No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  Freddy’s eyes darted to Micky.

  It was a small opening, but Shaw took it.

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  Shaw did the calculations in his head and took the shot. He pivoted his wrist, pointed the gun around the side of Mack’s head and pulled the trigger. No aim, just instinct, judging the line of sight to Micky Dent’s centre mass.

  The bullet hit Micky high in the shoulder, smashing his collarbone, spinning him like a skittle, making him drop the gun instantly—not that he wanted to, the muscles and nerves in his arm and his shoulder made that decision for him. The gun scuttled across the floor.

  Freddy flipped the knife in his hand like a circus performer, smooth and fast, so it reversed and the blade fell into his palm, and threw it at Shaw.

  Shaw jerked, ducking his head behind Mack, pulling his body closer like a shield. Mack’s head snapped back with the meaty sound of a spike going into a ball of cabbage. Mack convulsed once, twice then went limp. Shaw brought the gun up and let go of the dead weight. Mack collapsed to the floor, Freddy’s knife buried deep in the middle of his forehead.

  In a blur, Freddy sprang sideways towards the open case of knives on the table. Shaw tracked him as he moved, proper aim now. No second chances. No coming back this time. Dead man moving.

  The bullet smacked into the side of Freddy’s head, kinetic energy and mushrooming brass doing its job as it tore through his brain. Freddy dropped like a rock, dead.

  Shaw swung the gun to bear on Micky Dent, but he was gone. He turned and saw a trail of blood running back through the doorway and out along the passageway heading towards the front entrance.

  Shaw heard gunshots from the street outside.

  * * *

  “Oh shit!” Emily watched as a figure staggered from the house, a man, moving like one side of his body was frozen. He lumbered along the pavement, towards her, towards the white pickup truck. The indicator lights blinked and the man awkwardly opened the door, his face grimacing, and got in.

  “Bastard.” Emily quickly got out of the Bronco and ran towards the pickup truck, pulling her gun out as she moved.

  The truck growled to life and the headlights powered on. It slammed forward into the parked car in front, a crunch of metal and plastic. Then reversed and slammed into the car parked behind as the driver tried to manoeuvre out from the curb.

  Finally the front of the truck angled out.

  Emily stopped, brought her gun up and fired into the back tray of the truck, trying to hit the tires but her shots went high, poor recoil management.

  The truck swerved out into the street and accelerated, its tires skidding, the rear fishtailing. The back cabin windscreen shattered as a stray shot hit the glass.

  Shaw emerged from house, past the busted front door and ran towards the street, just in time to see the taillights of the white truck disappear in the darkness.

  He ran towards Emily, his words rapid-fire, “Get inside, Molly needs you. It’s a mess, don’t touch anything, just help her. I’ll be back.”

  Shaw ran past Emily, jumped into the Bronco, gunned the engine, and pressed the accelerator. The SUV lurched forward with a throaty roar and tore down the street after Micky Dent.

  It had all happened so quickly that Emily found herself standing alone in the middle of the street like she was in some nightmare, adrenaline coursing through her. A few more house lights had come on, neighbors responding to the sound of gunshots then the screech of cars in the street.

  Emily holstered her gun and ran inside.

  * * *

  Two intense red eyes bobbed and weaved in the darkness ahead. They flared as the pickup truck braked, then dulled again as Dent accelerated. Shaw kept his foot heavy on the gas pedal, eyes focused on the road. The needle on the speedometer nudging sixty-five, the cylinders of the big V8 thumping out a rhythmic beat that was solid and reassuring. It may have been pushing forty years old, but the old Bronco hugged the curves and responded with precise power as Shaw doggedly pursued Micky Dent.

  Shaw had no idea where he was. The truck ahead had turned left and right through the streets, ignoring all traffic signs, then swerved onto a main road, not stopping at an intersection—but there was no other traffic.

