Blockbuster

by Richard H. Smith

  “Anyway, yeah, she hated him. I just wanted the money. Like tonight.”

  “Listen, Jesse. You want the money. I don’t blame you. There’s a lot. A cool five grand and change. Right here.”

  “Five? That’s what she said it would be.”

  “Sure is, Jesse.”

  “Sweet.”

  “It don’t matter to me if you take it. Insurance will cover it. You can use it more than they can. Do you know they never gave me a raise? Can you believe that? The assholes.”

  “Figures. The little guy always gets the shaft,” Hooker said angrily, almost sounding like he identified with me. Maybe he’d let me live.

  “You know it, I know it. Take the car and the money and go. Just let me out. I can deal with this storm.”

  He said nothing. A double blast of lightning and thunder detonated. The rain thickened.

  “I can’t see where I’m going, man. We need to stop,” I said.

  “Keep going,” he yelled.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shut up.”

  The road ahead was flooded over with water where there was a creek or river. The water had to be deep. As far as I could tell, it was moving fast, right over a small bridge. We would be swept away, and so I slowed.

  “Move it,” Hooker screamed in my ear.

  “The bridge. It’s flooded.”

  “I said, move it!”

  This was the break I needed. Could he see how flooded the creek was? We’d stall and likely be swept across the road into the creek. Then I might be able to get away from him. If he would just stop pointing that gun at me. My nerves were stretched to their limit as every bump created the real chance of its accidental firing. We were heading for a rough jolt.

  I braced myself, keeping my arms stiff against the steering wheel as we sped right into the water. The car jerked to a stop. Hooker lost his grip on the seat. I shifted my head as his body lunged forward. His face and neck banged against the passenger seat headrest and whiplashed backward. The gun flew out of his hand and fell to the front passenger seat.

  “Sheeit!” he yelled.

  He tried to scramble over the front seat, but I slammed my elbow across his nose, knocking him back. I grabbed the gun, spun around, and aimed it at him.

  “Freeze,” I screamed, shaking with anger. “I swear I’ll shoot you right in that stupid face of yours, you goddamned, sneaky son of a bitch!”

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”

  He realized I meant it. I was furious over a lot of things. Bullock’s murder, Samantha’s shooting Spence, and also the fact that this sorry ass redneck had been willing to shoot me too—with his smelly breath and brain wired like the Civil War never happened.

  He held up both hands. The car lifted off the road and began to spin.

  “Please don’t shoot, man. I didn’t kill your boss. That crazy bitch did it.” Blood flowed from his nose.

  The car floated with surprising speed right over the edge of where the bridge must have been. With the gun in my hand, I struggled to keep a steady aim on Hooker. He seized the headrest to steady himself. Water was at the level of the windows and coming up through the floorboards. The reflected light from the headlights against the water and the instrument panel a created strange, greenish illumination inside. For the moment, we seemed protected. But we were in serious trouble.

  The car continued its uneven spin. I anchored myself with one arm pressed to the dashboard. The creek was now a deep, fast-moving river. Water outside rose past the windows and spurted into the car through any openings, the level rising up to my knees. I needed to get out of this car and fast.

  Hooker panicked. He ignored my gun and fumbled with the door handle as he pushed against the door. The water pressure from the outside was already too great and the door wouldn’t budge.

  “It won’t open, it won’t open.” He kept pushing.

  I didn’t need the gun. I tossed it aside. While he struggled with the door, I moved to my side window and rolled it down, ignoring the rush of water this created. This would be the only way to escape.

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Hooker yelled.

  I ignored him and took in a deep breath of air.

  “Help me, man, help me,” Hooker screamed. “I cain’t swim good.”

  Water swallowed up his terrified, bony face.

  That was his problem.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The filthy, mud-filled water enveloped me as well, but I forced my eyes open, ignoring the sting. The headlights reflecting in the water and the green glow of the instrument panel created enough light to show Jesse choking and gagging. I readied myself to go out the window, but the car made a sudden, downward tilt, slamming against the creek bottom and throwing me against the opposite passenger door. I was lucky. I might have been crushed as I went out the window. The car now seemed wedged in a bank of mud, despite the strong current of floodwater.

