The Whole Truth

by James Scott Bell

  No one spoke as LaSalle breathed in and out, in and out, running a scrawny hand over his left cheek.

  Then he looked at Steve and said, “Take him out.”

  The ones who had Steve’s arms almost pulled them out of the sockets. Steve tried to resist movement, but there was no chance.

  He saw the smiling faces watching. He shouted, “If there’s a hell, that’s where you’re going!”

  They shot him out to the corridor, opened what looked like a large closet, shoved him in, and slammed the door.

  Into complete darkness. Steve felt for the door handle, and of course it was locked.

  He remembered being afraid of the dark. Remembered the night terrors, and when Robert was put in his room so he wouldn’t be scared.

  So much for that. Johnny LaSalle was a brother no longer. He may have had Steve’s blood in him, but in truth he was the spawn of Eldon LaSalle.

  Steve heard something scurrying near his feet. He put his back against the door and didn’t move.

  Okay. Okay. If there was any real justice, any real God, he wouldn’t let these things be done in his name. He would send down so much lightning, he would light up Eldon LaSalle like a Christmas tree, then let him burn and take the ashes and dump them in an Andy Gump chemical toilet along with the remains of Johnny LaSalle, and then he’d take care of the house and burn this whole mountain clean.

  That’s what he would do if he were around, but he doesn’t seem to be around and what are they going to do with you now?

  They can’t let you go. They can’t just let you walk out knowing what you know. They are going to take care of business is what they are going to do, and you are the business, and just how much longer are they going to keep me in here and where’s that rat? If it was a rat. If it wasn’t something else and . . . night terrors are preferable to this. I’ll take the night terrors again.

  SIXTY-ONE

  The door opened. Dim light shot in, enough that he could make out three shadowy figures. Arms reached in for him, pulled him out. Turned him around. Yanked his arm behind him again — fresh burn in the shoulders — then they taped his wrists.

  And his mouth.

  They pushed him forward, out to the large foyer. Animal heads on the walls fixed dead eyes on him.

  One of the men stepped to the front door ahead of him. It was Rennie. He opened the door and the other two pushed Steve outside, then down the steps into the fading sunlight, down to the crunch of gravel on the driveway.

  Somebody started a car and drove toward them.

  For some reason Steve turned his head back toward the house.

  And saw, in the front bay window, two people looking at him.

  His scream, under the tape, came out only as a muffled cry.

  Johnny was watching him from that window, his arm around Sienna Ciccone.

  PART 3

  SIXTY-TWO

  Snow.

  White snow surrounding, cold yet not cold. Should be freezing. Should be dead.

  Am dead. This is death. This is what death is like. Pain lingers. That’s the body.

  I have left the body and all that remains is snow.

  Not wet. Not cold. This can’t be snow.

  Am I floating? Am I moving?

  Snow melting away. Bright, white world fading and hard ground forming under him. Shooting hot pain through his body now, the body not dead.

  He had come back, or never left.

  But he was not dead.

  His right shoulder was a fireball and he opened his eyes.

  He was in a box. A coffin? He was alive in a coffin? Buried alive. They’d made a mistake.

  He moved his head, saw upside down images. Trees. A snatch of blue sky. Something looming in the distance. A mountain.

  He was in the mountains. He was upside down in the mountains.

  His hands were bound behind him. And his mouth.

  He remembered that part. He remembered being bound.

  What had happened? He had been bound and put in a car. In the back of a car.

  Wait, there was something else. Like the fading images of a bad dream. He was awake, but the dream was fresh enough to remember.

  Sienna.

  Sienna had been there. With Johnny.

  His mind snapped into a new place, a mix of rage and confusion and pain.

  Eldon LaSalle. Renounce Satan. Discipline.

  If this was how they treated their lawyers, they had another thing —

  Don’t get funny now, Son . . . they wanted to kill you . . . your loving brother Johnny wanted you dead, and Sienna was there all the time.

  He forced himself to think back. To go back to seeing Sienna and Johnny in the window.

  Check.

  He cried out, a muffled cry.

  Check.

  The back of a car. What kind of car? Didn’t matter. The tires crunched on the gravel.

  Check.

  How long had they driven? Where? He didn’t think it was too long or too far. He had the feeling they were going up.

  And then . . . a drop. Yes. He remembered a drop.

  It went black after that.

  Sienna. Sienna.

  That was the kicker, the most nightmarish element in the whole thing.

  Figure it out, he told himself. Split up the possibilities, like you do when you try a case.

  Either Sienna was at the house of her own free will, or she was not.

  Either she had known Johnny all along and did not tell him, or she had not.

  Either she was a traitor on the order of Judas Iscariot, or she was a pawn of the LaSalles.

  Now, what was the evidence?

  Was she the greatest liar he had ever seen? The coldest, most calculating woman he had ever encountered?

  Her look at the window was expressionless, but the way Johnny had his arm around her seemed intimate, not coercive.

