The markings on the plastic bucket had stopped Ragus in his tracks when he found it while searching the restaurant. Even as he’d regained his emotional footing and rode off on the horse, he found his mind returning of its own accord to that stupid bucket. It was a white food-grade bucket from a grocery store and the label told him it once held white cake icing. Ragus had seen a lot of those buckets in his life.
For most of his childhood, his mother worked in the bakery section of a local grocery store. To a kid it sounded like a dream job. He assumed that all day she was able to pluck up donuts, cookies, cupcakes, and rolls from the display case and shove them in her mouth whenever the urge struck her. She laughed at him and said she wasn’t allowed to do that, though she did bring home the day old bread and other baked goods that had to be discarded. Even if it wasn’t of the magnitude he imagined, it was still a perk.
Each year she baked a special cake for his birthday. She made them at work and brought them home already decorated with his name on them. Since they didn’t have a lot of money, the cakes were a luxury. That illusion, that each cake was made special for him was shattered on his thirteenth birthday. She must have had a busy day at work because she was working on his cake when he got home from school. Through the window he saw her using a butter knife to scrape another child’s name off an unclaimed cake from work.
He was angry and upset, but not with his mother. He was angry at the world for making him poor and forcing his mother, a sweet and kind woman, to have to do such a thing to make her child feel special on his birthday. He could barely stand to eat the cake that evening, so sick with the revelation of their place in the world. The cake sat in his stomach like a ball of indigestible stone.
His anger only grew when the world saw fit to so cruelly kill his mother and take her from him. When you only had one thing and it was taken from you, what did you become in this world? For whom did you remain good, moral, and decent? Had Conor not stepped in and taken the time to help him channel his anger, Ragus would probably have become a criminal, robbing and killing folks for their food.
Although Ragus’ experiences had not distilled into an acid that completely eroded the goodness from him, they continued to shape him each day. While he did not fully understand the evolution of his development —his growth—he understood that the world was completely what you made of it each and every day. There were no promises or guarantees. There were no shortcuts, no avenues that allowed you to bypass the worst of what the world had to offer.
His mother was a good person, raised him to be a good boy, and died a miserable, excruciating death. There was no justice, no rightness, in this world except for what each man brought to the table. Perhaps there was a higher power up there somewhere. His mother seemed to think so. If there was, he’d lost track of Ragus and his mother in all the bad things that had happened. Maybe their small mobile home, wedged as it was in a forested cleft in dense and inhospitable mountains, was just too minute in the scheme of things.
The somber procession of his thoughts screeched to a halt when Ragus came across something new on the road. It was horse urine, puddled and running in a rivulet with the pitch of the road. It could not be more than minutes old or it would have soaked into the sun-warmed pavement. As a single rider with no prisoners and no pack horses, he made better time than the group he was chasing. A short distance ahead, Ragus dismounted at a pile of horse manure and tentatively touched the fragrant balls of horse shit. They were warm.
He reigned his horse to the right and pulled off the trail. Comfortable now that he was close, he needed a better vantage point. He nudged the horse with his heels and steered it up a treeless knoll to the right of the road. Grazing cattle had denuded it of all but a stubble of pale green grass. The hill was steeper than Ragus had thought and he had to lean forward and clutch the saddle horn to stay atop the horse as it lunged with each step.
At the top, Ragus shouldered the Henry rifle and found the group of kidnappers through the scope. It was a slow-moving cluster of disjointed riders. There was a pronounced front to the group which made him think the leader, the man he saw shouting orders back at the restaurant, must enjoy riding lead. Behind him were the bound and kidnapped women. Lines of riders surrounded them on both sides, making it difficult to reach the women if they were attacked. It also made it difficult to shoot at the kidnappers for fear you might accidentally hit one of the women.
