The diplomat didn’t recognize Beetle, not bloody and dusty, his face painted in black camouflage, his eyes alight with the craziness of watching several of his brothers die and killing two men with his bare hands, all within the last hour.
The diplomat tried to run. Beetle caught him easily and tied him up with telephone cord. It took him ten minutes of agonizing before he worked himself up to kill the man. It had to be done, he told himself. He didn’t know how long he and Otter were going to have to hide out on the small island, behind enemy lines. It could be weeks or months. The man might be a civilian, and a father of two, but he was still allied with the enemy.
Beetle killed him as he had the Cubans, wrapping his arms around the man’s head from behind and twisting sharply to the right. Back at the café Beetle disinfected Otter’s wound and bandaged him up. They spoke of their families until they fell asleep, but when Beetle woke in the middle of the night, Otter was dead.
The following day US Forces took control of Grenada, the leader of the rebellion was captured, and just like that the invasion was over—and Beetle was sent home to resume life as normal.
A knock at the door caused Beetle to jump. He realized he’d been staring at his reflection for five minutes or so. Long enough, at any rate, for the mist to clear from the mirror.
Beetle exited the bathroom. The door to the hallway didn’t have a peephole.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Open up.” The voice was rough, deep.
“Who is it?”
“Open up!”
Beetle went to the bed. He tossed the towel onto the mattress, then pulled on a pair of laundered boxers from his rucksack.
“Hey!” the man shouted. “This is your last warning!”
Beetle dressed in the same pants and woodland camouflage shirt he’d had on earlier. He slipped the Beretta into the waistband of the pants, fitting it snugly against the small of his back.
He returned to the door. On the other side of it he heard at least two people conversing in low tones. A moment later a key turned in the lock. The door swung inward.
Two large men wearing wool sweaters and reeking of BO stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. The one on the left had a shaved head and a bulldog face with flaxen, almost nonexistent eyebrows. The one on the right had dark hair and a matching goatee. The family resemblance, however, was unmistakable. Behind them, scowling, was the shylock from the reception.
“This him, Dad?” Bulldog said.
“That’s him,” Shylock said.
Bulldog’s scowl mimicked his father’s. “So, you like beating up old men, do you?”
“He tried to rip me off,” Beetle said simply.
“It don’t matter what he did. You don’t go beating on old men, especially when it’s my dad.”
“Would you prefer me to beat on you?” Beetle asked.
Bulldog’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in anger. “Is that a threat, you piece of shit?”
“You come to my room, you bang on my door, you get in my face. If you don’t want a beating, what the fuck do you want?”
“I want you out of my motel!” Shylock crowed, wiping his red rose with the back of his hand. “And don’t even think about asking for no money back.”
“You’re kicking me out?” Beetle said.
“Damn right I am.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“I don’t care what you think, asshole,” Bulldog said, reaching for him.
Beetle swatted his hand aside and stepped backward, luring him into the narrow entryway.
Bulldog took the bait, lunging forward. He grabbed Beetle’s shirt with both meaty fists. Beetle—who was trained not to think in a fight, only act or react—instinctively kicked Bulldog’s right kneecap, causing him to cry out and sink to his other knee. Beetle curled his hand into a rock and drove his fore knuckle and middle knuckle into the bridge of Bulldog’s nose. There was an audible crunch. Blood gushed.
“My nose!” Bulldog cried. “Owww! My fucking nose! Owww!”
Beetle struck him again in the same spot. He shut up and fell to his side, cupping his nose and rocking in agony.
Goatee was trying to get to Beetle without stepping on his brother. Beetle backed into the room proper, giving them both space to maneuver.
Goatee came at him, swinging a haymaker. Beetle stepped into the attack, blocking the blow with his left arm while chopping Goatee across the ribs with his right hand. Goatee grunted. Beetle drove a straight right into his gaping jaw, probably dislocating it. Goatee made a noise that sounded like “Oh?” and dropped to the floor.
