Pine and Chuck moved slowly towards Sturm’s truck, clearing the way to the car for Frank. Chuck was still trying to get his breath back. Theo flung his beer bottle at Frank. The bottle shattered on the pavement, flinging foam and glass into Frank’s face.
Frank blinked slowly, making sure there was no glass in his eyes, and moved his body even slower, checking that nothing had broken from the beating. His muscles felt like he’d fallen into a harvester. But he could move, the bones still held together. He stood, met Sturm’s eyes, and without bothering to count the money, turned and walked stiffly to his car.
The only sound he could hear was his own boots scuffling along the pavement. The skin at the back of his skull crawled over itself to get away from the impact of a bullet that could come at any time. Frank figured that this was the moment when he would find out if Sturm was to going to really let him go or simply have a bit of fun and shoot him. And if Sturm went ahead and shot him, well, Frank told himself that that was okay. He’d kept them out here long enough. To die now, instantly, that wouldn’t be so bad. He wouldn’t even know it happened. It would be over and done with, like snapping his fingers. Lights out.
It was all he’d ever wanted for his animals.
But his heart wasn’t listening to the calm, reasonable voice. It thudded urgently away, skipping over itself as it ricocheted around his ribcage. Like the skin along his back, now squirming down his spine like a twitching toad, it wanted away. That part of him just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
In the end, they didn’t shoot him. Didn’t even threaten it. Frank walked back to the car and as he dropped into the driver’s seat, he saw the men hadn’t moved. They simply watched as he started the car, backed up across the highway, and headed south, down to the detour.
Frank kept his foot on the floor and watched them in his rearview mirror until the blood red pinpricks of Sturm’s taillights disappeared. Nobody waved goodbye.
* * * * *
He found the turnoff, and drove through the fields, slower now, looking for a place to hide the long black car. He crossed over the irrigation ditch and followed the twin tire tracks that snaked along the edges of the foothills. He found a spot, twenty yards off the dirt lane, up a dry wash. The mud had been baking for months, and was now harder than concrete. A couple of oak trees flanked the creek bed, filtering out the starlight.
He backed the car up and shut the engine off and just listened for a while. Frank didn’t think that anyone would actually follow him, just to make sure he left; Sturm had seemed awfully sure of himself. After a few moments, the crickets in the tall, dead grass gradually filled the silence with their creaking, throbbing calls.
He wondered how long it would take Sturm to get back to the ranch.
He wondered if Annie and her family had gotten to the safe.
He wondered if he would hear any gunfire.
To distract himself, he tore open the manila envelope. It felt thick, and he thought there was a chance that Sturm had upheld his end of the bargain. He pulled the stack of bills out and flicked on the interior light. His fist was full of goddamn singles. He quickly killed the light, and counted by feel. If they were all singles, and it certainly looked that way in the quick flash of light, then he had been sent on his way with about three hundred lousy bucks.
“You sonofabitch,” Frank whispered. Three hundred wasn’t enough to get to Washington, let alone Canada. Three hundred bucks wasn’t shit. He stuffed the cash back into the manila envelope and shoved it under the seat. The car suddenly felt close, suffocating, as if the seat, ceiling, and steering wheel were all crushing him.
He swung the door open and climbed out. His body, stiff from sitting still, screamed at him to stop. He stumbled sideways and fell into the bank of the creek. Pain squatted over every nerve in his body and warned him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t allowed to move again for a long time. He agreed wholeheartedly and promised the pain that he was in no hurry to go anywhere anytime soon.
So he relaxed into the bank and watched the stars crawl sluggishly across the sky. The high-pitched roar of some big cat silenced the entire valley for a while. The crickets knew they were safe, and started calling to each other after a few minutes. An owl hooted in the gnarled oaks above him. A mosquito whined in his ear and without thinking, he slapped at it.
A fresh wave of pain jumped through his shoulder, ricocheted through his neck and chest and settled somewhere in his gut. Everything hurt. But he figured if was going to be in pain, he might as well make it count. He crawled back over to the car and popped the trunk. Sure enough, the box of rum was still back there, but they’d taken his shotgun. And the ten thousand.