  I could just make out the dark shape of Hooker as he thrashed his arms about desperately. I already needed air, and I knew I had little time to get out through the other window. With the inside now full of water, I thought the door would open. I felt for the door handle, yanked it hard, and pushed against the door with my shoulder, bracing my feet on the steering column. The door opened a few inches, and the current caught it, swinging it open.

  My lungs burned. I readied myself to push out before the door might swing shut. Hooker was no longer moving, but his body floated toward me. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his shoulders and directed both us out the door. We both spun and twisted in the dark water.

  I swam upward. Something scraped across my shoulder, stunning me for a moment. I held my grip on Hooker. He felt heavy and my lungs seemed to explode with each thrust of my limbs.

  Another object grazed my cheek. I saw a flash of light. Lightning. The surface was close. With a few more strokes, I broke the surface and took in deep gulps of air.

  I looped an arm under Hooker’s shoulders, keeping his head above water. Ahead I saw the outline of a bridge, and I swam with the current in its direction. I grabbed the concrete and pulled us both around and away from the current to a shallow stretch of water and onto a patch of grass.

  Hooker coughed up water and gasped for air. He was a resilient little weasel. I wasn’t sure if it made me happy to see him breathing, except that I had gone to so much trouble to save him. I removed his shirt, pulled his arms together, and used the shirt to tie them tight. He struggled and coughed. For some reason, he remained quiet. But he couldn’t do much damage with his arms tied. And he couldn’t run far if he tried—even if he regained his strength.

  I dragged him along down a road that ran parallel to the creek. I don’t think he quite knew where he was and what had happened. But I didn’t trust him. I figured he’d try something if he got the opportunity.

  There was a pickup truck off to the side of the road with its lights on. The driver seemed about ready to pull out, but I stepped out in front of the headlights. I kept a grip on one of Hooker’s arms. The driver rolled down the window a crack.

  I said, “My car got washed into the creek. We need help. He almost drowned.”

  “What’s with his arms like that?”

  “He tried to rob me. I can explain. I need something to tie him up better.”

  “Rob you?” I didn’t think the guy trusted me. Why should he? We were an odd sight. Maybe we’d try to rob him.

  “It’s a long story. Got any rope?”

  Hooker ripped his arms away from me. He’d been faking it. He shot down the road about twenty yards and tripped over his feet. His face struck the asphalt.

  I approached him cautiously like I would a wounded animal. There was a fresh gash on his cheek. The makeshift binding had come loose, and his arms were free. He leaped up and pulled something out of his jeans. It was a small switchblade. He shook it open and thrust the blade in my direction, the steel catching the headlight beams from the truck.


  “I ain’t going to no jail,” he said.

  I backed away again, keeping a focus on the knife as I sized him up. He made another thrust, but it was unsteady and weak. As one knee seemed to buckle, I seized the wrist holding the knife and directed it away from me. I knelt and brought his forearm hard against the top of my thigh. I heard a snap. He shrieked in pain, and the knife fell to the ground. I kicked him in the nose, right where I hit him earlier with my elbow. He fell backward and lay still.

  “You asked for it, you ungrateful piece of garbage,” I said. I picked up the knife and hurled it as far as I could.

  The driver had exited his truck and ran toward me. He must have seen it all, and I think it convinced him that I’d been telling the truth. He carried a stretch of wire and handed it to me.

  “Looks like you really do need this,” he said.

  “Thanks. He’s psycho,” I said.

  The man pressed down on the back of Hooker’s neck as I took the wire and tied Hooker’s arms together at his back with one end. I tied the other end around his ankles. He screamed in pain.

  “My arm’s broke in two. I ain’t gonna run.”

  “I might just toss you back in that river. Start saying your prayers.” I was still plenty mad at him.

