Devil in the Grass

by Christopher Bowron

  “Yep.”

  “Supposed to shoot ’em?”

  “Guess so. Let’s just see.”

  “Just fucking askin’. Who lives in this shithole?”

  “Shhh.”

  Five minutes later, it was Blaze broke the silence. “When’s the last time you saw Jack?”

  “Quite a few years, probably at his mom’s funeral.”

  “That whole thing really fucked him up. He beat the crap out of his dad after that.”

  “It’s just not right. People shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of shit. It fucks with your head.”

  Blaze bolted upright in his seat. “Shit, bro. There’s a car coming out.”

  “No shit, you’re right. Let’s block the driveway.”

  “Not with my brand new Jeep. No eff’n way. We’ll stand in front of the driveway with our guns out. Try to look menacing. I’ll do the talking.”

  ****

  Jack lay in the trunk of the car, his mind churning. Mercifully, the cord that had bound his feet and hands was gone. His hands were still tied behind his back, but he could move his fingers. His ankles were likewise bound and his mouth was still sewn shut; he could taste the blood that must be seeping out of his cracked and punctured lips. His head and body bounced around as the car buffeted along a rough country road. He took a moment to let his mind clear once the vehicle found a smoother surface.

  The Satanist bastards were going to try to frame him in the death of Senator Hunter’s family. Buck was taking him to an airplane. Bastards. The senator was destined to be gator food unless he found a way out of this mess. James Hunter was his ticket out of jail, the only person who could vouch for his innocence.

  The tail lights let Jack see that the lights’ metal housing was sharp-looking on one side. Paydirt! He moved so that he could rub the plastic cord along the surface. It took him some time, but finally his feet were free. With a little more wiggling, he was able to use the jagged edge to free his hands. The sensation of blood returning to them was one of agony, pins and needles, but it soon passed.

  He’d seen a movie once where a captive in the trunk of a car punched out the tail light and stuck his leg out of the hole, hoping that someone would see the leg and report the car. It was worth the try. He twisted around so his head was close to the back seat, hoping to find some leverage. He needed to make sure that his kick was a good one. His captors would hear the impact, and he figured two kicks were all he would get. The fact that he didn’t have shoes on was another problem. At first he tried pushing; he did manage to get the housing off, but behind it was the red plastic cover. The hole was too small to fit his hand through, let alone a foot. He sank down into the floor of the trunk in frustration.

  As he lay there, he became aware that something was sticking into his left hip. He ran his fingers along its length: a tire iron. His mood picked up. It took him a few minutes to think things through. There was just enough illumination from the rear lights to see the inside of the trunk. He pushed the pointed end of the iron into the gap between the trunk door and its locking mechanism. If it had been a newer model, he wouldn’t have had a chance. Buck’s old Cadillac offered a fairly large gap. The bar fit into the crack, but his numb hands let him down and the iron slipped out of them and clanged to the floor of the trunk. The car slowed a little bit, and he held his breath hoping it wouldn’t stop. He breathed a sigh of relief when the vehicle sped up.

  He gathered his energy and steeled himself to do what needed to be done. If he was going to escape, this was the best chance he’d had during his captivity. He took a deep breath and slipped the bar back into the crevice between the lid of the trunk and the frame of the car. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the car accelerate. They had most likely reached Interstate 75. If this was the case, he would not have much time before they reached one of three possible airports. He doubted that they would use Southwest Florida International. His bet was Punta Gorda Airport in Charlotte County, or Pilot Field, out of which many small jets and planes flew.

  This time, instead of trying to pull down on the metal bar, he pushed up. To Jack’s delight, very little pressure was required and the trunk popped open. He was greeted by a vacuum of air created by the speed of the car. He gasped for breath, the warm South Florida air filling his lungs. He slowly pushed himself up to the edge of the trunk and poked his head up as high as he could. Buck had just passed a black Tahoe, and its lights shone directly into his eyes. The SUV swerved just a little. The sight of a head popping up from the trunk which had just sprung open, not to mention his sewn-up lips and bruised and bloodied face, must have been a shock to the driver. The SUV driver started honking his horn and flashing his lights.

