Lone Rock

by Duane Lindsay

  He had to stop Beck before he got out the door. He ran three more steps when a box of ball bearings was tossed at his feet from the dim shelves. It hit is foot and parts flew everywhere, tripping him. He threw out his arms, sprawling across the smooth painted concrete before crashing into a wooden pallet. His cheek tore and blood gushed in his mouth. He heard the door open and close.

  Fuck! Shoving his body to his feet, he tottered dizzily. God Damn Beck! Rage steadied him as he lunged forward like a wounded bear, grabbing the door handle, nearly tugging it off.

  He lurched down hall, careening off the side wall. Rounding the first corner he heard the front door open, saw the sharp glint of the outside street light reflect against the metal door. For a moment the figure was silhouetted and Corley slopped cold. That wasn’t Beck.

  The shadow paused, jerked forward and vanished. Pieburn Dafari! Corley was shocked beyond words. Why would Dafari be here? But there was no doubt, the face that had stared back at him was black.

  He stopped. What do I do? He heard the sound of a car motor. It galvanized him and he raced down the hall, threw open me door, and foundered at the top of the stairs. Around the building a car emerged, engine revving, gears shifting as it roared away. Corley recognized the little green Toyota; it was Dafari. He had another clear look at a face staring wide eyed before the car swerved out onto the road.

  It fish tailed on the slippery pavement before Dafari got it under control and sped away. Corley looked at his own car and decided he couldn’t catch up. With regret, he watched the red taillights, reflected in long crimson rows on the wet street, pass Dartmouth and disappear around the curve of the Platte River.

  “Shit!” He sighed deeply and turned back into the building. Might as well find out what the little bastard was after. He could settle with him physically later. He returned to accounting, and began a long search. What had Pieburn been looking for? The records in here were accurate. Only a professional CPA, looking for a specific trail would be able to tell the books were fake.

  The real records, ones that showed how little the company had actually bought, were in the safe in Wally’s office. Thinking, his tongue tracing the raw cut on the inside of his mouth, Corley turned off the lights and wandered slowly down the hall. He flipped keys until he had the one to Wally’s door and turned on the lights. The opulence of the room shocked him, as it always did. In the middle of the night it was obscenely lavish, garishly out of place. His footsteps muffled in the thick carpet as he walked past the framed guns on the wall.

  Had anyone been in here? He didn’t think so, but couldn’t be sure. At a mahogany Danish style low boy, he dropped to one knee and tested the door. It was locked. He picked out another key and pulled at the heavy double doors. The safe was revealed behind them, also undisturbed.

  Corley had a sickening realization. If he hadn’t come blundering in here like some crazed bull, Dafari could have searched the accounting office until the end of the year and found nothing. That’s what he and Wally had planned. And it would have worked. He closed his eyes and groaned at his own stupidity.

  Wearily, Corley rose to his feet. An impulse problem, Wally said. Well, that was certainly true. If only he’d just driven away when he saw the lights. But he’d been so sure it was Adrian Beck in here, and so obsessed about him, that he hadn’t seen good sense.

  Now what? Would Dafari go to the police? If he did, what would he tell them? He couldn’t know anything, not really; everything would be just suspicions. Would that be enough? Corley had a sinking feeling that yes; it would. Suspicions would cause questions and questions would lead to investigations, and maybe that would lead to Chicago and Milwaukee and Orlando.

  He had to stop Dafari. Racing to the car with no idea in mind, he felt a deep dread at the shit storm that was coming his way.

  The Audi spun backwards, turned down the road and followed Pieburn. Why Pieburn Dafari? he wondered as he drove. What did he have against the company? Sure, he’d shoved the little creep around, but nothing serious. And nothing recently. Again his thoughts turned to Adrian Beck. Adrian the bus Vigilante. Adrian who flew through the air like an acrobat. Adrian Beck with that spooky scar across his face from a knife blade. No way Beck wasn’t dangerous. Wally was insane not to see it.