Ragus had no idea how he would get Barb back, but he was tempted to come up with a plan each time he caught up with the group. He decided it was best to stick to the plan and let Conor figure it out. His job was to track and mark a trail. Should he see any indication she was in immediate danger, he would have to think on his feet and react accordingly. It might mean throwing his plan out the window, but not just yet.
On the knoll, Ragus made the decision that it might be best to flank the group and ride alongside of them. It would be easier to see what they were doing. Perhaps he would even find himself in a position to overhear something. He didn’t want to get too close but he was probably a mile behind them now, and that seemed too far. He could do better.
14
Breaking off his pursuit for the night nearly crushed Conor’s soul. He couldn’t be certain the kidnappers were pausing, and if they kept moving through the night his daughter was getting farther and farther away. His instinct was to stay in pursuit. He had night vision and a headlamp, but what if he missed some critical trail sign because of limited visibility? That was easy to do when working at night. You tended to only focus on what was immediately within the circle of illumination. If he ended up a couple of miles in the wrong direction he may never find the trail again. He could lose days backtracking, trying to pick up where he’d left the correct trail.
Resigned to calling off his search for the night, Conor didn’t make any effort to look for lush accommodations. He wandered off the main road at the first dense cluster of woods he found and threw up a hammock for the night. At this time of year, a hammock and light sleeping bag could hold him through most conditions. He had a tarp he could stretch over the hammock if it was raining.
He was on the trail early the next morning, as soon as there was sufficient light. He stopped at a creek to filter water and refill his bottles, but other than that, he slowed for nothing. Although he had no appetite, he tore the top off a sports gel and squeezed the pudding-like substance into his mouth. It was a concentrated source of carbohydrates and caffeine that cyclists and runners were fond of. Even with no appetite, it provided fuel for the body. He drank on the move and pissed in the middle of the road when the need struck him.
All morning, he continued to see the broken twig markers. He had to assume Ragus was leaving those for him. He was not a religious man but he prayed it was Ragus. Conor knew the boy carried a flame for his daughter. Barb had done her best to try and extinguish it but the boy was not to be deterred. Conor didn’t know if the boy was pursuing his kidnapped daughter out of devotion to her or to Conor. Either way, he was grateful.
A few miles from where he began his day, Conor topped a rise and saw the barbecue restaurant. The first thing that hit him was his hunger. He’d eaten at that place more than once in different times and it was damn good. His mind could not help replaying those meals in slow motion…smoked prime rib, barbecue ribs, pulled pork, homemade French fries...
"Lord, I’d kill somebody for a bag of barbecue," Conor muttered, pulling himself back together.
The second thing that hit him was the faint, acrid smell of wood smoke. Conor eased to the shoulder of the road. The grass there was overgrown and brush was encroaching on the road. There was more opportunity for camouflage and even for actual cover if he had to dive into the ditch. He press-checked his rifle and went on heightened alert while he closed in on the restaurant. He could see nothing amiss and could see no people from his position. There was no rising smoke but the smell could simply be coming from a smoldering fire remaining from the previous night. Moving caut
iously, he reached the point where the driveway connected to the highway. The gravel entrance was pocked with the hoof prints of a small army of horses.
Conor harbored no hope he would find his daughter here. The prints were going both ways, showing people had come and gone already, but perhaps there was a clue to where they were going. He also picked up the smell of cooling grease, like that of a barbecue grill after a large cookout. Perhaps the kidnappers had found a way to fire up the restaurant. They appeared to have a lot of folks to feed. He certainly hoped they were feeding his daughter. The thought of them not treating her properly stoked his rage. There was no doubt her kidnappers were going to die, but they would die slower, more painful deaths if they’d treated her poorly.
When all the signs told him the kidnappers had left already, Conor was tempted to just keep moving on up the highway. Every moment he wasted on this little side-jaunt was a moment his daughter was getting farther away. He stood from examining the tracks and tried to make himself walk off, but something kept pulling at him. He was considering his options when he heard the sound of a neighing horse and everything changed.
