by Alan Lee
Jennings had no idea. He’d never felt so entirely without a compass. Any way he turned he was being railroaded by Peter Lynch, an unstoppable force.
Craig Lewis’ words played on repeat.
Lynch scares everyone but none of them consider standing up to him, much less follow through. And I’m curious, once you get past his offenses, will you see him as a broken man? Or an evil one.
Now you’re dead, Lewis.
Was it worth it?
I’ll shoot him. I will. I told Daniel I wished someone would kill Lynch. Why not me? I’ve thought about it recently and I would. I’m twenty years late doing what’s right. Worst case scenario, Ms. Hathaway isn’t able to record anything useful and we have to bail her out, and a pistol would be handy. Best case scenario, Lynch gives me a reason to kill him.
No, we found a much worse scenario. Even more so if I go to prison. But I can’t do nothing…
Lynch told Daisy about a field. She’d asked him what he did with the girls and he said he had a field behind the stables. What did that mean?
Jennings grabbed his flashlight, opened the door, and stepped into the rain. He didn’t have a compass but he had satellite images.
The rain settled in and the forest was black and noisy with unseen terrors. Jennings marched for an hour, until he was sloppy with mud. His left leg ached, missing the support that calf muscles would’ve provided. He had no rain jacket and his truck was a mile behind him. These things didn’t bother him. The suffering gave him strength, lent him courage. It was supposed to be hard, he had to earn it. The life of Craig Lewis had to be earned. De Oppresso Liber.
The life of Craig Lewis and the safety of Daisy. Those women already buried or burned, a hook in her mouth.
The career of Coach Murray and journalist Kabir Patel. And Lynch’s children.
And his own sanity.
Jennings drew close enough to the main homestead to see the lights, use them for bearing, redirect himself north. He stumbled onto a paved road and followed it to a clearing where someone had felled trees with an ax. He risked the heavy Maglite for a moment and realized he stood next to a construction site, clearly future stables.
Consulting Google Earth, there was a field…that way. In a fit of madness, Jennings tugged an ax from its burial in a chopping stump. It wasn’t an ax, he saw, but an old splitting maul with a long handle. Not the ideal weapon but he took it with him.
Jennings left the forest and walked into what looked like an old cornfield, acres wide and deep. The moon was hidden with heavy clouds and each step was taken by faith, unwilling for his flashlight to act as a signal beacon. Somehow the field felt more godforsaken than the forest and his skin crawled. No heavens above, just a ceiling of rain.
The toes of his right foot began to squish in his shoe. He zigzagged through the scrubby brush, walking half a mile this way and that, wondering what he should be looking for, until the ground gave way and he stumbled. A ditch? He set the maul down and slid his flashlight under his shirt and clicked it on, providing just enough ambient glow to make out details.
He stood in a depression. Three feet wide and twenty feet long, shallower at the far ends, a foot deep at the middle. In the depression, the vegetation was sparse and immature. Like a giant had recently scooped off a thin chunk of earth.
What caused a depression? Resettled dirt, something buried? A pipe? Cables? No, it was only this spot.
Maybe a grave.
Jennings felt like the thought came from outside his body.
I suspect Peter kills prostitutes who anger him.
Women buried in California.
Jennings’ hands trembled, but not from the cold. It took him three tries to mark his exact location on his phone. Because there was a chance he was standing on an unmarked gravesite. And if so, he had proof.
Proof! This was all a game of proof, the private detective had said.
Was there more?
Another ten minutes of searching and his feet found a smoother path. Again he shoved the flashlight under his shirt and ignited the bulb with fingers trembling from the cold. He was walking along tracks made by a machine, maybe a bulldozer, the tracks smoothed by multiple trips.
He followed the tracks. His sodden clothes had long been heavy but he felt the weight now.
The tracks ended at a dig site. The machine, a small bulldozer or Bobcat, had plowed up a furrow in the field. A trench. Twenty feet long, deeper in the middle, maybe four feet so far. Mounds of dirt were piled at both ends of the trench.