They hadn’t found the rest of his pills, though, taped to the underside of the front bumper. He decided to save them for later and put them in his pocket. He grabbed a fresh bottle of rum, fell into the back seat, and stretched out. He propped the bottle upside down against the back of the passenger seat so he wouldn’t have to move much, and nursed from the bottle until he fell asleep.
DAY THIRTY-FOUR
Frank woke up and found a lioness sticking her head in the window and sniffing down at the bottle of rum and his head. The lioness pulled back and Frank exhaled. Without thinking, tried to push himself up. Agony marched through his joints, and just then, the lioness stuck her head into the other window down by his feet. He hadn’t realized he’d left both of the windows down.
Frank forced himself to relax. If she sensed fear, heard his beating heart, her predator instincts would kick in and she would tear him apart in the back seat. He tried to slow his breathing down, willing his stomach to rise and settle slower, slower. And then he realized that he’d pissed on himself sometime in the night and hoped there wasn’t blood in the urine. The lioness would smell it. She inhaled, three times, deep, and looked at him, then pulled itself out of the window and disappeared.
Frank decided he needed a drink. And a change of clothes.
The extra suit was underneath the box of rum. He wasn’t concerned about wrinkles.
He left the jeans and the shirt in the trunk, but kept the bag of pills. He cracked open a fresh bottle, jammed a pill in his mouth, and drank. He figured it was smartest to just leave the car and walk. The sky was lightening quickly now and he could see the strangled branches of the oak trees. The stars were nearly gone. He stuck two more bottles into the suit pockets and walked slowly down to the dirt track, wincing in pain with each step.
* * * * *
He found Chuck’s pickup blocking the narrow bridge over the creek. By then, the rum had eased some of his pain, and he was able to creep quietly up to the cab. He heard Chuck’s snoring even before he looked inside. Chuck was sprawled out with a .30-30 and a half full bottle of tequila. Theo’s .405 Winchester was in the gun rack in the back window.
Sturm must have sent him out here to stand guard, either to make sure that Frank didn’t try and come back or to make sure anyone new coming into town had been invited. Maybe both. Frank’s first instinct was to simply keep going and leave Chuck snoring peacefully. Avoid trouble.
But then the voice in his head spoke up, and Frank listened carefully. He took another look at the inside of the cab. It was a mess. Empty beer cans covered the floor. Wrinkled and faded photos of some sickly woman fondling a horse’s penis had been taped to the roof. Stained, crumpled napkins and used paper plates covered the dashboard. The trash nearly covered the red leather sheath of Chuck’s hunting knife with a fixed six-inch blade.
He went around to the driver’s side, reached in, grabbed the knife, and tucked it into the small of his back. He watched Chuck a moment, watching the chest rise and fall with the sound of some small animal drowning in mud. Frank took another drink, a long one, and put the bottle on the hood. He was starting to feel the first tingle of speed as it spread through his system, simultaneously calming the pain and urging the muscles to look sharp. It made him impatient. He slammed the bottom of his fist against the horn.
Chuck jerked awake at the noise, dropping the bottle and clutching the rifle.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” Frank said.
“You ain’t…I don’t…what time is it?”
“It’s early.”
“Shit. Don’t tell Sturm.” Chuck rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Wait a minute—you’re supposed to be gone.” His eyes swept the cab. “You ain’t supposed to still be here.”
Frank offered Chuck his bottle of rum. “Yeah. But I got to hurting pretty bad, and decided to just rest a while, have a drink, you know? You boys didn’t exactly hold back when you were kicking the shit out of me.”
Chuck looked like he wanted to apologize and take the bottle, but he knew that Sturm would be pissed. He shook his head. “You gotta get the fuck out of here, man. Sturm finds us, no joke, he’s liable to kill both us.”
Frank nodded, took a drink. “Yeah. Might kill me, I suppose. But you? Why?”
But Chuck just shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Get outa here, okay? Don’t make me shoot you.”
“Now, Chuck. Think about it. Hell, I wanted to, I could’ve taken your rifle and shot you dead. Right?”
