A Second Chance in Paradise

by Winton, Tom

  With all the activity that was going on, I don’t know how many vehicles I had to drive past before coming to a clear section of the road shoulder. When I did, I swung the van so hard into a U-turn it listed to one side as it skidded onto the marl shoulder on the opposite side of the road. After showering one of the dozers with pebbles and shell fragments, I spun back onto the two-lane. I must have looked like a Hollywood stunt driver. My front tires met the asphalt road again, they squealed like two spinning banshees, the van lurched forward, and the stink of burnt rubber was everywhere. With my window wide open, I could even smell it in the van. But there was no time to think about all that. Feeling the muscles tightening and undulating in both my jaws, I accelerated as fast as I could push the van – 60, 70, 80, 90, 100 miles an hour I got it up to. The broken highway lines blurred solid as the headlights illuminated them and the van swallowed them up. There was still no sign of Topper up ahead, but I wasn’t slowing down. I was hell-bent on catching him. And my infuriation only intensified with each passing mile marker.

  After rounding a gradual curve, my eyelids clicked as I strained to see down the road. Taking one hand off the wheel for just a moment, I quickly massaged my pulsating temples. Then there was another curve. When I came out of that one my view was no longer obstructed by the seemingly endless row of mangrove trees alongside the dark road. That’s when I spotted the Benz’s red tail lights up ahead. Pushing the needle to a hundred-and-ten for the next couple of miles, I was beginning to close the gap. But then it dawned on me – what the hell was I going to do if I caught up to him out there in the boondocks? Run the bastard off the road and into the shallows of Similar Sound? I slowed down, just barely keeping his lights in my sight, and pondered my next move.

  I didn’t think I was ready to kill. Yet that was an option. In my past life I would never have entertained such a thought. But now things were different. Now the possibility didn’t seem all that remote. And it scared me as I motored down that highway. How, I wondered had my regard for human life diminished so much? Was it solely because Topper had delivered Buster to death’s door? Or was part of the reason that since losing Wendy I had less regard for my own life?

  That thought and several others I didn’t like stayed with me until I reached Stock Island. Once there, I backed as far off from Topper as I dared. I sure didn’t want to let him out of my line of vision, but I didn’t want to spook him either. I could have easily caught up to him at that point but had already decided to tail Topper to wherever the hell he was heading instead. I’d also decided on something else. I may not have known exactly what I was going to do when I confronted him, but I did know that I was going to let my pent-up hate and anger for the cretin determine that. As poor a decision as that might turn out to be, I just didn’t care anymore. I was sticking to it.

  At this late hour there was next to no traffic on the island. All the businesses were closed except for The Purple Conch, and that looked like it was just about ready to close. When I flicked my head to the side while passing it, I saw only three cars parked next to the building and two lost souls straddled to the bar on the inside.

  It wasn’t long before we approached the Holiday Inn in Key West. There was a traffic light there and the road split. At that point I edged a little closer to the black Mercedes. The light was green, but I wasn’t about to watch Topper cruise right through it then get stuck for it myself. A moment later he did make it through. He veered to the left of the split in the road and closer than ever behind him I goosed the accelerator and just made it through as the light turned yellow. A few blocks later he turned by a subtly lit sign. It said, “Dolphin Estates”. He was going home.

  I didn’t turn. I drove right by, made a U-turn at the next side street then slowly motored back toward the sign. By the time I turned into the upscale community, Topper was out of sight. I picked up speed hoping to spot him before he garaged his car. If I didn’t, there was no way I’d be able to find his house. There must have been fifty of them in there, all set back off the circular road.

  With my eyes clicking back and forth stealthily, I looked down each driveway. I wanted to corner the bastard right then. There wasn’t going to be any coming back, looking for him another time. I had decided that if I didn’t lose it totally when we came eye to eye. I was at least going tell him that Buster was still alive. That he had fingered Blackburn, and when the chips were all down, Blackburn would finger him. If that was the way it went, I was going to then drive straight to the police station and tell them the entire story. That was the plan that was running through my mind when I suddenly saw something at the far end of the circular road.