Conor scrambled for the weeds. He crouched down and re-examined the scene but couldn’t see a horse anywhere. He reminded himself that the presence of a horse didn't necessarily mean there was a rider but it did mean he couldn’t move on now without checking the scene out.
Listen to your instincts, he silently reminded himself. They were trying to tell you to check this place out. Quit listening to your gut and you’ll get yourself killed.
He thought the sound came from around back but he chose to sweep the perimeter. Fortunately, the restaurant didn't have a lot of windows, but that didn't mean there wasn’t a rifle already sighting in on him. At the right side of the restaurant, a crude board fence rose above his head, painted in garish red and covered in graffiti put there by the owners. Conor raised the latch and swung open a creaking gate just wide enough for one person to walk through. He had his rifle at high ready, scanning for threats.
This was the place where the cooks smoked their barbecue when the restaurant was operational. It was apparently the site of a brief encampment, also. There was trash scattered everywhere. Cups, plates, plastic ware, paper towels, and even tablecloths. Now that he was closer, Conor could indeed see a fire smoldering nearby with the finest wisps of smoke rising above it. Beside a blackened steel smoker lay a pile of hooves, scraps of hide, and the large leg bones of a steer. An irresistible aroma latched onto Conor, clawing at his belly. Several horses were tied to a fence, obviously the origin of the sound Conor heard from the road.
He went to the smoker and held a hand near it. It was still warm. He unfastened the latch and swung open the heavy grease-encrusted door, cringing as it squealed nearly as loud as a car alarm. Inside he found several large cuts of meat. He touched a charred cut with a finger and found a little give to it. The meat was fresh. In fact, it was perfect.
"Mary, mother of God," he muttered, reaching inside for a chunk of blackened meat. His brain quickly overruled his stomach, warning him he needed to clear the area before he started feeding his face. Still, what could it hurt to tear off a tiny morsel to chew while he searched the place?
"Is someone over there? Help me!" cried a faint voice.
Conor spun away from the smoker feeling like an idiot. He could already be a dead man. Should be a dead man. He threw his rifle back up and scanned the area.
"Hello?" the voice repeated. “Who’s out there?”
Conor pinpointed the voice as coming from an outdoor dining area, surrounded by a waist-high wall of red-painted cinderblock. He knew it could be a trap but he couldn’t leave without investigating. He approached slowly, the gravel crunching beneath his feet with each tentative step. He paused when he got close to the wall.
"Come out with your hands up!” he bellowed.
"I can't,” came a desperate voice. “Some bastard kid shot me and tied me up. I need help. I need a doctor."
Conor's mind raced at that bit of information. Some kid? He had to be talking about Ragus.
On high alert, Conor peeked over the wall, ready to rain fire on anything that wasn’t right. He found an injured man tied to a steel support post. Conor hopped over the wall and made certain the area around him was clear before focusing on the tied man.
“Are you alone?” Conor hissed.
The man nodded. He was a mess, with bloody wounds on both legs. Clotted blood clung to the fabric of his pants. Zip ties had been applied as tourniquets around both legs but they weren’t tight enough and fresh blood seeped over the clotted masses like lava oozing from a volcano. The man’s shirt had been cut away from him and lay in a pile beside his body. A message had been scribbled on his chest with permanent marker.
It read: He’s one of them but he wouldn’t talk.
Conor's jaw clenched to the point he thought his teeth might shatter. That message could only mean one thing. Ragus was telling him this man was one of the kidnappers. Conor moved his gun to the man's forehead, the black maw of the barrel just inches away.
“Where's my fucking daughter?”
Conor could see the shift in the man's expression as he realized Conor was not a savior but instead his executioner. The boy had mentioned something about a man who might be following behind him. A more dangerous man. He hadn’t believed him, thinking it was just talk. But here the man was, in the flesh.
"Go ahead, shoot me. I'd rather be dead than left here to bleed out.”