Chuck shrugged, reluctantly nodded, and tried to bite back a yawn.
Frank said, “Right. So relax. Shit, I can’t wait to be on my way. Just saw your truck here, and though you might like some medicine before I leave for good.”
That got Chuck’s attention. “What kind of medicine?”
Frank smiled, and it almost made it across his whole face. “Your medicine. You know. Frank’s Surprise.”
“Wait, you got some out here? What, were you taking it with you?”
“Sure. You never know.” The chemicals from the pill were seeping into Frank’s muscles, his joints, his mind. The sun hadn’t quite broken over the horizon just yet, but the lines of the truck, the stubble on Chucks’ cheeks and chin, the pattern of tires left in the dirt, all of it, it settled and shimmered into crystalline clarity. “Come on, I’ll show you what I got. Then I promise, I’m outa here.”
Frank left Chuck and walked to the back of the pickup. He unlocked the tailgate and slammed it down. Frank set his bottles on the tailgate and made a show of patting the suit, looking for the drugs. Chuck came out of the cab, wary, holding his rifle out. He joined Frank at the back of his truck.
Frank said, “Here we go,” and slapped the baggie of pills on the tailgate.
Chuck bent over. “Uh, that ain’t what you gave me before.”
“It isn’t? Shit.” Frank looked up, into the deep, dark, blue sky, suddenly alarmed. “Fuck is that?”
Chuck followed his gaze.
Frank stuck Chuck in the throat with his knife with his right hand and yanked the rifle away at the same time with his left. He stepped back and left the blade imbedded in Chuck’s neck.
Chuck grabbed his pickup for support, knife handle jutting out of his neck at a perfect ninety-degree angle. His mouth gaped open, as if he couldn’t believe Frank had just pulled something so sneaky. But then his expression changed, as if wasn’t surprised anymore, just worried. He tried to breathe and couldn’t. The skin that hung loose off his face grew red, then white, then blue. It was almost patriotic.
Chuck’s hands went to his neck, but he couldn’t find the handle, couldn’t coordinate his fingers to close at just the right time. Finally, he finally managed to grab the damn thing and jerk the knife out of his neck.
There was surprisingly little blood.
Chuck exhaled, a sweet, blissful sound, despite the neat, inch long wound, pale and so far bloodless, like a young woman’s prim lips, pressed tight together like she’d just seen something truly obscene, such as the pictures at the top of his cab, for the first time. He damn near smiled with relief. The promise of fresh, cool air was close enough to grab and simply inhale.
Frank was glad that Chuck felt better, but as Chuck relaxed enough to draw his first breath, Frank got out of the way. A great gush of blood erupted out of the wound, blowing open the thin edges.
“Fucker,” Chuck whispered, and dropped.
* * * * *
Frank rolled the body into the truck bed and slammed the tailgate. Chuck had close to six hundred dollars in his front pocket. Frank took it and the trucker hat. He tore out all the pictures in the cab as he followed the dirt track as it curved through the hills. It must have been somewhere around five o’clock in the morning.
He passed four SUVs clustered around a campfire. A few men were up, wiping sleep from their eyes. Frank thought a moment, felt the maniacal energy striking sparks where it brushed up against the self-loathing and hatred he carried with him. He put on Chuck’s hat, roared up the camp and shouted at the men, “You fellas better get moving. Sturm is coming, and he’s pissed.” Without waiting, he pulled in a U-turn, hit the gas again and tore off.
A mile back down the road, he crossed the creek and wrenched the wheel sideways, effectively blocking the dirt road on the far side of the bridge. He pulled Chuck’s body out of the back and propped him up in the driver’s seat.
Frank took the .30-.30 and the ..405 Winchester, slinging the rifles over each shoulder. To the south lay the valley, too open. To the west, rice fields. To the north, a grove of oaks, but it didn’t have much cover. That left east, where a hill, dotted with a few more oaks, rose into the sunlight. Frank started up the hill, loading the .30-.30, moving slow. His pockets were heavy with rifle shells.