  All Shaw knew was that they were heading out of town. It was dark all around as the houses dropped away. No street lights, no landmarks, just a black and white landscape. The road was slick and banks of snow, piled high on the sides by the snowplows, raced past as he drove. There were no points of reference, all the geometry skewed, just the lines of the blacktop to follow.

  A mile later Shaw passed a gas station, a bright forecourt edged in mounds of snow, black and red signage. Then a narrow bridge, a sharp dip followed by a tight curve. Shaw committed them all to memory. Micky Dent couldn’t go too far, the roads past the town limits were closed, Shaw was certain the road barriers would be coming up soon and he could feel he was gaining on Micky Dent.

  * * *

  His shoulder hurt like hell but he ignored the pain. He could feel the wet stickiness spreading across his chest and down his arm, warm and pulsating. Sweat trickled into his face as he steered with one hand on the wheel. Micky’s eyes darted back and forth between the rear-view mirror and the snow-crusted windshield.

  “Bastard!” he snarled as he saw the headlights grow in his rear-view, big orbs of brightness that flooded the inside of the cabin. Micky accelerated, and the wind and cold air howled through the smashed rear window.

  He had to get away. He didn’t care about Freddy and Mack, his own life was more important. Christ, they had just started to get to the good stuff with Molly when that guy turned up. Now he was running for his life with a slug in his shoulder, driving a stolen pickup truck with the back shot out. How the fuck did he end up like this?

  He replayed the last five minutes in his head trying to figure out what went wrong. He had staggered out of the house when some bitch with a gun came out of nowhere and started shooting at him inside the pickup from across the street. Who the hell was she? She didn’t look like no cop. Pity she was standing behind the truck otherwise Micky would have run the bitch over, that’s for sure.

  He checked the mirror again. “Shit!” The car behind him was gaining. Micky pressed the gas pedal further, not caring about the snow and ice on the road. The truck lurched forward, the tires skidding, the tail end swerving. Half a mile later a line of blinking yellow lights punctuated the darkness ahead. Then yellow and black road barriers came into view, the lights of the truck reflecting off them.

  Fuck it!

  Micky pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor, tightened the grip with his one hand harder on the wheel. The barrier and row of warning lights grew closer, the truck swallowing up the distance.

  He braced as the front of the truck smashed into the flimsy barrier sending twisted metal, glass and plastic flying. He kept going.

  Micky smiled as the gradient of the road started to dip.

  Good, he was heading down the mountain. He just needed to hook up with the main highway at the bottom then it was a straight drive north into Wyoming. He knew a guy who knew a doctor, who for a thousand bucks would cut out the slug and stitch him up real good. No questions asked, no answers given. Then he would hole up somewhere south of Casper and decide what to do. If the damage was minimal he would still swap out the licence plates and keep the truck. He had enough gas and more than enough supplies now that it was just him.

  Micky looked in the rear-view.

  Nothing. No lights, just darkness.

  Things were looking up. He sat back and eased off the gas. No point in crashing now.

  Then headlights glared once again from behind.

  “Bastard!” Micky screamed. The man chasing him was like a dog with a bone. Micky floored the gas and that was the first mistake. The tires spun as the truck hit a sheet of ice, long and smooth like glass, coating the asphalt. The truck swung sideways, the entire rear end turning ninety degrees before plowing into a bank of snow on the shoul
der of the road, jolting the truck skywards, its rear wheels airborne. The rear axle came down with a shudder and the truck wrenched in the opposite direction along the ice.

  The wheel spun wildly in Micky’s hand as he tried desperately to compensate. He hit the brakes hard and committed his second mistake. The brakes locked and the truck spun out of control like helicopter blades. The rear end clipped a tree then the truck tumbled sideways, punching through a wall of snow before rolling upside-down off the road and down an embankment.

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  One minute it was there, the next minute the truck was gone.

  Shaw watched as the rear end of the truck fishtailed, then skidded sideways across both lanes. It swung violently the other way and smashed into a tree on the shoulder of the road, then tumbled out of sight.

