by Todd Borg
I feinted left, dodged right, grabbed the small log gripper out of the fireplace rack. I held it out with both hands, pointing it toward him. His footsteps were quick, his arms quicker. Because I had no experience with his type of fighting, I saw no telling movements.
He shot out a jab that hit my left shoulder so fast I couldn’t hit him with the log gripper. A kick shot up and hit the gripper handle from underneath. The gripper flew out of my hands. Without a weapon, I was helpless. I took a fast step sideways and tried to leap over the couch.
As I went into the air, a kick hit the upper backside of my thigh hard enough to break my femur. I was moving away from him, which softened the blow just enough to spare me. But the impact threw my legs forward and out from underneath me. I was in the air, rotating backward like I’d pulled the flight control stick all the way back. I was upside down when my back slammed into the back of the couch. The couch tipped over onto its back, and I collapsed on top of it.
I was dizzy. It took too long to roll off the back of the couch. The next kick came just as I stood up. It came from my side, just behind my field of vision. The blow struck my shoulder. It felt like getting hit by a train.
My shoulder collapsed in and up, the deltoid muscle smashed. Like a train, the man’s foot was not deflected by the collision. His heel continued past my shoulder and hit my upper neck and the mastoid skull bone just behind my ear. I went down and was out before I hit the floor.
SIXTY-TWO
I was a little boy on a road trip out of Boston. My favorite uncle was taking my dad and me up to his cabin in the mountains, there to teach me the manly art of lake fishing. We stopped to fill up his brand new pickup. But when he pulled the hose nozzle out of the fill pipe, gasoline dribbled down the side panel. My uncle ran to get a cloth to wipe it up. I watched as the gas left pretty, spreading rivulets of wetness on the new shiny paint. The gasoline smell was both alluring and off-putting at once. I could have moved away to the fresh breeze, but I was taken with the smell.
The smell eventually got stronger and then became overwhelming. I tried to move away, but I couldn’t. My legs didn’t seem to work. Then the gas gagged me. It was on my face, in my mouth. I spit and gagged and coughed and shook my head.
Mikhailo had a red five-gallon gas can and was pouring gasoline over me and the couch next to me. He held one of his hands in an awkward position as if it were broken. Despite the injury, he was still very good at pouring gas.
He moved across the living room floor to a wooden table and soaked it well. Next came the wooden storage unit where the secret door opened to the landscape garage tunnel. Mikhailo was a perfectionist and didn’t miss a spot. He soaked everything with gasoline, including his pal who still hung by his knee from the snare. The man never moved as Mikhailo poured gas over his hair and face. Mikhailo must have helped his buddy into unconsciousness the same way he helped me. Mikhailo poured gas down the man’s shirt, over both pant legs.
Don’t forget the shoes, I thought. Mikhailo didn’t.
I tried to pull away, tried to crawl. My left arm was numb. I used my right arm, gouging my fingers into the slate floor, and dragged my body at least a half an inch, maybe more.
Mikhailo moved to the piano, opened its top lid, and dribbled gas down inside. He went across one of the rugs, drawing a nice neat X pattern from corner to corner. When he got to the front door, he splashed gas up and over its surface. Then he opened the entry closet and splashed gas on the coats and the closet door. Even after all that gas, he still didn’t have to tip the can very much to pour it out. Five gallons is a lot of gas.
I kept crawling. Half inch after half inch. Mikhailo was so focused on his task that he never looked over at me. Or he knew that whatever I could do, it wouldn’t make any difference. At any point, he could strike a match and the entire castle, myself included, would be engulfed as he jumped outside into the snow.
Mikhailo moved to the kitchen and carefully applied his gas-splash technique to the cabinets and the bar stools that surrounded the kitchen island.
I kept crawling. One more inch. Then another. Yet another after that. It was amazing how many times I could move an inch and not seem to get anywhere. There were many inches between me and anything else.
