenly stood straight up tall, a soldier on parade. His expression was child-like; eyes wide and bewildered. Then he fell like a sack of cement. Mary had freed Jerry, grabbed the shovel and slammed the back of it into Donny Boy's skull.

  I held my ribs, leaned over, and checked for a pulse. The slender girl seemed horrified by what she had done. She was shaking her head back and forth in the shadows.

  "He's alive," I said. "But he'll be out for a while. Thank you, Mary."

  "They'll kill me for sure," she said.

  "Now they will, yeah."

  "Oh, my God . . ."

  "You have to come with us, Mary. We have to get you the hell away from here."

  Jerry was sitting up, shaking his head. "What's going on?"

  "We're leaving," I said. "And I mean right now."

  We stumbled up the steps, leaning on one another, and went out into the afternoon heat. Someone had lifted my watch, so I checked out the angle of the sun. "I make it to be maybe 4:45 or 5:00. We can try for the Memorial Day picnic on Starr ranch. Or maybe we go into Dry Wells and look for help."

  Jerry stumbled and fell. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a shiner and some facial contusions. "Jesus fucking Christ, Mick. I can't believe I'm still alive. Why don't we just call the law?"

  "I'm still not sure whose side the law is on, Jerry."

  The girl was sobbing helplessly. I looked around, spotted Jerry's red scooter by the cars. Jerry followed my gaze. "Oh man," he sighed, but he seemed in agreement. We staggered towards the vehicles. He stopped at the scooter, spoke rapidly. "Skanky, you get on this thing and ride south. In about an hour's time there is a town with a bus station. Are you listening?"

  She nodded, trying to pull herself together. They were both crying, holding on tight. "Shit," Mary sobbed, "I'm never gonna see you again, am I?"

  "You got money?" Jerry gripped her hand.

  "No," she answered. "Nothing."

  "When you get there, you sell my scooter," Jerry said. "You get on a bus and get out of the state."

  "But, Jerry . . ."

  "Go," Jerry said. "You'll be safer this way." He looked down. "And then maybe someday . . ."

  I interrupted him. "Mary, where are you from?"

  "A little town in northern California," she said. "By Grass Valley."

  "It's time you went home again."

  Jerry started the scooter and she got on it. He kissed her and stepped away. "What if my folks won't have me back?" Mary asked.

  "One step at a time," I said, and recited a simple 800 number. "If you ever need help, you call that number and ask for Hal. He'll know where I am, and then I can put you back in touch with Jerry."

  "Mick," Jerry said nervously, "she'd better move it."

  I nodded. "We'd better haul ass, too."

  Mary repeated the 800 number. She leaned over and kissed Jerry. She smiled weakly, gunned the little engine and then she was gone. Jerry touched his face where her lips had been. He looked terribly sad. I put a hand on his shoulder.

  "You'll see her again."

  "Maybe," Jerry said. "If we live. Let's boogie."

  We moved through the settling dust. I pointed to the red pickup. "Hope you can still remember how to hot wire that truck, because we need to get the hell out of here. And I mean yesterday."

  "Sure I remember," Jerry said. He crawled into the truck, fumbled around beneath the dash, and the engine fired. Country music blared from the tinny radio, somebody who sounded a little bit like Merle Haggard: Oh I'm so sorry . . .

  Jerry got behind the wheel. I shrugged and rode shotgun. My raised eyebrow asked him if he was up to this. "I used to steal them, remember? I'm used to making getaways."

  "If you say so," I said. "But you'd best prove it right now. We're running out of time."

  So sorry . . .

  "Come on, Jerry, let's move it."

  And right then Donny Boy came lumbering up the cellar steps, screaming oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, like a banshee. Jerry spun the wheel and started toward the front of the property. I peered into the dust and swore under my breath.

  "God damn it."

  I'm so sorry I hurt you baby . . .

  "What?"

  "The metal gate has a chain and padlock," I shouted. "Head out the back way. Go!"

  Donny Boy threw something that smashed into a corner of the windshield, leaving a spider-web pattern and a sizeable dent in the safety glass. I had barely registered that it was a cement block before it bounced off the hood and into the dirt. I started coughing from the dust and tried to roll up the passenger window. There wasn't one.

