Silent Night

by L T Vargus

  He swallowed. Felt the lump in his throat shift.

  Again he lifted his head to peer out over the snowy hood of the SUV that concealed him. Scanned what he could see out there in the misty white.

  The wind blew, the snow seeming to fill everything before him for a split second. Congealing like smoke, a wall of pure white.

  And then it cleared. The thickest section of white rolled on down the street, leaving a vacuum behind it, an emptiness. The best visibility Loshak had so far out here in this murk, even if he knew the respite would be temporary.

  Walsh took shape in the clearing. A walking shadow passing over the snowy street. The outline of him more than anything. Shoulders hunched as though the cold must be getting to him by now. Good.

  The snowfall resumed, filling everything in again, blotting out most of the world with its endless dots of white.

  Squinting, Loshak could make out the walking shadow every few seconds. It seemed to disappear and reappear. So faint.

  That gave him the upper hand, he thought. To see and not be seen. Using the cars to screen the area between them, Walsh wouldn’t see him coming. If all went well, he could work his way around, stalk the shooter from behind.

  The hunter had become the hunted.

  Chapter 75

  Loshak crept through the lot, sidling around and in between the cars. He moved with care. Keeping his feet as quiet as he could, though the periodic gusts of wind helped cover the snowy sounds crunching out from below. The powder sizzled everywhere when the wind hit, sheets of it swishing over everything in rolling waves.

  He worked toward the front of the lot on a diagonal zigzag, mostly using the bodies of the vehicles to screen his position as he moved. He zipped through the little gaps between cars that left him exposed — only then did he risk making noise, opting for speed over quiet when in the open, though it was usually just a few steps until he was ducked behind the next snow-crusted fender, hidden again.

  Even with his rapid progression from the back of the lot toward the sidewalk, he kept losing Walsh in the falling snow. A white haze blurred most everything, seemingly smokier than before. Maybe there was less light on this particular block, the dark tag teaming the visibility with the blizzard.

  Loshak had to trust his read on the situation during the whiteout blind spots. Pick a trajectory that he thought would keep him behind Walsh and hope the shooter didn’t change directions on him. An expression of snow-blind faith.

  He hesitated just a few cars from the front of the lot. Licked his lips. Poked his head out from behind the snowy hood of what must be a station wagon. Scanned the horizon.

  Walsh emerged from the mist. Close. Maybe fifteen feet out.

  His back was to Loshak, moving away. The shooter seemed more real now that Loshak had closed in on him. More solid.

  He seemed, however, to be walking down the sidewalk now. Working a straight line. That seemed odd. Could he be following the wrong tracks? Maybe.

  Did it matter? Maybe not.

  Loshak ducked behind the fender. Let his butt hit down on the snow. Sitting. Breathing.

  He closed his eyes. Tried to get his mind right.

  This was it. Life or death. No man could run forever. Eventually, he must fight.

  He thought about Jan.

  About the little girl at the movie theater.

  About all the people wiped away by Ben Walsh’s actions. All the hurt left behind. All the wounds that would never heal, the scars that would never be gone.

  And he thought about Shelly being taken from him when she was so young, barely even all the way herself yet. Just gone.

  All that death. All that loss. For what? For nothing.

  His jaw clenched. Chin jutting. Chest rising and falling.

  And aggression swelled in him. A red wave breaking in his skull, in his brain. Heart squeezing in his chest. Pumping hot blood all through him. Adrenaline. Energy. Life.

  All that loss. All that hurt. For nothing.

  Here I am. You want me? Come take me.

  He opened his eyes. The faintest red hue seemed to tint the snow now. He saw it more when he blinked, a little flash of it overtaking everything. A glow. Whether it was the drugs or some animal aggression causing it, he didn’t know. Didn’t care.

  He rose to his feet. Dusted some of the snow off his backside. Ignored the little twinge blazing out from his ankle.

  He was wounded, but he was not prey.

  He charged. Wheeled out from behind the fender he was squatting behind. Running. Building speed. Closing on the small man.

  Ready to fight. Ready to kill, if need be. Ready.

