Jesse grinned. “Imagine that.” And then he was out the door.
Sean slid the deadbolt home and listened to the roar of the truck as it started. He heard it fade away.
He sat down to wait, his hand on the gun Jesse'd left on the table.
Chapter Nine
Five miles from the Winnemucca city limits, Jesse met a black Escalade headed east, back toward the motel. He felt a ping in the back of his brain. A twinge of ... something. He shook it off, remembering how Sean had laughed at him and called him an anxious old man every time he got up in the middle of the night to double-check the guns on the table and the locks on the door.
They were okay. Better than that—they were good. All they had to do was wait a few more days. Or weeks. A month at most. Paco would get bored. Distracted. His coke and crystal meth habits meant he had the attention span of a Goddamn gnat. He'd find someone else to fuck. Someone else to blackmail and abuse in Sean's place, and then Jesse and Sean could head out for Mexico, knowing Paco had abandoned the hunt.
Question: Why didn't that make him feel better?
Answer: Paco needed to be dead, not just making some other poor slob miserable and running roughshod over the less fortunate population of Santa Rosa and the whole North Bay Area.
And Jesse would've taken care of it. Would've gone to his death a satisfied man, if that's what it took. But now he had Sean to consider. For the first time in years, something more important than vengeance, or even ridding the planet of scum like Paco Sanchez.
Worst-case scenario: Jesse went after Paco now, killed the nasty bastard, and died doing it. Sean had a good heart. He might grieve a little, but he'd get over it. Hell, even if Jesse lived, the kid would end up leaving him eventually for some suit with an IRA and a late-model convertible eventually.
Except that wasn't the worst-case, was it? The worst-case was if Jesse failed at killing Paco and died anyway. Left that cocksucker alive, with Sean in his sights...
No. Couldn't take that chance. He already had enough blood on his hands to turn the Bay red. He wouldn't add Sean's. And how he felt about the younger man had nothing to do with it, damn it. Because feelings weren't real. They didn't stick around. Nobody knew that better than he did.
Bullets and blades? Those were as real as it got.
Jesse let his mind race back and forth along the same path while he filled a shopping cart with supplies and pumped the truck full of gas. Then he sat behind the wheel and checked the duffel on the seat next to him. Knowing he was being obsessive about the weapons. Wishing vaguely he'd let Sean come with him after all. He pulled out his cell and dialed.
Manuel answered on the second ring. “Bonham, you fucker, you left a hell of a mess in my cabin. Where the fuck are you?"
"Sorry about that. Had to leave in a hurry. We're taking a little vacation, if you know what I mean."
"Down south?"
"Nah. East."
"Right. Who's ‘we?'” Manny lowered his voice. “You and your boy?"
"He's not my boy."
Manny laughed like that was a joke. “What do you need, amigo?"
"Just a little information. How're things in town? Still hot?"
"Sizzlin'. Paco's looking high and low for your pale ass. Got all his people on the job. They put up fuckin’ flyers, man."
"Shit. Seriously?"
"Seriously. You'd better lie low a while longer."
"Got it. Thanks, Manny. I'll call again soon."
"You do that. And tell your boy I said hello."
Jesse heard the click in his ear that signaled the end of the conversation. He climbed into the truck and drove out of Winnemucca, feeling oddly at peace. Almost happy, in fact. A month, maybe two, holed up in that musty little motel room with Sean. They'd kill each other before it was over.
He smiled.
And then he frowned, because here came that Escalade again. Tinted windows and California plates—he'd noticed them the first time, too—and moving faster now. Like it had someplace to be.
He squinted at the vehicle as it passed in the other lane, doing an easy eighty into the outskirts of Winnemucca. Part of him wanted to turn around and follow it. But the bigger part wanted to get back to Sean with the root beer and the toothpaste, and three different flavors of licorice to go with the beef jerky he'd bought.
He flicked on the radio and looked for an oldies station.