The Bobcat had run through the trench over and over, deepening it, pushing the excess earth to the far sides. Excavating something? Was something underground he needed access to? Was this a future construction site? Or maybe Lynch had another victim planned.
He dropped the maul into the mud and carefully walked down the steep incline. The walls came up to his chest at the bottom and he crouched. Shined the flashlight around.
There was nothing. The sides of the furrow were marred by uneven half circles, evidence of manual digging with a shovel.
He groaned and clenched his eyes shut. Despite his best efforts, his body demanded he reckon with the ugly reality, the specter that he may be crouching in a nascent grave planned for Daisy. Or maybe himself. He gulped down nausea.
Jennings was climbing from the trench when he noticed light scattering along the ground. And in the raindrops.
He twisted to identify the source, swallowing panic, and his prosthetic foot slipped. He slapped the trench’s incline hard, mud spurting, and he slid down to the bottom again. Scrambling to regain his feet. Peering over the trench’s wall.
A bright beam in the trees. Had to be a flashlight, casting long shadows through the trunks and limning the downpour.
Jennings cursed and spit water. Some absurd instinct wanted to grab the Falcon handheld radio on his shoulder and report the enemy. He was in a perfectly defensible position…except he had no firearm and no radio and no special forces backup. He was no longer a Green Beret; he was an unarmed, one-legged interloper covered in mud.
The source of light was growing closer.
Jennings didn’t trust the treacherous incline and he was already filthy so he squirmed over the side of the trench using upper body strength. The earth was freezing.
Whoever was coming had cleared the tree line. Jennings couldn’t see anything beyond the awful light. He scrambled behind the farthest mound and crouched. Held the heavy Maglite like a club.
He’d lost the maul, dammit, on the other side of the trench.
Waiting and shivering and peering around the mound. The challenging flashlight bobbed closer and larger. He kept his eyes off the glare, watching in his peripheral.
Without prompting, his mind ran through the Ranger rules. If you cannot satisfy yourself as to the enemy’s number and strength, conceal yourself. Don’t stand up when the enemy’s coming. Kneel down or hide. Let the enemy come close enough to touch and then finish him.
He knew who the man had to be. It was inevitable; life kept smashing them together. But was he armed? The man stopped near the lip of the trench, twenty feet away, his beam searching the ground.
Peter Lynch. His face was half-hidden in the hood of his Gore-Tex rain jacket. His flashlight came to rest straight down.
The ambient light was enough for Jennings to see the glint of his eyes, the spots in Lynch’s beard not yet grown in. What the hell was Lynch doing out here?
What the hell was he doing out here?
Lynch had something resting on his shoulder. He shifted and Jennings made out a long-handled shovel. Lynch came into the pouring rain to dig? Too muddy for the Bobcat.
The big man remained frozen. He was shining his light into the mud. Jennings risked another inch to see… Lynch was staring at the splitting maul and the surrounding footprints.
Jennings’ hands balled into fists, his right hand around the flashlight. Fool! Idiot, fool, rookie, leaving the maul. All his nerves were alive and screaming with panic now.
/> The light in Lynch’s eyes rolled, irises swiveling, searching. Still the man didn’t move and Jennings understood it…
Lynch was fitting puzzle pieces together and guessing the intruder was nearby and hiding. Based on the uneven footprints, Lynch might even identify it was him. And based on the scarcity of hiding places, might assume he was behind the mound of dirt. Lynch staying still, not playing the flashlight around, deciding what to do.
Should Jennings call the police? And say what? Help I’m a fool and I’m trespassing.
The truth was becoming obvious. Both men knew the other was there. Both wondering if the other had a gun.
WhyTheShitDon’tIHaveMyGun.
Slowly Lynch shifted and walked his beam into the ditch, saw it empty, saw the mess of shoe prints. A clang as he dropped his shovel. Bent over. Hefted the maul instead.
A soft voice. Words sung with a smile.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Lynch wasn’t armed. Not with a gun at least because he wouldn’t have picked up the maul. Enough. Enough hiding.
Jennings counted to three. Went on two.
He rounded the tall pile of dirt and Lynch’s flashlight snapped onto him.
He lit his own and shone it into Lynch’s face.
