by Erik Carter
Any moment now more pieces would start to appear. It made Dale a little queasy to think that he was swimming in a pool of the man’s blood. He pulled the boards to the side, searching the area around the speedboat for other remains.
It would be strange returning to the BEI office in D.C. after this case. Taft would congratulate him and tell him that he was once again the top agent in the Bureau. He’d probably give Dale a medal. But the case had been so close to home that Dale knew he’d always hear its echo.
Now that Spencer was dead.
Chapter 64
Pain hadn’t been a problem for Spencer in four years. Not since that fateful night with Darnell and the bullwhip. The second time with Darnell and his whip. When Brad abandoned him. Since that night, Spencer had even come to like pain. Controlling it was an addiction. Sometimes he would cut himself on the thigh or upper arms, places people wouldn’t see. This helped him to learn to manage his reaction to pain. One had to think of pain as an entity, not something that was hurting you but something that was there. Something that existed. Like warmth. Or noise.
The pain coming out of his left wrist—the bloody, mangled stub that had once housed his hand—was the greatest test of his threshold. He couldn’t think of this pain as some sort of warm sensation. This hurt, and it hurt bad.
The wet strip of cloth he’d torn from his tattered shirt dripped brackish water into his mouth. He bit down on it and jerked hard to the right, cinching off the tourniquet he’d tied around the end of his left arm. The bleeding slowed, and the coursing pain eased ever so slightly.
He hid under a chunk of the destroyed speedboat and watched as Brad searched through the debris for him. A chuckle almost escaped his lips watching Brad panic after the hand touched him. The whole area around him was lit up by the fire on Brad’s capsized boat. Flaming debris bounced about on the waves. There were crackling and hissing sounds of fire meeting water.
Brad’s back was now turned. He was sifting through a clump of boards. He didn’t go about it with any urgency. He must’ve assumed that Spencer was dead. That’s one thing that Spencer never did. Make assumptions. Maintaining constant vigilance was a part of adaptability.
Spencer didn’t have much left in his tank. The shock of losing an appendage had left him in a near catatonic state. But Brad too was dragging. His movements were sluggish, like a slow-motion replay. He had a wound on his side, and he was losing a ton of blood. Other than the disparity of hands, they seemed to be in about the same state.
Spencer liked his odds.
He was about twenty feet away from Brad. He lowered himself into the water and swam beneath the piece of rubble he was using as cover. When he slowly resurfaced, there were only five feet separating him and Brad.
Brad pulled boards to the sides, peering under each of them.
A jagged piece of wood floated in front of Spencer. It was about two feet long and six inches wide. The perfect size. He grabbed it.
Brad was so close, he could hear the man breathing, talking to himself. Two feet away.
And then Spencer struck.
He swung the board hard, every muscle in his good arm taut and bulging. The shot was perfectly placed, and the board made a satisfying crack as it hit the back of Brad’s head.
Brad screamed.
Spencer latched onto Brad’s back, put the board in front of his neck, and yanked back hard, gritting his teeth. He loved everything about this. Brad’s panic. The closeness, being pressed against his body, hearing his fear, feeling him struggle. This was what he had wanted for so long. If Brad had died back in the explosion, he wouldn’t have gotten this satisfaction. He wouldn’t have seen it. He wouldn’t have felt it.
This was destiny once again. It was meant to happen this way.
Brad coughed and gagged. Spencer could feel it through the board. He loved it. He dug his fingers in tighter.
Spencer could have toyed with Brad like this all night. It was thrilling. But as great as delayed satisfaction can be, it can also create problems. The longer he waited, the greater the chances were that Brad would figure out a way out of his predicament. Brad Walker had a tendency to find a way.
“You always thought you were better than me,” Spencer said, “but now who’s the one holding the board?”
Spencer pulled back harder. Brad’s face turned purple-red, and his eyes were wet and bloodshot. His breath came out in wet gurgles. His tongue bulged between his teeth.
It was time now. Time for his reward. He had deprived himself for so long, planned this thing out so well, all for this moment. Brad’s death throes were orgasmic, and the only thing that could bring this thing to a close was his death.
He pressed the board even harder and felt the give of the inner workings of Brad’s neck. The esophagus, the muscles, the tendons. They were all being pressed back to his vertebra.
The time had finally come. Finish it.
But then he stopped. He saw something from the corner of his eye.
Beyond the starboard-side hole in the speedboat there was a light. A tiny green light. The detonator. The collision had thrown it just far enough.
He was within range of Manteo.
And Brad was going to see this before he died.
He gave one final, hard tug of the board to Brad’s throat, enough to ensure that he wouldn’t follow. Then he swam toward the speedboat.
This was working out beautifully after all.
Chapter 65
Dale’s throat was ablaze. He feebly put his hands to it, willing the pain to cease. His breath came in short, choppy bursts that felt hot and poisonous.
Spencer had left suddenly and with urgency. He was up to something. And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.
Dale slowly twisted his damaged neck to the left, in the direction Spencer had gone. He spotted him by the speedboat, his shortened arm dangling over the edge of the hole, holding him up. In his remaining hand was the detonator. The one he had shown him earlier. The one that was connected to the explosives at the theatre. Its green plastic button was alight.
