Top Suspense

by Top Suspense Group

I keep going, hoping they will try to follow.

  Another gunshot ricochets off a boulder far over my head.

  "C'mon down here, you little peckerwood!" Woody shouts. "Give us the coke and we'll let you go."

  I reach the top of the slope and look down toward the two vigilantes. "So long, pendejos!"

  "Go around that way, Cal," Woody orders, tugging the reins and pointing into the darkness. "We'll meet up on the far side."

  The vigilantes turn their horses and take off in opposite directions. They will try to cut me off on the other side of the hill. And they may succeed. But at least, they have left the girl alone. I glance one last time down the slope. The girl waves and says something to me I cannot hear, but in my head, I think she is chanting a blessing for me. I wave back and scramble on hands and knees over the top of the hill.

  Minutes later, I am stumbling in the dark, tripping over roots and trying to avoid prickly pear with spines as long and sharp as porcupine quills. The slope becomes too steep, and I slide part way down on my butt, ripping my pants, and scraping my hands. Near the bottom, I stop and listen for the sound of horses or the shouts of angry men.

  But what I hear is a wail. A cry of pain.

  "Broke my damn ankle, Woody. Can't put an ounce of weight on it."

  "Hang in there Cal."

  I peek around a stand of organ pipe cactus. Two horses, but only one man. Woody is bent over the edge of a cliff, his hands yanking at his lariat, which is stretched taut. "Damn rope's fouled in the rocks."

  "Git it loose, Woody. Hurry! Jesus, ankle's swole up and hurts like hell."

  Calvin's voice, raw with pain, coming from over the side. The vigilantes must have stopped here and gotten off the horses. The big man never saw the cliff. Now he was over the side.

  It is more than I could have hoped for. A perfect distraction. I can work my way around them in the darkness. I can get away.

  Then I hear Woody moan. "Damn, it hurts like a sumbitch. I might pass out, Cal."

  "Hang with me, man!"

  "Gonna die out here." Woody starts to sob. Great, wracking sobs that seem to echo off the rocks and boulders.

  I am not sure why I don't just sneak past them. But sometimes we do things without ever knowing exactly why.

  "You can't get the rope free that way," I say to Calvin as I come up behind him.

  Startled, he wheels around. "Ain't your business, chico. Git out of here."

  "I can rope down the cliff."

  "What the hell you talking about?"

  "Rappelling. Rock climbing. I've done it back home." I look over the side of the cliff. Woody sits on a ledge about 20 feet below us. The rope is stuck in a crevice maybe 15 feet from him. "I'll work the rope out, walk it along the cliff face till I reach your friend."

  Calvin looks at me as if he thinks I might steal his wallet. "Why would you help?"

  "Because somebody has to."

  He seems to think about this a moment.

  "After you pull him up, drop the rope back to me," I tell the man.

  "You trust me to do that, kid?"

  "Why wouldn't you?"

  "Okay, then," he says, just as an orange streak of the sun appears over the mountains to the east.

  I rappel down the face of the cliff. Seconds later, I am working the rope out of a slot between two rocks. Once it is free, I wrap the rope around my waist, hold on with both hands, and bounce-walk along the face of the cliff until I reach the ledge.

  "Thanks. You're a good kid." Woody winces in pain as I hand him the rope. Up close, he looks older and not as fierce as he did from so far away. His face is slick with sweat. His puffy cheeks have a gray stubble and his breath smells of tobacco and beer.

  He is able to put weight on one leg and use it against the cliff face. Huffing, puffing, and cursing, Calvin pulls him up. A few moments later, I reach the surface just as Woody painfully struggles to get back on his horse.

  Calvin looks down at the ground, kicks at the dust. Seems like he wants to say something. Sorry, maybe. But he can't quite get it out.

  "You're not a drug mule, are you kid?" he says, finally

  I shake my head. "I just didn't want you to..."

  "We never would have hurt that gal. Just meant to scare her into going back home, tell her friends to stay put."

  "Where you headed?" Woody asks.

  "Ocotillo. My aunt lives there."

  "We got a truck two miles over if you want a lift. Ocotillo's on our way to the hospital." He says it softly. Sounding a little embarrassed, wishing he had more to offer.

