Now maybe Erica would let him move them to Phoenix.
CHAPTER NINE
3:10 PM
"So should I just call you Sawed Off?" Hank asked, standing in the doorway to the strange man’s room.
Sawed Off was staring up at the ceiling, smiling to the sound of gunshots and laughter and motorcycle engines. "Me? I'm nobody. I'm a bum. I'm a Black Goat. I'm the wind. I'm a straight razor . . . if you come close enough."
Hank stepped inside, setting his face with a mask of wholly false bravado. He looked back. Behind him stood Bullet. She nodded and at her side, discretely revealed Elena's tiny Ruger, pulled from the dead woman's purse. Hank just gave a slight nod.
Sawed Off shook his restraints. "You think this is gonna hold me? Oh, that's a laugh, man. That's a real gas. I may be the runt of the pack, but I’m gonna have a good ol’ time with you."
The man who had just hours earlier been carted in missing the back of his head was grinning. It was the uneven, brown grin of a carny, with leathery skin and greasy, patchy hair. But his head was fine. It was healed. Even the hair had grown back now. The skull had reformed. It was all there, like nothing had ever happened. And at that, Hank thought that his entire career was bullshit. Not just his career, but science. Science was bullshit. His education? Also bullshit. They had superhuman bikers whose skulls just grew back out of a bloody mess and sure, he was drunk and certainly didn’t even try to keep up with the latest medical advances even on his best day, but now they had crossed the fucking Rubicon.
The man – if he was that - batted his eyes and smiled a lover’s smile. He blew a kiss at Hank and it was grotesque, making Hank think of an animal, freshly dead in the middle of a hot road, its tongue lolling out of its skinned cheek. Hank got closer, to show him he wasn't afraid. That was a lie. Even getting close enough to smell the man's musky odor made Hank uneasy. He stepped around the bed, towards the only window in the room. The only thing that made his feet work was using Bullet and now Nathan’s quiet presence behind him as an anchor. Sawed Off watched him. They kept their eyes on each other. Hank gave the handle to the storm door over the window a quick jerk so intense it sent a spark of pain through his hand. It came crashing down. Neither of them flinched at the clamor. Just a stare-down. Hank looked the man over.
"You gonna try to kill me now, medicine man?"
"No. Do no harm, and all that."
"Oh, well that's fancy."
Hank's gaze froze on the man's right leg. Where there had been a mangled stump below the knee was now a malformed foot. It wasn't quite a complete foot yet, not in shape or size, and the toes there were only squirming, hairless nubs. Sawed Off raised the untethered foot up at him and wiggled the half-toes. "Oh, look at that. I'm feelin' better already! This little piggy feels better. And this little piggy feels better. And this little piggy feels better. And you'd go wee wee wee, but you ain't never gonna make it home."
"Is that right, Mr. Sawed Off?"
"Oh, that's God's honest truth. And Confucious, and Budda, and Mickey Fuckin' Mouse, too. You just wait, Doc. I was born a sick little thing, but my family? They’re stronger. They’re faster. They will walk among you like gods among insects. We are the whisperers in the darkness. We’re hard charging motherfuckers with hearts full of razor blades."
He cackled as spittle frothed on his cracked lips.
"So what do your friends want?"
And that was what it all came down to. That was what today was really about. Why. Everything had a cause and effect, right? As sure as whiskey brought the hangover, there was a reason. And if there was a reason, there was a solution. It wasn’t just the crate. Maybe it started that way, but it wasn’t any more. If Hank could just fill in the gaps, make sure all of the variables were accounted for, then maybe they could get out of this. Maybe they could figure out the way to satisfy whatever these motherfuckers were looking for and everyone could go about their happy God-damned day.
He looked amused at this. "The Black Goats? We want it all. We want the earth. We want to hump its stinking corpse and eat and fuck and shit out misery all over what's left of it. Iä! Shub-Niggurath!"
"That's colorful. But what do you want with us?"