A pulsating noise came from above, and both men looked up. An orange and white Coast Guard helicopter was approaching.
Spencer’s thumb hovered over the button. “Your government friends have found us. That’s okay. We’re within range now. Time for the final act.”
After two years at the BEI, Dale could tell when someone was bluffing. Spencer meant business. If Dale didn’t think of something this very moment, all those people at the play would be blown to bits.
He could hardly move. The wound on his side sent out pulses of blinding pain that melded with the fresh pain from his throat. About the only thing he could do in his current state was talk, even if he felt like he’d swallowed a steak knife. But if there was one thing that Dale knew how to do, it was talk.
He threw his right shoulder over and twisted his body around to face Spencer. As he turned his neck, it felt like a piece of old, wet leather that had been left in the sun, all tight and cracked. He began to slowly make his way toward Spencer. His lips barely stayed above the water line. “What do you want, Spencer? Why have you done this?”
“I want you to feel it. To feel what I’ve gone through these last four years since you abandoned me.”
“I didn’t abandon you, Spencer. The boat had already taken off. You had already been captured. We both agreed—”
“Agreed to the risks. I remember. But somehow I ended up being the one left behind. If I left one minute earlier I would’ve been fine, but a guard happened to walk by my cottage the moment I was to go. I couldn’t leave until he was gone. It’s a funny thing, fate.”
The helicopter was louder now. It was right overhead.
There was a board floating beside Spencer. It was about six feet in length. Long and thin. It could work.
“And you hold me responsible for that?” Dale said.
Keep him talking.
“No, I hold you responsible for leaving. You could’ve come b
ack. Never leave a man behind, isn’t that the mantra of your bureaucratic institutions?”
Dale pulled himself closer and closer. He was close enough to see the firelight dancing off Spencer’s eyes. “I’ve thought about that every day since it happened. Whether I should have gone back or not. Maybe I could have. Maybe you’re right.” He didn’t believe that. As much pain as he’d felt since that night years ago, the fact was that Spencer had known the risk and taken it. But right now, Dale’s smartest move was to let Spencer think he was right, that he was justified. Whatever it took to get that detonator out of his hand.
A spotlight flashed on them from the helicopter above, and they were bathed in bright, white light. Spencer squinted.
Dale’s throat was killing him. Just talking hurt as bad as anything that had happened to him that night. But it was worth it. It was delaying Spencer. And he was drawing closer. The long board was almost within his reach.
“Somehow I don’t think that sentiments like that are enough to help you sleep soundly at night,” Spencer said. “Are they enough to erase all the rest of your wrongdoings? To silence the deaths of the two people on Old Rag? The two you couldn’t save. How about the man who shot himself outside the Sheriff’s Office? Or any of the other people you’ve endangered from your lack of reverence, your nonchalant take on life?”
A voice came from above, a loudspeaker on the helicopter. Agent Conley?
The board was inches from him.
Spencer was trying to get into his head, and as much as Dale tried to resist, he couldn’t stop him. Somehow Spencer knew him. His darkest worries. Before the BEI, back when he was Brad Walker, Dale had been so very lost. And in that confusion, he’d made mistakes. He often wondered if leaving Spencer had been noble or just another one of his mistakes—even though he’d convinced himself it was not.
He had to stay focused. He couldn’t let Spencer get to him. He concentrated instead on the board, which was now right in front of him.
“I’ve not always been perfect,” Dale said, “but I’m damn certain that I never meant to hurt anyone.”
Agent Conley, sir? Are you okay?
Spencer was right in front of him. Rage burned in his eyes. “Who the hell are you, Brad? Really. Who? I’ve been trying to figure that out for the last four years. Who is Brad Walker? What are you going to be when you grow up? Do you want to be a writer or a government man? Do you want to be some protector of the innocent or a childish bully? Even your goddamn car can’t decide what it is. Is it a sports car? A muscle car? Italian? American?”
Spencer’s words swirled in this head. The kid had broken in and figured him out. He’d seen what no one else had seen in him. The lack of conviction. Confusion.
“That’s what I want,” Spencer said. “I want to know how a worthless, confused sack of shit like you lives with himself. Who the hell are you, Brad?”
Dale put his hand on the board.
Calm. Deep breaths. You are what you are, not what you were.
“My name’s not Brad,” he said. “It’s Dale.”
He smashed his hand down on the end of the board, and the other side went flying up toward Spencer, like a teeter-totter, catching him in the hand. Spencer yelled out, and the detonator flew from his grip.
The small black box twisted around in the air, reached an apex and then headed back down for the water. Spencer reached for it. His finger touched the edge. It slid on his fingertip, dangling frozen in time.
And then it dropped to the water. The green light disappeared into the darkness.
Spencer roared, and for a moment it looked like he was going to leap out at Dale. He didn’t, though. His chest raised and lowered in big gulping breaths. His eyes registered as much confusion as they did anger. He was as exhausted as Dale. There was nothing left in him. He unhooked his injured arm from the edge of the boat and used his good arm now instead. He slumped down and looked like he might pass out.
