by Harry Bryant
I stared at the box, weighing the consequences of taking it.
The shotgun would be handy if the CMFMC came after me. But it was a close-quarters weapon, and I didn't want to be that close to any of these assholes again. This situation was all fucked up, and there wasn't anything more I could do to fix it. It wasn't my fight, and I had to get out before anyone else got hurt. Before Dolly got hurt . . .
Shaking my head at the stupidity of it all, I grabbed a dish towel and wiped down the stock of the shotgun, and then went and did the same with the shovel.
I was looking around the room, trying to figure out where else I might have left a fingerprint for a clever crime scene technician to lift when I realized David's eyes were open.
But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder.
I felt a cold breeze on the back of my neck.
CHAPTER 23
Brace's face was a mess, though the look in his eye was clear enough. Pure murder. He body-slammed me, and I face-planted into Russo on the couch. Brace went to work on my kidneys—left, right, left—as I tried to get away from him. Russo flopped beneath me, and I twisted around enough to take a wild backhanded swing at Brace with the shovel.
Brace stepped back, and that put enough space between us for me to catch my breath. He stood in the middle of the room, his fists raised.
I slid off the couch until my knees hit the carpet, and when he came at me, I banged the shovel off his shin. He backed off, and I struggled to my feet. His lips and chin were covered in blood, and when he grinned at me, it didn't improve his looks in the slightest. There wasn't going to be any discussion about setting aside our differences. In his mind, there was only one way this was going to end.
We circled until I was closer to the partially open front door. Behind Brace, I spotted the shotgun on the kitchen counter. And next to it was the box of shells. He hadn't seen it yet, but if we continued our slow dance around the room, he would.
And that would change things.
He was unwilling to come any closer as long as I had the shovel. He had felt it enough to be wary. But I had to get him to come at me. I made to stab at him with the shovel, and he flinched back. He flinched again when I threw the shovel, but there was no effort behind my throw.
I was already turning and heading for the door. I had exposed my back to him. I knew he would like that target.
But instead of running outside, I grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open as I spun around and backed up against the wall. As soon as my back hit the wall, I shoved off. Brace had pulled up just short of the door, but when I bounced off the wall, it slammed into him.
He staggered back, and it was my turn to knock him into the couch. On top of his unconscious brother, who was going to be nothing but a huge bruise when he woke up.
I made a break for the kitchen.
I made it to the shotgun, but before I could any of the shells out of the box, Brace was in the kitchen too. He had picked up the shovel, and he nearly took my head off with a murderous swing. My fingers fumbled for the box, but all I did was knock it across the counter. A couple of shells tumbled out, and I grabbed at one of them.
Brace brought the shovel down in a vicious strike at my head, and I had no choice but to use the shotgun to block his swing. He hooked the edge of the shovel's blade on the barrel of the shotgun, and tried to pull the weapon out of my hand. Shaking me back and forth like a dog with a stick. He threw me to one side, slamming me into the counter and then back the other way. My grip slipped on the shotgun, and he yanked it out of my hands. The gun clattered on the linoleum, and he kicked it away from my end of the kitchen.
I had my back to the sink. I was surrounded by counters. There was a window behind me, but it was covered with a curtain. Brace stood between me and the rest of the mobile home. I was trapped.
"I'm gonna hurth you," he lisped.
"What? Hurth?" I said. "Oh, you mean, hurt." I pointed at his bloody face. "Did you bite your tongue off or something?" While my left hand was gesturing, my right was cautiously exploring the sink behind me. Looking for something useful. Something sharp. Or something I could make sharp.
Prison was good for learning how to make things sharp.
"Fuck you," he rasped.
My hand closed around a utensil.
He raised the shovel and came at me. I darted forward to meet him, getting inside his reach. I got my left arm under his right before he managed to hit me with the shovel, and then I stabbed at his face with whatever utensil I had found in the sink.
It was a fork, and I missed his eye with the first attempt, but you never stab once when you're using a homemade weapon, and I got him with the second try.
He howled and dropped the shovel. I lost a precious second trying to figure out how to get past him. With a deep growl, he went for my throat with his bare hands. Old school. No special tools but the ones we were born with.
I tried to break his grip, but he was a big man, and a very angry one. His fingers were tight about my throat. My heart hammered in my chest. My lungs were panicking. All I wanted was to get one more breath of sweet, sweet air, but I couldn't. Not with his bear paws around my neck. I flailed at his hands, but I couldn't get any purchase. Trying to grab his wrist was like trying to pull a tree out of the ground with one hand.
He shoved me against the sink. His face stretched into a hideous, bloody grin as he leaned closer, his one eye bright with the desire to watch me die. The fork was still sticking out of his other eye, and with all of my remaining strength, I slammed the palm of my hand against the end of the fork, shoving it farther into his head.
He stumbled, his weight heavy against my chest, and his grip around my throat loosened. His expression went soft, and I could pry his hands off. I shoved him away, and he bounced around the kitchen like a pinball ricocheting off bumpers, and then collapsed on the floor.