"Oooh. That agent got you into the jackpot, didn't he? It don’t really matter much what we want any more. ‘Cause we got it. We got us a basket full of puppies right here now. And that’s what we want. Gonna cuddle you and tickle you and eat you right up. That’s what we want."
"Gideon has a hole in his chest. The big lady? She lost an arm. She'll have bled out by now. Not to mention that the firing squad out there can probably be heard in the next county. The state police will be on their way. So . . . it's over."
Outside, they heard the window to the room shatter. Someone slammed their fists against the storm door. The noise was sharp and loud enough to rattle his teeth and feel on his skin. Sawed Off grinned wider. "Don't sound over to me, Doc."
He began to laugh, kicking at his restraints with joy. Hank tried to remain cool, he swallowed it, and tried to keep from flinching away. Bullet and Nathan were still behind him. He couldn’t turn around now. They’d know. They’d see the terror in his eyes that this freak in the bed could probably smell on him and then they’d panic, too. And if he saw them scared, then he might just start sobbing. They needed him strong and they couldn’t know that he wasn’t. Or the house of cards would just all collapse. Over his shoulder, he nodded to Nathan, careful not to look into his face, and measured his voice, "Dose him. Ketamine."
"I already did," Nathan said.
"Do it again.
For a brief flash, Nathan looked shocked, but nodded anyway and went to get it. Hank stepped around Bullet and into the hallway. He stared at the floor, pretending to be deep in thought, maybe forming a plan. In reality, he was biting the inside of his cheek and trying to keep his knees from buckling. "How is everyone?"
"Scared," she said. "Terrified. Rudy's upset. I think Otero's in shock. FBI guy isn't much better."
"And you?"
He clenched his stomach, trying not to let his voice crack. "Scared. Shitless. Did you see the way they moved? No one is that fast. The way they cleared the barrier. . . I've never seen anything like it."
"And the agent hit him, several times. I saw it."
Bullet nodded, trying to process it. He still couldn’t look at her. Still couldn’t look up.
"You know how to use the gun?" Hank asked.
She nodded again. "For whatever that's worth. It's only six shots. If a full clip of that nine-millimeter didn't slow him down . . . "
"Okay."
Hank forced out the last word. It started in his knees. Then his jaw trembled. His throat began to close. Acid tears welled. He excused himself, crossing the hall into the bathroom.
Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her.
He closed the door behind him and locked it. Everything was closing in. There were no windows in the cold, quiet room. One emergency light glowed dimly over the entry and the green tile took on the sheen of swamp water. He walked by the urinals, heading quickly to the last stall. His stomach was crawling up his throat. He leaned into the toilet and vomited, trying not to cough or gag. He didn't want them to hear him. Tears and snot came along with it. He wretched and sobbed, rocking his body as everything constricted and tried to pull him apart.
"Fuck you, Maynard," he mumbled, wiping that morning's omelet and bourbon from his lips.
Dr. Maynard was the usual doctor in residence. The old bastard had been in Tribes forever. Hank had met old men who had been delivered by Maynard. Unfortunately, he was finally doing the smart thing and writing off this shithole town. He was ramping up to retirement and he and his wife bought a ranch outside of Colina Vista. When Hank agreed to step in and help out at Tribes every now and then, it was supposed to be every six weeks or so. But no, Maynard decided to accelerate his descent into a life of leisure. Hank thought it would be easy money. He thought he'd have a nice drive out to the middle of now
here, do little or nothing at all, then head back home. Tribes was quiet. Isolated. It shouldn't have been a problem. But now he was in charge of the God damned Alamo. All because he’d sat in a classroom longer than the rest of them and racked up enough student debt to be called 'doctor'.
He stumbled to the mirror over the sink, rinsed his face, and rested his forehead on the cold porcelain. It felt good, like the bathroom floor during the last hour of a bender and part of him distantly wondered why a cool surface against the cheek was such a pacifier to drunks. The hangover was coming in with a vengeance and he'd learned few things sobered you up more quickly than gunfire. For a brief second, he thought of the night's plans, of getting out of Tribes and tearing up highway 50 until he found a nice, overpriced bar in Tucson, preferably one in a hotel. There he'd hopefully meet some co-ed who got all juicy over a doctor who wasn't all the way creepy and old, or he'd drink enough bourbon to pass out in the cheapest room they had available. He chuckled to himself. Maybe there was still time.