  I turned to the man and said, “Can we put him in the back of your truck?”

  “Sure.”

  We took Hooker by each shoulder and dragged him over to the truck. The man let down the back of the truck, and we slid Hooker in. The rain had almost stopped.

  “My arm’s in two pieces, man. My nose is broke,” Jesse moaned.

  “Complain to the police. They’ll get you a doctor,” I said, as we slammed the back of the truck shut.

  “Nate Burton,” I said to the man.

  “Gus Hawley,” he replied. We shook hands.

  I said, “Can you take me to the mall? I guarantee there will be cops there. That’s where he tried to rob me. I was making the theater deposit. I’m the manager of the Yorktowne Theater.”

  As he took in all I had said, I got my first clear look at him, and I was glad he now trusted me. He looked strong and in shape.

  “Jaws is playing there, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “I was planning on seeing it with my boy tomorrow.”

  “Take me to the mall, and you’ve got passes for tomorrow. Your pick of seats.”

  “Dang, Bobby’s gonna love it. Let’s go.”

  We shook hands again. I jumped into the front passenger seat. He gunned the engine, and we headed toward the mall.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  I counted five police cars and two ambulances surrounding the bank entrance, all with lights flashing. Two TV vans had also arrived. The eerie form of Samantha lay with Spence’s sickle still lodged upright in her chest. It was a bizarre, grisly scene reminding me of the last part of Chinatown, when Faye Dunaway’s dead body spills from her car as Jack Nicholson opens the driver’s side door. We had played the movie for most of the previous summer. Less than half an hour had passed since Hooker had forced me to drive away with him, a gun pressed against my neck, but it seemed a light year. I was glad to see Detective Dupree standing near one of the police cars, his mouth to a radio receiver. This would make things go much smoother.

  I said, “Wait here a second, Mr. Hawley. I’ll get the police to deal with this guy. I recognize one of them.”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Hawley said.

  I glanced at Hooker. He lay curled up in one corner, his eyes squinting and focused on me.

  “Everything hurts,” he said.

  “If you hadn’t tried to kill me twice, I’d feel sorry for you.”

  And, anyway, my face stung from a cut, my eyes ached from fighting the foul creek water, and my lungs hurt from being stretched to their limit.

  “I won’t gonna kill you,” he groaned.

  “Yeah, right.” I walked away.

  As I got close to the crime tape, an officer came over and stopped me from going any further.

  “Hey, Detective Dupree, over here, over here,” I called out.

  I waved, and he looked over my way and recognized me. He put his hand on the shoulder of one of the officers, said a few words, and strode toward me.

  “What in tarnation? Did someone drag you through a wet briar patch?”

  “You’ve got that about right.”

  “They tell me both Bernie and your friend Reeves are in the hospital. That must be Reeve’s car, the one with the bullet hole in the window. And this poor, crazy woman has what looks like a spear a-lodged in her chest. I mean, what exactly transpired here?”

  “I can explain it all. But do you know whether Detective Riggs and Mr. Reeves are okay?

  “I’d like to know too. I’ll be getting word shortly.”

  “I’m real concerned, because Detective Riggs got hit by lightning, and Spence took a bullet in the side.”

  “Don’t like the sound of neither. Now, how about you fill me in.”

  “I will, but can you come over to that guy’s truck first? We’ve got Jesse Hooker tied up in the back.”

  “What? Hooker? Let me see.”

  Hawley was standing by his truck, gawking at all the activity.

  I said, pointing at Hooker, “That lowlife pulled a gun on me first and then kidnapped me. We ended up underwater in a flooded creek. Had to tie him up with Mr. Hawley’s wire. Otherwise, he’d have tried to do me in again. His arm’s busted.”

  After Dupree gave Hawley a polite nod, he directed a flashlight into the back the truck revealing Hooker’s curled up shape.

  “He looks like a caught possum,” Dupree said. Hooker moaned, his eyes reflecting back the flashlight beam.