  "My Aunt Luisa's a nurse. She can take a look at that ankle."

  Woody doesn't take me up on the offer.

  "Mi tia can make us all breakfast," I say, trying again. "She's a great cook."

  The sun is an orange fireball, fully above the distant mountains now.

  The two men don't look like vigilantes any more. Ordinary guys with creased, tired faces. They exchange bashful looks.

  "Do you like huevos rancheros?" I ask.

  "Love it," Calvin says.

  "No better breakfast on either side of the border," Woody agrees.

  "So?" I ask.

  There is no more meanness in the men's faces. "What are we waiting for?" Calvin says. "I'm hungry as hell."

  I do something I haven't done since crossing the border. I smile.

  Top Suspense Group's Dave Zeltserman used to run a great online magazine called Hardluck Stories. When he asked me for a tale, I tried to think of something that would combine his East Coast sensibilities and my home state of Nevada. This was the result.

  A HANDFUL OF DUST

  By Harry Shannon

  The monster known as Pike had short brown hair speckled with grey. He wore blue Armani with a salmon tie. Pike rode down in the elevator alone, well after midnight, rolling a lightweight suitcase behind. He crossed the loud, garishly furnished lobby and casino, bought a copy of the New York Times and carried it to a back table. He sat behind a potted plant and ate mozzarella with fresh tomatoes and a side of Canadian bacon. After two espressos and a cold bottle of mineral water from France, Pike called the valet to order up a brand new rented mustang ragtop that had been charged to a fraudulent credit card. He tipped the sleepy carhop appropriately, without once meeting his eyes.

  Pike drove away. He paused at the mouth of the driveway, in the neon glare of the massive, pyramid-shaped casino, and put some of his favorite music on the CD player; Hans Biber's melancholy "Die Rosarie Sonaten." He waited for some drunken tourists to pass, flipped on his headlights. He cruised down the strip to the freeway entrance and headed northeast.

  Later, when the highway forked, Pike took the back road, a little-known ribbon of cracked asphalt that paralleled the main highway up to Elko and then Dry Wells. The desert night was chill and the indigo sky freckled with winking stars.

  Pike knew his way around Nevada, but wasn't terribly fond of the state. To him, the high desert was merely a cratered landscape littered with pale fists of bleached tumbleweed, as devoid of charm and empty as the surface of the moon. He liked it better at night. Pike checked his platinum Rolex, activated the radar scanner and drove as fast as he dared. After four listens, he changed to Biber's heartbreaking "Requim," but eventually even that familiar work began to grate on him. Pike tried to find a radio station, but he was already too far from civilization. He'd opted to avoid satellite systems for security reasons. He drove on in silence, mind empty and handsome face bland.

  Before dawn, when the rising sun would smear red and orange chalk along the rocky peaks, Pike came to the city limits. To the left, in his headlights, stood a weather-beaten metal sign, chains squeaking in a light breeze, announced "Historic" Dry Wells. Pike sniffed with disdain. In the dark, the battered wooden storefronts looked like some abandoned movie set. The cracked windows were streaked with dust; many were broken. This part of town seemed deserted.

  Pike went to the right, past a closed gas station and liquor store, until he saw
the small neon sign that read TAPS. He parked out of sight, around the side, next to a dented white pickup truck, and got out for a stretch. A man in a black cowboy shirt sat in the cab, lighting what smelled like a decent cigar. He never looked up. Pike strolled to the front of the ramshackle building, past a bug zapper that was doing brisk business. He looked around carefully before entering through a squeaking pair of old wooden batwing doors.

  Tap's was furnished with card tables and folding chairs. A small, geriatric television set was mounted on the far wall. Despite the hour, it was tuned to a sports network and the sound was muted. Pike looked around, searching for surprise customers or hiding places. He found none, and as promised, there seemed only one way in or out.

  "Evening, Tap," Pike ventured. He waved one hand in the air.

  The bartender, a white-haired old-timer with long white hair in a ponytail who'd been paid to stay open all night, wore a ripped, tie-die wife-beater tee shirt and blue overalls. He was festooned with fading tattoos and sat clipping his toenails with grim resolve. His feet were filthy. He squinted at his handiwork before replying.

