Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between

by Myers, Brendan P.

  That said, this other man had remained a mystery. Dugan recalled watching him that night, etching his face into his memory, and being quite certain even then that this man was the crueler of the two. John Arthur killed because it was his job and because those he killed he did not deem human. This man killed because he could, and because he liked it, and because he was good at it. He was a professional. For Dugan, who had dwelled long and hard upon it in the months afterward, and returned to it with renewed insight once he was fully a creature of the night, the man’s mien and demeanor could mean only one thing: he was an agent of the CIA, or a similar, perhaps more shadowy but equally clandestine government agency.

  Of course, the foremost reason Dugan had concluded a meeting like this was the most logical culmination to their cloak and dagger evening was something else that had long been on his mind, ever since he and his uncle had made their escape to Mexico. That is, it had been almost too easy.

  Not that any of it had been “easy,” mind you. It’s just that, although Dugan had abducted John Arthur’s son and was fully prepared to kill him should Arthur betray him, Dugan couldn’t help but believe he wouldn’t get away with it. Even if Arthur went along with his scheme in a desperate attempt to get his son back, there would be others out there, like this man, who would never let him cross the border. That he did get away with it, and not just away with it, but to have new passports issued and the skids greased allowing them to cross into Mexico unmolested, no, something else was going on. To Dugan, that something else had always been that they were saving him for something. With this man’s sudden appearance, it seemed the butcher’s bill for all of it was about to come due.

  And so, while doing his best to keep his face an inscrutable blank, trying not to betray that he had seen this man before, he fortified himself with the knowledge that perhaps, in the next few minutes, the years long question of who this man was, what he wanted from him, and why he had been saved, would finally be answered.

  4

  Dugan sent a furtive glance toward his uncle and knew immediately he had no recollection of the man, though that came as no surprise. Given his condition at the time, blinded and choking from the gas they had used to smoke them both out of their hotel room, he was certain his uncle had not seen him that night on the balcony. And whatever interaction this man may have had with his uncle in those long months of captivity, he had evidently been cagey enough to remain behind the scenes.

  “Well, then,” Esquinaldo said tactfully. “I must return to my guests. I will leave you gentleman to it.” With a quick bow, and a smart, though anachronistic click of his heels, he was gone.

  The blond man still smiled inanely, his wired-looking eyes darting first to Dan and then to Dugan, though more and more keeping their bleary focus on Dugan. Just when the awkward pause was about to become interminable, he strolled toward Dan and held out his hand.

  “Hi, there,” the man said genially. “The name’s Richards. Duane Richards. I’m with the United Stated Government, and I’m here to help!” He cackled at his own joke while taking Dan’s tentatively proffered hand.

  “How do you do,” Dan said with a touch of forced politeness. “Not that you don’t already know, but my name is Dan Proctor, and this here’s my–”

  “Oh, I know who he is,” Richards said effusively, letting go of Dan’s hand and shifting his gaze toward Dugan. “I understand belated birthday greetings are in order, young man. I hope you had a good one.”

  After a long few seconds, Dugan replied. “It was alright.”

  The two sized each other up for a long stretch until Richards clapped his hands together.

  “Okay, then. I tell you what. Let’s get right down to business.” He moved to take a seat behind the desk, gesturing Dan and Dugan take the two leather visitor chairs in front of it. Once all were seated, he lifted just one of his sockless and sandal-clad feet and parked it on the desk.

  “First of all, I’m genuinely sorry for the short notice in bringing you here,” he began. “Couldn’t be helped, though. As you’ve probably already guessed, what we have going on is a little time sensitive.”

  “What, exactly, do ‘we’ have going on?” asked Dan distrustfully.

  “What we have going on, Mr. Proctor, is that I find myself in need of your services – well, not yours, of course. I am in need of Dugan’s services.” Smiling, he turned to Scott. “Hope you don’t mind me calling you that?”