  Shaw slowed to a crawl, just touching the brakes. He saw the wide sheet of ice across the road, the headlights of the Bronco mirroring the shiny surface.

  Shaw eased the Bronco to the shoulder and off the road to where the white truck had pushed a huge hole in the snow bank. He grabbed his flashlight, got out and ran to the edge. The ground fell way steeply and there was a tunnel of decimation through the foliage and trees where the pickup truck had gone.

  Shaw made his way down the slope, clinging onto what remained of the torn and smashed undergrowth. Bushes were flattened, tree trunks sheared and splintered, the ground plowed and raw.

  The pickup truck lay a hundred yards farther down at the bottom of a gully, on its roof, rear tires still spinning, the exhaust pipes hissing and cracking in the cold air. The headlights shone at crooked angles, one pitched up at the surrounding forest, the other downwards into the snow, illuminating a few yards ahead of the smashed bonnet and crushed front-end.

  With his gun pointing in front of him, Shaw made his way along the side of the vehicle and towards the cabin, the beam of the torch sweeping over the twisted mess, the sheet metal scarred and ripped.

  Blood in thick swathes coated the ceiling of the cabin with bloody handprints on the twisted metal of the door frame.

  Shaw tilted the beam of the flashlight along the snow ahead of the crumpled front of the truck.

  The ground was cold and gritty, a blend of virgin snow and ice that sparkled like freshly crushed glass. Thick and powdery, untainted except for the trail of rubies that led Shaw to Dent. A bloody furrow ran for twenty feet beyond the beam of the truck’s headlight to a darkened shape, slow and laborious, pulling itself along.

  Shaw reached the crawling Micky Dent.

  Micky rolled onto his back and craned his head up at Shaw, the bright flashlight in his face. “Motherfucker,” he croaked, white plumes from his gasping breath, his face a mask of blood, embedded glass and powdery snow. One leg was broken, bent at an impossible angle and his shoulder was soaked crimson.

  Shaw levelled the gun at his head. He had a suspicion and now wanted to test it. “I will only ask you once. Where is Clare Decker?”

  Micky laid his head back and closed his eyes. Pain racked his body. He had lost all feeling in his shoulder and arm, and his right leg was on fire. “Who?” he said, his voice hoarse, lips caked with blood, teeth stained red.

  Shaw knelt down and patted him down, then stepped back. No weapons. He knew Micky had dropped his gun in the kitchen, but he seemed like the type of person that carried multiple weapons on him.

  “The sheriff, what have you done with her?”

  Micky closed his eyes and began to laugh, a hideous evil rant. “I ain’t seen her,” he finally said. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  “What do you mean ‘the wrong person’?” Shaw asked, his teeth gritted. “Where is she?”

  Micky opened his eyes and looked at Shaw with pure evil. “There are things about this place you don’t know about. Things I’ve seen that you wouldn’t believe. Beautiful, sweet things.” The man was clearly delirious from the crash.

  “Where is she?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Shaw knew Micky Dent wasn’t going to tell him anything, and torturing an injured person to get the truth out of them wasn’t his style.

  Micky laughed hysterically again. “She’s as good as dead and there’s nothing you can do.” His laugh turned into a wrenching, spluttering cough as he spat up a mouthful of blood into the snow.

  Something moved near the edge of the darkness, just outside the pool of light from Shaw’s flashlight. He looked up and Micky Dent followed his gaze.

  Another ripple of movement. Shaw stood perfectly still as two luminous eyes crept slowly forward. Then the head appeared, triangular nose, tanned fur muzzle peppered with black, a majestic face, hooded eyes of topaz. The bitter scent of blood was too much for the cougar to resist. It was hungry and had young to feed.

  The cat was huge, easily over two hundred pounds. It slinked forward, head low, paws buried in the soft snow. It knew an injured animal when it saw it, and it was staring straight at Micky Dent.

  Shaw backed away, no sudden movements, just slow retreating steps, one foot behind the other.