  It was the rear end of Topper’s car. He had pulled into his driveway but stopped in it instead of garaging the car. The lights were out but with the aid of the fancy street lanterns above, I could see his silhouette inside. Sitting motionless in the driver’s seat, his head was turned my way. He had been waiting and watching.

  Now I was confused. Did he have a gun? Why in the hell would he stop within plain view when he had more than enough time to at least pull up to his garage?

  Maybe he’s taunting me! Maybe this clown is more dangerous than I thought. I’d better be damned careful here.

  Ever so slowly now, I idled the van up to the curb just beyond the driveway, came to a stop then eased it into park. That’s when all hell broke loose!

  Suddenly two headlights came around the curve in front of me so fast they looked like a pair of impossibly bright shooting stars. Whoever was driving was in a big hurry, and in the blink of an eye he screeched to a halt, right smack in front of me. I couldn’t see anything – nothing but those two blinding high beams lighting up my face and the inside of the van. We were grill to grill, bumper to bumper. A second later the lights went out.

  At first I had thought it was the police, but now I could see in the beams of my own headlights that this was no lawman. Looking above the high hood, through the windshield of what I now realized was a pickup truck I saw the driver’s face. Wow, I was sorry I did. It was the face of a demon – the most evil looking human being to ever taint my vision. Without question I knew it was that maniacal killer, Brock Blackburn.

  Chapter 18

  God dammit! I thought, slamming the heels of my hands on the steering wheel. Topper called him on his cell! What am I going to do now?

  From behind the steering wheel of his Chevy, Blackburn’s thin lips then widened into a cockeyed, diabolical smile. In the glow of my lights, with his badly neglected teeth and deranged face all too visible, he lit up like some kind of evil, surreal jack-o-lantern.

  I’d seen enough! I yanked the gear shift into reverse and jerked my head around to back out of there – pronto.

  But it was a no go. I hadn’t seen him, but Topper had already backed out onto the street and stopped inches from my rear bumper. I was sandwiched!

  Oh shit! This is it! All but resigned to my demise I slid the gearshift into park.

  Blackburn took his sweet time getting out of the truck. Then, as if he was enjoying the moment to no end and wanted to drag it out as long as possible, he slowly swaggered to the front of the truck, stepped onto his front bumper and mine, and started walking across them – staring through my windshield at me with that god-awful smile as he did. That’s when I noticed the pistol in his hand.

  There was no time now to fish beneath the passenger seat for Pa’s .38. Short as the van’s hood was, if I was to duck down and reach for it Blackburn could have easily leaped off the bumpers, taken two short steps then filled me with lead before I’d ever gotten the thing out of the paper bag. All I could do was sit there. It was as if I were at the end of a dark alley, back to a wall, helplessly watching my executioner walk toward me. There was no way out. I just watched him with his long black hair all swept back, looking like a crazed rabid lion moving in for the kill. Cap Forest had said he was big, but that was an understatement. This guy was huge. Shirtless beneath an open leather vest, he looked like an insane
modern-day Hercules. Never, in any gym, had I seen a man with so many networks of blue veins popping out of his muscular body.

  In no time at all he was standing right beside my door. I froze. All I could do was look through the open window at that scarred up face and the teardrops beneath his left eye. But I didn’t look very long. He jammed the barrel of his gun into my left temple, and I mean jammed it. He rammed it so hard against my skull that I saw a flash of white and thought the gun had gone off. But it hadn’t.

  “Okay mother fucker,” he demanded in a thick southern drawl, “shut this piece a shit off now! And kill them lights.”

  As I climbed out of the van Topper strode up to it. Keeping my head motionless with that steel barrel still tight against it, I swept my eyes to the side and looked at him. He was already looking at me, with an arrogant prep school smirk smeared across his face. There was no time to do a lot of thinking, but out there in the amber glow of an overhead street light I couldn’t decide who looked more sinister; Topper with his handsome delicate features or the towering, hulking subhuman in the vest.