  Buck slowed the car and pulled over onto the shoulder. The following vehicle pulled in behind them. Jack breathed a sigh of relief; he would not have done so had he been the SUV driver. There were a lot of crazy people driving around southwest Florida, and you never knew who was packing, never mind having to confront a couple of crazed, murderous Satanists with a prisoner in their trunk.

  Just as the car came to a screeching halt, he pushed himself up and over the edge of the trunk. It took nearly all of his energy to finish his roll. His shirt snagged on the locking mechanism. DAMN! He gave one more push with his legs on the forward edge of the trunk opening and felt his shirt rip. He fell hard to the ground, landing on his already burning shoulder. The SUV slammed on its brakes, narrowly missing his head as he rolled clear. He kept rolling down into the long grass and brush of the median.

  He heard Buck’s voice as he rolled away. “Now get back in that car, mister. We don’t want any trouble here.”

  He heard what he guessed to be the voice of the driver. “I know what I saw, mister, I’m calling the police.” Silence. “Mister, put the gun down, I don’t want any trouble.”

  Buck spoke. “This is none of your business, put the phone back in your pocket!”

  The other door opened and Jack could see the feet of the other man as he walked around behind the car. “Walker is gone!”

  Jack saw the flash of light that accompanied the gunshot. He heard the sound of a body hitting the ground. Jesus. He was now a good fifty yards away and into the large pine trees that filled the middle of the interstate median.

  “Where is he?” yelled Buck.

  “I don’t know, did he get hit? Look under the cars! He can’t go far with his feet tied up.” His captors’ voices became more distant.

  He managed to roll into a ball and then pop up onto his feet. It was a well-practiced move after having been tackled so many times. He hadn’t walked in days, and wobbled to the nearest tree and hid behind it. His legs ached; he stretched out a cramp forming in his right calf, the knife wound was a searing pain. He looked back—both men were frantically circling the cars. He crept his way down the pines. Soon he couldn’t hear the men’s voices at all. They would be onto him in seconds if they spotted the rolled-down grass. His best hope was that Buck and the passenger would need to take time to stow the body of the SUV driver—poor bastard.

  Once he was a good hundred yards down the median he ran for the other side of the freeway, stumbling on the uneven ground. He looked back and saw a couple of cars approaching where Buck’s car was parked. More time. As he reached the road, he saw a construction site on the other side and he ran for it.

  As he reached the jumble of parked construction vehicles and debris, he looked back and saw that one of the cars was moving—Buck’s Cadillac. It headed north slowly then looked as if it was turning into the median on a turnaround. His heart thumped and he could barely catch his breath with his sewn lips.

  The car came back along the highway in his direction very slowly and pulled over to the side of the road. A stream of several cars passed. The car door opened and Buck stepped down from the vehicle, scanned the median, and then looked towards the construction site. He started walking toward it.

  He heard Buck’s boots as he stomped across some loose gravel. He sca
nned the area for something he could use in self-defense. The best thing he could find was a long metal bar used for knocking cement off the inside of a mixer. He huddled down behind a steamroller, the bar resting in his sore, swollen hands.

  “Walker. I know you’re here. I saw your tracks in the grass. Come out and we can work something out.”

  Jack smiled, nearly ripping his lips off. Yeah right, like I’m going to work something out with you, asshole. He tried his best to pick at the stitches that bound his mouth. He was able to pull out a couple on the left side. He could now draw in a partial breath. He gripped and re-gripped the metal bar, his fingers still weak. He picked up a stone and tossed it a distance off to his right. Buck heard the noise and moved toward it, taking steady, measured steps. Within seconds he would pass in front of Jack’s hiding place. Jack slowly drew in a breath and pulled back the bar, ready to strike.

