Chapter 22
Minutes later, dusty crates, darkness, and the acrid odor of sweating dynamite surrounded me. I tried shifting the ropes binding my wrists but without success. An amateur had tied me up but his workmanship was good enough to keep me seated. I glanced around for something to ease my predicament, and noticed an oval-shaped silhouette on top of one stack of crates. A kerosene lantern. And, that meant glass, which breaks—which results in shards that cut, which could put me back in the game.
I rocked my chair back and forth until I had enough momentum to skip its legs in the lantern's direction. I moved only about an inch. However, my aim was dead-on. Rock twice, lunge once. Rock twice, lunge once. If nothing else, the exercise would do me a world of good.
Ten minutes later my knees nudged the crates upon which the lantern stood. My lunge jiggled the lantern a bit, but it remained staunchly in place. I tried shifting my weight forward to shake the stack, but the lantern continued steadfast. Finally, I rocked the chair back and flung myself headlong, as hard as I could. My skull butted the stack, toppled it over and sent the lantern careening. The lantern bounced off a nearby wall and then ricocheted back in my direction. As it hit the floor it clattered. The crash was followed by sharp tinkles and the smell of kerosene. If the place didn't catch fire and the dynamite didn't explode, I still had a chance at escape—presuming a floor strewn with broken glass didn't shorten my existence. Life could not get any better than this, I told myself.
I tucked my chin forward to protect the back of my head as I fell. As my shoulders bounced off the floor, a blaze of fiery pain shot across them and up my neck. A warm, wet trickle spread slowly across my back. Ah the luck of the Irish. My brilliant plan had put me right on target with the shards.
For the next few minutes I squirmed, kicked and fondled the dusty floor until one of my hands touched something smooth. I grabbed it between thumb and forefinger, sending more pain toward my brain as another blood-flow headed in the opposite direction. I let go a curse. That taken care of, I proceeded to drag the shard's edge against my bounds.
I had seen movie-heroes cut through ropes with all manner of tool. Despite the risk of infection, terminal bleeding and massive disfigurement, not once did any hero fail in this effort. Unfortunately, I was not gifted with a script. With each slice not only did I feel pain followed by more dripping blood, but I suffered growing doubts that my efforts would ever result in my freedom. At least not without earning me the nickname, stubby fingers.
Time passes quickly when one is having fun. After half an hour of less than blissful sawing, I decided the fun I was having would likely result in a blood transfusion, require several hundred stitches and necessitate a few tons of antibiotics. Not only were my shirtsleeves soaked with life's leakage, but my movements shook the chair. Which meant that most of the tattoo on my left forearm had been shard-filleted into memory.
Still, I was very pleased when the last of my binds fell away, and I was able to stand.
I checked my wounds. All fingers were in place, albeit one looked a bit ragged. The tattoo was still there but the heart was missing its lower point. And the veins in my wrist were still whole. One palm would likely need stitching to make it stop grinning at me, but I was alive and that was something to be thankful for. Or not, depending on who was on guard outside.
I staggered to the shed's door. There, I listened for a moment. After hearing neither man nor beast, I leaned my weight against it. The barrier creaked open about an inch and then held fast. I pressed my face to the wood and let one eyeball scan through the narrow opening between door. With a little help from the moon's dim glow I made out the silhouette of a padlock straining against hasp. It was simple security, but it held the door shut.
Kicking the door open would likely make enough noise to wake the dead and lay me out amongst them. So, I crept back through the darkness and felt around among the dynamite crates for the crowbar I had used earlier. Moments later, I had the power of steel in my hands.
For several minutes, I applied continuous rocking pressure between door and hasp. My efforts were much akin to dancing upon a coil spring. The harder I worked, the more the door seemed to bounce in closed delight. Finally, there was a low creak as the screws in the hasp's mounting plate released their grip. I then seized the pry-bar in club fashion and eased the door open.
Ah, the sweet smell of unguarded freedom. I started out, but a covey of bats flitting past sent me backpedaling. They swooped up, around and back several times, making only the slightest squeaking sounds as they scooped insect life out of darkness. At last they moved on and I was able to stand proudly beneath the smiling moon.
In front of the house was a single pickup truck. Presumably, most of the hired help Delaney left behind had gone home to wife and children. Except for Enrique, of course. He was likely on his belly with his bare ass in the face of some kindly physician skilled in the setting of bones and the awkward removal of shotgun pellets from punctured posteriors.
A gust of wind brought music to my ears, then. From within the house a radio was offering up soft salsa. And despite the shortage of window glass, I could just make out the silhouettes of two men making the most of the moment. From behind the front window curtains, I saw their forms moving in unison. It looked like they were dancing. At least I hoped they were dancing. Regardless, it was almost romantic. Two lonely men, in a lonely business, at a lonely outpost sharing an all too brief union as they did the light fantastic.