  "Want a beer?"

  "Do you have anything German?"

  Tap squinted, shook his head. "Just the Coors. Want one, or not?"

  Pike nodded, enunciated carefully. "That would be nice." He walked closer, annoyed that his new Gucci shoes were already coated with sawdust. The bar itself was made of long plywood sheeting nailed to a couple of sawhorses. Pike took the cold bottle of beer and backed away. He chose a table that would allow him to keep an eye on both the owner and the front door; took an unopened pack of cigarettes from his jacket and set it on the table. The desert night looked like a velvet drape. Insects droned.

  Pike was on his second beer when yellow headlights splashed the dirty windows. Someone else was arriving. The engine sounded small, maybe Japanese. Pike glanced outside. The driver waited quite a while before stepping out into the graveled driveway, under the street lamp. He approached the door heavily, like a man on the way to the gallows. Pike reached around, under his shirt, to adjust the small 9 mm Firestar seated in the holster at the small of his back.

  The batwing doors opened with a horror-film creak. From the voice on the phone, Pike half expected 'Mr. Smith' to be a jumpy little weasel. He was somewhat surprised to see a stocky, pleasant looking, balding businessman perhaps fifty years old. Smith stepped into the room and did a pathetic job of acting casual. He smiled, asked for a can of soda. Tap was still occupied with his toenails. He looked up and offered a beer instead.

  Moments later, Smith brought the unopened bottle to the table. Pike moved the pack of cigarettes to one side.

  "Mind if I sit down?" Smith's voice was higher than one would expect, and broke on the last syllable. "I've been driving all night." That was definitely the voice Pike had heard on the phone. Smith swallowed nervously and positioned himself with his back to the room, another clear sign of an amateur. His eyes were pink spider webs. "Have you read anything by James Michener?"

  "Only 'The Source.'"

  "You should really read 'Hawaii,' then."

  "I don't get much time to read these days."

  Pike pinned Smith to the chair, lowered his voice. "Now that we have that nonsense out of the way, why don't you tell me why you dragged me up here to this God forsaken part of the country in the middle of the night?"

  "Ah." Smith swallowed again, Adam's apple bobbing. "You chose the time and place, sir."

  "I know that," Pike sighed. "I just don't want to go through all this for nothing. Now, tell me who it is and why."

  "Why?" Smith seemed surprised. "I didn't think you'd care."

  "I don't, except if I don't know everything there may be some surprises that pop up along the way and put me in danger. You look like a businessman, I'm sure you can understand that."

  "Certainly," Smith said. "Of course." He glanced back at the indifferent, now dozing bartender. "Are you sure it's safe to talk in here?"

  "Don't worry, Old Tap is nearly deaf. He's also bought and paid for."

  "Are you satisfied you can trust me, sir?"

  "Of course, Mr. Smith." Pike leaned forward. "After all, Reggie himself vouched for you." His elbows shifted the table and en empty beer bottle clanked against the ashtray. "So, just briefly fill me in. The wife?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's usually the wife."

  "No," Smith said. He leaned closer. His eyes seemed glassy. He was perspiring heavily and his breath smelled like cinnamon breath mints. "It's a business associate, actually. I'm trying to close the deal of a lifetime, and he's in the way."

  "Do you have any special requirements?"

  Smith cocked his head, bemused. "I don't understand."

  "For example, does it matter to you if he suffers first?"

  "No," Smith blanched and shook his head rapidly. "No, it doesn't matter at all."

  "Okay, good," Pike said. "That keeps things simple."

  A long silence followed. The bug zapper on the porch snapped and crackled like distant thunder. Mr. Smith wiped his brow. "It's really hot in here." Pike sipped his beer without answering and Smith got the hint. "Okay, one question. How will you…do it?"

  Pike shrugged. "That all depends. An accident is best. Maybe we cut his brake line before a trip, or arrange for a burglar to break in and shoot him. Sometimes I set up a fatal heart attack."

  "You can do that?"