Mikhailo moved to the dining table. Turned it into a gasoline lake. Then he focused on the dining chairs. They had upholstered seats. Great for absorbing gasoline.
I kept crawling.
Mikhailo finished the chairs. He still had a lot of gas left. There was a rug under the table. Persian maybe. The table prevented him from drawing a nice X through the center of the rug. So he made little curlicue patterns around the edges.
I kept crawling.
When Mikhailo was done with the living and kitchen area, he went through the stone archway into the entertainment room. That room had lots of furniture and wooden built-ins. It would keep him busy for several minutes.
I kept crawling. I would have left a trail from the gasoline running off my body but for the fact that the floor I crawled across was already a lake of gas.
My progress was like the hour hand on a clock. If you watched me from above, you might not perceive movement. But if you looked away for a while and then looked back, I’d be in a slightly different position.
Two or three eons later I approached the kitchen counter. I rested for awhile, then summoned astonishing strength and sat up so I could lean back against the counter, my knees drawn up to my chest to help support my body. My head bounced against the granite top. But I could barely feel it. Instead, my focus was on the little man inside my skull, working with hammer and chisel to cut a hole and escape.
I heard an inhalation of breath.
With Herculean effort, I turned my head.
Mikhailo had come back into the room and seen that I was no longer lounging on the floor by the overturned, gas-soaked couch. He spun around and saw me. He had a little grin of satisfaction as he marched over, stood in front of me, and made an almost casual front-snap kick at my jaw with his right foot. It had been such a struggle to hold my head up that I only had to relax my neck muscles. My head fell to the side. The kick scraped the edge of my jawbone, but missed connecting a solid blow to my head, instead hitting the underside of the granite counter overhang.
At the same time, I made my best, wimpy, worthless effort to straighten my legs. By some miracle, my foot hit his left foot, knocking him off his balance. He didn’t flail or fall over, but dropped to his knees like a professional fighter. We were now face to face, my head an easy, tempting target.
For the first time since we’d gotten up close, I sensed the telling movement in his shoulders and knew a power jab was going to finish me off.
Mikhailo said, “You were supposed to die underwater, McKenna. Now you will die again.”
In one of those moments where time expands, I remembered why I crawled toward the kitchen island. The broken broomstick was still leaning against the counter, about three feet from my shoulder. I grabbed it and jerked it toward me. Just as he threw his killer punch, I swiveled the dull end of the broomstick under my armpit, jammed it against the counter behind me, and held the stick, pointed end out toward Mikhailo.
Mikhailo’s twisting punch carried him forward onto the sharp end of my broomstick spear. It pierced him just below his right ribs, going in a few inches, far enough to maybe shish kebab his liver, but not pass all the way through his body.
Fortunately, getting stabbed took some of the power and all of the accuracy out of his blow, and his fist hit the counter behind me.
Mikhailo didn’t make a big reaction. He looked down at the wooden spear, then sat down on the floor. He wrapped the big fingers of both his good hand and his broken hand around the broomstick as if to jerk it back out. I saw his jaw muscles bulge as he prepared for the movement.
I reached up my foot and kicked, striking the dull end of the broomstick and driving it the rest of the way through his body.
Mikhailo loosened his grip on
the wood. He stared down at it and slowly tipped over sideways onto the floor, the broomstick protruding a foot from both the front and back of his body.
SIXTY-THREE
My effort had left me even weaker. I was so dizzy from gas fumes that I couldn’t balance. I crawled on hands and knees over to Mikhailo. He was still breathing, short difficult breaths, his eyes clamped shut with pain. I got my hands into his pockets, feeling for the handcuff key. I found it in the little change pocket on the right front side.
With great effort and focus, I pulled myself up next to the island counter, then hand-walked myself along the counter. I half-walked/half-fell across the space between the island and the wall, then went hand-over-hand along the wall to the arch that led to the entertainment room.