* * * *
Sean watched Jesse's truck zoom past from the back seat of the Escalade. He heard the thug in front seat mumble something to the driver, who answered in the negative. Something about “later” and “Paco wants to be in on the kill” and “gotta get the little faggot tucked in first.” Sean felt his heart race, and it hurt like a bitch, thudding against his bruised ribs where he'd taken the driver's boot. He licked his lips, running the tip of his tongue over the place where the lower one was split and still bleeding.
"Go, Jesse. Go and keep on going.” Sean mouthed the words, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Then he let his head drop back on the seat and made his mind go blank.
* * * *
Jesse knew he should've listened to that little ping in his brain. Even before he saw how the motel room door was standing ajar. Before he pushed it open and saw the wreck of the room and the spatter of blood on the table. Before he called Sean's name and got no answer.
Long, long before he sprinted to the office and found the wizened little crone who'd rented them their room lying behind the counter with a dime-sized hole between her dead eyes, and a pool of blood beneath the back of her head.
He went back to the room, still sprinting. He searched, because he knew there had to be something ... something that would explain how this had happened. The door had been locked. He'd heard Sean throw the deadbolt after he'd closed it behind him. And Sean had the SIG, and he knew how to use it—Jesse'd made sure—which meant...
Sean must've let them in. Must've gone with them willingly. Except there was the blood on the table, and a chair knocked over and the bed torn apart. They'd disarmed him? The kid was green, but not that green—and he was big and fast. Strong. But if there'd been more than two...
Jesse kicked at the tangle of sheets that lay half off the bed, and his boot struck something solid. He reached down and pulled the SIG from under the pile.
Why hadn't Paco's boys taken the gun? Why leave it here for Jesse to find?
Unless they hadn't. Unless it was Sean who'd hidden it, quick and sneaky, after they were already in the room ... or before he let them in?
None of it made any sense, and the tide of panic rising in Jesse's chest and up into his throat started to choke him. He couldn't give in to it. He needed to get a grip.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress and tried to think. His cell got no reception out here, but there was a phone in the office. He was pretty sure the old lady wouldn't charge him for the long distance call.
* * * *
In the back of the Escalade, Sean was dreaming. In his dream, he stood on a footbridge stretched over a canyon. He could see Jesse on one end of the bridge, watching. Not moving. From the other end, Bobby called to him, shouting is name over and over. The bridge swayed in the cool, damp wind. Sean lost his balance. Stumbled forward and back, looking for something to grab. He knew he was dreaming. But as bad as it was, he knew waking would be worse.
* * * *
"I don't know what to do, man.” Jesse gripped the office phone and tried to keep from staring at the dead woman lying behind the counter.
"Take it easy, Jess. We'll get him back. I'll call in some favors—"
"I hate to ask you to do that—"
"Shut your big mouth. You'd do the same for me."
Jesse felt a burning behind his eyes. “Thank you. Seriously."
"No sweat, amigo. Call me when you know something. I'll do the same.” Manny disconnected.
Jesse stood in the silent office and felt that same rise of helpless panic trying to flood him again. He wanted to r
un for the truck, drive as fast as he could back to Santa Rosa. Find Sean. Find him.
Yeah, as haystacks went, the North Bay Area was a fucking huge one, and Sean ... well, a six-foot-four needle was still just a needle. Jesse needed something to go on—something more than whatever Manny could squeeze from the local street element. They'd all be scared to talk after what happened to LaNay.
He thought about it another second or two, then pulled out his wallet and searched for the tiny slip of paper he kept tucked in the back. Thirty seconds later, he was listening to the phone ring through to a small house in a small town in Massachusetts.
"Jesse?” His grandmother's voice sounded surprised. “To what do I owe this honor?"
God, he hated when she did that. She could at least pretend to not know who was calling every fucking time.
"Hi, Gram. I, uh...” He cleared his throat. “How are you?"