  Something like a war cry came spluttering from his lips as he got within a few paces. Hatred. Anger expelled. Involuntary.

  Loshak leapt.

  Chapter 76

  Time slowed as Loshak left his feet. His bound hands extended before him, reaching out for his target now just inches away.

  The camera in his head seemed to zoom in on the yellow coat in front of him. The shooter’s slender frame lay just there, about to fall within arm’s reach, the final fight about to commence. Once and for all.

  Closer. Closer. Closer.

  Just as his hands clasped at the slender shoulders, however, it occurred to Loshak that something was off. His mind reeled.

  The bright yellow coat. Walsh hadn’t been wearing that before, had he?

  The man turned as Loshak collided with him. Eyes wide.

  And his face took shape, seeming to mold itself into form out of the snowy air.

  Glasses. Salt and pepper beard. Jowls. Prominent under-bite.

  Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t Benjamin Walsh.

  Loshak tried to pull up, his feet now touching down, skidding like brakes, trying to stop his momentum. Maybe he even halfway succeeded at the task.

  Still, they collided. Bodies crashing together with a thud. Hollow. Air woofing out of both chests, one then the other.

  The bespectacled stranger stumbled backward, fell on his ass. He yipped a few times. Weird barks wrenched out of him, sharp and shrill like something that might emit from a frightened Yorkie.

  Loshak stutter-stepped, falling forward but in a trot. He leaned over the fallen figure, struggling to get his balance with his hands bound at the wrist. Dancing a strange dance to keep from falling in this random stranger’s lap.

  Finally, Loshak got ahold of himself. Stopped just shy of stepping on the guy. Stood there, hovering over the fallen figure.

  Both men were quiet for a long beat, staring at each other. The big eyes blinked behind the glasses.

  A beat of confusion passed before Loshak realized he should say something. Apologize for attacking this random person on the street.

  “Sorry, I… I thought you were someone else,” Loshak said.

  Another moment of tense and awkward silence spread out before them.

  Loshak knew there was something else he should do here. Something more important than an apology.

  An urgent voice in Loshak’s screamed at him. Phone. Get the guy’s phone. Call it in.

  But gunfire cracked before he got the chance.

  Chapter 77

  The man in yellow shrieked and ran for it while Loshak dove back into the cover of the cars. He skidded face down on the snow. Pushed himself up on zip-tied hands and knees.

  Get up. Move. Keep moving. Run or die now.

  He crawled the best he could. Dragged himself forward, his arms more like a paddle the way they were stuck together.

  He swiveled his head. Checked his position. Hidden between the cars. That was good, but he needed to keep moving. Keep moving.

  Run or die now.

  Everything hurt. His ankle had swollen, the pain there now a steady flame of agony that spread up the length of his leg in searing pulses.

  The cold stung his face, his hands, his feet. The numb in his extremities going painful. Sharp and biting.

  He got to his feet, limping as he ran. Hunching to keep low. L
etting the cars cover him for as long as they could with Walsh so close.

  Keep going.

  His advantage had been lost. Squandered. And the roles had flipped again. He was back to being the hunted, the prey. Hiding in the cars instead of stalking through them. Slinking away instead of pounding his feet toward the inevitable battle.

  He could hear Walsh crashing through the snow. Noisy. No longer bothering with stealth. The killer instinct must be kicking in, telling him to press the attack, finish it here and now.

  Loshak needed to take a chance. He couldn’t outrun Walsh for long. Needed to throw him off a little.

  He stood upright. Dashed down the aisle of cars to shift himself a few rows over, pressing his ankle as hard as he could. Moving away from the sounds Walsh made.

  He dove between a pair of mini-vans. Pushed himself right back up to hands and knees. Peered over his shoulder. Listened.

  He couldn’t see Walsh, but he could still hear him.

  The shooter’s breath roared over even the patter of his footsteps crashing through the snow. Hissing. Heaving. He sounded a little farther off now, but he was still moving Loshak’s way in a hurry.

  The agent swallowed. Reassessed. He had bought himself some time, but not much. Probably a few extra seconds.