A stretcher appeared from the side of the helicopter. The stretcher and a Coast Guardsman descended slowly toward the water on a winch.
It was a good thing that Spencer hadn’t made a move because Dale had no more reserves left either. He’d been running on pure adrenaline and hadn’t even realized it. He grabbed a large board and flopped down on it, his cheek pressing against the wet wood. He looked at the gash on his side. From the light of the fire, he could see his blood pooling out into the water.
They sat there motionless with nothing but the sound of the chopper blades above and their panting below, slow and labored. Spencer’s shirt was torn open, and the dancing firelight threw shadows across the crevices of his scars. His eyes were wide. They darted about. He looked scared, confused. Like someone coming out of sedation. Like a lost, bewildered child.
But when those scared eyes made contact with Dale’s, they narrowed, focused. Turned dark. “I could have killed you, you know? Just now.”
“Why … didn’t you?” Dale could hardly talk.
“Because,” he said and motioned toward the helicopter, “I have one last chance to show the world what you’re really made of, Brad Walker. There’s only room for one on that stretcher. Neither one of us is going to make it much longer. By the time he comes down the second time, whoever stays behind will be dead. Can you leave me again? Can you leave behind the whipping boy?”
Spencer had thrown more ethical questions at him in the last few days than his soul could handle, and now, as his half-dead body bobbed in the water, he didn’t know if he could face another moral dilemma. The man with a severed hand floating next to him had kidnapped 147 people. No one would judge Dale if he took the first stretcher. In fact, everyone he knew would tell him to do just that. But what would he think? How would he judge himself another few years down the line?
The light above Dale shifted, and he looked up. The Coast Guardsman was ten feet above with the stretcher next to him. Time came to Dale in short bursts, like a timing light. The man was several feet above him. Then he was beside him. Then he was talking, but Dale couldn’t hear him.
Dale squinted and looked the man right in the eye. His lips continued to move, and sound finally came out. “Agent Conley?”
“Here …” Dale heard himself say.
“Sir, we need to get you up.”
The Coast Guardsman had asked for Dale by name, which meant that the man had made his decision on whom to save first—the federal agent or the murderous lunatic the agent had been tracking.
Dale had determined some time ago that life was simple. Life was nothing more than decisions. A man was determined by the decisions he made. And Dale didn’t want to live another day with regretted decisions.
“No,” Dale whispered. “Take him first …”
The Coast Guardsman turned and looked at Spencer, then back to Dale. “Sir?”
“Do it.”
“Um … yes, sir.”
Dale blinked, and the man was no longer there. A hoarse breath left Dale’s lips, and his head slowly slid to the side.
The Coast Guardsman put Spencer onto the stretcher. As he moved him from the boat, Dale saw that Spencer’s eyes were closed. He had passed out sometime during Dale’s decision.
Dale blinked again, and the Coast Guardsman and the stretcher were above him, ascending toward the bright light beaming down upon him. Up and up and up. Dale saw Spencer’s face. Unconscious.
He disappeared into the light.
Dale’s eyes closed.
Chapter 66
There was a noise. Something echoing. It rattled in his brain. Although the brightness was all around him, something was trying to come through. A thumping noise and something higher pitched. Lee. Thump, thump. Lee. Lee.
A beam of blackness broke through the light. And disappeared. And returned.
Thump, thump. Lee! Thump, thump.
The darkness pierced the light and spread out to the sides, stretching to the periphery of his vision. A black sky above him. And something else. A round shape. He recognized it
. A helicopter. Its rotor was thumping. The sound brought pain to his temples.
A face came into his vision. A man. He wore a helmet.
“Agent Conley, sir? Agent Conley?”
He felt something on his side, and his head rattled back and forth, disorienting him, throwing the images around. The man, the helicopter.
His eyes closed.
He was flying. No, he was floating. Rising. There was light above him, and as he continued to rise, it pushed the darkness away again.
All was white.
He was in a square space. There were two people near him. Coast Guardsmen. He was in the back of the helicopter.
There was a flat metal ceiling above him. His eyes began to close again, but something told him to stop.
His head turned, almost as if by its own accord. Next to him was Spencer. On a stretcher. His eyes were closed. They’d been like this before. Two men, tied to beds, beaten.
Spencer looked like a good kid. He’d always looked like a good kid to Dale.
A surge of pain came to Dale’s stomach, and his mouth opened wide. The faces of the Coast Guardsmen appeared above. They spoke, but he didn’t hear. One of them put a hand to his shoulder.
And all was white again.
Chapter 67
He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, but as the fog began to lift, Dale realized that he was in a hospital room. He felt dull all over. They’d drugged him up. There was something on his arm. An IV.
Someone sat at the chair at the end of his bed. It was Special Agent in Charge Walter Taft. He stood up and walked over to Dale.
“I always like waking up to a beautiful face,” Dale said. He regretted speaking. It felt like he’d swallowed a pack of razor blades and they got stuck halfway down.
“You did good, Conley. Real good,” Taft said with a smile. The last time Dale remembered him smiling was when he found an unopened pack of smokes on the sidewalk. “We got all the Marshall folks out of there. Not a single fatality. I’m going to put you up for a medal for this.”