Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series)

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  “Have your seat? Where are you?”

  I told him.

  “That’s not far from the church. How about I meet you there? We can discuss the basics and decide if another more detailed meeting is in order.”

  I paused for effect. “Okay…sure. I’m wearing corduroys, a short sleeve dress shirt. I’m the only one here with a laptop at the moment.”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes at the outside. I’ll be there, Mr. MacDonald.”

  “John,” I said. “Call me John, please.”

  “I hope we can do business, John.”

  IT TOOK HIM ELEVEN minutes. I was positioned across the street so that I could see his approach. Some might wonder why risk this in broad daylight, but it has been my experience that most people are too involved with their own lives to give any notice to another’s. People have been known to ignore screams, gunshot sounds, even pedestrians who’ve fallen on the sidewalk in front of them.

  Noah Avery emerged from his vehicle—some small foreign job—and moved briskly toward the coffee shop. In a moment he’d enter, see the unemployed crime writer and make a practiced approach. Then confusion would cloud his face and he’d walk back outside in a disappointed daze. I would exploit the chaos of his thoughts and add to his disappointment.

  As I expected Noah stepped out a beat later, grasping for his cell phone as he looked up the street to his right. I’d closed the distance between us to an arm’s length by the time he turned his attention to the left.

  He nearly dropped the cell phone.

  “Corduroy is a little underdressed for such an important business meeting, don’t you think, Noah?”

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “Wonderful. We can all chat about your brother, Huck.” I studied his reaction and added, “Don’t fret, Noah. Come on. Let’s go for a quick ride and talk this through.”

  “Hell no.”

  I clucked my tongue. “Such language.”

  “I’ll yell.”

  “Why do you do that?” I asked.

  “Do what?” he dumbly asked.

  “Announce what you’re planning to do.”

  “I…”

  “Exactly. It’s silly. Imagine me telling you that I have someone positioned in the building across the street with a rifle fixed on your lying little head.” He looked nervously in that direction. “And if I give my man the signal he’s going to effectively cancel your church’s revival because the Bishop will be busy writing your eulogy.”

  Noah’s eyes searched the building. Searched every dark window.

  “I’m kidding about the rifle, Noah.”

  He looked at me again. “Are you really?”

  I smirked and shrugged. “Maybe. How deep is your faith?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Let’s ride and talk about your brother.”

  He looked around. A few people traveled the sidewalks but they didn’t look as though they’d be of any help to him.

  “I can snatch you right now, Noah. No one would try to stop me. Someone might see it happening but they would get my details all wrong later when they talked to the authorities. My height, weight, race even.” I paused. “Make a decision now. By the way, I’m the relaxed one. My sniper’s probably growing impatient.”

  Defeated, Noah’s shoulders slumped and he moved toward his car, his gaze fixed on the building across the street the entire time.

  We’d traveled less than a mile when we came to a light. I’d scouted the area earlier, knew every opportunity that existed for me over the next five blocks. This was a perfect moment and place to make my move.

  “Noah?”

  “What?” he said, exasperated, turning to face me…

  Making the head butt simple.

  WHILE NOAH ATTENDED TO his face, I struggled more than I had imagined to reach across his body and legs in the tight space and take control of the vehicle. Somehow I managed to maneuver it down the alley just off to our right. There was a Dumpster in the alley but it was rusted and unused. Two doors led into the buildings that comprised the alley but neither space inside was inhabited. I parked just beyond the Dumpster, shielded us from view, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys. Noah Avery moaned beside me and soaked up the blood seeping from his ruined mouth and nose with his fingers. I reached across him again, found the door handle and pushed open the door. Shoved him out. He was a sobbing heap as I walked around the back of the vehicle and met him on the driver’s side.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he cried.

  “I did. Now talk to me about your brother.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “This is too much.”

  “Your brother…”

  “Is a maniac,” he said. The immediate candor surprised me.

  “How does he play into this?” I asked.

  “Oh…Jesus.”

  “How does he play into this?” I repeated.

  “Jesus…Jesus.”

  I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and roughly stood him. “How…does…he…play…into…this?”

  “I set it all in motion,” he stammered, “and it got out of control. Jesus, Jesus, it got out of control.”

  “CANDACE ISN’T AN ADULT in Bishop’s eyes,” Noah said, snorting and crying still. “He believes watching over her as he does will protect her from harm, that there are people who’d exploit her and he must single-handedly stop them all. But he’s stunted her growth more than her…disability. What happens when he’s gone?”

  “You’re in love with her,” I said, smiling as realization took hold.

  “We’re in love with each other,” he corrected.

  “So how does that tie in with Sweet and Nevada?”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “Don’t stop talking now, Noah.”

  “They came to the church claiming to be Bishop’s children. He’s a prominent man with money. People make wild claims all the time. I was ready to dismiss them, tell him about it thinking we’d share a laugh. But then Bishop acknowledged it was true. The hypocrite.”