  There were lights ahead. Corley downshifted and slowed. In the distance, framed against the bright background of the electric power plant, the red and blue lights of the Denver police rotated in the night. Corley drifted to a near stop and waited until curiosity tugged him forward, foot gently on the accelerator, heart beating in his chest.

  Around a curve, the plant on his left, the Platte river low in its banks, gurgled twenty feet below. Thick trees grew sporadically, occasionally blocking the river, framing it like a painting. Corley stopped. A hundred yards ahead three police cars blocked the road, lights flashing in jangly unison. Two cars were stopped on the road. The drivers were out, standing at the high bank, looking down.

  A horn blared behind him and Corley wrenched the Audi to the side of the road. A large white wrecker roared past. Corley parked and got out of the car, drawn by a terrible sense of dread. He walked quickly on the gravel roadside, chilly in a thin white shirt, his coat back on the floor of the shop. Sharp stones stabbed through the thin soles of his Italian loafers, shoes made for dance floors, not walks along the river.

  He reached the first of the parked cars, fearing the worst. He stood at the edge, next to a short man wearing red suspenders and a flannel shirt, and looked down the bank. A car sat on its roof in the middle of the shallow stream, with steam escaping from a ruptured radiator. Around the vehicle, cops splashed in the freezing water, adding jerky motion in the glare.

  The car was green. It sat in the water like a giant dead beetle, black tires like curled legs. Corley closed his eyes and lowered his head in disbelief. He opened them again. His breath flared from his nose like ghostly vapor, swirled and dissipated.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Dunno. I just got here. Cops pulled me over. I guess the guy lost control and skidded into the river. See? You can see the marks.”

  Corley saw black lines curving on the asphalt, traced them to a pair of ruts in the weeds. He pictured Pieburn, driving in a panic, thinking he was being pursued. He saw the car swerve and veer, the wheels go off the road. The car went airborne, turned over and stopped.

  The wail of a siren pierced his re-creation. An ambulance charged by followed by a police car and a red fire engine. The two vehicles, red lights flashing, added to the macabre circus atmosphere. The white glare from the power plant turned the scene into a black and white negative.

  Down there in the frozen water, Pieburn Dafari lay dead.

  Numb with cold and emotion, Corley turned away. His shoes scraped on the pavement with a rasping grate, like sand paper on chalk.

  Christ, he thought dully. We are in some deep shit now.

  38 – A Damn Stupid, Ugly Mess

  “Oh my God, Adrian,” Maggie said as she embraced him, fresh off the plane. He hugged her back and she trembled in his arms. “Something terrible has happened.”

  “What?” He led her to a bank of orange plastic seats. They sat down, facing each other. Adrian saw she’d been crying.

  “I got a call from Ruth just before I left. She told me Pieburn had been in an accident. His car went off the road and he crashed into the Platte River,”

  “Is he all right?” Adrian asked. His stomach clenched as if waiting for a blow. People walked past them oblivious, moving in a mosaic of incomprehensible patterns.

  “He’s on life support at Porter’s. They don’t know if he’s going to make it. Ruth is freaking out. She keeps saying that it’s his fault, but she wouldn’t say who.”

  “Corley Sayres,” said Adrian.

  “The guy you’re worried about?”

  “Afraid of,” Adrian corrected. “Really afraid of. Ruth says there was an engineer before me, a guy named Randy Buckingham. She says he pissed
off Corley about something and nobody ever saw him again. He never got his check or his stuff. He just disappeared.”

  “And she thinks this Corley person chased Pieburn and ran him off the road?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like he could. He’s so physically imposing, and scary, like he’d do anything, you know?” He took her hand and stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They walked through the small terminal, got her luggage and strolled to the parking lot, each lost in thought. They reached the economy parking and Maggie gasped.

  “What happened to the car?” She tenderly traced a finger across the front fender, as if soothing it’s wounds. When she looked back at Adrian she was crying. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking about it since it happened. I think Corley did it.”