Forty yards up the hill, he found a level spot in the shade and laid the rifles out before him. He got comfortable, leaning into the trunk, and took a long drink of water. This was the deal he had made himself, a sip of rum for every ten sips of water. He pulled Theo’s .405 up to his shoulder and propped his elbows into his knees and put the crosshairs on the bridge abutments.
He heard the growl of engines, closing in. The men had bought it. Frank wasn’t the only one scared of Sturm. The lead SUV drove across the bridge, right up to Chuck, and honked indignantly. Three more followed, all moving fast, all crowding onto the bridge, rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Frank settled the crosshairs and shot the driver of the last SUV in the head. The man’s skull exploded like dynamite in a watermelon, spraying the cabin. The bullet blew the passenger seat headrest out of the window. The passenger flopped forward as if kicked in the head. The headless corpse of the driver gripped the steering wheel feverishly while both legs stomped down, urging the Mercedes forward, slamming into the second SUV, a giant yellow Hummer.
The men in the lead, those closest to Chuck and his pickup, somehow decided that Chuck was shooting at them and decided to shoot back. They both reached into the back seat and flailed at their rifle cases. The guys in the Hummer backed up, and for a while, it looked like the larger vehicle just might push the Mercedes out of the way. Until Frank shot the driver. This time, it wasn’t so clean. It was low, and punched through the yellow door, taking out the diver’s hips. It was still enough to blow him sideways out of his chair. The two passengers jumped out of the Hummer.
Frank rubbed his sore shoulder; it felt like he’d been kicked by a horse again. He had left the rest of the .405 caliber bullets back in the truck, so he picked up the 30.30 and shot the two men that jumped out of the Hummer. They were trying to hide behind the Mercedes, but since Frank was higher, he just shot the tops of their heads off. By now, the two guys in the lead car had figured out that someone else was shooting at them, and had deserted their SUV, shooting in all directions. Frank shot the first guy in the thigh, spinning him into the creek; the second got a bullet in the back. Gunfire rolled and crackled through the creek, but nothing else moved.
Frank listened for any more sudden engines, but there was nothing but the wind. After a while, the insects started back, the shrill clicking in the weeds. One of the men started to moan. Frank wasn’t sure if it was the guy that had been shot in the leg, or the one he got in the hip. It didn’t matter, not really, as the men couldn’t crawl far, and in just a couple hours, maybe less, certainly by night
fall, these woods would be crawling with hungry predators.
Frank walked back to Chuck’s truck and reloaded the .405. He’d only gone through ten or so bullets. It wasn’t much of a hunt at all. The deaths of these men wouldn’t bring back Petunia, the cats, the horses, or any of the animals. And he couldn’t say if he felt any different, one way or another. But it was the least he could do.
He patiently moved all of the vehicles off the bridge, yanked Chuck’s body out of the truck, leaving it by the side of the road, and tried the engine. The engine started, despite all the bullet holes. He drove back across the bridge ignoring the blood and meat coating the inside of the cab. The flies were already thick. Once across, he parked and blocked the bridge again with all three SUVs.
Frank drove into town.
* * * * *
The fires in the streets were nearly out, leaving charred bones and black ashes scattered across the pavement.
He drove past the vet hospital. The parking lot was empty.
The Glouck house was silent. The gas station was closed, glass still on the concrete. The auction yard was just as quiet. Frank stopped at the park and found it empty. He sat for a while, thinking it over. The urge to run, to flee, that same urge from the alligator tank, was back inside of him, fed by the drug, twice as strong and ten times as ugly. He didn’t so much fight it, but channeled the energy into rage, letting the fear fuel the anger.
He drove out to Sturm’s house.
The pill wanted him to drive Chuck’s truck straight up the driveway and smash through the front porch and start shooting. But Frank didn’t want to get there and find out that Sturm wasn’t home. And if he got shot, there was a good chance the animals still left in cages would starve to death. Frank figured it that if he was going to finish all of this, then that meant turning the animals loose first. He decided that this called for a little caution and passed the driveway, parking in the same orchard where’d he spent the night two weeks earlier. He took the .30-.30 and the knife and slipped through the trees and tall grass, circling around Sturm’s ranch.
Foodchain Page 33
