Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  “Thank you,” Hillary said rubbing them together.

  Roy took her hands in his, looked at the deep rope burns. “Sorry, I didn’t realize they were so tight.”

  She met his gaze evenly. “That’s all right. But my ankles, they’re taped very tightly, too.”

  “Sorry.” Roy bent over, digging into the tape. She could tell he was getting excited again.

  Hillary spotted butt of a gun sticking out the windbreaker Roy had draped over the chair. If she could get off the bed she could reach it in two, maybe three steps. Two, maybe three seconds. No time at all. She just needed a little diversion.

  “There,” Roy said, pulling the tape off Hillary’s feet. She rubbed her ankles. “Ah ... Much better, thanks.”

  Roy brushed a few strands of blond hair away from Hillary’s face. “You are a beautiful woman.”

  Does this freak actually think I would sleep with him right now? I know actors are self-absorbed, Hillary thought, but please ... “Thank you,” she said.

  He continued to stare into her eyes. It was a practiced stare, honed by years of successful seductions, as focused as a laser. It said, You are the most desirable woman in the world. I want you with all my heart and soul. I’ll fulfill all your fantasies.

  Okay, she thought. He does have remarkable eyes, and oozes sex appeal. But what twit would fall for this shit? It makes me want to puke. He leaned forward for a kiss. Uh oh, now what? Their lips met, his mouth opened, his tongue searched for hers. Gross!

  The tongue tango began. Hillary wanted to bite down, put her incisors through the tip of his tongue, but she fought back the urge. She needed that gun. Patience. The opportunity would present itself.

  She felt his hands slide up her side, cup her breasts. Her instinct was to stiffen, but she fought it. He’d know this was all a ruse. She had to act like she was enjoying it. She tried to pretend he was someone else. Carl? No, he was never that good a kisser, stiff lips. Nick? No, he dribbled. Gideon? She felt herself instantly relax. Yes, Gideon. Dear, sweet, Gideon.

  When he starting asking all those personal questions back at Roy’s apartment she almost said what she’d wanted to say to him for months now. I love you. But she didn’t have the nerve. Well, when this is over I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell him how much I love him.

  Roy Cooper’s hand slipped under Hillary’s blouse, and he fingered her nipples through the bra. Shit, Hillary thought. I better think of something, fast. Then she did. “Wait,” she said, finishing the kiss. “Wouldn’t this be more fun like, naked?”

  He gave her a rakish smile. “Naked. I like naked.” He stood up, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, putting on a strip show for her.

  Jeeeesus! He is such a cliché.

  He dropped the shirt to the floor. His chest was hard and tan, and he had a great six pack. On anyone but a homicidal maniac she might find it attractive.

  He bent over to untie his Nikes. The bow on the left sneaker became a knot. He had to use both hands to undo it. Hillary knew this was her chance.

  Springing from the bed, she reached the windbreaker in two swift steps. She pulled out the gun, whirled back toward Roy Cooper, and centered the cross hairs over his breastbone.

  That’s when she knew she was in trouble. There were no cross hairs. It wasn’t a real gun. It was the dart gun. And it was empty.

  Roy looked at her like a disappointed teacher. “You promised you wouldn’t try to escape.”

  Hillary wasn’t going to stand there and discuss it. She threw the gun at his head and bolted for the door.

  Ducking the weapon with ease, Roy launched himself at Hillary’s back and grabbed her shoulder just as her fingers reached the doorknob. They slipped off as he slammed her into the ground.

  Hillary tried to scream but Roy cut it off by wrapping both hands around her neck and choking. He squeezed so hard Hillary was afraid he’d break her neck.

  She kicked her feet and pounded on his back, but as the oxygen left Hillary’s brain her blows became weak, ineffective.

  My self-defense classes really suck, she thought. I’m going to fire Chang.

  Then she passed out.

  Deadman’s Curve On

  The Road Of Life

  I woke up in the trunk of a car. It was pitch black. My head hurt. My hands and feet were hogtied. A gag was stuffed in my mouth. The road was bumpy and a cannonade of rocks and pebbles battered the undercarriage. We were on an unpaved road somewhere. Going fast. I twisted my arm to get a look at my watch: 9:25.