  “But why?” Maggie wasn’t used to this level of calamity. Cars driven off roads, friends on life support, clinging to life, a beautiful little car shredded like lettuce in a Veg-O-Matic. She recalled Adrian telling her of monsters in the night and she shivered, finally understanding. She shook her head at the futility of the world. “Poor little thing,” she said, about the car or themselves, she wasn’t sure.

  “Whoever did this is seriously disturbed,” she said when they were in the car and driving away. “He’s scary.”

  “I know,” Adrian said.

  She touched his hand and smiled wanly. “I know you do. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

  Adrian drove the hundred and twenty odd miles to Nevada with one hand, his other was wrapped in Maggie’s the whole trip, whether for her comfort or his own, he didn’t ask.

  “What...the...Fuck...are you doing?” Corley bellowed as he entered Wally’s office.

  Ruth, on her knees in front of the safe, shrieked and fell backwards, swallowing her gum. She lay on the floor choking as Corley towered over her.

  This Saturday morning Ruth was wearing black Chic jeans, with a little rabbit caricature on the hip. She had on long black boots and a black turtle neck sweater, her idea of a cute outfit for breaking and entering. She stared up and gagged on the gum. She’d also bit her lip when she fell and it hurt like a mother.

  “What were you doing ?” Wally asked, his voice soft. Ruth compared it to the dark scowl that Corley wore and accepted Wally’s outstretched hand gratefully. He pulled her to her feet where she stood unsteadily, wavering a little between them.

  “I’m, uh—” Ruth searched for words. What could she say?

  “She’s looking for evidence,” said Corley, pointing to the open safe. His voice sounded both bitter and triumphant. He was so close that Ruth could smell his cologne. He was dressed formally in an expensive suit, as if he’d been interrupted going to the theater. His shoes were polished to a high sheen.

  Wally, on the other hand was just rumpled; he looked like an unmade bed. His yellow shirt with the green alligator appeared to have been worn for several days and his face was unshaven. He wore bedroom slippers and no socks beneath wrinkled tan slacks. Ruth had never seen him disheveled.

  “I see,” he said. His voice was hoarse and he smelled of scotch. He stepped around her and fell heavily into his leather chair, deflating before her eyes. Corley, on the other hand was a commanding presence. He stood stiff and straight, like a stature in a Brooks Brothers suit, eyes cold and hard, appraising her, evaluating the extent of the damage she might represent. Ruth had seen gangsters on television shows with that look—or lawyers,

  “What a mess.” Wally said. “What a damn, stupid, ugly mess.” He seemed tired beyond endurance.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Clooner.” She couldn’t appeal to Corley. “I didn’t mean any harm. I was just looking—I was trying to find—”

  “What?” Corley grabbed her arm and spun her to face around. She cried out in pain.

  “Something to get to you!” She hissed. “Pieburn’s in the hospital you son of a bitch. You chased him into the river and left him to die! I hate you!” She twisted her arm to get free and surprisingly, he let go. His eyes were wide with shock.

  “He isn’t dead?” Corley asked. He seemed shaken by the news.

  “No thanks to you!”

  “He isn’t—” Corley repeated. He looked over to Wally and smiled. “He isn’t dead.”

  “Thank God!” Wally cried. He slumped back in his chair, but also acted more energized, as if this was the news that was draining him. Ever since Corley had burst into his home last night Wally Clooner had been living a nightmare. One of his engineers dead! The whole plan falling apart. Corley was becoming crazier every day, imaging threats everywhere. The pressures of maintaining two lives—the successful businessman and the thief—had become overwhelming. He felt like crying.

  Corley relaxed. His massive shoulders settled slightly and he gave an unmistakable impression of relief. He wiped sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief.

  “Did you hear that, Corley?” Wally’s voice sounded younger. “He’s not dead.” He turned back to Ruth. “How is he? Is he going to make it?”

  “No one’s saying yet. He’s got internal injuries and a concussion.” She turned to Corley. “You chased him.”

  “No. I caught him here, snooping around.” The hard look was back as he regarded her. “Just like you. But he drove away before I could reach my car.” Unspoken, but understood was that he would have chased him, if he could have.