  "For the right about of money, Mr. Smith, I can do anything."

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "I'd rather you didn't."

  "Indulge me for a second," Mr. Smith said, ignoring Pike's response. He had abruptly stopped sweating, and his eyes were no longer shining. "How does somebody get into your line of work?"

  "You don't need to know that."

  "Perhaps, but I'd like an answer anyway."

  Pike decided to give him two more minutes. "If you know Reggie, then you know the Russians have moved into LA. I started running errands for them maybe ten years ago. I made myself useful and let them know I was a team player. A chance came along and I took it."

  "You eliminated someone they found troublesome."

  "Obviously."

  "Were you scared that first time?"

  A burst of laughter, short and low as a lion's cough. "I don't scare very easy, Mr. Smith. If I did, I'd find myself another line of work."

  "I'll accept that…but does it ever bother you?"

  For some reason the question, routine and somewhat expected, made Pike feel unusually uncomfortable. "Not really, Mr. Smith. It's just a job to me. I'm a professional."

  "You enjoy it, then."

  "I suppose you could say that."

  "Okay, then…" Smith lowered his voice even further. "I'll return to the subject of fear. Do you ever take pleasure in making other people feel afraid, Mr. Pike?"

  "I need to see the color of your money," Pike said, briskly.

  "I'm sorry, I have offended you."

  "Not really, but this has already taken too long."

  "You do. I knew you would."

  "Do what?

  "Take pleasure in it." Smith reached into his jacket, removed a thick packet wrapped in brown paper and twine. He held Pike's eyes as he pried one end open, thumbed through the one hundred dollar bills. He set the money down on the table. "Half in advance, just the way Reggie said I should do it."

  Pike took the money without counting and tucked it into his coat pocket. "Now give me the name and address, Smith, and we're both out of here."

  "Fear is nothing more than adrenaline racing through the body." Smith looked down and away, as if he'd just discovered something hiding on the sawdust floor. His voice went hollow. "And yet there is something about it that fascinates, don't you agree? We have Halloween, Day of the Dead, horror films and books and all manner of murder mysteries and thrillers are always on the best seller lists and doing well at the box office. For most of my childhood I avoided fear like the plague. Oh, I went on a roll
er coaster once, and although it was rather delicious, I did wet myself."

  This guy's demented, Pike thought. He leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Smith, this is all too fascinating, but time is money."

  Smith seemed not to hear him. "My abusive stepfather introduced me to hunting when I was a teenager. He was a nasty, cruel person. Told my mother it would make a man of me. How cliché! Anyway, that frightened me too, at first, but eventually I got quite used to it."

  "Killing," Pike said, "something of an acquired taste. Not everyone enjoys it."

  Smith nodded and his mouth went thin. "I never did, to be honest. Oh, I came to quite like the hunt itself, but never the death."

  "Mr. Smith, I need that name."

  Smith looked up, and his eyes were suddenly wide with excitement. "What if I changed my mind, Mr. Pike? What if I said I really wanted that man to suffer? What could you do to him?"

  Pike shrugged. "We could maybe cut him up first, smash his toes. Let him hurt a while and then torch his house while he's still breathing. If the fire burns hot enough, no one would ever need to know how he died."

  "How would you prove it to me, what you did?"

  "I can make a video if you'd like." Pike yawned. "Or just tape the sound, if you don't think you could sit through watching."

  "Isn't that risky?"

  "Once you've checked it out, I'll destroy it so there's no evidence."

  "Of course, of course. Is there anything else you could suggest?" Smith rubbed his palms together like a pervert at a peep show.

  "To make it bad, really bad?"

  "Yes…if I wanted to make it all very nasty."

  Pitt yawned. "We could burn his skin with drain cleaner. See, what you do is, you explain it all up front and then take him out bit by bit, even make him swallow some at the end."

  "Oh, God. That is truly horrific."

  "Yes."

  "And the target is always aware of what is going to come next. I'd guess that must engender the deepest fear of all."

  "It gets their attention."

  "Then that's what I want."

  "Fine, Mr. Smith," Pike said, briskly. He checked his watch. "There's just one little problem. I have the deposit, but I still need the man's name."