"Please, child. This is no time for play-acting familial affection. You're in trouble?"
Jesse scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. “Yeah. I need—"
"What you need is to stop playing cops and robbers, find a nice young man and settle down. Oh...” Gram's voice sharpened. “But I see you've already found the young man ... and lost him again. Careless of you."
Jesse gripped the edge of the counter and tried not to think bad thoughts about one of his only living relatives. “Gram. Please."
"Yes, all right, let me see. Your young man—Sean, is it? He's been taken. I see a black vehicle headed west through the desert. But I get no sense of its destination."
"That doesn't help me much."
"Well, give me a moment. I'm not as spry as once I was, which you'd know if you ever came to visit. Your cousin Leah came just last month, and brought her new husband with her. We had a lovely time. You should call Leah and—"
"Gram, Jesus Christ, they're going to kill him.” Jesse cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. No use in pissing her off. Not when he needed her.
But when she spoke again, his grandmother's voice had softened. “All right, son. You have an object the young man has touched recently?"
Jesse cast a quick glance around the office, as if something of Sean's might be lying on the floor or hanging on the wall. “I ... shit. The SIG.” He pulled the gun out of the inner pocket of his coat and put it on the counter.
"What's a SIG?” his grandmother asked. “No, don't tell me. I don't need to know. Just put your hands on it and picture the young man in your head. A memory. Something recent."
"Right.” Jesse cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, and placed both hands over the gun. He called up an image of Sean in his head, standing straight and tall against the backdrop of the winter desert. “Okay, I'm doing it."
"Good. Now you need to clear your mind of everything but that image, and let it change. Let yourself into the picture. Remember what you were doing."
Jesse saw himself next to Sean, showing him how to hold the SIG. How to stand, how to brace himself for the kickback. “Got it."
"Excellent. Now imagine you're seeing through Sean's eyes. Feeling as he felt in that moment."
"What? How the fuck is that going to—"
"Don't use that foul language with me, Jesse. I have no patience for it. Do as you're told.” Gram's voice softened again. “I'll help you. I don't know what I can do from this distance, but I'll try."
Jesse sighed and closed his eyes. He sucked in a breath and blew it out again, remembering. When he'd been teaching Sean how to use the SIG, touching his hands to position them properly on the butt of the gun, the kid had felt ... safe ... comfortable ... happy.
He smiled a little as he thought about that. Then the emotions changed, shading darker at a speed that made his breath hitch. Afraid ... wherever Sean was now, he was scared shitless and miserable...
Jesse opened his eyes. Instead of seeing the office wall, splattered with the old lady's blood, he saw a highway whizzing by as if from the back seat of a moving vehicle. Up ahead was a sign: Petaluma, 100 Miles.
"Petaluma,” he said into the phone. “That's where they're taking him. But where in Petaluma?"
When his grandmother answered, she sounded weak. Exhausted, even. “As you get closer to the young man, you'll see more details. Just keep his image in your head, front and center, and don't lose the open channel between you."
Jesse swallowed. “Thanks, Gram. I don't know how to—"
"Don't waste time. Just call me and let me know how it turns out."
"Will do. I ... I really..."
"No time for nonsense now, child. I need a nap.” And she hung up the phone.
Jesse dialed Manuel's number again. He told him what he knew—definitely headed for Petaluma, at least for now. Manny didn't ask how he'd come by this information, and Jesse said a little prayer of thanks for that.
Before he left, he grabbed the sheet off the bed in the motel room and covered the old lady behind the counter. He wished it was a clean sheet, but it was better than nothing, right? Then he got back into his truck and pointed it west on Route 80.
Every few minutes, he rested his hand on the SIG, where he'd placed it on the seat next to him. Each time, he saw that same flash of highway. Felt the surge of Sean's misery and fear. Hated it with everything inside him.
He tried not to think about what it would mean if the pictures and feelings dried up and blew away.
Chapter Ten
Jesse met Manuel in the same alley where he'd interrogated LaNay the week before.