I controlled the impulse to rush over and cut in. Then I and went looking for Martinez' car. I found it behind the house, covered by a moth-eaten tarp. After pulling off the dusty covering, I saw him crumpled up in the backseat. He did not look as optimistic as when he'd told me we had nothing to worry about—probably because of that sudden introduction to St. Peter. Still, I felt a wave of pity for those who loved him.
The object of my quest was still holstered under his left arm. I jerked out the small pistol and checked the cylinder for rounds. It would not offer much resistance to a hail of fire from an Uzi. But six shots of .25 caliber were better than waving a pointy stick when faced by a gorilla. So, I slipped the weapon into my pants pocket and headed to the mine entrance.
The doors were still open. And why not? As far as Delaney and company were concerned, I was safely tucked away with their dynamite collection. I checked my watch. There were at least four hours before dawn. If I hurried, I could plant dynamite in the tunnel and still be at the IHOP in McAllen for the noon special. I strode back to my shard-lined hovel with a smile on my lips. This night I would finally test my own ideas about the big bang theory.
Minutes became hours as I set boxes of explosive at five-foot intervals along the entire length of the tunnel, each linked by a single stick of dynamite equipped with fuse and detonator cap. And by the time I had finished my work the sun was just lapping away at the stars.
I staggered back to the mine entrance, lit a cigarette and then squatted down by a fresh reel of fuse. I merely had to crimp a blasting cap on it, force the cap into one of the dynamite sticks in the first box, and then unroll the fuse on my way to the pickup. After that, I would drive away leaving an explosive parting gesture. I just loved it when a brilliant plan comes together.
It was then I heard another pickup truck arrive, and my heart sank into my shoes. Not expecting to be disturbed in my workings, and confident that my intellect was superior to those who would detain me, I had left the shed door open. I hate it when a brain-dead plan falls apart.
I peeked outside. The truck held Enrique and the kid with whom he had gone for medical aid. The former had a new cast on one forearm and a tear in the seat of his stained chinos. He was limping and cursing as the pair headed into the house. The latter was walking head-down behind Enrique, presumably still apologizing for his wayward fire. The former waved his good arm, vowing to become my worst nightmare. Little did he know as the pair went inside that I was already living it.
I affixed the fuse to the cap, stuffed it into a dynamite stick, and then trotted out, spinning the reel to let the fuse roll out. When I got to their truck, I glanced inside. To my delight, they had left the keys in the ignition. Confident that all would soon be well in my world, I cut the fuse from the reel, lit it and then quickly climbed behind the steering wheel.
"Sweet dreams, Enrique." I turned the key.
Instead of spinning the starter cogs against the engine's ring gear, the battery merely groaned in complaint, then went dead. I got out and stared at the billowing white smoke and scorched dirt left behind by a fuse that was burning fast and hot toward the mine. There was only one option outside of suicide—the tired truck parked near the dynamite shed.
I raced over to it and jumped in. Its owner must have held the weary vehicle in high regard. Its keys were gone. I was about to try and hotwire it when the young guard came out carrying his shotgun. When he saw me in the truck, he let out a cry and took aim. I pulled out Martinez' revolver and fired three times. At least one round hit the young man. His knees buckled, pitching him forward onto his face.
That's when the first box of dynamite went off. The explosion nearly blew the truck over on its side as the blast sent the doors paired at the mine entrance skyward. I jumped out of the truck and watched with guarded delight as the steel rectangles arched high over the house before gravity plunged them through the its roof. If there was anybody still sleeping, several hundred pounds of twisted metal had just made a rude wakeup call.
After jumping back into the pickup, I leaned down and grabbed the covey of wires near the base of the steering column. I sent my fingers walking along their length up to the ignition switch. Quickly I tore the wires free of their connection, twisted the ignition wires together and then touched these to starter wire. There was a spark, followed by the truck's engine turning over. It sounding like a coughing donkey, but what with the next explosion overdue, I did not think anybody but me would notice. To my relief, the engine gasped into life, belching blue smoke and backfires.
I had just shifted the transmission into low gear when the house's front door opened. Two disheveled men staggered out looking utterly confused. One was Enrique. I assumed the other was one of the shadow dancers. I popped the clutch. As the truck lurched forward, I stuck my arm out the window and emptied the revolver in their direction. They dove for cover. As I roared past, I heard Enrique scream in agony. This sound was followed by the detonation of the second box of dynamite. If the forthcoming explosions did not kill him, Enrique would likely need another trip to his favorite medico.
As I hit high gear, the truck's back window shattered. Somebody amongst the nearly departed still had enough self-control to pull a gun and give fire. I crouched over the steering wheel and slammed the accelerator to the floor. There was an immense blast from the tunnel as more dynamite came to life, followed by absolute silence. I let go a relieved laugh. Delaney would be doubly disappointed. Not only was I gone and still breathing. But, the next load of cocaine would be delayed—permanently.
Dead On Page 22