When Hank emerged, Nathan and Bullet were huddled by the nurse's station, speaking in hushed tones.
Probably about how I’m one fucking gunshot from losing my shit, he thought. He was struck by how the ER looked. It was decimated. Blood dried in tacky pools, blending with shadows the dim emergency lights could not reach. The walls were split open. Plaster hanged from them and shattered lights dangled from exposed wire. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Everything that made it a hospital was stripped raw. Otero and Rudy sat next to each other, staring off into space. Bullet had probably urged Otero to take care of the boy after losing his mother, but the old bitch was falling apart. Now the kid was saddled with her. Fine. Right now he couldn’t bother with that. The kid was a little shithead, anyway. Let him deal with her for a while. In the dimness, blades of afternoon sunlight shone through the bullet holes in the storm door. The light landed on Whitey's beard, giving him a glow like some sort of phantasm as he stood watch. Hank had to look to locate Agent Castle. The man was hiding. He was tucked away in the shadows of the emergency room, leaning against the wall and trying to make himself as thin and small as possible. Everyone was there. All of his responsibilities were accounted for. Except for the ones that weren’t, like Elena Solis.
Hank looked back over to Bullet. Her skin glistened with sweat. Even covered in blood and plaster powder, she was beautiful. He thought that maybe the day had taken its toll on her, had made her hard, but no, she always looked like that - a lady with zero tolerance for bullshit, which meant she probably hated him. He couldn't blame her. She was right. She saw through him and smelled the bullshit. They all did. He only hoped they found it endearing. And then he decided. He was going to ask her out. He was going to ask her out and treat her as well as he knew how. No 'let's go drink whisky until you say why not?' night. The real reason he hadn't asked her out wasn't that it would be too much trouble - and it would be trouble - it was that he was scared. He was scared of her. She'd tear him apart if he tried any of his usual drinks/charm/sex approaches. So fuck it. If they weren't dead, he'd ask her. And he'd just ask her about stripping at the Blue Bunny, too. Because fuck being scared of what she would do. It probably wouldn't be good, but he just stared down a pack of PCP-fueled bikers. He could take it.
"What's so funny?" Bullet asked, and Hank realized he was smiling.
"Umm. Nothing. Just . . . that guy. Sawed Off or whatever. He's something."
They listened to Sawed Off babble in the other room for a minute. Even without an audience, he’d moved on from maniac threats to nursery rhymes sang with the gusto of a drunken sea shanty.
Bullet laughed weakly. "Yeah. I guess so. Crackhead."
They looked at each other and in that moment, both knew that it was more than that. It wasn't crack that gave him the ability to grow part of his skull back. It wasn't PCP that let the skinny one, Harlan, take at least six shots to the chest and then keep moving.
Nathan stepped forward. "Doctor Hank, you're in charge here. You decide."
Bullet sighed and shook her head.
"What's going on? Decide what?" Hank asked.
"One of us is going to make a run for the ambulance," Bullet said.
"I can do it," Nathan said.
"I'm not saying you can't, Nathan. But it's my ambulance. I drive it. I've been driving it for two years."
Nathan rolled his eyes. "I know, but . . . I can do this. I can get out there. I'd rather risk myself than you."
"That's sweet of you, but - "
"No," Hank said, interrupting. They both looked at him. "Neither of you are going."
"Well, you can't go." Nathan said, then hesitated. "You're . . . drunk."
"I sobered up real quick, believe me. But you're right. I'm not going, either. No one is. It's suicide."
"Then what's the plan, Hank? Wait for them to come in and murder the rest of us?" Bullet said.
"I don't know. I know we can't just stay here, but . . . someone had to have heard, right?"
