by Rob Brunet
As he drew himself up onto the field, he detected a rise in the excitement level of the barking dogs: he’d been spotted. Breaking into a run, he traversed the farmer’s field as fast as he could. Three times he had to scramble down into and back up from the mini gorge cut by the brook. The dogs were gaining ground quickly.
Where the brook poured into a full-on creek, the rain had raised the water to a foot deep in spots. Bent double, he ran down its center for a few hundred feet before spotting salvation.
In the next field, a tractor trailer sat at an angle to the road. The field abutted a secondary highway and the trailer had been wrapped with a billboard advertising Timbits. Sanctuary. What’s more, the barking had ceased. The dogs must have reached the creek. He vaulted over the farmer’s fence and stumbled across the plough furrows to the trailer. The sliding door was unlocked but rusty. He pulled himself up onto the lip and kicked at the door to loosen it. The banging of his foot on metal sounded like a massive out-of-tune gong, but after just two or three kicks, he managed to screech the door open about a foot—enough to squeeze under. Inside, he did his best to pull the door closed again, getting it to within four inches of the trailer floor. Sweating in spite of the cold, he sat down and pressed his back to the wall, breathing deeply.
After what seemed like hours but could hardly have been ten minutes, Danny heard the dogs approaching through the field. At least two cop cars made their way slowly along the gravel road, tracking them. The dogs came right up to the trailer. He held his breath, listening to them snuffling along the door until a shout drew them away and he breathed a deep sigh of relief.
He’d come within inches of getting caught, but somehow luck was with him. Trampling through the creek must have dampened his smell. He was glad as hell he had bathed in the lake and changed into Ernie’s clothes so he no longer reeked of pot.
He breathed deep. He was going to make it. Collect his money and make his way out of the country. Live on some distant shore, in a grass hut maybe. Eat well, drink well. Roaring bonfires every night on the beach. This called for a celebration!
Danny pulled the baggie of skunk weed from his pocket and rolled an extra fat doobie. Firing it up, he toked deeply and held the smoke long in his chest. When he exhaled, the cloud hung thick about his head and the smoke curled around his body, some of it swirling out under the trailer door. By the time Danny realized what he had done, it was too late. The dogs were back and this time they were really excited.
Eleven
The municipal jail cell was dank and dimly lit. Jersey “Hawk” Hawkins ignored the perfunctory shove the cop gave him as he squeezed past the full metal door. The grimy eight-inch window was laced with half-inch wire to prevent shattering. Hawk pulled his sweatshirt over his head and used his sock-covered foot to jam it tight into the crack along the bottom of the door.
The Nancy’s Nasty named Bernard hadn’t moved from his fetal position on the bottom bunk. Hawk put his foot on the man’s hip and pressed until he heard a whimper.
“Roll over, dipshit.”
“What you want, asshole de merde?”
“Let me see your pretty little face.”
“Fuck you.”
Hawk reached down and grabbed a fistful of Bernard’s afro. He used it like a handle, lifting the man to his feet and turning him so they were breathing each other’s air real close. Hawk’s long grey hair was tied in a ponytail, knotted every couple inches with leather strips. The last couple knots ran through one-inch square nuts. With a quick jerk of his neck, he flicked the pony tail around and slapped the chunks of stainless steel into the side of Bernard’s head. He was well-practiced, and managed to land the hits where he was holding the other man’s curls out of the way.
Bernard flinched, but didn’t make a sound.
“Tell me what the fuck went down out there. Give it to me straight first time and maybe I won’t make you eat your kneecap.”
“How the hell I know? Frederick and me, we just do what Mr. Ratwick he tell us. Me, I drives a car and next thing I know the cops they come and bang wham into jail.” He squirmed a bit then stopped when Hawk pressed his shoulders into the top bunk and twisted his neck backward.
“The money,” said the Libido. “Where the fuck’s the Skeleton’s payday? They take it with ’em?”
“No way, man. That’s Frederick. For sure no shit he take the money.”
Hawk glared at him, one eyeball at a time, saying nothing.