  “Well, the rascal did try to play dead a while ago,” I said.

  Dupree introduced himself to Mr. Hawley and called for help. Two officers came over.

  “You fellahs, if you don’t mind, keep him company for a while. I need to get statements from these two gentlemen. Looks like this one needs medical attention,” Dupree said, pointing toward me.

  “It can wait,” I said, although I hurt all over.

  Mr. Hawley gave Dupree a summary of how I how had stopped him and asked for help. As soon as Dupree got Hawley’s number and address, Hawley was eager to leave.

  “Which show tomorrow?” I asked him.

  “Second?”

  “Got it. Just ask for me. Starts at three-fifteen, but come early so I can find you good seats.”

  He thanked me and took off for home.

  “So,” Dupree said, flipping to the next page in his notepad with a flourish. “Fill me in. What in holy hell happened? How is it that you ended up miles away from here in that creek—and now here with this, miscreant, Jesse Hooker? He looks like a mutt with rabies. I ain’t Albert Einstein, so take it slow.”

  He didn’t ask many questions. Mostly, he punctuated my account with a variety of colorful expletives. By this time, the area had been photographed and gone over. TV reporters continued to press for statements. I avoided them. A van spirited Samantha away to a place I hoped I wouldn’t visit anytime soon. They’d probably find out more about her from Hooker, who by now had been taken away by the two officers watching him. Not sure there was much more to know.

  “And by the way,” Dupree said. “I had an interesting exchange with a couple who saw your shark movie tonight—right after the second show let out. I was keeping a watch in the parking lot area, you know, for most of the evening. The man was bawling like a baby. His wife was comforting him. I went over to make sure they were okay. The guy was at least in his 50s, and you don’t see that happen.”

  “Why was he upset?”

  “Turns out he was a Navy vet whose ship sunk during the last part of World War II. Many of his buddies were killed by sharks as they waited to be picked up by other ships. It was a nasty business. He was one of the few lucky ones to survive.”

  “Wow. Poor guy. There is a scene in the movie where Q
uint, the guy who leads the shark hunt, remembers the sinking of the Indianapolis and all the sailors who were killed by sharks. He was one of the survivors. This event actually happened. It was horrible.”

  Dupree said, “Never heard of it.”

  “Me neither. Ah, so he didn’t like the movie?” I asked, hoping this wouldn’t be a general reaction.

  “No, no. His wife said it was good for him. Cathartic. He’d never really talked about what had happened during the sinking. He’d kept it bottled in.”

  “It was maybe the most powerful scene in the movie—now that I think about it.”

  “Anyway,” Dupree said emphatically. “It’s more than just a mindless scare movie. It’s special.”

  It was almost five o’clock, and I was bone-tired and sore. Maybe a paramedic could have checked me out, but I wanted to stop by the hospital. Someone could look me over there if I needed it. I asked Dupree if I might drive Spence’s car.

  “Under the circumstances, I’m going to look the other way,” he said.

  “Take good care of Spence’s sickle.”

  “Roger, that. And, son, make sure you get that scrape on your face checked out at the hospital. And your eyes too.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  I chugged off in the Electra.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I found Riggs wearing a hospital gown and sitting in a chair next to Spence’s bed. A plasma bag hung on one side, and a tube fed into Spence’s arm. Spence was in worse shape than Riggs, probably because he’d lost so much blood, especially for a man his age.

  Dupree had called ahead, and so they’d been expecting me. He’d also given Riggs a brief rundown of what had happened, but I filled them in on more details.

  “I envy you and Spence,” Riggs said. “Both of you have had interesting rides with Jesse Hooker—and lived to tell the tale.”

  “I’m no Spence Reeves,” I said. “And I’m no good at tossing spears.”

  “Now that I’d like to have seen,” Riggs said.

  “It was a miracle throw,” I said. “And, Spence, I saw that curveball you threw her first, opening the driver’s door and coming out the other.”