  The truth sank in then, slowly but surely: running would help no longer. With his ankle busted and his hiding places dwindling, escape wasn’t going to happen.

  In the run or die mantra his mind kept repeating, he had been reduced to the or die part.

  He closed his eyes, and it felt like he was falling. Sinking. The ground opening up. Taking him. The darkness swallowing him whole.

  But no. Not yet. He wasn’t dead yet.

  He rocked up onto his haunches. Took a deep breath. Opened his eyes.

  No choice left. Better to stay here. Lie in wait for him. Listen. Be ready to stand and fight.

  This would be it. Right here. One way or the other, this would be it.

  Chapter 78

  The footsteps padded closer, slowing, like a lion creeping through the grass, getting ready to ambush its prey. Loshak shut his eyes for another second, his breathing harsh in his ears.

  Walsh had to be able to hear the crunching of his own feet. Had to know he wasn’t sneaking up on anyone, even if he was slowing down.

  An elongated face poked around the corner of the van, Walsh’s black mane of fury ringing the misshapen head.

  Loshak didn’t think, he just moved. He launched himself straight at the shooter, brought his fists up, swinging them like an ax handle, slamming them into the beast’s skull.

  Both men lost their footing as the blow jolted home. Falling.

  Walsh careened to Loshak’s left. His head bounced off the fender, snow exploding from where it had been caked on the car. He shouted wordlessly as he stumbled back.

  Loshak hit down on hands and knees and threw himself into Walsh again. Pouncing like a cat. Slamming into the other man who scrabbled backward like a crab.

  The gun went off. Made Loshak’s ears whine. But he couldn’t tell whether either of them had been hit.

  He just kept pressing himself forward, trying to get ahold of the shooter, the gun, anything his numb hands could grab. Every time he blinked, Walsh’s face changed shape. Elongating. Narrowing. Snout protruding. Almost like he had a wolf’s muzzle. Then snapping back to that dark-haired man with a halo of rage around his head.

  Just the drugs. Keep fighting.

  They came to a sudden stop, Walsh banging off the bumper of a truck with a clang, and Loshak’s nose crunched against the shooter’s head.

  Then somehow they were in the snow, scuffling around, hitting and clawing at each other while Loshak coughed out the blood pouring down the back of his throat.

  He tried to claw after Walsh’s eyes. Fingers curved like hooks. Digging. Gouging.

  Then he laced his fingers together and battered Walsh with them like a sledgehammer.

  The heel of Walsh’s hand bashed Loshak in the mouth, stunning him long enough that Walsh then bucked out from beneath the agent. He wrestled to the top, digging his fingers into Loshak’s cheek and smashing it sideways, grinding his face against the steel of the truck’s rear fender.

  Loshak bludgeoned his fists against the wolf snout again, felt something give in the face, maybe a cheekbone or a tooth.

  His shoes scrabbled on the snowy blacktop beneath them as he tried to throw Walsh off. One of them kicked against something, and Loshak heard the familiar skitter of metal.

  The Glock. Walsh must have dropped it.

  He wrenched his head to the side and bit into Walsh’s thumb. The hand gripping his face released, but then another fist was battering against the other side of his head. Loshak ducked behind his arms, kicking and twisting his hips.

  Walsh slowed for just a heartbeat, and Loshak threw an elbow as hard as he could. It slammed into the same cheekbone or tooth that had snapped.

  With a scream of rage, Walsh pitched off balance. Loshak didn’t let up. Fumbling onto his knees, he followed Walsh over, then bashed his forehead into the man’s face. Walsh’s clawing hands fell away.

  The agent lurched to his feet, searching the swirl of snow for the Glock. Blood hissed between his teeth as he panted and coughed.

  There, just in front of the bed of rocks under the awning.

  He limped toward it, slumping against the hood of a vehicle to keep from falling over, then bent down carefully to grab his gun.

  Something slammed into him from behind, throwing Loshak over onto his head and neck. He landed half in the snow and tumbled into the rocks.

