by Jeb Bohn
“Fuck me runnin’.” His eyes fixated on the message displayed on screen:
-scanning for receptors…
-1 receptor located
-Distance: 0.0426126 Miles
-Connect to these receptors? {Y/N}
“Not yet.” The urge was there, the desire to see if his drink additive would serve its purpose. Yeah, the mystery man was shown to be on-line, but would it work? He supposed it didn’t matter. Wether through technology or bullets, this was going to come to an end. He returned the laptop and closed the trunk, pondering his next move. The side of the old tree made for a slightly uncomfortable resting spot, but it would do for now. Watching the room, he began dozing off. Like clockwork, he would wake up every fifteen minutes, see no movement, and nod off again.
This routine continued as the sun broke the horizon. He started to nod off again when the door opened. Out stepped the woman whose shape he had seen last night, her face now bathed in sunlight. He picked up the field glasses to get a better look.
“I’ll be a sheep-shaggin’ Welshman. What manner of fuckery is this?”
The woman in the doorway was one he had talked to on the night he first met Schultz. He thought about the photo that Herman had sent and the confusion around her true identity; the burnt body in Louisiana. He had anticipated wrinkles. Schultz’s psychosis had been an abrupt turn, but not wholly unforeseen. This? He didn’t know what to make of this.
With that thought in mind he watched the driver walk out. The binoculars fell from his hands as his mouth mimicked their downward motion. His breathing took on an odd rhythm; his heart slamming against his sternum.
“What?”
The word left his lips as a whisper. His mind knew that he wasn’t seeing what his eyes were showing him. That didn’t stop something deep in his gut telling him otherwise. This nagging, internal voice refused to yield. No sir, your eyes don’t deceive you. Oh, don’t worry, there won’t be any tearful reunion. Well, you’ll probably have to put a bullet in his head...
When he snapped back to reality, the car was gone. His cheeks were damp, his throat dry. As he stood, his legs buckled, refusing to hold his weight. All at once he was twelve again, watching his father hit his mother. The impotence he felt seeing his brother beaten unconscious. His fortitude was gone, washed away like a town downstream from a dam break. The world around him began to tilt. He gained his feet, managing a few swaying steps before collapsing, his forehead kissing the top of the trunk as he fell gracelessly to the ground.
When he came to some three hours later, his target was passing the Fishlake National Forest, cutting a path towards the Northwest corner of Arizona.
The Devil’s in the Details
“What’s wrong with you?” Melanie Stroud, or rather the woman who had assumed her identity, asked. Her face was austere, her tone bitter. Michael Conacher, the target of her indignation, had been sullen for the past several hours. She couldn’t allow this, not when they were so close to their big payday. Once this business was finished, she would be able to retire. He had served his purpose well but she wasn’t about to let him jeopardize everything. Being within spitting distance of that dream had brought out a cold edge in her.
That, however, wasn’t the source of her frustration. She had crisscrossed the country, playing any role necessary to bring their dream to life. She had done everything short of murder, which fell to her distracted partner. Her work had destroyed Greg Schultz’s team and the last of his sanity. It had also brought them to within spitting distance of the finish line. Now was no time to lose focus. “Michael,” she shouted, accenting his name with a strong shove.
“Hey, don’t fuck with the driver. You want to get us killed?”
“At least I know you can still speak. What the hell is going on? You haven’t said a word since we left that shit hole.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You never go more than ten-seconds without saying something.” She held up a hand, her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “We’re this close.”
“I know exactly where we stand and I sure as hell don’t need you reminding me.” He stared at her, completely ignoring the road ahead. She reached for the wheel as the car drifted slightly into the opposing lane. He grabbed her wrist, giving it a painful squeeze. “Don’t.”
She jerked her hand away, her lips drawing tight. “Asshole. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you’d better sort it out. The line between wealth and death is a very fine one for us.”
He smirked, blowing air through his nose. “That’s pretty good, maybe you should write a memoir about all this.” He held out his hands, pantomiming a marquee. “My Life as a Grifter, or maybe How to Lie, Cheat, and Steal Your Way to the Top.”
“Fuck you.”
“Better watch out, you won’t make Oprah’s Book Club with language like that.”
Her only response was to scoff. That was fine. He turned his full attention back to the road, the lines beginning to hypnotize him. The hell of it was that she was right. He was distracted and losing focus. He had no idea why, but it was taking a toll on his temperament. Sometime around his arrival at Sam Wright’s house, he had been struck by something. You could press a gun against his temple and he wouldn’t be able to explain it. It was something familiar yet distant, like seeing your old car (minus the faded Metallica decal) years after selling it.
She was also right in calling him out for putting their job in peril. He had been summoned to Wright’s house only to find it empty. There had been no sign of forced entry. Everything inside was undisturbed until he got to the office. The desk was overturned and there was blood on the carpet. It was a small amount; maybe Wright had fallen and ended up in the hospital. Then he had seen the letter opener, its silver blade glinting in the moonlight through a film of blood.
