Buddies

by Kip Cassino

  The Captain gave him a twenty. “Keep the change,” he said with a smile, and calmly walked through the door and back to the grey truck, where Pauley waited. The men got in, and the Captain carefully backed the truck from its spot and drove off slowly, heading away from the trailer they still called home. A mile up the road he u-turned and ran back to the trailer as fast as he could.

  The Captain parked their truck in back of the trailer, near the corn field—where it could not easily be seen from the road. Pauley got out and ran to the back door, which he unlocked and entered. Meanwhile, the Captain left the truck as well. He bent low and inched slowly through the new corn, until he crouched parallel to the road but hidden from anyone on or near it. Pauley had been told to gather their meds and any clothes he could easily find, throw them in a backpack, and join the Captain back at the truck. As he rushed about the trailer, he was hailed from outside.

  “I know ye’re in there!” a booming voice suddenly hollered. It was the voice of the farmer who rented them the trailer. “You both might as well come out,” he yelled. “I got two of my hands with me, and we all got shotguns. I should ‘a knowed you was preverts, you sons of bitches! Now, step on out! Sheriff will be here soon, and I need that reward money! Goddammit, step out, I say!” To make sure his quarry understood his determination, the farmer and his companions pumped several rounds of buckshot into the trailer’s interior while they stood behind the truck they’d come in, which was parked on the edge of the road.

  That was the farmer’s last living act. As he watched the trailer for movement, a strong hand grabbed his head and pulled it back by his hair—while a Ka-Bar sliced his throat in half. Before plummeting blood pressure stole his vision, he saw the men beside him similarly wounded, already on the ground and dead or dying. “We’d have left you another month’s rent,” a saddened voice told the dying farmer, even as he lost the ability to hear over the rushing internal clamor that engulfed and ended his thought.

  “We’re clear, Pauley,” the Captain yelled, “but we don’t have much time. Are you about done?”

  Pauley appeared at the trailer’s front door, backpack in hand. He lurched to the rough wooden steps, then slowly collapsed down them. “I’m … I’m hit,” he said quietly as he lay in the dirt. The left side of his head—the bad side—showed a crowd of freely bleeding wounds.

  The Captain ran quickly to his side and tried vainly to pull the bigger man to his feet. “Can you make it, buddy?” he asked. The tears in his eyes wouldn’t let him see how bad the wounds were.

  “No, sir,” Pauley told him, no stuttering now. “Got more, further down. Those farmers,” he winced and coughed up blood, “they got damn lucky.”

  “Maybe if we get you to a doc,” the Captain said.

  Pauley uttered a ghastly chuckle though blood-stained teeth. “Hell, I was already half dead when you found me, Captain,” he said, wheezing. “Now things are just evening out.” He moaned, and coughed up more thick, black blood. “Do me. Finish me,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me here alive for those bastards to pick over.”

  “I can’t, Pauley,” the Captain said, sobbing.

  “You got to,” Pauley gasped. “I’d do it for you.” Blood flowed in torrents from his wounds, and trickled from his mouth to his chin. His eyes focused past the Captain, looking into the sky. “There’s somebody needs help,” he whispered, clutching his friend’s arm with surprising strength. “Do it now!”

  He couldn’t understand what his buddy had just said—but because he loved him, the Captain did as he was asked. Afterward, he drove away without looking back—heading south on Route 13. His immediate plan was to follow that road, avoiding more heavily patrolled toll roads, until he was through Virginia. Only then would he chance divided highways—perhaps south of Fayetteville. Maybe he would think of some way to improve his chances by then.

  In his mind, there was no reason to continue fighting or running, no more reason to live. He was used up, an empty husk. He only wanted to be left alone so he too could pass away. Even so, he was certain that the men hunting him would never let him be to die in peace. If that was what they wanted, then fine, he thought with a smile. He had a shotgun with him now, to complement the Bowie and Ka-Bar knives he always carried. He’d stop somewhere and get more ammo. When they finally caught up with him, he would kill as many of his stalkers as he could.