  The rear tires spun out as we drifted into a ditch in the yard. Jerry fought for traction. We could see Donny Boy approaching in the rearview mirror, dragging the shovel.

  "Jerry?"

  "What?"

  "Get us out of here. I think that good old boy is seriously pissed off."

  The tires caught some rocks, and Jerry thumped them up onto the lawn. He drove right through the vegetable garden; twine and sticks and fertilizer went flying. He aimed the old red truck at the back gate.

  "Shit."

  As we left the garden, Mex appeared from the right, sprinting like a wide receiver. He was carrying a pitchfork, and he aimed straight for the tires with the sharp prongs. Out of pure reflex, I elbowed open the passenger door and slammed Mex with it, sending him flying. But I lost my balance as well, fell out of the truck and flopped down onto my belly in the parched earth. Jerry sped away. I groaned and struggled to my feet.

  Maybe this is how it ends. I felt a small, pinched sadness in my gut, and a stinging in my eyes. I hadn't lived the life I'd wanted. It seemed a shame to die this way. Mex grinned and closed in for the kill.

  The training kicked in. Time slowed down and I felt loose, like this was just an exercise. Mex came at me with the pitchfork. I knew Donny Boy was closing the gap behind, shovel in hand. I needed a weapon, but decided I'd relieve one of the boys of theirs. I settled in and waited for Mex, hoping I'd judged the relative distances correctly. Mex came in low, stabbing for my groin. I jumped away. It was only a feint; Mex had seen Donny approaching and wanted to drive me backwards. Instinct made me duck just as the shovel whistled past my shoulder; I had missed being decapitated by a matter of seconds.

  I charged Mex, feinted right and lunged left. The prongs narrowly missed. I slammed into Mex with all of my strength. The boy flew backwards, dropping the pitchfork. I kicked at his balls, grabbed the weapon, rolled and then rolled again in yet another direction, trying to keep Donny Boy off my ass. I got to my feet, swinging the fork back and forth at chest level. Mex was up again, swearing.

  Baby I am so, so sorry . . .

  Donny Boy didn't see the truck coming. It clipped the shovel right out of his hands and sent it spinning away. The force of the blow must have rocked his arms to the shoulder blades, for he dropped to his knees and looked stunned. Jerry drove right into the surprised Mex, the hood of the big red truck striking the kid about chest-high with a sickening thump. Mex disappeared under the front of the vehicle and there were some more thumping sounds. I didn't wait to see what came out of the other end.

  "Get in!" Jerry shouted.

  I jumped back into the passenger seat and Jerry gunned the engine and took off again, screaming towards the back gate.

  "My car is in some brush by the highway," I said. "Maybe we should split up?"

  "Bullshit," Jerry said. "There's strength in numbers, my man."

  We passed the mobile homes. The girl called Frisco was seated on a bale of hay, smoking another joint. She looked stunned to see us roar by. The wooden gate was halfway open, but Jerry didn't even try to avoid it. The gate splintered and gave.

  We bounced up and down through ditches and over clumps of sagebrush. A few seconds later, when we arrived at the old Ford hatchback, we saw that the tires had been slashed and the hood was open. Someone had already cannibalized it for parts.

  Jerry paused at the highway. "It's your
call, Mick," he said. "Down to Starr Valley or up to Dry Wells?"

  "Safety in numbers, you said? You're probably right. Let's head for the picnic in Starr Valley. Maybe we can slip away into the crowd and buy some time to think things over."

  "Hey, Mick?"

  "What?"

  "You came after me. Thanks."

  "You came back for me, too, so we're even."

  "Can I change the radio to a rap station?"

  "Just drive, kid."

  Jerry turned the wheel, shifted and headed south. As he hit the accelerator, someone returning from a hunt stepped out of the sage to the side of the road. He was big, well-muscled, and carried a wicked-looking black crossbow. He reacted instantly, bringing the crossbow up and firing. I pulled Jerry down onto the seat and the metal arrow screeched right through the left side of the windshield and buried half of its length in the front seat. I peeked up, saw the hunter's hands were busily re-loading.