It was Schultz. He hadn’t thought the man had the balls to do it. Blowing up empty buildings with a small army was one thing but going full Rambo like this was another level. Maybe the pencil-pusher would prove a worthy adversary. Don’t kid yourself, asshole, it’s worse than that. You’ve put so much effort into pushing him over the edge yet you had no idea how he’d react after going over. You’d better pray that he’s not riding around in one of those rolling bombs. That’s a big fucking equalizer.
“Michael!”
His inner dialogue was displaced by the air horn of an oncoming Peterbuilt. He swerved, the passenger side dropping two inches onto the soft shoulder, the tires failing to find traction as the rear end swapped places with the front. The smell of hot rubber filled the cabin as the car came to rest. Conacher slumped in his seat, his head having struck the steering wheel during the fiasco. A small trickle of blood dripped down the side of his face.
The trucker, filled with a mixture of anger and relief, continued on his way. He would tell his friends later that he saw a woman get out of the passenger side. She was walkin’ fine so everything musta been peaches and cream, right?
She walked around the car, opening the driver’s door and checking for a pulse. He was still alive, just had his bell rung. “That, Michael, is why you should always wear your seatbelt.” Seeing no traffic, she hauled him out and dropped him onto the dirt face-first, his nose crunching under his weight. A trickle of blood began forging a small river in the dust. “Sorry, sugar, you’re too big of a liability.” She leveled a revolver at him, firing one shot into his back when something caught her eye.
Sunlight was flaring off the windshield of an approaching vehicle. She pivoted and slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Nothing. “Come on, you piece of shit.” As if in protest, the engine turned over but refused to fire. With the oncoming car drawing closer, she said a silent prayer and tried again. The engine came to life just as the coming auto disappeared behind a small hill. Her jubilation was interrupted by a shriek, the outburst brought on by the sight of Michael trying to sit up. Easing forward, she threw the door open and struck him in the head, spilling him into the ditch.
/>
“Don’t stop, just keep on your merry fucking way.” The passerby, not interested in being a good Samaritan, offered only a cursory glance before moving along. A peek outside showed no movement in the ditch and a large puddle of blood in the dirt. A dry cough escaped, all the moisture seeming to move from her throat into her eyes. The car moved off, swinging around to resume it southwestern course.
◆◆◆
Everything was black except for shards of falling glass. These weren’t tiny particles of tempered glass; these were thick fragments carrying the stink of cheap whiskey. Sounds began to fill in the darkness. A man was screaming. The anguished cries of a woman rose in a swell. He heard the voice of a child calling a name out over and over. It wasn’t his name and it wasn’t the name of anyone he knew. All the same, he knew the voice was calling to him and that overwhelming sense of familiarity returned.
Pete! Pete!
The voice belonged to a young boy. It was unfamiliar yet the sound resonated with him, dragging a memory up from the depths of his mind. A man was standing in front of him, his face twisted by rage. At his feet lay a woman, mascara streaking down her face; blood oozed from a wound at her hairline. This sight triggered a reaction and he lunged at the man. Before he could do anything, a great pain erupted in his head and the darkness returned.
The voice was back, repeating that same name. As it continued, the voice changed from that of a boy to one of a man.
“Pete?”
Things slowly began to come into focus: a dim light hanging from the ceiling and, in front of that, a face. He was weak. Every movement he made filled his midsection with fire. Gritting his teeth, he tried to sit up but found he couldn’t move his hands. He spoke, the words barely carrying enough momentum to break his lips. “Where am I?” He tried to lean forward again, this time feeling restraints around his wrists and ankles. “What the fuck is this?”
“Lay back and relax, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
What happened? He tried to think back as grogginess lulled his mind. An accident. He had run off the road. That’s all he could remember. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
“Your traveling partner? From what I gather, she shot you up and took off.”
He laughed, pain radiating from his chest, head, and shoulder. “No, she didn’t. She wouldn’t. You, on the other hand, I don’t know you. For all I do know, you’re the one who did this.”
“Okay, boss, you go on and think that.” The Tall Man cut the restraints. He helped Michael sit up and handed him a small container. Inside it were a couple of .22 caliber bullets.
“This supposed to mean something to me?”
“Those are the slugs I pulled out of you.” Pulling out an assortment of handguns, the Tall Man placed each one on the table next to Michael. “What don’t you see?”
Michael scoffed. “Of course you’re not gonna show me the gun you shot me with, I’m not an idiot.”
“Yeah, the jury’s still out on that. Look at what’s there. Nothing that fires anything small than 9 mil. I don’t have much use for a .22 so I don’t carry one, but I bet you know someone who does.”
Michael looked at the man to assess his intentions. The stranger met his gaze.
“Your eyes are brown.”
Michael squinted, his head pounding. “What?”
“They used to be blue.”
He pulled himself off the table and collapsed onto the floor. He pushed the stranger away as he moved in to help.
“Jesus, you really don’t remember me, do you Pete?”
“Why the hell do you keep calling me that? My name’s Michael.”
“Now, maybe. What do you remember about your childhood?” What he said next triggered another memory in Michael’s damaged brain. “Do you remember Mae?”
“What?”
“She was your sister. Died when she was six.”
