Mark of the Devil

by William Kerr

  “Slow down, why don’t you?” Park answered, his voice distorted by a hand-covered yawn. “Make him pass.”

  “I have, twice. Slow down, he slows. Speed up, he speeds up.”

  Park straightened in his seat and twisted around to look out the rear window. “You’re almost to the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. Up ahead. Lots of lights. Drop down to forty-five. He’ll get so pissed, he’ll have to pass. If not—”

  “If not, he might be some road freak looking for the kind of fun I don’t appreciate.”

  The brilliance of the several dozen bridge lights ahead cast a fluorescent glow on the low-flying clouds. As the Jeep neared the approach to the bridge, however, the glow quickly gave way to sheets of rain caught in the glare of each light and driven by the wind. “Okay, mister,” Matt muttered to the driver behind him, “let’s see what kinda game you’re really playing.”

  Already on the upgrade, Matt lifted his foot off the accelerator and allowed the Jeep to slow to—60, 55, 50. By the time the Jeep approached the top of the span, some 60 feet above the Waterway and tidal marsh, the speedometer read 45. Suddenly, the vehicle—a monster-sized, black Ford F-350 pickup with extended cab, oversized wheels, and wraparound, heavy-gauge, steel-framed brush bars across the front—whipped into the inside lane and pulled even.

  “About time,” Matt said with a sigh and a quick glance to his left toward the pickup. A familiar bearded face leered at him through the rain. “Aw, Christ!”

  “What’s wrong?” Park asked, immediately leaning forward in an attempt to see what Matt had seen.

  All Matt could manage in response was “The bearded guy in Tallahassee! At the airport!”

  At that moment, the pickup swung against the side of the Grand Cherokee, the wraparound brush bars catching the Jeep in the front left fender and forcing it against the concrete safety abutment. The Jeep’s right side screeched against the concrete as Matt fought the steering wheel, trying to keep the tires from riding up the curved abutment and over the side. Like an unexpected bolt of lightning, something sheared across the windshield and ripped away the driver-side wiper. Simultaneously, the forward part of Matt’s side window splintered. A bullet ricocheted off the top of the steering wheel, smashed through the right-hand sun visor and out through the ceiling.

  Jerking back in his seat, Park shouted, “He’s shooting at us!”

  “No shit!” Matt yelled above the deafening grind of metal against metal on one side of the Jeep and metal against concrete on the other. Working on automatic, Matt pumped the brake pedal and downshifted to third, then second gear, forcing the Jeep to fall behind the pickup’s cab and the bearded man trying to kill him. The rain-slick road and down-slope of the bridge, however, refused to allow the tires sufficient traction, putting the Jeep into a roller-coaster ride, keeping it pinned between the bed of the black pickup and the side of the bridge.

  Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the roadway leveled out and there was no more bridge abutment, no more metal tearing against concrete. The pickup veered away from the Jeep, then just as quickly slammed hard to the right. This time the brush bars across the pickup’s front crushed the Jeep’s left front fender into the tire well, blew out the left front headlights, and forced the vehicle’s passenger-side front tire off the pavement.

  The last thing Matt saw was a thick line of wax myrtles bordering the marsh to his right and a 10-foot-tall highway sign caught in the sweep of his one remaining headlight. Its words glared a luminescent white-on-green “SOUTH BEACH PARKWAY…MARSH LANDING PKWY…3/4 MILE.” Matt tried to angle away from the sign but caught another jarring ram from the pickup, this time into the door at his elbow, and he lost control.

  “We’re gonna hit it,” Park cried, nanoseconds before the Jeep tore through the sign’s metal stanchions, automatically deploying both driver and passenger airbags in an explosion of eye-blinding material, instantly deflating in a rush of white powder. The huge sign clanged down against the roof and ripped away the Jeep’s luggage carrier as the vehicle went airborne through a line of tall wax myrtles.

  “Hold on,” Matt shouted, his hands squeezing the steering wheel in a death grip to keep him from being thrown forward. Even in that split second, he sensed the SUV’s heavier front end tilting downward through the air, its single headlight illuminating the waters of one of the marsh’s tidal creeks. The weight of the Jeep drove its front end into the water and mud, snapping his head forward and tearing at every bone in his body.