  "Like I said, let's head for Dry Wells."

  Jerry slammed into reverse. The second arrow took the side mirror right off the body of the truck. We spun around and started south, towards town. Just then, the old white Ford Fairlane came roaring out of the front gate of the Palmer ranch. Donny Boy was hanging out the shotgun window, holding a long bow. He seemed intent on our tires.

  "Side road," I shouted. "Down there, by the creek bed. How are we fixed for gas?"

  "We ain't got dick," Jerry said.

  We left the highway and then slid down a gravel rock face toward the flowing water. There was a small concrete retaining wall, but we sailed over it. Jerry seemed to anticipate every bump, but I slammed my head into the ceiling of the cab several times.

  "Jesus, Jerry."

  'Hey, you want to drive, we can pull over!"

  We hit a small dirt road that went back into a grove of cherry trees, went through some tall pines and then up the side of the mountain. We passed a small building that might have been an old power station. Jerry turned to avoid a tree trunk, and scattered some deer. It was getting late and the sun was melting down into the western hills.

  "Headlights don't work," Jerry said. "That could be a problem."

  "Don't say that. We don't need any more problems." I looked over my shoulder. For the first time, there was no sign of pursuit. "How do we avoid leaving tracks in this thing?"

  "We don't."

  And then we pulled out into a clearing. I immediately saw that we were trapped. The rock face went straight up for perhaps thirty feet; it had a small waterfall flowing down the face and a clear fishing pool at the bottom. Some rusty old car bodies were stacked up to the west of the little cove, blocking any exit.

  "Back up?"

  "Can't. Better turn around."

  Jerry gunned the engine, but now circumstances slowed us to a dangerous crawl. We had to go forward a few feet, back a few, painfully edging the truck around to go back the way it had come. It was noisy work. And then the truck stalled completely.

  "Oh shit," Jerry said. "We might be out of gas."

  Without a word, I jumped out of the passenger door and raced away. I moved up the side of the cliff and into the trees, crouching down to bury myself in the leaves, brush, and dirt.

  Jerry, down below, had already lost sight of me. "Mick? Where the hell did you go?"

  "Oh, boy. You move, you die," Donny Boy said.

  I was lying in a mound of brush and dirt, watching through some leaves. Jerry looked to his left and saw the drawn bow and the vicious tip of the arrow.

  "Your friend turned rabbit," Donny said. "Easy, take your hands off the wheel. Do it now."

  Jerry lifted his hands up. The girl called Frisco stumbled out of the trees, panting for breath. They must have left the Ford a bit further up the road and followed on foot. I held my position. My nostrils made the leaves tremble.

  "Where's the other one?" Frisco asked.

  "He ran," Donny said. "We'll catch him. Oh boy, oh boy."

  Jerry said, "Hey, listen . . ."

  "Hey, I feel like a cop," Donny Boy said. "You, step out of the truck. Frisco, you get behind him."

  "Why don't you shoot?" she asked. "What are you waiting for?"

  "Shut up," Donny said. "I'll tell you in a minute.'

  They tied his hands. Jerry seemed more dazed than frightened. Donny Boy was picking his nails with a hunting knife, muttering. I started to move, but just then he looked up and scanned the tree line, so I waited.

  "What are you going to do?" Jerry asked. I could barely hear him. Donny looked down again just as Frisco finished tying his legs. She shoved and Jerry fell to his knees and onto his left side. He was going to die. For a moment the only sounds were the water singing down the falls and the growl of a distant engine. I could smell the teeming life in the freshly turned earth and the faint stench of gasoline. The green of the trees was darkening to a dusty rose as the sunlight began to fade. The colors were vibrant, thick and beautiful. Night was close, now, in more ways than one.

  I slipped out of my position and edged down a few yards, wincing every time pebble rolled or a leaf crunched. It seemed to take me forever. I leaned against a tree and carefully stepped over some pine cones.

  Jerry screamed. I looked down. Donny Boy had used the knife on him. That voice: oh boy, oh boy. Jerry began to mumble prayers.

  "Now you cut him," Donny said. "Do his throat."

  "I don't know how," Frisco said.

  "I showed you on the deer," Donny snapped. "Just do him like that, across the neck."