The gas smell was stronger than ever. The entertainment room was smaller than the living room, and it didn’t have a broken window to let in fresh air. I stopped, tried to get my head clear before I toppled to the floor. Maybe there was clearer air in the secret rooms.
But maybe he’d already been in those rooms, soaked Street and Gertie and Ian down with gasoline. My only hope was that he thought I’d entered the castle from a different direction and he hadn’t bothered yet to check the hidden rooms.
I stumbled across to the entertainment cabinet, found the release lever, pulled back the shelving with the music equipment, pushed in the secret door. I tried to hang on as the gas fumes overwhelmed me. But as I stumbled ahead, I lost my grip and fell through into the next room. I crawled across the little room and through the second door.
“McKenna!” Lassitor said when he saw me enter. “I smell gas! My God, now it’s really strong. We have to get out of here!”
The fresh air near the floor revived me a bit. I crawled past Lassitor, through the far door, and tumbled down the stairs and into the cellar.
“Owen!” Street shouted. “We smell gas. This entire place could blow up.” Spot ran over and sniffed me up and down.
“I’ve got the key,” I mumbled.
“You’re bleeding on your jaw. And the back of your head! There’s blood everywhere down your neck!”
“Hold still.” I reached down to her handcuffs. Spot stuck his nose in there, too, blocking my vision. I got the key into one of Street’s handcuffs. It opened.
She pulled it through the chain and was freed. She got onto her knees. “Give me the key. I can get Gertie free faster.”
She took the key. They were both free in a few moments.
“You should both escape through the boathouse tunnel,” I said. “Spot, too.”
“You have to come!” Street said.
“I have to get Lassitor. He’s chained in the next room.”
“Here, you need the key.”
I shook my head. The hammering man inside my head went crazy. I stopped and put my hands to my temples. “Lassitor’s ankle is chained to a floor bolt. No handcuffs. But I found a splitting maul. I can use it to cut his chain.”
“I can help.” Street said. Given the fire danger and her chance to run, her earnest offer was gut-wrenching.
“No. Save Gertie. Go. Now.”
She hesitated.
“Run!” I said.
Street took Gertie’s hand, and they ran to the door that led to the boathouse tunnel. Spot hesitated.
“Spot,” I said, pointing. “Go with Street. Go!”
He ran over to them. They all three stepped past the man who still lay on the floor, perhaps dead, perhaps not. Street opened the door. The tunnel was pitch dark. She looked around, found a switch, flipped it on. Lights turned on in the long passage. Street and Gertie and Spot stepped into the tunnel. My last view of them before the door shut was Spot in the lead, with Street running behind him, limping because of her bare foot, pulling Gertie along.
I turned to head back up the stairs. I remembered throwing the maul at Mikailo near the secret door to the landscape garage tunnel. It wouldn’t be hard to find. I could fetch it and use it to cut the chain that held Lassitor.
The air had more gas fumes. I dropped to my hands and knees and took several breaths to store up some oxygen before I headed back into the main part of the castle. Then I crawled up the stairs and into the room where Lassitor was chained.
He was up against the wall, terror in his eyes.
Mikhailo stood in the other doorway, wavering, the broomstick spear still sticking out front and back. Blood soaked his shirt and pants. Foam frothed at his mouth. He held the splitting maul in his right hand, the gas can in his left.
He set down the can and kicked it over. A gush of gasoline flowed out across the floor, toward Ian and toward me. I wanted to charge him, but I could barely stand. Mikhailo raised the maul, both his good hand and his broken hand on the maul’s handle.
I’d left him for dead, but he was like a mythical bear that couldn’t be killed. I’d never seen a man who could continue his carnage with a spear through his body.
I could turn and fall back down the stairs to the cellar, but that would leave Ian helpless. Maybe I could dodge the maul. I advanced on Mikhailo. He brought the splitting maul into his back swing and then hurled it around in a sideways loop. But instead of releasing it toward me, he flung it at Lassitor. The maul flipped over in flight one complete rotation, and then struck Lassitor in the neck, cleaving deep into his flesh. Blood spurted with each heartbeat, arcing up and out.