  This was bad. Every rotation of the tires brought me farther from the Hollywood sign. I had no doubt that Roy Cooper would kill Hillary if I didn’t show up. I had no doubt he’d probably try to kill Hillary even when I did. Her only chance was for me to be there, not on this dirt road to oblivion. So this was really bad.

  What I didn’t understand is why Jason Tucker hadn’t already killed me. What did he want? Where was he taking me?

  Well, with any luck I’d never find out. If I could just get this gag off I might be able to gnaw through the ropes. I had good teeth. The rope felt very thick, however, so it might take a while. Did I have any other choice?

  Once my hands were free, then what? How would I get out of the trunk? They never covered that in private eye school.

  How hard could it be? All I had to do was find an old tool in the coal black trunk, grope blindly for the trunk’s latch mechanism and somehow pry it open. After that I would just leap out of a speeding car onto the rock-strewn road. If not killed or maimed by the fall, I’d crawl off into the night, borrow or steal a few million dollars and limp up to the Hollywood Sign in time to save the day.

  Piece of cake.

  Fortunately, I never got to implement my brilliant plan, because at that moment the car rocked to a stop. I heard a car door open, gravel ground under foot, a key engage the trunk lock, and the lid pop open.

  Jason Tucker stood there, a grin on his face. “Have a nice ride?”

  I tried to say “fuck you” but the gag reduced my words to an incomprehensible garble.

  Another man joined us. He was taller than Jason Tucker, six one or two, but twice as wide. Huge to be more specific. Fat as a pig to be even more specific. With a pug nose and pockmarked face. A tattoo of a skull adorned his bald head.

  “Here he is, Rhino,” Tucker said, proudly. “The scum bag who sent me to prison.”

  “Thith is going to be fun.” Rhino lisped as he pulled me from the trunk and tossed me to the ground.

  A cloud of dust swirled as I hit and felt the breath knocked out of me. As I struggled for air I noticed we were parked in front of a dilapidated cabin surrounded by pine trees and scrub oak. Not a bad spot to spend a weekend getaway, but a shitty place to die.

  “We got a bonus,” Tucker announced, opening the passenger door and pulling out the plastic bag full of cash. “Money. Lots of it.” Tucker dumped the bag over my head. Stacks of hundreds rained down.

  Rhino circled me. “You’ve been a bad boy, thaying all thoth thingth about Jason being the Gravethnacher. All thoth lieth. I’m afraid we’re going to punith you.” A buck knife flashed in his hand. The blade caught the moonlight as he slashed at me.

  I flinched, closing my eyes, waiting for the pain to come. None did. Then I looked down to see he’d only cut the ropes. “Thtand up.”

  I did. Tucker pulled the gag from my mouth. “You knowwhy you’re here?”

  “You wanted me to meet Rhino before you turned yourself in?”

  “He’th funny, Jason.”

  “Yeah, I remember that from the trial. A real smart ass. Well, when we finish with you Kincaid, you won’t have much of a sense of humor left.”

  “Look, Jason,” I said, as reasonably as possible. “Let’s not overreact here. I never said you were the Gravesnatcher. The police leaked that story. And you have to admit, the timing of your escape couldn’t have been worse.”

  “I didn’t escape. I was released.”

  “By mistake. When you don
’t turn yourself back in, they call it escaping.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Fine, whatever, but the point is, you are not the Gravesnatcher. If you turn yourself in you’ll finish your term and be out in a couple of years. Stay MIA, they’ll tack on five more.”

  “He’th not going back. Ever.”

  “If you know I’m not the Gravesnatcher, how come my picture’s still on TV and all the newspapers?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell anyone else.”

  “How long have you known I’m not the Gravesnatcher?”

  “Since this morning.”

  “And you haven’t told anyone?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Jathon’th life’th on the line and you’ve been buthy?”

  I looked at Tucker. “Who exactly is he?”

  “Rhino saved my life in the joint.”

  “He was being gang-raped by some athholth. I thet them thtraight.”

  “Rhino got out six months ago. When they set me free, I called him.”