  Buck stopped. Jack could see the barrel of a gun sticking out past the corner of the machine. Buck began to turn back, but before he could, Jack brought the heavy metal bar down on the large man’s forearm, feeling the bone crumble under the blow. Buck doubled over and Jack wasted no time and brought the bar down on the back of his head. Buck’s head caved in as the bar embedded into the back of his skull. Jack lifted the bar and slammed it into the back of his head again. He didn’t bother trying to retrieve the weapon.

  “Sick Satanic fuck. How’s that for working something out,” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. He bent down and took the man’s shoes off. They were a bit large but would do. He turned back, looking at Buck’s still body, and kicked it in the ribs as hard as he could, three times. He would have kept doing so, but he remembered the other man. He tucked Buck’s Magnum in the back of his belt, rolled the body over and searched his blazer and found his wallet and cell phone. “Jackpot,” he muttered.

  Jack looked toward the old Caddie. It was still running. He shook his head and stumbled towards the vehicle. He contemplated hiding the body but figured it wasn’t worth the effort. He slipped into the driver’s seat and sat still for a moment, his heart pounding. He flipped down the visor and looked at his face in the mirror. Christ, I look like shit, he thought. He pulled out onto the highway, not wanting to get caught by the state troopers stopped at the side of the road, nor to deal with the other Satanist. He couldn’t tell if the SUV had moved or not. Where was the other man? Damn.

  He accelerated to the speed limit and headed south. He made his bearings once he saw an Interstate 75 sign, the digital compass in the car indicating he was heading south. He needed to get the stitches out of his mouth. Knowing there would soon be relief nearly drove him crazy with anticipation. After five minutes he turned off the highway and pulled into a gas station. He took a look at the GPS attached to Buck’s dash. There were several recent addresses. The second to last one was an address south of Immokalee. He was willing to bet that this was the McFaddens, but he needed to make sure. He was going to kill Isaac and Jimmy McFadden.

  He grabbed an empty coffee cup that was sitting in the dash holder and held it up to his mouth as he walked into the convenience store. The girl at the counter looked at him curiously as he fumbled with Buck’s wallet to pay for nail clippers and a bottle of water. He was sure that the cashier saw his stitches and was reaching for her cell phone as he stepped out the door. He jumped back into the vehicle and pulled onto the cross road and headed inland.

  With one hand, he clipped the twine with the nail clippers, and with the other, he tried to stay on the road. If a cop had been following him, he would have been pulled over in a second as he swerved from lane to lane. By the time he made it past the interstate, the stitches were out. He should have bought some ointment to disinfect his mouth. What he really needed was a hospital and some good medical care; his leg was still hurting where he’d been stabbed. But he couldn’t risk that right now.

  He cleared his throat a couple of times, then dialed Gramps; it was one of those numbers burned into his memory from his youth. The old man picked up immediately. “Who is this?”

  “Gramps, it’s me, Jack.”

  “Jesus, Joseph and Mary. Are you all right son?”

  “I’ve been better.” He took a few calming breaths. “I’ll make this quick. You were correct, it’s Henrietta LePley behind all of this, and a couple of bastards named McFadden.”

  “Hmmm. Makes sense. Josh, Nate, and that lawyer’s assistant, Janie have gone looking for you.”

  “Nooo.” He remembered Gramps’s words days ago: “We look after each other. We do not leave anyone behind. We do not surrender. We do not get captured. Are we clear?”

  If he had any hesitation about returning to the McFadden estate before, it was gone now.

  Gramps interrupted his thought. “They knew it might be the McFaddens, figuring it could be one of three families are behind this. They’re a bad bunch, Jack, notorious for doing dirty work for the old families.”

  “Tell me about it. Fuckers! I gotta go back there.” He could feel his face flushing. “Josh won’t know what he’s in for, and they have Senator Hunter. Can you call them?”

  “I’ve tried, but I’m sure he’s turned off the ringer. Jackson, call the police, turn yourself in. If the Senator is involved this has become too big for you.”

  “Gramps, I will, I promise. I can see the face of that fucking Jimmy McFadden and it will haunt me to my grave if I don’t kill the motherfucker. I’m probably gonna rot in a cell for the rest of my life at this point anyway. I got nothing to lose, Gramps. I have to do this. Like you said, there are no coincidences in life. There’s gonna be no coincidence when I plant a bullet in the middle of that fucker’s face, and his brother’s for good measure.”