Lassitor collapsed to the floor. It was obvious that there was no hope of saving him.
But maybe I could make certain that Mikhailo also had no chance of survival. I advanced on him, my rage overwhelming.
Mikhailo pulled out a lighter, flicked it, and dropped it.
The gas fumes were so thick from the flowing gas that the room exploded into flame before the lighter hit the floor.
I staggered back through the doorway. The last thing I saw as I shut the door was Mikhailo standing there, his feet spread wide for balance, as flames roared about and up his body. The broomstick protruding from his body was already aflame. As I shut the door, flowing, burning gas ran underneath it, nearly touching my gas-soaked boots. I jumped back and fell, rolling down the stairs. I got up and did my best trot to the tunnel door. The man lying on the stone didn’t seem to be breathing. I bent down, put my fingers on his neck, and felt for his carotid artery. There was a weak pulse.
I stepped into the tunnel, dragging the broken man. My head screamed pain as I pulled him thirty feet into the tunnel, then stumbled back and shut the door to the cellar. I wasn’t saving him for benevolent reasons. I wanted him to live, crippled and broken, to face his punishment. As I dropped him to the stones, he made a sound.
I bent down and spoke in his ear.
“If you bother me or anyone I know ever again, I will find you, and I’ll finish the job in a way that makes you think your current injuries are mosquito bites.”
I was halfway down the tunnel toward the boathouse when I heard an explosion. I kept trotting, ready to dive to the floor if a flash of fireball light came from behind. But it didn’t happen.
SIXTY-FOUR
Street and Gertie were in the boathouse.
“You’re safe!” Street said as I opened the secret door. “But you are soaked in gas!” She was standing on one foot, holding her bare foot in the air. In the dim light coming from the tunnel lights, I could see that both of them were shivering.
With pounding head and screaming muscles, I took off my gas-soaked sweatshirt and undershirt and pulled on one of the boathouse windbreakers. The sleeves were six inches short, but it helped. My pants were still wet with gasoline, but I’d be a little less explosive. As I put on the jacket, Street grabbed two other windbreakers and handed one to Gertie.
We went outside. Street and Gertie ran, Street doing a kind of hop and skip to minimize how much her bare foot was down on the frozen, snowy pathway. I stumbled, my brain foggy from pain and gas fumes.
Street turned and called back to me. “Do you have your Jeep? Where should we go?”
After a moment, I said, “I assume the men took your phone?”
“I never had it. It was plugged into my charger when they kicked in the door of my condo.”
“We’ll go to the neighbor’s house. Craig Gower. It’s early morning. He might be awake. If not, we’ll wake him up. If he’s gone, we’ll break in. We can use his phone and call for help.”
“How far is it?”
“Not far. There’s a path through the snow.”
Street kept her arm around Gertie’s shoulder. I kept my hand on Spot’s collar. We hurried down the path to the drive, then took the other path over to Gower’s drive.
There was a flash of light followed by the deep kaboom of another explosion. We all turned to look. The distant trees were backlit by flames that were coming out of the small windows of Lassitor’s castle.
At Gower’s house, I knocked on the door continuously.
“Thank you for finding us,” Street said while we waited.
“Thank God you’re alive. They were going to kill Gertie when they had her in the van. I thought they’d kill you before I got there.”
“It was Gertie’s quick thinking that saved us from being killed at my condo. She told them that she took their pictures with the phone that you took from the guy in the van. She said she hid it in your cabin. One of the men was going to beat her until she told them where it’s hidden. But the other man said they didn’t have time and they would take us with them and force her to tell them later.”
I reached over and squeezed Gertie’s shoulder as I kept knocking.
“I’m coming!” a distant voice shouted.
The door opened a minute later. Gower rolled forward in his chair. He looked nearly the same as the last time I saw him. Jeans, a lap blanket, heavy sweater, a watchman’s cap.