  “And we’re back to what are you doing here? And what are we going to do with you?”

  Worried, Ruth moved closer to Wally. “Do with me? You don’t have to do anything with me. I didn’t see anything. I was just getting started.”

  “What were you after?”

  “I’m sorry. I just...I thought you’d hurt Pieburn and I wanted to get back at you. He never hurt anyone and I liked him and I thought— I thought—” She took a deep breath. “I know you guys are doing something illegal back here, and I don’t care, really I don’t. It’s none of my business. I even told that to Adrian when he asked me to snoop. I said I won’t—”

  She was drowned out by a roar from Corley. Without any warning he slapped her across the face, sending her flying back to the carpet. She hit her head on the edge of the low boy and started to black out. He grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her to her feet.

  “What did you say? What did you say?” He released one arm and slapped her again. Blood seeped from the corner of her mouth and her hair was tangled and wild. “What about Beck?” He demanded.

  “Nothing! Stop it.” Ruth pulled against his grip, then kicked him. “I didn’t do anything! I told you.” She was crying and the tears made black streaks through her makeup. “He wanted me to find out about you but said I wouldn’t help him. I said it!”

  “What did he want?” Corley leaned in to yell at her and she cringed away, still held in his grasp. “What. Did. He. Want?”

  “Stop it. I can’t—” Ruth was nearly hysterical. “I didn’t help him!”

  “Why not? You came here on your own.”

  “That was different! That was because of because of Pieburn. Because you hurt him. That was more important—”

  “More important than what?”

  “Than my job. I didn’t want to lose my job. I like working here. I like the money and the clothes and the...I told him no. I told him no.”

  Corley let her go and she fell to the carpet. hiccupping with sobs.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Wally shouted.

  He was getting out of the chair when Corley turned on him.

  “Adrian Beck! God Damn It! Everywhere I turn it’s Adrian Beck! You fucking asshole, you told me Beck wasn’t a problem. He’s a weakling, you said!” Corley yelled in frustration. “I listened to you. I listened! I said he was dangerous. I saw him jump off that tower in Utah. Couldn’t be, you said. I showed you the articles, the bus Vigilante, but you said no, couldn’t be. Adrian Beck is trouble. He’s been after us from the beginning and he’s going to destroy u
s.”

  “Corley,” Wally said weakly. He was cringing in his chair, clearly terrified. His partner had run amok. “Get a hold of yourself. Please.”

  “Get a hold of myself?” All the pent up frustrations, the rigidly suppressed fears came tumbling out of Corley like bile. “Get a hold of myself? Screw getting a hold of myself. And screw you. I was right all along. If you’d let me take care of Beck like I wanted we wouldn’t be in this mess now. It’s your fault, Clooner. God dammit, it’s your fault.”

  He stopped and stood stock still, breathing heavily. His eyes darted around the room, searching internally for a release from this rage. “Okay,” he said. “Oh-Kay. I can handle this. You!” He pointed at Wally. “You’ve got to take care of Ruth. We can’t let her go. I’ll manage Adrian Beck.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make him sorry he ever heard of me, that’s what I’m going to do.” He picked up the computer monitor and ripped it from the desk, threw it across the room where it smashed into pieces. He swept his arm across the desk, hurling papers everywhere.

  He grabbed at one of the framed pistols on the wall and tugged. but it didn’t come loose. “What’s the matter with this? Does this work?”

  “No.” Wally whined from the chair, completely cowed. “They’re just display. And what do you want with a gun?”

  “What do I want? I want to shoot Adrian Beck.”

  “But he’s in Utah!”

  “What?”

  “There are tests going on,” Wally said. His voice hardly rose above a whisper. “He drove out a couple of days ago.”

  “He drove out? In that stupid little car of his?”

  “I guess. I don’t know.”

  Corley reached over and pulled open a desk drawer. He dug handfuls of paper out, throwing them to the floor. “A gun,” he said. “Where the hell’s your gun?” he opened a side drawer and repeated the carnage.