  As he continued to study me, Topper reached beneath his sport jacket and pulled out his own pistol. With two of them pointing at my head now he told Blackburn, “Pull the cars into the driveway – all the way to the back. I’ll take our guest inside.”

  “Awright,” Blackburn came back, “but don’t go whackin’ him yet. I want his sorry ass. I wanna do him, just like I did his asshole buddy, Bell.”

  Then the lunatic widened that busted up smile of his, pulled the gun away from my head and pointed it his facial tattoos. Pushing his crooked nose so close to my face that I could smell the stench of sardines or some kind of rank fish on his breath he said, “I think I’m gonna’ cry again – any minute now.”

  “Go ahead! Let’s move it!” Topper said then, shoving me toward a walkway leading to the front doors of his castle.

  Dense, exotic flora snugged both sides of the stone path. Tall and professionally manicured, the dark bushes shrouded the pathway from the streetlights. It was awfully dark in there. Scoping things out as I walked, I seriously considered making a run for it. But Topper caught onto me. Noticing my inquisitiveness from behind, he well knew I wasn’t just admiring the landscaping. In a low calculating voice he said from behind, “Continue walking. Don’t even think about trying something.”

  Nevertheless, as I proceeded forward I weighed my odds of escaping outside versus inside the house. Then I heard the first vehicle idling up the driveway. It was a diesel engine. It had to be the Mercedes since it had already been nosed into the driveway. I knew then that I’d have about two minutes alone with Topper before the gorilla came busting in. I decided to take my chances inside, rather than running.

  At the end of the path there was a wide set of half-moon marble steps leading up to the entranceway. Sliding a perspiring palm along one of the wrought iron handrails, I trudged to the top step.

  “Move,” Topper said, wagging his piece from side to side at me while reaching in his pocket for his keys. He unlocked one of the two tallest French doors I’d ever seen then shoved it open.

  “After you, my friend,” he said in a faux gracious tone as he extended his open hand, palm up, toward the doorway.

  With my heart racing and my body perspiring profusely while contemplating my next move, I stepped into the dark, cavernous reception area.

  “There’s a dimmer knob on the wall – just to the left of the other door. Turn it all the way on,” he ordered.

  As I walked with my arms extended and palms up in the darkness, I could hear his footsteps closing in on me. With neither of us able to see worth a damn, he wanted to get up close and personal just in case he needed to fire his gun. This was it! Do or die! I needed to make my move before I got to that light switch.

  With my racing heart by now in my mouth, I brought my right fist to my chest, spun around fast as I could, leaned way back, and rammed my elbow as hard as I could. It was a perfect shot. Since Topper was about my height, my elbow landed right into the side of millionaire’s face. Crack! I felt the impact yet kept the momentum going. I wanted to take his freaking head off. Then a shot rang out!

  I wasn’t sure if I was hit or not, but when I next heard Topper’s gun thud on the carpeted floor and then he went down, I knew he had taken one of his own bullets. As he lay there moaning, I dropped like a stone too. Down on my knees, leaning forward with my hands sliding – searching frantically all over the carpet like a desperate blind man, I scavenged for that gun. I couldn’t find the damn thing, but the second time one my hands hit Topper’s limp body he let out a wheeze. It didn’t sound good, not for him anyway. Then that wheeze turned into something else, a low, raspy, god-awful rattle. I knew that for the first time in my life I was hearing what’s known as “the death rattle.” Topper’s lights were out for good, and I couldn’t have cared any less. I was damn glad he was dead.

  Still without the gun, I then heard Blackburn’s heavy boots stomping up the marble steps. He was taking two at a time. Forget about racing, my heart was on the verge of splitting its rib cage wide open. Lurching up and toward the door in the same motion, I tried to jump over Topper’s body but didn’t quite make it. I stumbled over him. Fighting for my balance like a first time ice skater, I took two or three quick, clumsy half steps before managing to right myself. By that time I was standing right in front of the one French door that hadn’t been opened. On the other side of it, silhouetted by the dim light of the street lamp, I could now see Brock Blackburn coming.