  Dugan slowly shook his head, but a quiver wriggled up his spine just the same. He hadn’t been called by that name in a very long time, and those who did call him that, he counted as friends.

  “Anyhoo,” Richards went on, “long story short, we have ourselves a situation down south of the border that I’m certain you can help us with. Shouldn’t take very long. Couple of days, maybe. A week, tops. So, what do you say?” He kept right on smiling during the long intermission that followed.

  Dan broke the silence. “Look, Mr. Richards,” he began.

  “Call me Duane,” Richards interjected with a hint of irritation.

  “Mr. Richards,” Dan repeated, his teeth starting to clench. “We aren’t going anywhere, with you, or with anyone else.” Standing, he turned to his nephew and said, “Scott, let’s–”

  “Sit . . . down,” Richards bellowed, punctuating his order with a slap of his hand upon the desk. The booming sound of it brought all discussion to a halt.

  From the corner of his eye, Dugan saw his uncle start to tighten his fist. The undercurrent of violence was unmistakable, and Dugan knew that of the two of these men, only one was trained for it.

  Turning first to his uncle, Dugan said, “It’s okay, Uncle Dan.” Pivoting toward Richards, he went on. “I think what my uncle is trying to say is, we’re not going anywhere until you tell us exactly who you are and why we’re here.”

  Richards gaze lingered on Dan a while longer before some of the crazy faded from his blue eyes and he pasted the smile back on his face.

  “Dudes,” he said amiably, lifting his palms in a gesture of conciliation. “Sorry if I haven’t made myself clear. First off, it’s just you I want, Dugan. No need for the both of you. Your uncle is invited to remain here as a guest of Senor Esquinaldo. In fact, he insists upon it.”

  After letting that implied threat hang in the air a moment, he went on.

  “And I am sorry about before. My temper does sometimes get the better of me. Please, Mr. Proctor, sit down, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

  He waited for Dan to again take his seat before going on.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” he said, staring fixedly at Dugan. “First of all, let’s talk about the elephant in the room. I know all about you and who you are. I know, if you’ll pardon the expression, what you are. In fact, I’ll wager in some respects, I know more about you than you do. I even know something about your friends. And if the timing is ever right, and you’ve been a good little soldier, I may be persuaded to share some of what I know. I can start by telling you this, if only by way of making amends: I met a friend of yours, a kid named Jimmy Thompson.”

  Dugan felt his insides lurch at the mention of his lost friend. What blood that did flow through his veins seemed to pick up a bit. Still, he gave nothing away and waited. After a moment, Richards went on.

  “Good kid, that Jimmy,” Richards said with what seemed sincere warmth. “Not a natural athlete, though. He lives in Dutton now, at a government provided home. Of course, his old house, like yours and those of all your friends, are uninhabitable.”

  He waited for Dugan to say it. Dugan obliged.

  “A toxic chemical truck hit a hay truck,” he said flatly. “It exploded. Happened the same night the train derailed.”

  In a rote monotone, he had just recited the bare outline of the cover story the government concocted to obscure the fact that a vampire infestation had decimated his small town.

  Richards smiled knowingly. “One in a million, they say. It made all the papers.” Once Dugan nodde
d, he went on. “Anyhow, you have a good friend in Thompson. I think he’d want you to know that.”

  Dugan nodded again and tried to restrain himself from revealing his true emotions as Richards continued.

  “Long story short, there’s someone that’s been kidnapped down in Central America. All you need to know is he’s a very important person, and critical to our national security interests. Of course, if you read the papers, you know that much of Central America is in a state of civil war at the moment and is therefore a goddamn shithole. So, what we need to do is this: you and me and a couple of others, we go down there, we kick a little ass, we liberate this poor bastard, and then we all get on with our lives. Dugan? You can go back to your little ranch in the hills. Dan? You go back to your cushy life at the beach. And me? Let’s just say that I’ll go on serving my country.”