The man had mustered some defiance but Conor knew how to break that down. He moved the tip of a stained boot to the man’s bloody knee. He let it hover there a moment, studying the man’s expression. There was a flicker of fear. Conor knew he would talk then.
“The boy shoot you in the knee?” Conor asked.
The man nodded frantically.
“Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?”
The man nodded again. Conor smiled at the man and he smiled back. Then Conor stomped on the knee. Once. Twice. Three times.
While waiting for the screaming to stop, he went back to the smoker and sliced off a piece of the smoked beef. This might take a minute. He might as well make the best of it. Chewing and ruminating, he eyed the horses. They were his now. He’d pick one when he left and the pace of his pursuit would change. On foot, his quest had felt doomed. The odds were now much improved. He wasn’t a horseman but if he could stay atop the damned thing it would give him a fighting chance. Things were looking up.
When the injured man’s scream trailed off to whimpering, Conor finished his scrap of meat and dusted off his hands. There was work to do before he left. He needed to extract any information the wounded man had before sending him on to his maker.
15
Barb’s bladder was near exploding when they finally stopped for lunch. A man with a large Bowie knife came around and sliced the zip ties that bound each woman to a stirrup.
“I need to pee,” Barb told him.
“Then pee,” the man replied, looking at her dumbly, as if the solution should have been obvious.
“These clothes are all I’ve got. I’d rather not have to ride in my own piss for the rest of the day.”
The man blew out a breath of frustration and called to the man in charge, “Top Cat, this one is wanting a bathroom break!”
Barb wondered if that was the man’s name or title. She spoke to him as he rode up, ignoring the man who had relayed her message. “I need to pee. Now.”
“Then go,” he growled. “Don’t let us stop you.”
The man who had cut her free smiled. “See? I told you. Great minds think alike.”
Barb frowned at him, then focused her attention back to Top Cat. “I need my hands free to balance myself and I would prefer a little privacy.”
“And I would prefer to be travelling in the comfort of an air-conditioned motor coach but it would appear neither of us is getting what we want,” Top Cat shot back.
“That’s the best you ca
n do?” Barb insisted.
Top Cat rode off without responding. A different smirking man, this one following the one with the Bowie knife, appeared by her side and extended a hand to her. He helped her down with no groping or wandering hands. Maybe he was a decent one.
“Do you mind to stay handy so I can pee?” Barb asked him. “Between you and the horse, you can at least shield me from the other men.”
The man considered the request. “Who are you with?”
Barb looked confused.
“You were picked up with another woman,” the man said. “Who?”
“JoAnn.” Barb pointed. “Right there.”
The man gently helped JoAnn from her horse. When she was on the ground, the man spun her violently, drew his knife, and placed it at JoAnn’s throat. He beckoned at Barb with a finger. “Your hands.”
Barb approached apprehensively, extended her zip tied hands. The man delicately cut her bonds, then replaced the knife at JoAnn’s neck. “You try anything stupid, you try to run, and she dies an ugly fucking death. We clear?”
Barb nodded, stunned. The man had seemed so harmless only a moment ago. It was just reaffirmation that no one could be trusted in the current state of the world. Nothing was as it appeared, and perhaps no one was harmless anymore.
Barb hurried about her business and was back standing in front of the man in a moment. “You can tie me back up now. Just don’t hurt my friend.”
The man looked at JoAnn. “Do you need to go?”
JoAnn nodded hesitantly. The man released her, lashing out a hand to grab Barb by the hair and pull her to him. He put the knife to her throat and instructed JoAnn to hurry.
It took all Barb had not to kill the man. She’d studied Krav Maga and Jujitsu nearly all her life, her father insistent that she never be a defenseless sheep. This man, obviously inexperienced with the blade he wielded, had left her several openings. Before he was even aware what was happening, she could spin out from beneath his blade, twist his wrist, and shove it into his neck. But how long would she live beyond that moment? How long would it be before she, and perhaps JoAnn, were shot down by the rest of the men?
The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series Page 10