  While the engine still sputtered and rear wheels spun, Matt took a deep breath and sat very still, eyes closed, allowing the reality of what just happened to sink in. As the engine sucked its final intake of air-starved fuel and lapsed into silence, he felt the strain of safety belts against his abdomen and chest holding him in place. From the pull of gravity, he knew the Jeep was nose-down at a near 45-degree angle, its front end buried in the marsh. The glare of lights from the bridge told him the water level was just inches below the windshield.

  Though he couldn’t see the remaining headlight, underwater and deep in the mud, the dash lights were still on, bright enough for him to see across the seat. “Steve, you okay?” he asked. “We gotta get out. I can already feel water coming in from the engine compartment.”

  Park was slumped forward, literally hanging by his seat and shoulder restraints. Very slowly his head swiveled in Matt’s direction and he said, “My ankle, twisted to hell and back, but I gotta ask.”

  “Yeah?”

  “All the survival training they gave you in the Navy, how come they never taught you defensive driving? Your driving sucks. You know that?”

  “At least we didn’t go off the top of the bridge. Then you’d really complain.” Pointing to the right side of the dash, Matt said, “Open the glove compartment and get me the Beretta. I think we’re gonna need it. If they’ve gone this far, the bad guys aren’t gonna stop until they’re sure we’re dead.”

  Clicking open the glove compartment door and handing Matt the pistol, Park asked, “How do we get out of this thing?”

  “Your side,” Matt said. “My door’s crushed in.” Wedging both feet against the dash, one foot on either side of the steering column, he hit the safety release for his lap and shoulder straps.

  With the dash lights growing dim, then out altogether, Park grunted against the weight of the door, pushing it open inch by inch as water rushed in from the lower half of the opening. Suddenly, a hail of gunshots exploded on the air; bullets pounded against the bottom rear section of the Jeep.

  “Move it, Steve,” Matt shouted. “They hit the gas tank, we’re toast.”

  Grunting against the weight of the door and incoming flow of water, Park slipped out into the creek. With the Jeep as a shield between himself and the shooter, he worked his way forward onto the creek bank and into the windswept marsh grass. “How deep?” Matt called.

  “Creek’s knee deep, but the mud sucks you down another foot, at least,” Park answered. “Almost as bad in the grass.”

  Matt was halfway through the door when more bullets slammed into the Jeep’s undercarriage. Pushing against the edge of the seat with his feet, the Beretta tucked beneath his belt, Matt dove forward. At the same time, an explosion tore apart the rear end of the Jeep. Shards of metal and tires cascaded through the air like shrapnel from some gigantic grenade. As Matt hit the water, he could feel the shockwave and see the world turn red from the resulting fireball rising above the marsh. Following the initial blast, the Jeep looked like a giant Roman candle sticking out of the creek, flames shooting skyward and lighting up the surrounding water and sea of waving grass.

  The water was no more than knee deep, as Park had said, but the mud and wind whipping across the marsh alternately pushed and pulled at Matt. He floundered for a moment, paddling furiously with both hands, fighting to remain upright, his feet sinking into the slime-encrusted mud below the water’s surface. Struggling against wind, rain, water, and mud to regain some semblance of balan
ce, he saw them: two men, outlined by the fire. One was much larger than the other. They stood on the bank, less than 50 feet away, just below the opening the Jeep had made through the wax myrtles.

  The smaller man pointed in his direction and cried, “There he is, Race. Shoot the muthafucker!”

  Realizing he was a perfect target in the firelight, Matt tugged the Beretta from beneath his belt and sank low in the water. He grasped the weapon with both hands, swung his arms into firing position, and pulled the trigger. Four times. The explosion of gunpowder in each cartridge echoed across the marsh. Almost simultaneously, a sharp cry caught on the wind. And then only one was left—the larger man, the one with the beard, the man called Race, who had vowed to kill him.

  “You got ‘em, Matt,” Park shouted from somewhere back in the waist-high marsh grass.