  “Whereabouts in Central America?” Dan asked, anxious at the prospect of his nephew being anywhere near the place. He did indeed read the papers.

  “Now, now,” Richards said demurely. “That is classified information, on a need to know basis. And what I mean by that is, I’ll tell you if and when you need to know. So, what do you say, Dugan. You in?”

  Dugan mulled it over. He knew he wasn’t being asked to go, but being strong-armed into it. And though his uncle might indeed be treated as a guest while he went off with Richards, he would in reality be a hostage.

  Conversely, that they had found him and his uncle so easily exposed beyond all doubt that they had been keeping tabs on them both. Dugan’s niggling suspicions about being allowed to leave the United States were now all but confirmed. And who had let that happen, at least one of them anyway, was sitting right across from him. The why of it was clear now also. They thought Dugan might come in handy someday, and that someday was apparently, today.

  There was one question he did have, and though the obvious answer was too terrifying to contemplate, he asked the question anyway.

  “Why me?”

  Richards grinned. “Now, Scott – sorry, Dugan. Can I call you Dugan? Strike that. I’m gonna call you Dugan whether you like it or not. Now, Dugan, the reason we need you is our intelligence informs us that among the captors holding our poor kidnapped schlub are, oh, what’s the best way to put this. People like you? Folks who suffer from your condition, I mean.”

  Dan took instant offense at Richards familiarity. “Look, Richards,” he snarled, “what the hell would you know about his condition?”

  “That is an excellent question, Mr. Proctor, and one I would expect a loving uncle to ask. Let me assure you, I am quite up-to-speed on Dugan’s situation, and can guarantee that everything he needs – well, not everything, of course. We couldn’t do that. There are some things he will have to continue do for himself. But I promise you that everything required to maintain him in the best of health will be done for him. In fact, I give you my word on that. After all, he is a valuable asset.”

  Richards’ reassuring remarks did not have their intended effect. Shaking his head with disgust, Dan said, “My nephew is not an ‘asset’, Richards, and furthermore–”

  “Mr. Richards,” Dugan interjected in a more congenial tone. “Duane. If you could give me and my uncle a few minutes alone?”

  Richards glowered at Dan a moment, seemingly aching for a fight, before coming back to himself and glancing at his watch. Finally, he came to a decision. Rising from his chair, he started to say, “We can spare only a few–”

  “No, don’t get up,” Dugan said. “I think we need some air.” Standing, he turned to his uncle. “Uncle Dan? Let’s step outside for a minute, okay?”

  Not waiting for a reply, he went to the French doors, pushed them open, and walked through. Moments later, his uncle followed.

  5

  Dan was startled to find his legs were rubbery as he got up from his chair and followed his nephew out the door. On a deeper level, he was also embarrassed by the way he had acted. Was he really prepared to fight this man? For what? He didn’t know, and understood then that he’d need some time to reflect upon it. Even so, he knew already that most of his reaction was that damned proprietary way he felt about his nephew and his special condition, or needs, or whatever the hell you wanted to call them. That someone would show up out of the clear blue knowing everything there was to know about him?

  He sighed. It shouldn’t have surprised him. None of this should have surprised him, most of all him, given what he had already been through in service to his nephew . . . ah, hell. There it was again. What ‘he’d’ been through in ‘service’ to his nephew.

  It’s all about you, isn’t it, Dan? a mocking voice inside him asked. No, he had been right from the start. He would need time to process this.

  He tracked Dugan across the patio, catching up to him at the edge of the steps leading down to a fine-trimmed lawn. At the far end of the expanse was a tiled and well lighted swimming pool area, its blue lining and underwater lights imbuing the property with a spectral, otherworldly shimmer. To the left of the pool was a compact, two-story structure that might be a guest cottage. Beyond it all lay the miles and miles of lights and bustling humanity that was Mexico City. Taking in a deep breath, Dan was reminded again he was in Mexico City, for there was no smell on earth like it, a musty odor of ash and soot with undertones of urine and human excrement and the sharp tang of burning trash. He remembered it from the last time he was here, and was confident he would be able to distinguish it for the remainder of his life.