  Chapter 22

  Wilmington, Delaware

  The Day After Pauley’s Death

  Jack Prell looked with frustration at the bodies in the morgue. Three of them were farmers in work boots and overalls, each killed with a single, throat-spanning knife wound. The fourth was one of the men he hunted, peppered with heavy buckshot but dead from a knife thrust to his heart. He had already been on a jet coming east when the TV and newspaper bulletins were flashed in Maryland, Delaware, and southeastern Pennsylvania. Even so, he’d arrived too late to end the run of the pair he’d sought for the past year. One was dead, but the other—probably the more dangerous of the two—was even now making good his getaway from another grisly murder scene.

  A uniformed Delaware State Policeman stood by his side. “All four men were killed with the same knife,” the state cop told him. “A Ka-Bar, we’re sure. The same one used in all the other murders, by the nicks on the blade. The killer was right-handed, just as in the other cases you showed us.”

  “So it was Taws,” Prell said, shaking his head, mostly talking to himself. “I was sure it was Abbott.” He turned to the cop. “How do you think it went down?”

  “If it hadn’t been for a greedy farmer, we’d have gotten them both,” Prell was told. “This guy, the oldest of the three, was the farmer who rented an old trailer to them—an isolated place, sitting on the edge of his corn field. We’re guessing when he saw the bulletin yesterday, he rounded up two of his hands and tried to make some reward money. Taws circled behind them through the corn field and murdered all three of them, one after another. Must have been quick.”

  “What about Abbott?”

  “The farmer and his boys pumped the old trailer full of buckshot. Blood spatter evidence shows that several rounds hit Abbott while he was inside, probably packing. He was bleeding heavily when he left the trailer, but he might have lasted another hour or two if Taws hadn’t killed him. At least, that’s the theory we’re working under right now.”

  “Was there blood from both men in the trailer?” Prell asked, hoping that Taws had also been wounded.

  “No, just Abbott. We don’t think Taws was in there when the farmers shot it up. We think he was outside, coming around from behind to slit their throats.”

  “Do you think Abbott’s death was a mercy killing?”

  “Hard to say,” the cop said. “No signs of struggle, but Abbott was already dying from head, stomach, and groin wounds from the shotguns. He wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. More likely his partner killed him to shut him up, to keep us from finding out where he plans to run.”

  “Any theories on that?” Prell asked.

  “The trailer is full of maps,” the State Policeman said. “Taws was working as a driver for a local long haul freight company. His fake I.D. was damn near perfect. Their yard is right up the road. The old fellow who runs it is cooperating. From the maps, he could have gone north or south. The tread impressions coming out from behind the trailer indicate he was heading into Wilmington. He could have gone anywhere from there.”

  “We’re halfway done,” Prell said with a sigh. “Taws may not dodge us much longer, but while he’s free he’s as dangerous as a rabid dog. I think from now on he’ll kill anybody who confronts him. We’ve got to pick up his trail quickly and bring him to ground. I don’t want to stand in another morgue like this one.”

  *****

  The Next Day

  Two Hundred Miles South

  Through his windshield, the Captain watched the last few miles
of the Delmarva peninsula disappear beneath his wheels. He passed Cape Charles and looked for entry to the bridge-tunnel, which would take him over and under Chesapeake Bay to Virginia Beach. He had spent the night at a disreputable motel in Dover—relieved just to be some distance away from the awful trailer and the terrible events that had occurred there. There he rested and considered his situation. His Sixto-gifted identity was blown, that much was certain. He wondered if his license plates were compromised as well, and decided he couldn’t take the chance. When he hit southern Virginia, he’d start cruising malls and other big parking areas for grey trucks he could steal replacements from. Right now, speed had to be his major concern. He had to get as far away from Delaware as possible in the shortest amount of time.

  The Captain pushed his truck another three hundred miles on that second day of flight, stopping only for gas, some water and snacks to keep him alert, and some maps. He stayed true to Route 13, and no trouble found him. He spent the night at a seedy motel outside Goldsboro, North Carolina—where he finally allowed himself a restaurant meal, and bought some personal items to shave and clean himself. A local shopping center provided some clothes, a gym bag to hold them, as well as the license plates he’d been hoping to find and steal. He went to bed fairly certain that no cops would beat down his door while he slept, but slept with the shotgun next to him just in case.