Bernard’s lips curved into a half smile, eyes shifting back and forth. He said, “Yeah, that’s it. Frederick, he’s your man for sure. Me, I tried to save it for you, eh? I kick him good, down der you know? Still, he run away.”
Hawk threw the man to the ground and told him to take off his pants and underwear. Bernard looked confused and maybe a little hopeful. Until Hawk scooped his shorts, balled them tight, and rammed them into the Nancy’s Nasty’s mouth. The scrawny wannabe was no match for the Libido; he grabbed for Hawk’s pony tail and tried to pull him down. Hawk yanked it free and batted him about the face with the steel nuts. Then he wrapped one pant leg tight around his neck and pulled hard on the other.
When his victim had stopped kicking, Hawk tied the loose pant leg around the light bulb cage above the door. Bending over, he picked up his sweatshirt, rolled it into a loose pillow, and lay down on the bottom bunk to sleep, Bernard’s feet dangling in front of his face.
Two days later, Perko sat at the kitchen table in the Libidos clubhouse. That morning, the gang’s attorney had finally arranged for his release on bail. The day and a half in jail would have been routine had it not been for the constant ribbing Perko took on account of his shit-soaked chaps.
“So you lost the whole mess.” Mongoose barely stifled a snicker.
“Fuck you, too,” Perko said.
“Hey, don’t you go getting all antsy on me, Mister I’ll-run-my-own-show-like-it-or-not. This was your call and I’s gonna make sure you pay for it.”
“I’ll sort it out.”
“Right. You’s got a major grow burned to a crisp and some joker in custody with every reason to talk. Even the money is gone, Perks.”
“The money’s not gone. It’s missing.”
“For alls you know, your big payday went up in smoke with the rest of the operation. What I hear, that’s what the cops are betting.”
“Not a chance,” Perko said. “You see any one o’ those lowlifes leaving a bag of cash behind just because the building’s on fire?”
“Ha! They’d more’n likely fry fightin’ over it.”
“Exactly,” Perko said. “They grab it and run. And I’m gonna find the dough and break the neck of the sonofabitch who took it.”
“And that would be...?”
“Like I said, it’s gotta be either Frederick or my shithead farmer. They’re the only two people got away. Frederick’s too smart to steal from me, so my money’s on the punk.”
“What about the Skeletons?” Mongoose asked. “Maybe they took off with the dope and the money.”
“Not a chance. I’m telling you, the cops showed up after the Skeletons loaded the trucks. Money woulda been in our control.”
“Alright, but why’d they leave the Nicaraguans?”
“’Cause the first fucking pig showed up just as they finished loading. I’m pretty sure Frederick was still inside the barn.”
“Which shoulda been you, if you hadn’t been busy shitting your pants. Scared shitless, you was.”
“Laugh all you want, asshole. I had a fucking Pepto-Bismol moment and my chaps got in the way. Could happen to anyone.”
“Hoo-hoo-hoooo! To anyone wearing diapers, maybe.”
“Like I said, fuck you.” Perko glared at Mongoose until the larger man stopped laughing. Then he said, “Ten minutes alone with Bernard and I’ll learn where Frederick’s run off to. Once I track him down, we’ll know which of the two shitheads has our dough and we’ll be done.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to be something prett
y special to get ten minutes with Bernard. He hanged himself.”
“Hanged himself?” Perko felt woozy. “Gimme a fucking break. You guys did it, didn’t you?”
“Naw, it was suicide. Said so right in the newspaper.”
“Right, like I’m gonna believe that. Who did it?”
Mongoose grinned. “Hawk. He got himself thrown in jail for brawling down at the City Lights. We paid off a guard to put him in the same cell as Bernard. Then, we pays a couple more because Bernard was eatin’ his own shorts when they found him and that didn’t square with the suicide line, but it’s all taken care of.”
“Taken care of.”
“Yeah, you know. One for all and all that crap.”
“How the hell am I supposed to beat information out of a corpse?”
“I feel for you, Perk, but, you know, we were all just a bit concerned about what that pussy was gonna tell the cops. As for who the hell absconded with our money, he says it was Frederick. Anyway, that’s your problem, not the club’s. You see, Perko, how the fuck do we know you didn’t cook this whole thing up and maybe you’re hiding the money for yourself?”