  "This like some fucking club we all gotta join? I mean, what is that?"

  "I said cut him."

  Jerry gurgled in terror. He began to sob in short, shallow gasps. The couple continued to bicker, now fully engaged in their macabre conversation. I made my move, came out into the open.

  "Like this?" she said, drawing a crescent moon in the air with her tiny fingers. She seemed bleary-eyed and stoned.

  Donny Boy smiled. "Not bad," he said. "But press down with your thumb as you go, like this." He made a sharper, cleaner move and gave the knife back to her with a flourish.

  "I do this, you'll get off my ass?"

  "It's rad," Donny said. "Just remember to jump back out of the way of the blood."

  Frisco knelt by Jerry. She grabbed his hair with one hand and yanked his head back. His throat was exposed to the cool evening air. To me, the stars seemed huge and getting closer because I was too far away and still searching for a weapon.

  "Don't!" Jerry screamed. "Don't fucking do it!"

  "Oh shut up," Donny laughed. "Don't be such a pussy. You won't hardly feel a thing."

  The huge rock hit Frisco right in the center of the back. She dropped the knife, made an odd, kittenish sound and then curled up into a tiny ball of agony. Donny Boy whirled and went for his bow, but now I was standing two yards behind him and already had it in my hands. I undid the taut bowstring and flung the bow out into the trees. Seeing my calm face and cold eyes, Donny Boy seemed frightened for the first time.

  "You're going down, now," I said, evenly. "This can go easy, or it can go hard."

  "Fuck off," Donny Boy said. He gathered himself to fight. I walked over to Jerry; knelt, grabbed the knife and cut the rope around my friend's wrists. Donny Boy kept his eyes on the knife. I handed it to Jerry, who began to free his legs.

  Donny sprang, going for the open field tackle, but I was faster. I spun and landed a hard left hook. It snapped his head back while he was falling forward. He rolled face down. I had a smaller rock in one fist. I stepped to one side and brought that fist down onto Donny Boy's kidney. Then I dropped the rock, held the boy by the hair and slammed my knee up twice, catching him under the chin with the second strike. Something snapped and Donny Boy went down. I stepped back, breathing slowly, watching without emotion. Good job, Mick, Daddy Danny said. But he's not done.

  Donny Boy was bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. He got to his knees, swaying, and struggled to get up. While he was still on all fours,
I stepped to the right and kicked the side of his head. Donny Boy cried out in pain and went down hard.

  "Don't get up," I said. "I might kill you."

  Donny boy wheezed and then struggled back to his feet. Before he could focus his eyes, Jerry stepped in front of me. He started to pound away with his fists, emitting little grunts and cries of rage.

  I let it go on until Donny was unconscious, grabbed Jerry from behind. He fought me for a few seconds and then went limp. I felt warm wetness on my open palm. Jerry was bleeding on the left side. I checked him out. The knife had sliced deeply into fatty tissue, missing vital organs, but he was losing a great deal of blood.

  "Can you walk a little ways?"

  "I think so."

  "Dry Wells is close. Doc has some medical supplies in his office. We'll take the Ford."

  We hog-tied Frisco and Donny Boy together and left them to spend the night in the open. I wished them nightmares in the dark.

  Twenty-Five

  Monday Night, 8:36 PM . . . Memorial Day

  Jerry and I got out of the car near Doc Langdon's office. Outside, we heard brass band music echoing through the foothills. We paused for a moment and watched as a spotlight began to slice through the black spring sky. The celebration in Starr Valley had begun. Jerry picked the lock and we went inside.

  The telephone on the antique desk wasn't working. "The main line's probably been cut," Jerry said. "I'll bet it's down from somewhere out near Palmer ranch."

  "Lie still." I did not want to turn on the lights, so I worked near the desk, under the glare of the high intensity lamp. Jerry groaned and leaned back in Doc Langdon's swivel chair. The harsh light made his facial scar look scarlet.

  "That hurts," he said.

  "All I can do right now is disinfect the area and pack it with gauze."

  "How bad does it look?"

  "It's bad, but you'll live. You're going to need a ton of stitches, but I don't have the talent or the time."