  “We’re betht buddieth. And we’re going to thkin you alive.”

  “If you kill me, who’s going to tell the police you’re not the Gravesnatcher?”

  “Who says I want anyone to know? I’m famous now.” He kicked some of the money. “And, thanks to you, rich. Rhino and I can filet your ass, then skip the country and live like kings.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying you want people to think you’re a cold-blooded murderer?”

  “It beats being a stalker. And I like having my picture in the paper.”

  “It’th Jathon’th fifteen minuteth of fame.”

  “Technically it’s Roy Cooper’s fifteen minutes of fame,” I said. “But the hell with it. I give up.”

  “Oh, pleath, thtruggle a little or it’ll be no fun.”

  There was a rustling in the trees. A voice called out from the darkness. “Well now, isn’t this a pretty picture?”

  The three of us spun in the direction of the voice, which sounded familiar.

  “Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees.”

  “Fuck you,” Rhino said, pulling out a Baretta and snapping off three quick shots into the trees.

  “Hard to hit what you can’t see, isn’t it, fatso?” The voice called back. Then a shot rang out, hitting Rhino in the right shoulder. The Baretta tumbled to the ground as he dropped to his knees, groaning in pain.

  Jason Tucker reached for the gun. A bullet ricocheted off the Baretta. Tucker pulled his hand back. The voice again: “Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees.” We did.

  A moment later the shooter stepped out of the forest. Piccolo.

  “Lucky thing I was headed for your office, Kincaid. I happened to see Jason here driving away, so I followed.”

  “You scumbag,” I said, trying to get to my feet. Piccolo kicked me in the face. I went down.

  Piccolo surveyed the three of us on the ground. “This is almost too good to be true. I’ve caught the Gravesnatcher and his two cohorts red-handed.”

  So Piccolo had it all figured out. We’d take the fall and he and Roy would get the money. “It’ll never work,” I said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “I know the truth. I’ve got proof.”

  “Proof? What proof?”

  Rhino spoke before I could answer. “Excuthe me, but I think I may be bleeding to death.

  Piccolo looked at him. “What’s that, Bluto?”

  “I need to get to a hothpital.”

  Piccolo mocked him, sing-songing, “I need to get to a hothpital. Here, let me see that wound.” Piccolo reached out with a finger, tenderly inspecting the gunshot, then suddenly jammed his finger into Rhino’s wound. The man screamed.

  Rhino’s agony must’ve been too much for Tucker because he suddenly leapt to his feet and charged Piccolo. Piccolo spun toward him, leveled the barrel at Tucker’s chest and fired.

  A hole the size of a fist blew out of the center of Tucker’s back. A mist of blood, flesh and bone filled the night. And, like a puppet whose strings had been severed, Tucker toppled to the ground.

  “Holy thit,” Rhino mumbled. Now he launched himself at Piccolo. Piccolo fired as Rhino charged, hitting him in the hip, but the big man just wrapped his arms around Piccolo and slammed him to the ground.

  As they wrestled, I scooped up Rhino’s discarded Baretta and leveled it at the ball of bodies rolling over and over in the stack of hundreds. They were having a tug of war over Piccolo’s Glock. Piccolo’s finger was still in the trigger guard, but Rhino had forced the barrel toward the cop; the muzzle was pointed at his face, so Piccolo couldn’t fire. Meanwhile, Piccolo was trying to aim the gun back at Rhino, but Rhino was too strong.

  They rolled toward me and the gun went off again. The bullet whizzed by, just missing me but blowing out the window of Jason Tucker’s car.

  So much for standing around and waiting for them to kill each other. I had to do something. What? I could shoot them both, but that seemed a little cold-blooded. I could shoot the gun out of their hands, but that only worked in old, bad westerns. I could jump in the car and hightail it to the Hollywood sign, but I needed the cash and they were still wallowing in it.

  Another gunshot made the decision for me. They were facing in the opposite direction, so I didn’t know who got shot. I knew someone had, because all the wresting had stopped. No one moved for a long beat; then Rhino rolled off Piccolo, eyes wide open, dead.