“Like I said...” Perko bit his tongue. Mongoose was flushing red and he was in deep enough shit as it was. He asked, “What about them two Nicaraguans?”
“We’s trying to get a line on them. They’s moved to another joint. Something to do with immigration status. Whatever the hell. Anyways, we’ll get them soon enough. You should be more concerned about finding the money. Where did you say you found your farmer?”
“I told you. Frederick came up with him. Arm’s length. He’s not attached to no one.”
“You better hope not.”
Four years later
Twelve
Sweat streamed down Danny’s face. Pinned in place, he could only move his head and arms. Excited barking drew closer as a pack chased its prey. He struggled to free himself from the pile of rocks piled right up to his armpits. He tossed stone after rounded stone as far as he could until he uncovered his chest. As he worked down past his stomach to his thighs, stones rolled from behind to fill the gap.
The barking pressed in on him. He struggled to shift his legs. His face, chest, arms, and hands slick with perspiration, he lifted one smooth rounded rock at a time. Every few stones, Lester’s hate-filled eyes stared out at him, the apparition fading as soon as he dared touch it. Still, each gruesome illusion shook him as much as the first.
By the time he dug far enough to reveal his knees, the barking had reached the edge of the clearing. He felt his right leg free itself and tugged harder. That wedged his calf in place, giving him the sense of being off-balance yet unable to fall down. He sat, exhausted, and kept pushing stones from in front of his shins. The barking kept up, non-stop, louder and more frantic by the minute. Still the beasts did not appear. It was all he could do to drop the round rocks at arm’s length. He built a ridge in front of himself and most of the way around either side. A couple of times, a stone he added to the top of the ridge careened back down the pile to smash a kneecap.
When he released his left foot, he found he could wriggle his right as well. Three more stones and he was free. The dogs were almost on him. He scrambled over the rock pile and saw his legs were unmarked—no scratches, no bleeding, just pain. He ran for the forest and got maybe twenty yards before he tripped on an exposed pine root and crashed to the ground. As he staggered to his feet, he looked over his shoulder to see the pack break out of the forest. He froze in place. The enraged animals swarmed him, lunged at his back, and clawed his thighs. Instead of snarling dogs, no fewer than thirty barking lizards were at him, each with Lester’s stone cold crazy eyes. All with Shooter’s razor sharp teeth.
Danny laughed until he started to sob. After maybe a minute, he took a deep breath and peeled his eyes open to stare at the grey concrete ceiling of his prison cell. His cooling perspiration made him shiver and he said out loud, “Ninety-nine”—the number of days until he would be eligible for full parole, four years into his seven-year sentence.
Every nightmare since his arrival in prison had involved dogs. Rocks, too. And Lester. Iggy was bound to show up every so often. Danny was glad his nightmares rarely involved his fellow prisoners or the place where he had spent the last four years of his life. He refused to accept it as reality, preferring to focus his waking dreams on some vague Caribbean paradise and his big bag of appropriated cash. He kept tourist brochures taped to the walls of his cell. He thought of his mother and how she’d forgive him. He imagined the girlfriend he would woo. He wondered whether she’d be blonde. He spent a lot of time on that.
Four years of prison life had been dreary as hell. Sheer boredom, the constant threat of violence, a sense of utter uselessness, and complete absence of self-esteem. It was soul destruction by design. Danny had withdrawn to games of checkers with his cellmate and kitchen duty. He appreciated the relative safety of the kitchen. Since it involved knives, the real wackos were excluded. Plus there were always at least two prison guards close by to reduce the likelihood of random violence. He kept his nose clean and rarely got involved in altercations with other inmates.
Day ninety-nine-and-counting, Danny made his way to the admin section for his day parole hearing. On the way, two thugs slammed him into the washroom.
“Must be getting excited,” said the first, a pimple-faced crackhead. The second guy twisted Danny’s arms behind him, back to the wall. The guy with the bad acne said, “Any day now you’ll be outta here and then it’s payday, ain’t it?”
“Told you guys before,” Danny said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” After a few months of near daily beatings, the Libidos thugs had pretty much left him alone.