  Turning to his nephew, he saw Dugan’s gaze was fixed on the enormous metropolis in the distance. For some reason, his always pale face looked more natural beneath ancient starlight, seeming to glow and pulsate from an interior forge. Then again, Dan recalled with an inner smirk, nighttime was his native habitat. His too long brownish auburn hair was in need of a haircut, though even as a boy, he always needed a haircut. But Dan knew one reason he wore it long nowadays was to hide the grisly disfigurement to his right ear. Funny, and maybe a little heartening to think the kid had any vanity left.

  He flashed back to holding him in the darkness and filth of a pig sty one Arizona night and closely examining his face. He had wondered at that time if his then fourteen-year-old nephew would ever be able to grow a beard. Once they were reunited, he was delighted to see that the boy, who might forever be condemned to remain fourteen, had in the interim somehow managed to grow a few whiskers. He had a nice patch cultivated beneath his lower lip. And there were just enough stubbly bristles on his chin to take at least some of the sting off his adolescent look. Still, Dan refused to believe that this was his eternal fate, and made a note to again, at a more appropriate time, remind Dugan of their plan to go to San Diego to try and find a cure. With a sigh, he thought that would have to wait yet another day.

  Perhaps sensing his uncle’s stare, Dugan pivoted to Dan and grinned. Raising his eyebrows as if remembering something, he reached into the side pocket of his black woolen coat. Though the temperature this early September evening was in the low eighties with more than a hint of humidity, Dugan always suffered from that nagging chill.

  Removing his hand from his pocket, Dugan held something out to his uncle. Glancing down, Dan saw in his hand were two thick cigars. Looking up at his nephew, he saw the smirk and realized he must have liberated them from the humidor on Senor Esquinaldo’s desk.

  Returning the grin, Dan reached for one of the cigars. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. A quick glance at the label revealed it to be a fine Cuban.

  The two peeled off the labels and bit off the ends. Dan put the cigar in his mouth. His nephew offered a lighter. After a few deep draws, he handed the lighter back and Dugan lit his own. Dan was on the verge of his own smirk to see what many might think was a fourteen-year-old kid smoking a cigar like a pro. But it reminded him of something else, and with a stab of remorse and regret, at that moment he saw not the face of his late sister in his nephew’s own, but that of his friend Red Dugan reflected in his son’s. He and Dugan’s f
ather used to often sit and smoke and shoot the breeze. He looked away before the deeply empathic Dugan could catch any hint of wistfulness.

  The two puffed silently, admiring the view while watching those couples who had escaped the party to seek more privacy amid the black velvet shadows here in the backyard. Eventually, Dan broke the silence.

  “You’re going to do this, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think we have much choice,” Dugan replied.

  Dan couldn’t fault the logic. “He’s lying, you know,” he said.

  “I know,” Dugan answered, spitting out some loose tobacco.

  After brooding a few seconds, Dan went on. “I’m sorry about . . . in there. The way I acted, I mean.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” Dugan said wearily.

  Dan went on as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s just that . . . and I know this is crazy. And yet, I can’t help but still think of you as my little nephew.”

  Dugan took a long and thoughtful draw on his cigar before answering.

  “I know you do, Uncle Dan, and I appreciate that. Really, I do. But – and you know this better than anyone – I’m not your little nephew anymore.”

  Though chastened, Dan couldn’t help but smile. His logic there was flawless as well. Instead, he said, “You’ll be careful now, won’t you?”

  “I will,” Dugan answered firmly. “You be careful too. We both know there’s more going on here than meets the eye. And just like Mr. Richards, I’m pretty certain Senor Esquinaldo is not what he appears.”

  Dan nodded, having concluded as much. “He didn’t ask us to have our picture taken with him,” he said sulkily.