“There you are, Daniel. Playing little boy games?”
“Peter. A little late for digging.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” said Jennings.
“I’m going to.” Lynch indicated the field with his maul and he grinned. “What brings you, Daniel?”
“You killed Craig Lewis.”
“I was told I wasn’t a suspect. A shame if his death goes unresolved. A shame if he whimpered and wept and no one ever hangs for it.”
“I know you did it. I know it all.”
Lynch began plodding around the trench, closing the distance. “Isn’t it ironic, Daniel, you here. At this particular hole in the ground. It’s so funny I could kill someone.”
They were talking loud over the rain. “It’s a grave.”
“Everywhere you look you see graves, I bet. You, the failed Green Beret. I called your brother. Had a great chat. Explained I was with the veteran’s hospital in Salem, reviewing your case. He told me the whole story, Daniel, about that terrible, awful, no-good day in the sand. About how two men in your company died. And you, the medic, escaped with only the minor loss of a foot. Your big brother, the successful son, told me about your psychotic breakdown in Landstuhl. I don’t know how you even get out of bed, Daniel.”
Jennings’ vision lurched, the sky burning with a hot sun for an instant. Memories forced into his mind, his guilt given a voice.
“I was you?” Lynch’s teeth were a crescent glimmer of white. “I’d lay down in the ditch and let me do the honors. You’re a lame horse, the runt of a great family, good at nothing, and you need to be put down. And you know it. No one would even notice you’re gone.”
Lynch was close now. One step more and he could connect with the long maul. Jennings fought for sanity, for hope, tried to remember where he was. Screaming about his missing leg, crawling toward his friends, wondering WHY he was in Afghanistan, wondering WHY he was in Lynch’s sunken field.
“You and I have a lot in common, Daniel. But you’re merely a flicker compared to an inferno.”
Jennings didn’t back away though Lynch was close enough to touch now. “In common?”
“The older disappointed brother, the shameful past, the current…fascination with Daisy Hathaway, the need for combat. I confess, we’re alike. The difference is, I overcame the world but you’re crushed under it.” Lynch raised his weapon with one arm. Set the heavy maul head on Jennings’ shoulder, the bit resting against his exposed neck. “The difference is, I get Daisy and you don’t. I win, you lose.”
“The difference is…” Jennings felt like a coiled spring being compressed.
“Speak up, soldier. Don’t whisper your last words.”
“The difference is, I’m a man. And you’re not.”
Lynch’s face lost some of its energy. He shook the flashlight at Jennings’ face.
“Don’t talk to me about being a man, little sergeant. I had it beaten into me, what a man is.”
“You buy and you bribe and you break, Lynch, because you don’t have what it takes.”
“I don’t have…? I’m rich, Daniel. You have nothing, you are nothing.”
“No wonder you’re obsessed with my family. You know you’re not enough. You want to be one of us. You think that’ll fix what’s wrong inside.”
“Close your mouth. Or I’ll tear it off.”
“It wouldn’t work, joining our family. You’d still be you. And I pity you.”
Lynch yanked the maul back, raking the sharp toe across Jennings’ neck. Jennings was pulled off balance, the rain water turning pink.
Sudden madness. Lynch taking a two-handed grip on the handle and shoving toward Jennings’ mouth like a battering ram to break his teeth. Jennings, instincts and training engaged, was twisting. The maul missing clean and Jennings inside now, getting both hands on the handle too, pivoting away, using his body as a fulcrum. Both flashlights forgotten in the mud. Lynch’s hands too strong, no release. Growling, fighting for the maul, Lynch behind. Sharp white sinking into Jennings’ shoulder, biting, tearing, and Jennings howled. He shrugged away. Releasing the handle with his right hand and elbowing backward, once, twice, hard bone into Lynch’s face.
Lynch flinching away from the awful blows and losing his grip on the maul. Flailing, catching Jennings’ jacket. Gripping, hauling him into a bear hug, the same that killed Craig Lewis. Jennings took a deep breath and held it before being crushed in the vice. Unlike poor Lewis, Jennings had experience enough not to panic. His arms pinned down, the maul useless in his left fist, he released it. Squirmed his hands between the bodies, rooting…
Got them.