  Still, she could have been a kidnap victim. If so, he was to blame, because he had hired her as his legal assistant. But why would they take her and not tell him? If they had kidnapped her they would use it against him.

  But they had said nothing.

  Had to get himself free. The tape chafed and it was tight, but if he worked it, maybe he could get loose. Had to try. No other option.

  Was anything broken? The pain in the shoulder was the worst, but that could be a strain. A consequence of . . . what? How did he get upside down?

  The car must have gone over or something. Over from the highway. He must have blacked out.

  He remembered a time, clearly, when he and Robert had gone to a lake with his parents, maybe it was Arrowhead, and they had bunked together. Steve had the upper, and sometime during the night he fell out of it. He must have been three years old. But nothing happened. He wasn’t hurt, and it was because he was so relaxed.

  Steve wondered if that’s what happened to him now. Maybe blacking out had been the thing that saved him.

  His left leg was throbbing. He managed to curl himself into a position where he could see his leg. Pants torn, dried blood. Fresh blood. That could not be good.

  What time was it? How long would he last like this? If somebody didn’t find him, somebody other than one of Eldon LaSalle’s minions, what chance did he have?

  He worked his hands but the tape held strong.

  For a moment, surprising himself, he thought about throwing out one of those desperation prayers, the kind where atheists lost at sea suddenly find their voices and raise them to heaven.

  He thought about it, then decided he must have just done it.

  But you are the one who has to get out now, bud. Nobody’s gonna come flying down from the sky to open the door for you.

  Where was the driver?

  Neal. Neal had been driving the car.

  So where was Neal?

  Steve rolled to his right and pushed his knees under him. Pain in the left leg was like a hot spoon digging around in his thigh. He was on his stomach now. He brought his knees up again and slowly got to
a kneeling position. The back of the seats was to his left.

  He put his head underneath the de facto partition. Which put him face-to-face with Neal Cullen. A dead Neal Cullen. His erstwhile assassin.

  What a great client he had turned out to be.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Steve stared at him.

  Neal stared back, his eyes wide with dead shock.

  Above Neal’s left temple was a hole the size of a quarter, with blood caked all around it.

  Who? What was going on?

  All Steve knew was that he was alive, and that’s all he knew. He had to get out now, because now he had a purpose. He almost prayed again, this time for revenge. He flashed to a painting he’d seen once at the Getty in LA. It showed a figure of an angel with a torch and another with a sword. They were about to put the hurt on a guy running away after murdering a figure, all white, his blood drained out of him. The title was something like Justice and Divine Vengeance. Yes, he would like to be in the angel business and put a flaming sword to all the LaSalleites.

  Right. First he’d have to find his way to the road. He had no idea how far from the road he was. All he knew was that it was up, and up was not a great proposition.

  But what if they were coming for him? Where was he? How far from the compound? From town?

  He worked his hands again, the tape again, but nothing. He was almost helpless.

  Then heard something crunch. And again.

  Someone coming. There was someone, or several, coming toward the car.

  LaSalleites.

  Closer. The steps were closer now. Then stopped. Right outside the car.

  Then a tapping.

  “Are you alive?” a woman’s voice said.

  A woman?

  So how was he supposed to answer with tape on his mouth?

  He wiggled.

  “Hold on,” the voice said.

  Hold on to what? Who are you? Just get me out.

  “I’m going to break the glass,” she said.

  No, don’t break the —

  A cracking sound. Another. He couldn’t see what was happening, it was behind him. But then he heard the sound of a reluctant car door being pulled open like a sardine can.

  “I’ve almost got it,” the voice said. “There. Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  He felt her hands on his, working the tape, ripping it off his wrists, the last pull taking some nice chunks of hair with it.

  But his arms were free. He tore the strip off his mouth.

  He felt like the Tin Man. He felt like saying oil can.

  She helped him get out from the wreck and into the dropping shadows. He stood and almost fell. His left leg again.

  The woman caught him and held him up.

  He looked in her face. “It’s you.” The last time he had seen her, she was on her knees in front of Eldon LaSalle, being shamed.

  She nodded. “Are you hurt bad?”

  “I don’t know. My leg. I think it’s bleeding.”

  She bent down and looked at his leg. “Don’t move,” she said.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She was wearing one of those plain cotton dresses. Now she tore a large strip from it and used it to start binding his leg.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rahab,” she said. “She was a prostitute. In the Bible.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. Who put that handle on you?”

  “My father did. When he gave me to Master.”

  “Gave you?”

  “I was thirteen.” She kept working, expertly splitting the strip and tying it off. “Before that my name was Bethany.”

  “Johnny said you were a street junkie. That they brought you in to clean you up.”

  Bethany stood up and looked at him. Her face was weathered. “I was given. For Master’s use.”

  “That is just crazy,” Steve said.

  “I belong to him.”

  “Then maybe I’d better ask you what you’re doing out here with me. And whether you had anything to do with this stiff here. Somebody got him with a clean shot to the head.”