  That night, the Captain dreamed about Pauley. In the dream, his buddy walked past him, up a narrow mountain path. He followed for what seemed like a very long time, always ascending, clawing his way upward. No matter how he tried, he could not keep up with his younger friend, who continued higher—even as the path became steeper and more treacherous. “Pauley,” he called breathlessly, “wait for me, buddy!” His friend turned. All of his scars had now disappeared. “Sorry, Captain. You can’t come with me,” he called, shaking his head sadly. “I’m going in a different direction, but thanks for getting me started.” At that moment, the rocky soil beneath the Captain parted. He plummeted into a vast chasm, flailing as he fell. There seemed to be no floor to the abyss. He yelled … and woke himself up.

  The Captain blinked and looked around, trying to orient himself. He was lying in a bed at an anonymous motel, his clothes and other belongings strewn about the small room. The sun peeked through a window. It was morning, he realized. The full memory of where he was and why suddenly tumbled through his mind. He rolled from the bed he’d been sleeping on—like it or not, it was time to meet the day. For a timeless second, he visualized himself falling back on the thin mattress, putting the barrel of the shotgun that lay there in his mouth, and pulling the trigger. He shook his head violently to dispel that impulse. He would not do those hunting him that favor. They would have to take him down at great cost.

  He stripped himself of his perspiration-sodden underwear, which he threw away. He’d bought new the night before, and he wouldn’t be doing any laundry soon. He unwrapped the new underclothes and took them with him to the small bathroom—where he took a long, soaking shower. As he bathed, he tried to clear his mind of the recent past, and concentrate only on what his plans were for today. His time horizon would not advance past living to sleep again tonight. The rough outline of a strategy occurred to him. He would no longer avoid major highways. First, he’d have to buy some spray paint. After that he could make increased police presence work in his favor.

  *****

  Later,

  on Interstate 95 South of Fayetteville, North Carolina

  Trooper Hal Coombs couldn’t believe his luck. A speeder in a grey pickup truck barreled right by his perch, just north of the Saint Pauls interchange. The young trooper, a three-year veteran, smiled to himself. He’d make his quota early this month, for sure! The guy looked like he might be drunk as well, or on his cell-phone, weaving from one lane to the other. Best get him off the road before he caused damage—to himself or others. Coombs eased on to the highway, increased his speed and lit the truck up. To the trooper’s satisfaction, the driver saw him right away and didn’t try to run. He put his signals on immediately and pulled quickly to the highway shoulder, stopping in the shadow of a large tree.

  Coombs parked his patrol car twenty feet back, radioed his position and situation, and walked slowly toward the pickup, now stopped with its engine off. He couldn’t see how many were in the truck’s cab—there was some kind of paint or curtain masking the vehicle’s rear glass. Strange, he thought, as he reached and peered into the open driver’s side window. There was no one behind the wheel. “What the hell …” he began to say, as he leaned in further to look around—removing his hat as he did. As he looked down the Captain—nestled in front of the passenger’s seat—blew the trooper’s face off with his shotgun.

  As quickly as he could, the Captain uncoiled himself from his hiding place and used the shotgun’s butt to push the dead trooper back through the truck’s window. Falling out the passenger-side door, he sprinted around the side of the truck, grabbed the body and dragged it between the truck and the edge of the shoulder—beneath the big tree he’d stopped under—where it could not easily be seen from the road. He riffled through the dead trooper’s pants, found his car keys, and dashed to the patrol car. Once inside, he guided the cruiser off the road, behind some bushes—careful not to get it mired in the soft soil beyond the highway’s paved shoulder. Everything was accomplished within five minutes.

  The Captain sat in the patrol car for a moment, catching his breath. Before proceeding further, he walked a little way onto the highway, trying to determine if any sign of foul play was easily visible to passing motorists. He was satisfied there was not. His own experience as a trucker had shown him that people driving long distances are often only half awake. As long as no glaring anomaly comes in view, they pay little attention.