Nathan looked over to Otero and Rudy and leaned in close to Hank so that the two wouldn't hear. "What I heard on that radio . . . I don't know what it was, but it was bad. I don't think anyone is coming. It sounded like the end of the world."
Hank's eyes lit up. "The radio! See if we can get someone from Fort Huachuca. It's still an active army base, right?"
Nathan walked over to the radio that sat on the counter to the nurse's station. He spun one side around to show it to Hank. A giant bullet hole was torn into its metal casing. "It's dead."
"Shit," Hank said.
"Yeah, and I don't think those storm doors are going to keep them out," Nathan added before deflating against the counter. "I just want to make sure my wife is okay."
Bullet put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but said nothing. Hank stared across the room at Agent Castle. "Okay," he said. "Let's go get some answers."
***
Agent Castle was going to fold into himself. Shoulders slumped, he sagged against the wall. The gun hung in his limp hands. Even in the shadows of the darkened ER, Hank could see the lines etched into his face and the circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days. When Castle saw them coming, he stood up straight, trying to summon some federal imperiousness.
"What can I do for you, Doctor?"
Hank looked back to make sure Bullet and Nathan were with him. Not that the trio was particularly intimidating, but he had always shied from confrontation. Maybe he could dig the truth out of this guy with a little posturing. He was already a few steps past the breaking point anyway.
"While those guys outside are regrouping or reloading or whatever, I was hoping you could tell us exactly what's going on."
The agent sighed and stared at the floor. Bullet stepped forward, looking like she was nine feet tall and built of steel cables. "Doctor Renard's nicer than me. Tell us what you've gotten us into."
She left out the 'or else', but it hanged in the air. The silence settled around them like ash and Hank found he was too afraid to interrupt Bullet. Having served as an EMT for two years, there was clearly more to her than his own mix of booze and malaise. Agent Castle saw it, too.
Finally, she spoke. "Let's start with your identification."
Agent Castle looked her in the eye. His face flinched, but he said nothing. It was just a micro expression, but it was then that Hank new. "Damn it. You're not FBI, are you?"
"No."
"Fuck," Nathan whispered.
The three of them exchanged looks before closing ranks. They had him cornered against the wall now. "Go on," Bullet said.
The agent took a deep breath. "I'm not with the FBI. Or the NSA. Or anything like that. I'm with a small PMC. Nothing you've ever heard of."
"PMC?" Hank asked.
"Private Military Contractor," Bullet said.
"Like Blackwater," Nathan said.
"Something like that, yeah. We're smaller, though. We don't . . . " He paused for a moment, wincing as though he got ready to deliver bad n
ews. "We don't go to third world countries to handle insurgents or provide security for billionaires. We handle . . . unusual situations."
"What do you mean 'handle'?" Hank asked.
"What do you mean 'unusual situations'?" Bullet added.
Another hole appeared in the storm door with a sharp crack. The shaft of light stretched long across the room. Night was coming soon.
"Like gang activity?" Nathan asked. "Hate groups or whatever?"
"No, nothing like that." Castle mulled his thoughts for a moment and tried to compose himself, tried to think of what to tell them, and what to leave out.
CHAPTER TEN
Two Days Ago
The Arizona morning breeze carried scents of gasoline, cabrito, and cigarette smoke. From up on the ridge, Castle could smell it. In the valley below, the Black Goats began to stir. With the binoculars, Castle watched them as they milled about their camp, little more than an enclave of ramshackle trailers and shipping containers. One road, always guarded, lead in from the west. They'd been up all night drinking, carousing, and fighting. Castle was almost certain he'd seen a man get murdered in a short knife fight next to a burning barrel, but couldn't be sure. Wasn't his job to care anyway.
Beneath a gnarled cottonwood, he laid flat on the serape he bought at a corner store run by some surly Indians. The soft skin around his eyes was irritated from the binoculars. Next to him Burke shifted uncomfortably, visibly disgusted by how filthy his suit had become from lying in the dead grass.
The Black Goat Motorcycle Club Page 6