  Bethany looked down. “I was unlucky, I guess.”

  “You?”

  “I shot him. But I was aiming for the tires.”

  “What the heck did you use?”

  “A rifle. I stole it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I buried it up on the ridge.”

  “You buried a rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s too bad because — ” Steve grabbed his leg as a fresh shot of pain snaked up to his midsection. “I’ve got to tell you, Bethany, I’m not in real great shape here. If you were trying to kill me too, you almost did it.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to save you. But now it looks like both of us are dead.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “They will find us eventually.”

  “I’m not ready to die yet. I have some revenge I want to take care of.”

  “It won’t work. They are too strong.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “I must. I have broken away and that is punishable by death.”

  “My leg is pretty bad. I’ve lost some blood. I need to get medical attention. But I can’t move. If you have any bright ideas, now would be the time.”

  “I do have an idea,” Bethany said. “But you must try to walk with me.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “They will be coming soon to find us.”

  “In that case,” Steve said, “I can.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  She was strong. The years of working in the fields around the compound must have done it. She was like a true slave, a field hand, with no rights but plenty of lean muscle. She supported Steve with one arm as they made their way up the hillside.

  Mercifully, the highway was only about fifty yards away. It felt like a couple of football fields to Steve. But they made it, finally standing on the shoulder of the mountain road.

  It was getting dark. “Now what?” Steve asked.

  “Quickly,” Bethany said. “We have to get across.”

  “And then what?”

  “Come along.”

  His left leg almost totally useless now, Steve managed to limp halfway across the road with her left arm around his waist. He paused in the middle. “How far do we have to go?”

  “A little way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come on.”

  “Wait. Just a sec — ” He heard the sound of an oncoming car.

  “Quickly!” Bethany pulled him forward. He almost fell. They were on a curve, so the noise came from around a bend. Which one he didn’t know. How far away he had no idea. He hopped along to keep up with his improbable protector.

  “We have to get down,” Bethany said.

  Down in what?

  The car was louder now. His brain calculated thirty, maybe twenty seconds until it came to where they stood on a small shoulder before more mountain.

  “Here!” Bethany pulled at him, and he fell forward on top of her, as she sat like a human pillow on the ground. She rolled and he went with her, so they to were face-to-face on their sides.

  “Keep still,” Bethany whispered.

  He wasn’t exactly going anywhere.

  The car came around from the direction behind Bethany. A good thing, as the curve of the road extended away from them in a horseshoe.

  Hopefully the driver would keep his eyes on the road.

  The car slowed, almost cutting the engine.

  They’ve seen us.

  Bethany had her hand on the side of his head and pressed down.

  The car slowed even more.

  The car gunned and moved on.

  It had only slowed for a treacherous turn.

  “Come on.” Bethany helped him to his feet. “It’s not far.”

  “What’s not far?”

  “It.”

 
It was not much more than a glorified lean-to some two hundred yards into the woods, just big enough for them both. If Bethany hadn’t told him what it was he would have missed it. It was camouflaged by brush.

  “I have some water,” Bethany said. “I can wash your leg.”

  “Not exactly the Mayo Clinic,” Steve said. “But I’ll take it. How did you happen — ”

  “Inside. Quickly.”

  He was able to stretch out completely on top of an old sleeping bag. Bethany took up a flashlight and illumined the inside. Steve saw another rolled-up bag and a couple of plastic gallon jugs of water. Three brown shopping bags hugged the lean-to wall.

  Bethany set the flashlight on the ground, reached into one of the bags. “Can you rip your pant leg?” she said.

  “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Here.” Her hand reached to him. In it was a knife. With a six-inch blade.

  “My my,” Steve said.

  “Go on.”

  Steve didn’t give it a second thought. She was his rescuer, his nurse. And she had a knife. He’d do what she said.

  He cut the pant leg open. Cold air hit the wound. He couldn’t see it clearly but felt that some blood still flowed.

  Bethany reached into one of the paper bags and came out with something, looked like a wadded shirt. She opened one of the jugs of water and doused the material. She began washing the leg.

  It was scraping work, but Steve took it gratefully. If nothing else this would buy him some time. Now the only little task was getting to a real doctor.

  And after that, getting stitched up and figuring out how to bring the LaSalles into flaming death.

  “Does it hurt?” Bethany asked as she swiped the leg some more.

  “It’s numbing up,” Steve said.

  “We just need to make it through the night.”

  “Sounds like a country song.”

  “Huh?”

  “Country song. You like country songs?”

  “We don’t have those.”

  “Ah. Eldon doesn’t like ’em, I suppose.”

  Bethany said nothing.

  “They have the best titles,” Steve said. “Like, ‘You Stole My Wife, You Dirty Horse Thief.’ ”

  In the dimness Bethany smiled.

  “And, ‘If Your Phone Ain’t Ringin’, It’s Me.’ ”