Eyes widening in shock, Lynch felt a thrust between his thighs. A hard grip on his genitals through his pants. He tried to scoop his hips back but his testicles were caught. Squeezing, pulling, pain unimaginable, Jennings going after his most vulnerable spot. Harder yank. White spots in Lynch’s eyes, forgetting his bear hug, tasting vomit.
Jennings twisting free. Sweet oxygen.
Lynch doubling over. Sucking too much cold air, his lungs burning. In the black Jennings couldn’t find the maul, kicking mud.
Still bent, Lynch fighting through pain. He swung blindly, a mighty swipe, and he felled Jennings sideways. Landed in the slop close enough to his flashlight. Came up with the light but Lynch bulldozed him. Both men down again. Wrestling, groaning, desperate. Lynch heavier, stronger, Jennings trained in combat. Arms and legs writhing, jockeying for position.
Lynch’s lungs failed him. Out of shape, out of breath, he lost his steam, panting, sweating inside his rain jacket, and Jennings got on top. Reached for Lynch’s flashlight. Struck Lynch a sharp crack on the skull and the lightbulb inside broke.
Jennings ached everywhere. Lights winked in his periphery. He stood unsteadily, his prosthesis wrenched and loosened in the struggle, and collected his Maglite and the maul. Could barely grip them. Water and mud pulled at his clothes. He trudged back to Lynch, who tried to sit up at the edge of the trench.
“You lose, Peter.”
Lynch had to take deep breaths between the words. “I don’t lose. I can’t.”
“You just did.”
“You’ll have to kill me, Daniel. I won’t stop."
Jennings stood behind, spotlighting him. “Another difference between us. I don’t murder.”
“You’d like it.” Lynch turned at the waist to grin into the light. His face a mask of sludge. “Daniel. It’s better than you think. Try it.”
“I’m leaving. If you try to follow me, I’ll break your shin.”
“Did you know…” Lynch pulled his knees under him. Closed his eyes and grimaced. Tried to steady his breathing. “Huma
n ears rip off with eight pounds of pressure.”
“Didn’t know that,” said Jennings. Lynch tried to rise so he walked behind him, closer to the trench, and pushed him over with the maul. “Don’t get up.”
“So instead of your ears…” Lynch wincing. “…I’ll put hooks through your armpits. And a third under your jaw, through the fleshy part, the sharp point into your mouth like a fish. String you up that way.”
“What hooks?”
“You’ll find out soon.”
Through the gasping and pain, Lynch was grinning. Jennings had the impression Lynch was changed somehow by the fight, by the loss. Different from the man he’d been mere minutes ago. What tenuous hold he had on himself was gone.
As both men would discover, Lynch’s breakdown would only worsen with time.
“You’re insane.”
“Kill me, Daniel, or it’ll happen.”
“No.”
“You don’t get it, teacher. One of us has to die. It’s always like that and it’s never me. One of us goes, kills the other. If you don’t, I will. Trust me. Winner gets the girl.” Panting, steady eye contact in the black. “Do it, try it. You’ll regret it if you don’t. This is pure fucking mercy I’m giving you. Do it now, with the maul, swing it like you mean it, little sergeant nobody.”
On some level Jennings knew Lynch was correct. He had the man. Had him cold, at his disposal. Alive, Lynch was rich and powerful and connected and a menace and impossible to beat in court. Dead he was…nothing. But Jennings’ homicidal rage had passed. Knew that spending a life in jail would mean Lynch won. Would mean looking at his mother through iron and apologizing. Killing him now meant he didn’t trust himself to find a better way.
“Not like this.”
Jennings stepped backward. Turned to go. Too tired, too weary, his left foot snagged onto the discarded shovel. The suspension liner inside his prosthesis was sodden and his leg twisted. The pin at the base of the socket had been strained during the fight, and now the pin snapped free. His weight descended, the prosthetic leg contorted, and the knee buckled. He staggered and the horrible mud rose up to greet him.
Landing with a splash. Sliding down the slope into the trench.