I took a few moments to reacquaint myself with air. It was glorious, and my lungs thanked me. My heart thanked me. And my brain was really thrilled to not have a fork stuck in it.
All checkmarks in the 'win' column.
I staggered past Brace, who was not going to get up again, and went to check on David, who was alive and freaking out.
A pair of police vehicles, their bubble lights painting the night red and blue, blew past me as I drove sedately away from the trailer park. I kept driving, minding my own business, and only after a second pair went screaming past did I dig out Dolly's phone and find Hack's number.
He answered on the second ring. "Dolly," he shouted over the sound of sirens. "Are you okay?"
"It's me," I said.
He didn't say anything for a minute, and I heard his sirens cut out. "Where are you?" he asked. "Where's Dolly?"
"She's safe," I said. "I'm going to get her now."
"There's a lot of chatter about gunfire and bodies at a trailer park," he said. "You know anything about that?'
"You should ask David Boreal," I said.
"He's alive?"
I didn't answer that question.
"We found your car," he said. "Once they put out the fire, they figured there had been a gun fight."
"They figured right."
"CMFMC?"
"What do you think?"
My throat hurt. I really didn't want any more of this mess. I just wanted to make sure Dolly was safe, and go back to LA. Matesson could get someone else to deal with getting Gloria out of Hidden Palms. "Your people are going to protect David now," I said. "There's enough evidence to get them to start looking at the CMFMC. You just have to get clear of it, and it will all take care of itself."
"And Dolly?"
"She's at the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center," I said. "I'm going to get her now. We'll go somewhere for a few days and then check in with you. Just to make sure everything is all wrapped up before she comes back."
He started to say something, but I heard his radio squawk in the background. "This is Lt. McCready, requesting emergency services at 3245 N. Poplar Road. I need some EMTs out here now!"
My lungs seized again, and my heart revved up—panic echoing in my ears.
McCready.
As he was leaving the mobile home, Clint had said he was going to talk to Doc and McCready.
Hack wasn't the only one at the sheriff's office working with the bikers.
I snapped the phone shut, and tossed it aside. My foot slammed down on the gas, and Dolly's car wheezed as it tried to live up to my demand.
David wasn't safe, and I had just told Hack where Dolly was.
CHAPTER 24
I switched off the headlights as soon as I turned onto the dirt road that led to Hidden Palms, and when I reached the open meadow in front of the Center, I pulled the car over to the side of the road. I shut off the engine, pocketed the keys, and sat there for a minute. My ears still rang, but the noise wasn't as bad as it had been an hour ago.
I grabbed the damp towel I had taken from the mobile home. I opened the car door, and remembered at the last second that the dome light was going to come on. I squeezed my eyes shut as I jumped out of the car and shut the door quickly.
My night vision was pretty good for having driven the last mile or so in the dark, and I didn't see any movement. I stood still, listening, but there was no sound except for the gentle sighing of the wind in the trees, and somewhere far off, a bird screamed. It was answered by another bird even farther away. And that was it. Life in the wilderness.
Hugging the edge of the meadow, I worked my way along the tree line until I reached the wall surrounding the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center. I turned away from the gate and followed the wall until I reached the corner. The forest was close to the wall here, and I slipped under the shelter of pine and cottonwoods as I followed the wall. After a hundred steps or so, I stopped and gauged the height of the wall.
It wasn't more than eight feet tall, and holding the rolled-up towel in my hands, I did a standing jump and hooked my hands on the top. I pulled myself up, ignoring the complaints from my arms about the exercise, and peered over the wall.
There were two strands of razor wire running along the top.
Which was why I had brought the towel.
I dropped back down, reshaped the towel bundle, and tried again.
This time, I got the thick wad of towel over the razor wire. My arms still bitched, but I did the pull-up, and managed to get my elbow onto the towel. Then I threw a foot up, and a leg, and the rest of me. The towel wasn't quite long enough, and a barb of the razor wire caught the cuff of my jeans. Fabric tore as I tumbled over the wall. For a moment, I thought I had twisted my ankle.
No, just a long rip in my pants. Bloodstains, too. Not that I was going to keep these pants much longer, anyway.
It was past eleven, and I wasn't sure how I was going to get into the main house, much less find Dolly's room, but I figured the first step in my as-yet-unformed plan was to find some clothes and blend in. Dropping trou and hitting the pool nude might have been clever when everyone else was wearing nothing, but I wasn't feeling as much an exhibitionist tonight. Besides, skinny-dipping at midnight was bound to raise eyebrows.
The employee parking lot was nearly empty. Lights were on down by the amphitheater, and I heard music playing. It didn't sound like a live band, and as I crept closely, I spotted a trio who were—
I stopped, and went back a few steps for a more unobstructed view.
I revised my theory about nocturnal naked time at the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center.
There were more groups of people roaming about near the amphitheater, and a few participants in the late-night bacchanalia were still wearing some of their undergarments, but they were definitely in the minority. It had been a long time since I had seen a free-for-all group grope like this—even longer since I had participated.