  “One of ‘em, but where’s the other one?” Matt asked as the second and much larger man disappeared into the marsh grass. “It’s the one that beat the hell out of me in Tallahassee, and a sawbuck says he’s heading this way.”

  Already Matt could see car lights through the wax myrtles. Drawn by the fire, drivers had stopped and parked along the expressway. Would somebody call 9-1-1? That’s all he needed. Out on bond, and already he’d shot a man. “Sheeeit!”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Park yelled through the rain and wind.

  “If you’ve got a bad ankle, stay where you are. It’s me he wants, and it’s me he’s gonna get, but not like he thinks.” If I’m lucky, Matt added to himself.

  As Matt made his way around what was left of the exposed part of the Jeep, a sudden swishing sound followed by a muffled explosion in the Jeep’s submerged engine compartment caught him by surprise. Diving toward the creek bank and cover of the marsh grass, he lost his grip on the Beretta. “Damn it!” His hands darted frantically through the mud and water, but no Beretta. Facing in the direction from which he’d last heard Park, he shouted, “Steve, we gotta—”

  His words were cut off by a deep growl that rose in pitch as Matt turned in time to see the massive figure of a man charge across the narrow creek and the butt of a pistol swing in his direction. Matt dodged, but the pistol caught him squarely on the left shoulder, just above his bullet wound. An involuntary cry escaped his throat as he grabbed for his shoulder.

  “Gotcha!” With one hand Race forced Matt down against the creek bank. In a straddling position, with the butt of his gun ready to strike again, Race shoved Matt’s head into the mud and marsh grass, pushing harder and harder until Matt could feel the mud creep into his ears. His ears! The thought stabbed at his memory cells. SpecWar training! Hand-to-hand combat!

  As the gun came down, Matt twisted his head to the side. He felt the splatter of mud against his face as the weapon missed. With the huge man momentarily off balance, Matt reached up and slapped both hands, palms flat, as hard as he could against the man’s ears. Race yelped in pain, reared backwards, and grabbed the sides of his head. That was all Matt needed.

  His left arm straight out and hand flat against Race’s chest, holding him upright, Matt shot his right hand forward. With hand and fingers knotted like the claw of a tiger, he dug into and penetrated the skin of Race’s throat with his fingernails. He felt and closed tight on the Adam’s apple, then ripped downward. Once, twice! The third time, he felt the skin tear away; felt flesh and cartilage between his fingers; felt a spray of hot liquid on his face.

  Mingled with the distant sound of sirens, growing steadily louder, Matt heard the sucking scream of a man who had just lost part of his throat and would soon bleed to death.

  CHAPTER 42

  Tuesday, 6 November 2001

  “Goddamn it, Berkeley,” Hammersmith cursed, “you are a walking fucking bloodbath. You kill your wife and her lover—”

  “Not true, and you know it,” Matt shot back. The palm of his hand slammed down against the empty paper cup in front of him, crushing it against the top of the table.

  “And now, two more,” Hammersmith went on. “Out on bail not more than a week and you shoot one guy and rip the shit out of another guy’s throat so he bleeds to death.”

  As the door to the interview room opened, Matt could see the clock in the hallway over Detective Sergeant Terri Good’s shoulder: 4 a.m. He’d been there since sometime before midnight. Even the overhead fluorescent lights and the bare, DayGlo yellow walls weren’t enough to keep him from yawning. Since this was his third visit to the same room since Sam Gravely’s and Ashley’s deaths, he guessed the old adage was right. Familiarity did breed contempt.

  “This is getting to be a habit, Mr. Berkeley,” Good said, but if her remark was meant to be humorous, Matt felt no inclination to laugh. “This yours?” She placed a plastic evidence bag containing a mud-encrusted semiautomatic pistol on the table.

  “If it’s a nine millimeter Beretta Cougar with…” He thought a moment. “If my memory serves me, with six rounds left—one in the chamber, five in the magazine—and the initials MWB engraved on the right side of the slide, it’s mine. How’d you find it?”

  Terri Good’s feigned friendliness during their previous meetings was now a thing of the past. All business; no smiles. “Metal detector. If the bullets in this pistol match those in the man that was shot last night, we have a major problem, don’t we?”