  “I have seen this in augury. I feared that you would be like this. Be careful, Jackson. I understand, I was once young and have had my dealings with these people. If you cannot do what you need to do quickly, back off and wait for the police. Remember, they still think you are the bad guy. Don’t get yourself killed by a cop’s itchy trigger finger.”

  “This is beyond being fucking careful, Gramps. I let my father beat Mom to death. I will never forgive myself for that. I’ll never forgive myself if Josh or the other two get hurt. For once in my life, I’m making a stand. Right or wrong, this is what I am doing.” Jack hung up before the old man could talk him out of returning to the McFaddens’ house of horrors.

  Jack called Perry. His phone rang a number of times before voice mail clicked in. Perry wouldn’t answer a strange number at this time of the night. “Perry, pick up your fucking phone. It’s me, Jack.” He hung up and dialed the number again. This time Perry picked up.

  “Perry, It’s Jack.”

  “What the fuck, bro! Where are you?”

  “Can’t explain in two minutes and that’s all I got. I’ve been abducted by the Satanists, and I’ve just escaped. I need your help, pal. I need you to look up an address. It’ll be in the back country. McFadden.”

  “You’re in a truckload of trouble, my friend. Hang on, give me a few seconds, I’ll look that up . . . There’s a few of ‘em. Pine Island, Naples, here’s one on David’s road, let me map it . . . Immokalee Road and just keep going thirty miles from the highway, then right. That’s Nowheresville, Everglades.”

  “Perry, I need you to listen and do exactly what I say. It’s going to take me thirty minutes or so to get there.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me. You’re not going back!”

  “Have to, man. My cousin Josh went in there looking for me. I’ve got to kill the bastards who did this to me before they get him. They’ve got my boss as well.”

  “Senator Hunter?”

  “Yep, they’re going to kill him soon.”

  “I’m fucking calling the police now, bro, you don’t sound right.”

  “Nope, listen. I want you to call Peter Robertson, got that, of Robertson and Robertson. I’m gonna need a lawyer. I had his number but it’s a mushed up ball in my pocket. By the time you get
him and explain what’s going down, it’ll be time to call the police. I just want a little lead time.”

  “You’re one crazy motherfucker, but you’re starting to sound like the old Jack.”

  “Maybe. Prison is too good for these assholes. I’ve made a mess of this whole thing and my life and I’m willing to risk it. I’m taking a stand no matter what the consequences. This is fourth and goal, Per.”

  ****

  Jimmy didn’t go far; there was a big hole half a mile away where the gators were thick. Pulling into the small bay, he stopped the engine and panned a flashlight along the grass and mud shoreline. He could see the reflection of reptilian eyes in the beam of light.

  He moved to the back of the boat and unfolded the plastic that held Lani Green’s body parts. He started with her arms, tossing them toward the shore. It didn’t take too long to attract the large predators. Soon there was a swirling of tails and jaws fighting over the fresh flesh. He tossed in the rest, once he had the gators’ complete attention. He waited until he saw one of the bigger beasts swim close to the boat before he threw in the head and hands. Ordinarily, he ground them down and dispersed the mess in the river for the catfish, but he hadn’t had the luxury of such time. He watched the huge gator crunch the skull in a few savage chomps. “Atta girl,” he said with his puckered grin. The hands went last. He would burn the plastic in a barrel once he returned.

  On the way back, he stopped for a look at the spot where he swore he’d seen the outline of a boat. He’d been in too much of a hurry to have a good look on the way out. His instincts had been correct. Hidden in the middle of a stand of tall sawgrass was an airboat—Shark River Airboat Tours.

  Jimmy moved his boat toward the shore, shining his flashlight along the bank. He saw a patch where the grass and mud had been disturbed. He frowned. “Fuckers.” He pulled the bass boat up on the embankment, grabbed his hunting rifle and followed the tracks in the mud.