  Noah’s sudden anger trumped his fear. Best to let him feed off of that, I thought, keeping quiet.

  “Illegitimate children,” he sneered. “And he has the nerve to walk around with his nose in the air. No one is as pious as he. He is the all powerful One. Two bastard children show up after more than twenty years and he can take them out to eat, flash his black Amex card, and all is forgotten and forgiven.”

  “That made you angry?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “And so…”

  “I decided Candace was better off without Bishop in her life. I would take care of her myself. The only thing I was missing was…”

  “Money,” I said. “You set up the extortion.”

  “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t know how to do that. I reached out to my brother. He handled everything. I just handled the money end.”

  “Where’s the money now?”

  “Huck took it all. I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Where’s Nevada?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your brother killed Sweet,” I said, raising my voice. “Did you know that?’

  “Yes,” he cried. “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him to?” I yelled.

  “No!”

  “Where’s Nevada?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, sobbing louder. “It’s gotten way out of control. My brother isn’t talking. I don’t know.”

  “Your brother runs with a man called Uncle John. Is he involved in this too?”

  “It’s all Huck. He’s out of control. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You’re going to kill me? Please. Oh, Jesus, Jesus…Jesus. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I love Candace. You can understand that. It’s Huck. My brother is sick. Jesus. He’s sick. Jesus
…Jesus.”

  “Noah,” I said calmly. “Stop it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are.”

  “You’re going to kill me?”

  “Your brother has to be dealt with, Noah. I’ve looked into his eyes and…”

  “I know. I know. I messed up. I shouldn’t have involved him. I am so sorry I involved him.”

  I held out my arms for comfort.

  I’m a violent man, much in the way his brother is. It’s there in my eyes, too. But our human desire for comfort in our weakest moments is far greater than reason. Noah fell into my arms without a second thought. Fell into my arms like a child.

  I didn’t wait more than a second before I rammed Noah Avery into the brick wall of the building. His head jolted back and exploded like a pumpkin on impact. It was a sick sound that sadly I’ve heard before. The light in his eyes dimmed before his body hit the filthy ground.

  “Never announce your plans,” I whispered before walking off, leaving him to rot.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  HOW’S IT TO KILL someone? You feel anything after?

  I’d ignored JW’s questions on the last day of his life, but as with most things of a tricky nature they couldn’t be avoided forever. With every death resulting from my hands I moved closer to my own demise. Each shuddering last breath was a new reminder of how mortal all of us are, myself included. Here’s my final truth, one that I won’t run from again: I’ve always been unsettled by seeing the light dim in someone’s eyes, that crowning dash of confusion right before the end. It takes a certain kind of spirit to kill without feeling. How’s it to kill someone? You feel anything after?

  Too much. You feel way too much.

  I literally shook my head, cleared these thoughts from my mind.

  My breath was rank, my throat raw. I’d made it only a few blocks from Noah Avery’s fallen corpse before I had to stop, retching so violently I expected to see blood in my vomit. The effort drained me. A slick of sweat covered my skin now. I reached my car, parked a block beyond the coffee shop, and sunk down like a stone behind the wheel. I took two, three, four deep breaths and made my first attempt at easing the key in the ignition. It took several more attempts before I was successful.

  I drove in a daze, wandering around for several hours, not realizing I’d done so until I made a turn onto Elm Street. The sun had set a while before and the street had a dark feel to match my mood. I found a spot maybe a hundred yards from Nevada’s front door. The distance seemed daunting but I vaulted out of the car without hesitation and started walking for home. A light burned next door to the Rubalcaba’s but their house was dark. Siobhan had called my cell not long after I took Noah Avery out of his misery. “Not only can I read your face,” she’d said, “but I can read your voice, too. What have you done?”

  I stumbled around for an answer, unable to come up with a suitable one.

  “I’m hanging up,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “Let me explain,” I finally managed.

  “No. I’m hanging up. If we keep talking I’ll say something we’ll both regret later.”

  Again.

  Once again I was a killer.

  “Don’t turn around,” a voice called from the shadows behind me now, breaking my thoughts. “Open the door and step inside about five feet. Leave the door open, keys in the lock.”

  I knew this moment would come. I did as told.

  He rushed in behind me, closed the door, took the keys from the lock and threw the deadbolt in place. I stood frozen, watching him. He jangled my keys as he walked toward me. His right hand held the familiar .38.

  “I’m going to pat you down,” he said. “Then we can get started.”

  It was a reckless thing to do, but once he was close enough I quickly raised my right hand and jabbed jabbed jabbed at his face. The .38 could have accidentally discharged, but luckily it remained silent in the most important way, falling from his grip and making a meaningless noise as it hit the carpet. I kicked it away. He stumbled down the hall, hitting the walls like a pinball, trying to get his bearings. I took a running start and wrapped him up by the waist, his arms pinned as I tackled him football-style. Unable to break his fall, his head bounced hard off the ground. It didn’t sound like an exploding pumpkin but his brain was jarred just the same. He lay motionless. I stood to my feet, brushed off my pants, and got to work.