  Matt gave a soft laugh at the word problem. “Sergeant, my whole life has been one problem after another since I came down to fix my aunt’s roof and sell the house.” Matt leaned forward for a better look at the pistol. “Yes, that’s the pistol I shot the sonofabitch on the bank with. If I’d been a better shot, I would’ve hit the other guy before he attacked me in the marsh. Which, as I’ve already told you, wasn’t the first time he’s tried to get me.”

  It was Hammersmith’s turn. This time, however, he was playing the good guy. “Look, Berkeley, we’re just trying to understand what happened last night.”

  Matt threw up his hand. “Pretty damn simple, you ask me.”

  “That’s what I’m doin’. I’m asking you. Tell us, and maybe we can help.”

  Taking a deep breath, Matt said, “For the umpteenth time, they’d been following us since we got on Butler Boulevard off the interstate. Probably since the Omni Hotel in Jacksonville, but we didn’t notice. On top of the bridge over the intracoastal, I slowed to get them to pass. They passed, all right. Rammed us and tried to push us over the side. Fortunately, they didn’t succeed until we reached the foot of the bridge. Forced us off the road and into the marsh.”

  “You’re sure it was intentional?” Good asked.

  “Shot at us after the first hit. Two more times they rammed us, third time the charm. Check the brush bars on the front of the pickup for white paint. It’ll match the Jeep’s.”

  “Whatever they did,” Good inserted, “you didn’t have the right to be judge, jury,and executioner.”

  Matt shook his head in disbelief. “C’mon, Sergeant, you’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “No kidding, Mr. Berkeley. Out on bail for a possible manslaughter charge, using a concealed weapon—”

  “Told you the first time I was here, Sergeant, I have a concealed weapons license for the state of Florida. Copy in the glove compartment of the Jeep. Probably ruined, so you can check with the state.”

  “You tell us those two men were trying to kill you after you went into the marsh,” Hammersmith said. “How do you know? Maybe the Jeep just exploded from the crash.”

  Smoothing out, then again crushing the empty paper coffee cup to relieve his frustration, Matt said, “You just goddamn refuse to listen, don’t you? Pull the Jeep out of the marsh and check the underside, or what’s left of it. You’ll find rounds from the Colt three fifty-seven Magnum the big guy had. I gave it to that corporal at the scene. I don’t know how many shots were fired the first time. Must’ve reloaded and tried again. That’s when the gas tank blew.”

  “And the man with his throat torn out?” Good demanded. “We know you were Special Warfare i
n the Navy, but do you make it a habit doing things like that?”

  “Sergeant, if somebody tries to kill you, you do what you’ve gotta do to stay alive.” Matt zeroed in on Terri Good’s eyes and then on Hammersmith’s. “Yes, like I was trained to do, I killed him in selfdefense. Probably still some of his skin and whatever else under the fingernails of my right hand. I killed him so Steve Park and I could live. And in your business, you would do the same. End of story.”

  Matt sat back and studied the ceiling, the glare of the fluorescent lights creating tears in his eyes. Snapping his eyelids shut to flush the moisture and wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of the shirt he’d been issued, he said, “Speaking of Steve, what have you done with him? He had nothing to do with the guys that hit us, and he busted his ankle in the crash.”

  “Not busted,” Good said. “Sprained. X-rayed, wrapped, and on his way home. Son picked him up after we took his statement.”

  “Must be nice to have friends on the police force,” Matt said, a sarcastic chuckle in his voice. “Since I apparently don’t, looks like it’s time I found myself a good lawyer.”

  At that moment, the door opened and a uniformed policeman with lieutenant’s bars on both shirt collars said, “Detective Sergeant Good?” He motioned for her to step into the hallway. As she turned and walked through the doorway, something clicked in Matt’s brain. Good’s hair, the back of her neck, the solid but shapely build of her shoulders and waist. Not in the day-to-day civvies she normally wore. Something more formal. From the rear, something familiar about the way she looked, the way she stood as she closed the door behind her. The Omni Hotel? It was almost on the tip of his tongue when Hammersmith leaned across the table and half-whispered, “If you’ve got any real evidence that AFI and Shoemaker are behind this, evidence that—”