Interrogated, sure ... except what he'd really done was roughed her up, threatened her, and got her killed. The best he could hope for was that Paco had cut her throat before he sliced off her ear, and maybe she hadn't died cursing Jesse's name. A faint hope, at best.
And then he'd gone on to take some poor kid he didn't know or care about hostage, and fuck up his life to hell and back. Would likely get him killed, too.
Yeah. Not this time.
"I don't care, Manuel. If I have to search every house in the fucking county—"
"Easy, man. We'll get your boy back. I got the skinny on a spot Paco uses to stash shit he doesn't want found. Fits in with the whole ‘smoky’ thing you called about earlier."
Somewhere around the Nevada-California border, Jesse'd laid his hand on the SIG and smelled smoke and damp rot—the distinctive scent of burnt grass spread out, scorched and ugly, under a wet North Bay winter. And the sensation of a moving vehicle beneath and around him was gone, which meant...
Well, he didn't like to think about what it meant. At best, Paco's thugs were keeping Sean somewhere warm and safe. At worst, he was lying in a ditch. But he was alive. Jesse was pretty sure of that, though he didn't know for how much longer.
He looked at Manny. “How much did that info cost you?"
Manny shrugged. “Why aren't you askin’ me where they've got your boy?"
Good point. “Tell me."
"A few miles past Petaluma, on Route 101, there's a dirt road headed east. Doesn't have a name. You take that and go back into the hills about a mile or so. Deserted farmhouse. No close neighbors. About thirty acres worth of burnt grass all around it."
"Got it.” Jesse clapped Manuel on the shoulder and turned to go. Manuel's voice stopped him.
"You think you're goin’ in there alone?"
Jesse spoke without looking back. “I don't think it, I know it. Don't argue this one with me, Manny. I got the kid into this, I'll get him out."
"He's a big strong boy, Jesse. I'm betting he can hold his own."
"He won't have to. I've got his back."
"And who the fuck's got yours?"
But Jesse was halfway out of the alley already, and he pretended not to hear.
* * * *
When it came right down to it, Sean decided he preferred being cuffed to a bed over being tied to a chair. For one thing, a single pair of police-issue handcuffs didn't cut off the circulation in both legs like a length of rope pulled wa
y too tight. On the other hand, cuffs were pretty much indestructible. The rope they'd use to tie him had been employed before—he could tell by the dark, rusty stains that looked a little too much like blood to be anything else—and there was a frayed spot just where his left wrist was bound to the arm of the chair. When he wriggled his arm, the hard edge of his cheap, expandable watchband rubbed that spot, fraying it further.
None of this would mean anything in the end, he was sure. Paco would come, and after torturing him for a while, Paco would kill him. But it made Sean feel better to try. He knew Jesse would expect at least that much.
He could hear Paco's men in the other room. Not particularly big guys. Not one of them was as tall as Jesse, or as quick or strong. They let their guns be strong for them.
So far, Sean had played meek and mild, cursing them only inside the confines of his own head. Every time they called him “faggot,” he thought about how he'd love to watch them bleed. Which made him consider how much he'd changed over the past several days. Jesse was a bad influence on his general sense of decency and good will toward men. Funny how he didn't care, only wishing Jesse would have the chance to finish corrupting him.
Sean knew he wouldn't hold onto his temper much longer, though. Every man had his breaking point. And he was going to die anyway. No sense in keeping his smart mouth to himself.
In his head he heard Jesse call him a pushy bitch, and he smiled.
They were playing cards in the other room. Poker, it sounded like. They'd taken the only lamp and left him alone in the dark, behind a closed door. The air smelled like smoke—not like Paco's ever-present cigar, which Sean had come to hate, but like burnt vegetation. There was a pile of garbage in one corner of the room. Old rags and what looked like aerosol cans. Kids must've used this place to fry their brains huffing spray paint and cleanser.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 27