Everyone looked like they were having a good time—an important factor when you're getting it on out in the open air. I spotted Julia being held aloft by a pair of men, who were vigorously elated to be carting around a naked woman. One of the men stumbled, and she shrieked with laughter as all three of them turned into a pile of naked.
The wind shifted, blowing toward the house, and I caught the unmistakable smell of marijuana. Weed, boobs, and dicks. The holy trinity of late night bacchanalias everywhere.
I looked for other familiar faces, and I was sort of surprised to not see Gloria. Part of me figured she'd be party to this, if only for the casual familiarity of all the naked hoopla. I didn't see Dolly, but then I hadn't really expected to see her flashing across the lawn.
And the weight of everything came down on me, and I felt my knees wobble. Who was I here to save? And did they even need saving? Or was I the one who was running?
Shit, I had killed a man. In his own kitchen. With a fork.
Part of my brain started to rattle off the line numbers of the California Penal Code I had violated, and once it got started, it kept going. Manslaughter. Assault. Drug Trafficking. Impersonating a Federal Officer.
Watching the guests of the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center cavort and frolic in the bucolic buff, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of having lost something. I couldn't do what they were doing. That freedom—that innocence, if you will—was not a feeling I could ever have again.
What was I doing here? Was I trying to save myself?
My train of thought was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a gun hammer moving into a cocked position. I started to turn and look over my shoulder, but a familiar voice told me to stop.
"Well, shit," I said. "I guess I'm having a bad day."
"You have no idea," said Deputy Franklin Hackman.
We skirted the amphitheater as we meandered away from the house. I wasn't in any rush to wander off into the woods and get shot, and Hack was the lingering voyeur-type. "Fucking perverts," he said at one point, which said something about the sort of lingering voyeur he was.
At one point, though, I could have sworn I saw Dolly. I slowed down, trying to look without being obvious, and Hack gave me a shove. "Keep walking," he snapped. I looked over my shoulder, ostensibly to give him the sort of bruised male ego glare he expected, but mostly to get one last look at the amphitheater from this angle before we passed it entirely.
There. Near the stage. Someone who wasn't as joyously caught up in all the nonsense. Talking to a tall, naked man with a full beard and a respectable package that was showing interest in the lady.
Was that Dolly?
Hack slapped my shoulder. "I'm not going to tell you again."
"You going to shoot me here?"
When he didn't answer, I kept walking. He had a destination in mind, and the late-night stroll was a chance for me to fit the remaining pieces into place.
"You're part of Team Weed, am I right?" I asked as we approached the back of the manicured grounds. The trees loomed, but there was a gap up ahead—a path leading into the woods. "You guys have T-shirts or something? Secret handshake? You get a bulk discount, right? For 'personal use.' That's what got David in trouble."
"Shut up, Bliss," Hack said.
"Where are they growing it?" I asked.
He wasn't answering my questions, but as I looked at the wall of trees ahead, I put a couple of things together. "They're growing it out there, aren't they? This place backs up to National Forest land. They've just wandered past the property line a little bit."
He shoved me harder, and I stumbled.
"Is that the game?" I asked. "If I guess right, you shove me around?"
"You're not DEA," he snapped.
"No shit," I said. "When did you figure that out?"
"You're fucking this all up."
"No, I'm pretty sure you and Potboy are doing that al
l on your own. I was just passing through."
"I don't believe you," he said.
"Okay, then," I said. "If I'm not DEA, and I'm not here by accident, then what I am doing? Who am I?"
He didn't like those questions any more than my other questions, especially because he didn't know the answers.
"Either I really am just an ex-con, ex-porn actor who is here by accident, or I have the most amazing cover story ever invented in the history of undercover police work," I said. "And if I'm not DEA, then what am I? AFT? Department of Justice? Part of some secret Cocaine Cabal who is trying to diversify into the weed business? Come on, Hack. Pick one or the other."
"He's looking for Gloria Griffin," a voice said.
Walking toward us from the house was Wilson and one of the Terror Twins. The sullen one. Wilson was wearing a long ceremonial robe with a hood, while the musclebound guy was wearing his white uniform. Balanced across his shoulder was a pole, and hanging from the end of the pole was an oil lamp, whose light was a flickering flame dancing at eye level. They looked like they were out trick-or-treating as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
"Who?" Hack asked.
"Also known as Gloryhole Gloria," Wilson continued. "Gloria Gusto. Glinda the Glorious Witch. Glory of the Whole—"
"Yeah, I've heard all of her nicknames, Wilson," I said.
"Is she the one . . . ?" Hack asked.
"She is," Wilson said.
"Well, damnit, Wilson. I told you we should have left them alone."
Wilson shrugged. "It's too late to be second-guessing our decisions now, isn't it, Deputy Hackman?"
"Them?" I asked. An unpleasant knot formed in my stomach.
"You'll find out soon enough," Wilson said.
"Where's the girl?" Hack asked.
"She's here," Wilson said.
"Where?" Hack asked, not willing to be put off so lightly.
"Terrance is bringing her."
"Is Terrance the one I punched in the dick?" I nodded at the guy holding the lamp. "And you're the one I kicked in the head, right?"