  I aimed at the back of Piccolo’s prone body, waiting for him to come after me. But he didn’t move. Maybe he’s dead, too, I thought. Maybe Rhino had gotten control of the gun and shot Piccolo with the last vestiges of his strength, then died of blood loss. Or maybe Piccolo was playing possum, waiting to get the drop on me. I aimed at the ground a foot from Piccolo’s head and fired.

  ZZZING. He didn’t move. I aimed two inches from his head, fired. ZZZING. Nothing.

  With the back of his head in my sights I inched up to his body. His eyes were open, staring lifelessly into the night. Blood covered his chest. Thank God, I thought, lowering my weapon, he’s dead.

  And that’s when he shot me.

  He’d hidden the gun in the folds of his jacket. The blood was Rhino’s, rubbed onto Piccolo during their fight.

  I realized this as the force of the bullet spun me around and knocked me on my ass. My left arm, I thought dully, not really feeling any pain yet.

  Piccolo leapt to his feet and fired at me again before he was really ready, missing high. That gave me one chance and I took it.

  I snapped off a shot, hitting him in the face. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The Price of Fame

  Well, I’d finally killed someone.

  It was a righteous shooting, as they say. Self-defense and all that. I wouldn’t have to wrestle with the guilt of a first-degree murder. But it still felt a little weird. And to be honest, as much as I hated Piccolo, I would much rather have captured him alive and turned him over to Mary Rocket.

  As I climbed to my feet my arm began to throb. I looked at it. Not bad, little more than a nick really, but it was bleeding profusely. I pulled out my shirttail, ripped off a strip at the end and wrapped it around the wound. I was tempted to hunt around inside the cabin for a first-aid kit but I didn’t want to take the time. A glance at my watch told me it was ten-fifteen. I only had an hour and forty-five minutes to get to the Hollywood Sign. But first I had to collect all the money, much of it now soaked in the blood of three dead lunatics.

  Incredible, I thought as I hurriedly tossed the stacks of hundreds back into the plastic bag. If Piccolo hadn’t driven by my office just as Jason Tucker was putting me in his trunk, I’d be dead. Tortured and murdered by Tucker and Rhino.

  Had some greater power sent Piccolo to my office at just the right moment? Was there a script we were all following and didn’t know it? Was life just a giant Perils of Pauline with God standing behind the megaphone? Would I get Hillary off the tracks in time?r />
  Stop it, I thought, still throwing money into the plastic bag. There is no Fate. We make our own Fate. God didn’t make me plant that evidence against Ernie Wagner. That was my own stupidity. God didn’t make me sleep with Lisa Montgomery. I did that on my own, thank you very much. If there were such a thing as Fate then you’d have to go back to Mom and Dad’s murder to trace the depths of the plot. And to what end? What possible good would the hardening of my soul have to do with the Fate of the World?

  Stop it, I thought, the plastic bag now more than half full. The loss of blood and the adrenaline hangover were making me nuts. What happens to me has nothing to do with what happens to anyone else. And who says there’s a God in the first place? What kind of God would allow the death and destruction that plagues our world?

  Unless ... Unless I had been put on this earth for one specific purpose. To save Hillary. Why? Who the hell knows? Maybe she was destined to give birth to a kid who would cure cancer, or make contact with extraterrestrial beings, or find the missing link. If there was a Fate, maybe the Hollywood Sign was my destiny. My Holy Grail.

  My Holy Grail? Now I know what a nervous breakdown feels like, I thought, tossing the last of the money into the bag. I’ve managed to take a typical spiral of everyday, albeit tragic fuckups and turn them into Celestial conspiracy.

  I dropped the bag into the trunk of Tucker’s car and climbed behind the wheel. Thank God, the keys were still in the ignition.

  As I drove down the dirt road I kept an eye out for Piccolo’s car. If he’d driven his unmarked police car I would’ve been able to stick his bubble on the roof and hit the siren. No such luck. I couldn’t find it.

  Wind blew through the shattered rear window, but it was scented with pine trees and reminded me of Christmas.

  Three miles later I reached a highway, but which one? Where the hell was I? How far from Hollywood? And more to the point, which way should I turn, right or left?