  He stripped the corpse of its holster and belt, manhandled it into the truck’s bed, then half drove, half pushed the grey pickup as far off the road as he could. He removed his bag and threw in in the back seat of the police cruiser, which he now began to inspect. As he had hoped, there were plenty of guns in the car, and lots of ammunition as well—all of which he’d keep with him. He also found a spare uniform in the car’s trunk. His victim had been a meticulous man, wanting to show his best face to the public. Good. The cop had been bigger than him, but not enough for anyone to notice at first glance. He wouldn’t need anything but the shirt, the belt, and the hat in any case.

  The Captain left the patrol car once again, to make sure the grey truck was invisible from the highway. It could still be seen—but only after careful scrutiny. They’d find the tire impressions before they found the truck, he decided. Once they started looking they’d find everything, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. The Captain decided he was better off putting as many miles between where he was and where he wanted to be—as quickly as he could. He got back in the cruiser, adjusted his hat and tie, and headed down the highway—into the thickening glare of late afternoon. Getting this much of his plan accomplished had taken less than half an hour.

  Twenty minutes later, the Captain knew he’d have to use his newly gained asset or dispose of it. He’d heard several radio messages he was sure were for his car, asking him to report his “20”—his position. Though he thought he knew enough police jargonese to fake it, for a while anyway, he decided not to make the attempt. He hadn’t meant for this part of his plan to take a long time. Now he had to make sure it didn’t.

  As if in answer to the Captain’s hopes, a big semi hauling sheet steel on a flatbed trailer came into view on the highway ahead of him. Perfect, he thought. He sped up, positioned the cruiser behind the big rig, turned on his siren and his lights. The truck immediately slowed down and banked for the interstate’s shoulder, signals flashing. In a couple of minutes, he was walking toward the truck’s cab—silhouetted in the settling dusk. He stood on the running board and tapped the driver’s side window, pulling the state trooper’s pistol as he d
id.

  The driver, a heavy-set balding man, scowled as he rolled down his window. “What’s this a …” was all he managed to utter before the Captain shot him through his mouth and then his eye. He reached into the cab and pulled the door open, allowing the dying driver to fall past him. He noted the helper sitting in the right-hand seat. “Do you want to live?” he asked.

  The helper, speechless from fright, nodded like a marionette on a string. He was a tall, solidly built man of middle years, probably effective at tarping and securing freight—or so the Captain judged. “Slide over here and get out on the driver’s side,” he told the stunned trucker.

  When the helper stood beside the truck, having by now soiled himself from fear, the Captain ordered him to pull the driver off the road’s shoulder, and down a steep incline to a culvert below. “Stuff him inside, then get in there with him,” he ordered the helper, who was now whimpering, palsied with dread. “Do what I tell you and you won’t be hurt,” he added. Once the helper had folded himself into the culvert next to the dead driver, the Captain shot him three times, then reloaded the pistol and shot him five times more. He walked to the culvert and checked the men’s pulses. Now sure both were dead, he checked them for wallets and other identification, which he placed in his pocket.

  The Captain climbed back up to the road’s shoulder. Moving the patrol car beside the truck, he loaded as much weaponry and ammunition as seemed useful into its cab—along with his gym bag and body armor he found in the cruiser’s trunk. Standing beside the patrol car, he started and steered it over the high embankment beside the road’s shoulder, then watched it crash and begin to smolder sullenly twenty feet below him. All that accomplished, he turned and walked back to his new ride.

  As he settled himself in the big rig’s left-hand seat, the Captain smiled. He now drove a weapon superior to anything the cops could bring against him. In the worst case, this truck could ruin their patrol cars and plow through any roadblocks they might mount to stop him. In the best case, he had days—maybe even a week—before anyone would identify the truck as stolen. By then, he’d already have reached his destination. The Captain laughed as he engaged the powerful Cummins diesel and steered quickly from the road’s shoulder, continuing his flight south. He had won.