“You got a choice,” said Waste Face, an improvised plastic knife cradled in his palm. “The guys are gonna turn your face to pulp once you’re outside. You cough up the story now, maybe I don’t cut you.”
“You really oughta visit the infirmary, dude,” Danny said. “Your face looks like a goddamn tumor fest.” He spat in the guy’s eyes and swung his hips hard right. Sure enough, the bastard thrust the knife hard toward where Danny’s waist had been. It slipped past him, grazing the guy holding his arms and ran straight at the wall behind him. The Face bleated like a stuck piglet as his weapon pushed back, sliced into his palm, and sent blood spurting all over his pal who loosened his grip just enough. A little splattered on Danny’s shoulder as he dodged and ran out.
At the end of the hallway, Danny banged on the wire mesh door and grinned. If they were still on him about the money, the Libidos hadn’t found it yet.
Thirteen
Skeritt grabbed another slice of Wonder Bread from the pile on the kitchen table and folded it in half. Using it to scoop a mouthful of peanut butter from the gallon jar of Skippy on his lap, he munched the sandwich with gusto. A half-empty carton of milk sat on the table beside the bread. He drained it in one gulp and threw the empty carton at the dead body on the floor.
“Bastard.”
He ate two more fistfuls of peanut butter, stood, and opened the fridge. There being no more milk, he took an apple, chomped it in three bites, and tossed the core at the corpse.
“Stupid bastard. I warned you more than once. You paid no heed. And now you’re dead.”
Skeritt ignored the beer in the fridge and took a slab of two-year-old cheddar from the deli drawer. He ripped the plastic off with blackened fingernails and gnawed at it. He sat at the table again, staring at the corpse for a long time, occasionally dipping the cheese in the peanut butter and chewing with a scowl.
He stuck out his foot and rolled the dead man onto his back. Ernie’s eyes were open and the bottom half of his face was missing, a pulpy mess of bone and teeth where his mouth should have been.
Still eating the cheese, Skeritt scanned the interior of the cabin.
In the living room, which really wasn’t a separate room at all, a square-backed couch and a striped brown La-Z-Boy faced a 50” pla
sma television. A short bookshelf under the window overflowed with Blu-rays, many more of which were strewn on the floor next to a big round coffee table.
He walked over to the table which was made from a four-inch slab of tree-trunk more than three feet across, supported by tree trunk legs with the bark still on. Carved into the table’s top face in gouges half an inch deep were the letters S-K-E-R-I-T-T. He pulled a hunting knife from where it hung on his belt and added three letters next to his name.
He went into the bedroom where the dresser drawers had been emptied onto the bed. Rummaging in the closet, he found a knapsack. He crammed in three sweaters, two plaid flannel shirts, and two pair of trousers. He tossed in every pair of socks from the bed and two more dirty pair from the floor, zipped the sack shut, and walked back into the living room.
Ernie’s shotgun leaned against the wall by the front door, and two boxes of ammunition were on a shelf nearby. He put the ammunition in his trouser pockets, and walked over to the corpse. Looking down he said, “Guess you won’t be needing the gun any more, will you? Load of good it did you anyway, huh? Bloody bastard.”
Skeritt took a can of kerosene from the kitchen counter and poured its contents onto Ernie’s dead body, soaking the man’s clothes from head to toe. He threw the empty can at the living room window. It bounced off the glass and rolled under the couch. Snarling, Skeritt picked up the coffee table and heaved it at the window as though it were nothing more than a Frisbee. It smashed through the glass and tumbled into the brush outside. Striking a safety match from his shirt pocket, he tossed it at the corpse. It lit up like a bonfire.
“Bastard,” he said again as he stomped out of the cabin, stopping only to grab one more slice of bread and peanut butter.
Skeritt walked the short distance to the outhouse. He opened the door, dropped his trousers, and sat down. It faced the cabin and he left the door hang open. As he did his business, Skeritt watched the fire intently. The oxygen from the smashed window fed the flames and they spread rapidly through the main room. When the stove’s propane tank exploded with a crash loud as August thunder, Skeritt grinned like a little boy.