“Only child. Try again.”
“Yeah. Something in your eyes tells me that you know that isn’t true.”
“Fuck you.”
“Your father was a drunk, turned hard on your mother. You stood up to him and he showed you the business end of a whiskey bottle, put you in a coma.”
“My parents died in a car accident, asshole. That’s what put me in a coma.”
“Oh yeah? Who told you that, Pete?”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Think about it, Pete. Think hard. Do you really remember a crash, or do you remember what they told you? Think.”
“If you’re gonna kill me, do it already.”
“Think!” The stranger swung, striking Michael across the face with the back of his hand. He tried to fight back but his legs refused to hold him up. The stranger stopped him from falling, pressing his forehead against Michael’s. “If I wanted you dead, I woulda left you in that ditch, now knock that shit off and think, Pete.”
Pete. Pete. Pete.
The name echoed in Michael’s head. The bass slowly dropped out of the man’s voice. This continued until it matched the voice of the boy in his memory; same cadence, same inflection. The boy’s face materialized out of the shadows. It began changing; growing and aging until it matched that of the man standing in front of him. An invisible weight slammed into his chest. White fireworks exploded across his field of vision. Everything began to distort, flickering and stretching like a filmstrip on the verge of snapping. His breathing accelerated, his body unable to take in enough oxygen.
He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. The air rushing down his throat was thick and hot, choking him. Each successive breath brought less oxygen until he was on the verge of losing consciousness. He had heard of a phenomenon called dry drowning and wondered if it might feel something like this. The stranger’s face came back into focus, now carrying a weight and meaning that cut through the disorientation.
“I don’t know if I can get through to you and it’s probably foolish that I try, but I just can’t bring myself to put you down.” The Tall Man laid a hand on the side of Pete’s head, his jaw clenched. He knew that he was about to lose his brother all over and he cursed the men who were responsible. “You ever lie awake at night, feeling like something’s missing? Maybe you couldn’t put your finger on what it was, but you just knew something greater was at play?”
The Tall Man stared, seeing the face of his ten year old brother. His body temperature went up when he thought about what had been done to him. His youth had been stolen, his mind twisted. As adults, they had become the same, a fact that sparked a bitter chuckle. The difference, of course, was that he had made the choice himself; Pete had been robbed of possibility.
“Our father was a drunken bastard. The nights he got tanked up and belligerent, really belligerent, I’d put you and Mae out the window and tell you both to hide. I used his old army flashlight to signal to you, remember that?” He smiled weakly, hope breaking his voice. “Long flashes to stay put; three short ones for all clear. Pete?”
The story drew nothing more than a blank stare. The Tall Man turned and walked outside on unsteady legs. A fresh cigarette failed to slow his wildly revving mind. Before he knew it he was punching the side of the barn; his fist slamming down repeatedly as he gritted his teeth against the pain. By the third and fourth strikes, matted bits of skin clung to the wood; by the fifth and sixth, blood ran down his arm, leaving a thick, warm trail. He leaned forward, his head coming to rest against the old structure, his hat lifting off the back of his head.
“Get your shit together, asshole.”
Shaking his damaged hand, he walked through the open door. The stale odor left by generations of livestock struck his nostrils while his eyes scanned the interior. “Pete?” The question hung in the air as the obvious set in: Pete was gone. He bolted for the front door as the engine of his car turned over, running through clouds of dust as the taillights shrank into the distance.
“Shit.” The word carried across the open land as his thoughts turned to the control unit in the trunk. His ace in the hole
was gone, his phone along with it. Another profanity exploded from his mouth as the taste of warm copper filled his throat. He headed down the dirt path, knowing that he had precious little time to ponder his next move.
◆◆◆
“He’s right, y’know.”
“Yeah, he probably is.”
“But that’s not gonna change anything, is it?”
“Nope.”
“Look, Herman, I know you’ve been dealing with a lot and I can’t imagine the fucked up places your mind has taken you, but getting your damned head shot off won’t fix anything.”
Herman popped a cigarette into his mouth. “Oh, I beg to differ, Raymond. Remember that you’re talking to a guy who just tried to off himself? Now I’m sitting in my car, the same car in which I tried to kill myself, mind you, talking to a ghost.” He flicked his lighter, cocking an eye towards the passenger seat. “You are a ghost, aren’t you?”
“I err towards being a figment of your fucked up imagination but what do I know, I’m dead. So, is this your second attempt?”
“Let me ask you something, Ray. I’m fairly confident I know your answer, what with you being a manifestation of my psychosis, but what the hell.”
“Sure, it’s your delusion after all.”
“Do you ever think about death, or did you, before, I mean? I ask because that’s all I can think about. If I have a coughing fit, I think it’s cancer. My arm hurts because I slept on it wrong, heart attack. I didn’t used to be this, this neurotic, but now it’s my life’s motif.”
“For a smart guy you can be really obtuse. You spend all your time researching and writing about some of the worst people on the face of the earth. It rubs off on you, y’know? Most people combat that by separating themselves from it; they indulge a hobby, go for a hike; anything to protect their psyche from the darkness.”