  The weight fell on top of him. Walsh. His body drove Loshak into the ground. Pounded him downward like a hammer striking a nail.

  The men landed in a heap of tangled limbs. Struggled to detach from each other. Ripping and pulling.

  Loshak scrambled forward in that awkward crawl again, bound hands moving more like he was rowing a boat than anything, trying to get back to the gun before Walsh got it. Fighting his way over loose stone and snow.

  Walsh lurched after the agent. Curled a hand around the top of his head. Dug one thumb into Loshak’s left eye, applying pressure.

  Loshak’s eyeball jammed back in its socket. That hard little nub of a thumb digging into the flesh. Squishing. Shaking. So much pressure. Everything went red again. Redder than before.

  The agent wrenched himself with all his might. Managed to rip away from Walsh’s grip. The thumbnail raked over Loshak’s eyelid on the way free, sharp pain flaring there, flushing his eye with water.

  Now Loshak wobbled, the strange pain and pressure in his eye making him dizzy and nauseous.

  He landed face down on the line where the snow and rocks meshed. Snow floofing up around him like smoke. Scrabbled to get up off his belly.

  Too late.

  Walsh knelt just before the gun now. His hand reached out in slow motion. Grabbed the Glock. Adjusted its bulk in his fingers until the grip snugged in the web of his hand. Lifted it. Stood.

  A smile split Benjamin Walsh’s face as he turned to face the fallen agent. Something red in it. A sheen of blood thinned by saliva coated his teeth, another sign of their struggle.

  Walsh took two steps forward. Lifted his arm to point Loshak’s gun at him. His forearm flexed.

  And Loshak thought of Jan, thought of Shelly. Thought of his life in a rapid-fire flash of images and feelings, a montage too fast to even consciously process. Instead, he felt it in summary, some impressionistic version of the big picture made clear to him in this moment:

  Life. Love. The pain of its soul-crushing losses balanced against all of its vexing beauty. Everything and nothing dwelling in such close proximity.

  He could see right off the edge of it now. Stare down where it sheared off to nothing. Emptiness. The void. And he wasn’t ready yet.

  Loshak flung a handful of snow and gravel into Walsh’s face and lurched forward.

  Walsh stumbled back. A puff
of white exploding from his flinching head and neck.

  The gun went off. Bucking and blazing at the end of Walsh’s arm. A wild shot. Disappearing somewhere out in all the snow.

  Loshak launched his shoulders into Walsh’s knees. It wasn’t a clean tackle, but he’d gotten enough leverage to sweep the shooter’s feet out from under him, chopped him down like a tree.

  They twisted on the ground. Jockeyed for position.

  And then Loshak found himself on top. Pinning Walsh’s arms under his knees, under his weight. A rock the size of a grapefruit plucked from the bed of stones, clasped in his hands.

  He brought the stone down. Hard.

  It popped and thudded and crunched against Walsh’s forehead. Split him open red just along his brow, as though popping a seam there.

  The force of the blow shuddered through Loshak’s arms. The powerful tremor of all that force expelled, all of his being expressed through his hands, through a rock.

  He bashed him again. Again. Again.

  And he didn’t think. Didn’t even feel, save for the animal heat flooding his skull. That red wave breaking in his head. Aggression released.

  Some wordless sense of what was happening here came to him — a sense of destroying something in order to stop it. Killing something so it could kill no more. Something necessary. A duty. Something older than him, older than any of us.

  And as the blood leaked out of Walsh, the fight, too, leaked out of him. Loshak felt the body go limp beneath his legs. That fierce thrashing animal reduced to something soft. Pliable. Fragile.

  Not dead, though. Not yet. Walsh stirred. Slumped over to the side, propped against the snowbank going red around him, his breath hitching in its lungs.

  Loshak kept swinging the rock. Feeling the shock of the impact ring down his arms and into his shoulders. Hearing the dull thud of it against the man’s skull, the consistency of bone reminding him of ceramic just now.

  He hammered again and again, until he saw the last of the life drain out of Walsh’s eyes, out of his face, dripping away in a string of bloody drool hanging from his lips.

  The beast was dead.