  “HOJOJITSU,” I SAID AS Rad came to. I suppose the hot water blasting from the shower had something to do with his awakening. He squirmed in the chair I had him tied to but was unable to escape the scalding spray. I had not bothered to gag him or tape his mouth, and so a tortured song escaped his lips. After several notes I was satisfied enough to turn the water off.

  “There are four rules in hojojitsu,” I said calmly. Rad moaned and blinked water and blood from his eyes. “Don’t allow your prisoner to slip his bonds. Don’t cause your prisoner mental or physical injury. Do not allow anyone but the initiated to see your technique. Make your knots look attractive.” I smiled. “Three out of four isn’t too bad, wouldn’t you say?”

  Rad did not say anything. His face was lobster-red, the skin broken and bloodied in places, his hair and clothes dripping water.

  “This knot is called a cross,” I went on. “Loop the end of the rope at the back of your neck. Place the plain end through the loop and down, then around the upper right arm, under the arm and across the back of the left arm. Then you bring the rope across horizontally to hold everything in place, and through the part coming down from the neck. Wrap around your wrists two or three times. Voila.”

  “You’re a dead man,” he said finally.

  “I suppose so. What were you planning to do to me?”

  “Assist you in leaving Newark,” he sneered.

  “We tried that already. Somehow you led me off course.”

  He looked away.

  “I spotted you when I first drove up,” I said. “So I took a key off my ring. You played it just how I would have. Come up from behind on the sneak. Tell me to leave my keys in the door. You couldn’t have known I had a free key to use as a weapon. So…overall, well done, Rad.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I looked around thoroughly as I walked to the house. Shepard isn’t with you. So it’s just you and me.”

  “You’d like to think so.”

  “It hasn’t been a good day for me, Rad. And you were looking to make it worse. That bothers me.” I reached behind me, the small of my back, came out with a switchblade I had trapped in the waist of my pants. “Fortunately you don’t get any say in how this day ends after all. I get to play God for the moment.”

  The blade glinted as I raised my arm. He struggled with the bonds, rocking the chair, mewling like a wounded cat. I reached my hand forward and…

  Started cutting him loose.

  He stopped rocking and looked at me curiously.

  “I’m as surprised as you are,” I said. “But I’m done with all of this.”

  “What is this bullshit?”

  “Setting you free.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  I placed the switchblade on his lap and literally wiped my hands. Siobhan was weighing heavily on my mind. The killing had to end at some point.

  “You’ve gone soft,” Rad said.

  “You know better than that,” I said. “Something just crossed my mind. We can help each other.”

  “Why would I help you with anything?”

  “There’s about two hundred thousand dollars waiting for you if you help me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I nodded and turned to leave him to do as he pleased.

  “Hey,” he called.

  I turned back.

  “What kind of help did you need?” he asked.

  I told him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE ROOM WAS WINDOWLESS and bare except for the cot he slept on, a nightstand, and a rickety chair. He had none of the pleasures of young men his age: n
o music CDs or movie DVDs, no television, no nudie calendar, not even an open pack of condoms in the nightstand. He wore dark jeans, white athletic socks with holes in the toes, a sleeveless T-shirt. His hair was unkempt and matted with lint, his face unshaved, a sour smell rising from his skin like heat from a sewer grate in mid-August. His snore made a sound like a disconnected engine hose, so vigorous it woke him up.

  Even in the dark, he realized he was not alone, and as if to confirm the knowledge one of them said, “Moses.”

  One of them.

  He counted two figures in the dark. One of the figures shined the beam of a flashlight in his eyes.

  “The hell,” he said, covering his face and turning away from the light. When he turned back a beat later the flashlight was dead and so was any hope that he would survive this.

  “Fuck you,” he said for no reason other than it sounded hard.

  They snatched the thin cover off him and dragged him from the bed. It happened so quickly he was unable to put up any resistance. He landed on the floor with a thump, turned to see a pair of rain galoshes by his face. Rolling the other way he spotted another pair of the same basic black galoshes. Looking up—the rain suits. And he’d miscalculated. Four of ‘em, not two.

  The first kick cracked one of his ribs. The second split his lip and tore several teeth right out of the comfort of his gums. The third ruined any chance he had, however minute, of ever having children. Again, he had no fight as they lifted him and sat him up on the one chair the room offered.

  “Say something,” he screamed after a while. Their silence was maddening. You gonna mess somebody up the least you can do is tell ‘em why.

  The flashlight beam exploded in his face again. One of the men had him quickly by his right shoulder. Another by his left. A third holding his head so he couldn’t turn away. The punch came from behind the light and splattered his nose like balsa wood. The one holding his head forced his mouth open. He tried to bite down on the guy’s fingers but was no match for the man’s inhuman strength. If his nose had not been broken he would have smelled the gun oil and wood chips; as it was, he tasted the coldness of the .38 they eased into his mouth.