  Quickly, I scooted behind the open door and waited. About two seconds passed – the longest two of my life, then Blackburn raised a boot inside the threshold. I drew in a deep breath, tensed my entire body, waited one more fraction of a second and then did it. Leaning into the edge of that door I slammed it with every ounce of strength I had.

  It was perfect! There was a loud crash the whole neighborhood would have heard had they not been sleeping. Maybe I woke them, I didn’t know, all I did know was that the door nailed Blackburn head-on. But something was wrong. Instead of tumbling back like I’d hoped he would the crazed monster kept coming. He crashed through the door’s glass panels as if they were made of Hollywood candy glass. He sounded like a car ramming into the plate glass windows of a Seven Eleven. With shards of glass raining into the dark house, all I could do was scrunch my eyelids closed, turn my face away, and lean harder and harder against that door.

  Finally, with so much glass slicing into his face and body, Blackburn roared like a tortured beast and stumbled back a few steps. Watching through a broken pane I saw him fall off the patio backwards. His muscled back made a sickening thud as he landed on the stone steps below. Like the roar of a mortally wounded elephant in excruciating pain, his bellow was so loud that the neighbors were now surely up and running for their robes. But Blackburn wasn’t mortally wounded. Two grunts later a shot rang out.

  I saw the yellow flash. Wood splintered the door frame mere inches above my head. Then there was another shot, and he hollered, “You fuckin’ hump, I’m coming for ya! And before I waste ya I’m gonna cut out your friggin’ eyes!”

  Rising to his feet now – a lot faster than I thought humanly possible, there was no time to look for Topper’s gun. In no time at all Blackburn was up those steps again and heading for me. I turned and darted toward the rear of the spacious greeting room. Back by the far wall there was something that felt like a huge metal vase or urn. Quietly as I could, I pulled it out a bit and hid behind it.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! Three more shots rang out in rapid succession! Still not feeling anything but raw fear, more of it than ever, I realized what Blackburn had shot at. In the darkness I heard his voice say, “Tough break partner! I didn’t know it was you down there.”

  I had to act fast. I came out from behind that metal thing, felt along the wall, and almost immediately found a door. It opened and I stepped inside. Blackburn was still fumbling around in the dark too. I could hear his fe
et shuffling and something sliding along the walls – surely his blood-soaked hands feeling for a light switch. Then he found it and turned the rheostat all the way on.

  Peeking out from the side of the doorway, I saw that a huge glass chandelier had illuminated the whole sickening scene. Squinting now, as if I’d walked out of a movie theater into bright daylight, I saw Topper lying on the floor. His body full of blood. Then, at that very moment, with the stink of burnt gunpowder still permeating my nostrils, I heard something. It was the shrill of sirens! And they weren’t very far off in the distance. Monroe County Sheriff’s units were speeding toward the house. The cavalry was on its way, but I still had to somehow keep myself alive. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I’ll get ya before they get here you bastard!” Blackburn hollered, as he plucked a sliver of sharp glass from his chin. Then he stormed toward the study door.

  I slammed it closed and went to lock it, but that wasn’t going to happen. There was no lock, only a keyhole. With the sound of Blackburn’s Frankenstein-like steps quickly approaching the door, I scurried fast as I could across the study to a large mahogany desk I’d seen when the door had been open. I jerked the upholstered chair out hard enough so that it rolled back to the wall and I ducked beneath the desk. Then the door flew open and slammed into another wall.

  Blackburn stood in the doorway for just a second; his eyes readjusting to the semi-darkness again. There wasn’t much I could do, but I had to do something. I sprung up, grabbed a brass bookend I’d seen from the top of the desk, and flung it at the zombie with all I had. I missed. Blackburn turned to where it hit the wall, looked back at me and said, “I’ve been waiting to get you alone, Dad. Merry Christmas!” Then he raised his gun.

  I dropped to the floor behind the desk again and rolled franticly from side to side as two more shots rang out. Then there was a click! Then click, click, click! He was out of rounds, and I was up like a cat.