  The cougar glanced at Shaw, dismissed him as potential food, then resumed its movement towards the source of the bloody scent. Micky Dent weighed about one-sixty, enough food for around five days, maybe longer if his remains were buried deep enough and preserved.

  Micky screamed at Shaw, “Kill it! Shoot it!” Micky tried to crawl backwards, but it was useless, his leg was broken, a rib had pierced his lung and his collarbone was shattered.

  “No!” he screamed after Shaw. “Help me!”

  The cougar was only a few feet away from Micky, his good arm flaying wildly, trying to pull him through the snow and away from the animal. “Don’t leave me here! Please!”

  When Shaw reached the smashed truck he turned and climbed back up the slope, leaving Micky Dent alone in the darkness with the cougar.

  It was only when he reached the top and was back on the edge of the hillside did a high-pitched scream float up from below. It suddenly cut off, replaced by guttural gnawing sound.

  40

  Twenty minutes later Shaw returned to Molly’s house.

  While Emily helped Molly upstairs to shower and clean up, he found tools in the garage and some lumber planks that he used to refit and secure the front door as best he could. He nailed the planks across the door holding it firmly in place. They would have to use the side door.

  Next he covered the two bodies with old tarps he had found in the garage and left the kitchen as it was. He opened the refrigerator, filled a Ziploc bag with ice cubes, grabbed three glasses off the shelf and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the counter. After that, the kitchen was off-limits. It was a crime scene and he didn’t want it contaminated by Emily or Molly.

  In the living room he checked Molly’s home phone, but it was dead. Next he borrowed Emily’s cell phone to call Clare on her mobile and home phone, but all he got was her voice mail message. He hung up without leaving a message.

  Molly and Emily came back downstairs and immediately Molly went to hug Shaw.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, not wanting to let go. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come by.”

  Shaw stepped back and looked at her. She looked a lot better. She had on a clean change of clothes and apart from her swollen eye and a nasty cut on her head that Emily had swabbed with antiseptic, she seemed in good spirits, considering.

  “That’s fine. No need to thank me.” Shaw felt slightly awkward. He handed Molly the bag of ice cubes, “Here, put this on your eye. It will help with the swelling.” He handed the cell phone back to Emily. She had already taken photos of Molly’s injuries before she cleaned her up and helped her into the shower.

  They sat down in the living room and Shaw handed them three half-filled glasses. No one said a word for a few minutes, content just to sit and allow the alcohol to warm their insides and settle the nerves.

  Finally it was Emily who broke the silence. “Did you get him?”

  Sha
w shook his head, “No. It was too dangerous. I stopped.”

  Emily frowned, “You were gone a while. What happened?”

  Shaw drained his glass and poured another drink. “Got lost.” He changed the subject. “You can’t stay here, Molly. The phones are down all over the mountain, cell towers as well. I don’t know when the police will get here, if they can at all.”

  “Why would they do that? Why would they come here and attack me?”

  “Just evil bastards,” Emily replied. “The world is better off with three of them dead.”

  Shaw caught her looking at him, her eyes saying, Yeah, you got that third bastard too.

  “Molly, have you heard from Sheriff Decker at all?”

  Molly shook her head, “Just earlier today. She called and said for me to come into her office tomorrow and give a formal statement. I guess there’s no need now.”

  “Look, the police will come once the roads are open. I saw what they did to you and so did Emily. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Molly just nodded and tried not to think about the two dead bodies in her kitchen. She accepted another refill of her glass.

  “Is there anyone on the mountain you can stay with?” Emily asked. “Anyone like a friend or relative?”

  “I have plenty of friends but—” her voice trailed off. It was hard, Molly felt almost embarrassed. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t want anyone to know.

  “Grab some things, pack a bag, we need to get you out of here. I know where we can take you until the police sort this mess out.” Shaw got up and nodded to Emily.

  A few minutes later the house was locked and all three of them drove off in the Bronco back towards town.

  41