Beetle moved purposely toward Shylock, who stood statue-still in the hallway, as if rooted there by fear. Beetle withdrew the Beretta and shoved the barrel against the man’s forehead. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His breathing came in quick, rough snorts. His trigger finger quivered.
Beetle waited for Shylock to give him a reason to pull the trigger, but the old cheat only made a pathetic, whimpering sound, and just like that Beetle came back to himself. He blinked away the red haze that had crept over his vision, and he heard himself growl: “You’re going to go into my room, you’re going to collect your sons, and the three of you are going to get out of my sight. You come back, you bother me again, I will kill you. You and whoever you bring. I will end all your miserable, meaningless lives right then and there. Do you understand that? Do you believe me?”
The old cheat bobbed his head.
Beetle lowered the pistol—reluctantly. “Then get to it before I change my fucking mind.”
Chapter 15
“Who will survive and what will be left of them?”
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)
“They have guns,” Steve said. He had turned off the foyer light and was peering through the front window. The Jeep’s and utility coupe’s high beams allowed him to see in the black night clearly enough. The bookish man had retrieved a rifle from the car. The hard man had produced a machete—a goddamn machete—from where it had been tucked against the small of his back. The rain had begun to fall harder, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.
“Who are they, Steve?” Jenny said in a frightened voice. She stood a couple feet behind him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Why are they here? If they were lying about hearing the gunshots, how’d they know to come? What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Maybe we should, I don’t know, maybe we should—
“Shit.”
“What?”
“They’ve backed into the fog. I can’t see them anymore.”
“Wait—that’s good, right?” she said hopefully. “Maybe that means, maybe they’re going?”
“Without their car?”
“Well, what then? What are they doing then—”
“I don’t know!” Steve snapped.
“Steve, don’t yell. I’m scared, okay? I’m freaking terrified. Are we going to die? Are we going to die?”
“Jenny, shut up!”
“Don’t yell, Steve! Don’t!” He could hear her hyperventilating. “I, we, God, we need to call the police—”
“There’s no phone.”
“There has to be.”
She began fussing around the room, yanking open drawers, tossing boxes aside. Steve didn’t move from the window. He assumed the two men had retreated out of sight to converse privately. It seemed pointless, considering he couldn’t have heard them anyway. Maybe they thought he could read lips.
Jenny crossed the hallway to the dining room.
She screamed.
For a moment Steve was convinced she’d been shot. But when he turned, she was standing in the entranceway to the dining room, both hands covering her mouth. He went to her, put his arm around her shoulder, and led her away from the dead boy.
“What did you do, Steve?” she whispered, her eyes glistening wit
h tears. “What did you and Noah do? That’s why they’re coming after us, isn’t it? They know you killed that boy, and now they’re going to kill us for payback.”
“That’s impossible, Jen. The boy died, it was an accident, the radiator fell on him, but that only happened ten minutes ago. The old man came home minutes later. He didn’t call anybody. Nobody called anybody. Nobody could have known.”
“Then why are they here?” She was whispering hoarsely.
“Go upstairs,” he told her. “Keep searching for the phone. You’re right. There has to be one. I must have overlooked it.”
Steve guided her toward the staircase. Jenny hesitated, then tromped up the steps, zombie-like. Steve didn’t believe he’d overlooked the phone, but if she didn’t do something to occupy her mind she was going to have a nervous breakdown right then and there.
He returned to the window, pulled the floral-patterned curtain aside, and peered outside.
Nothing but fog and rain.
What were they doing? he wondered. What could they be discussing at such lengths? Were they hiding from him? Did they think he was going to pick them off with the rifle? Would he attempt that given the chance, without knowing who they were or what they were doing here? Would he even be able to hit them? A few years ago he’d fired a handgun at a friend’s cottage in the Pocono Mountains. They’d set up beer cans as targets and shot at them with the cheap .25 caliber Saturday Night Special his friend’s father kept in the cabin. Steve had missed the cans more times than he’d hit them, and he’d only been twenty feet away. So, rifle or not, how would he fare striking a mobile target at fifty yards?
Not good, he suspected.
Abruptly the man with the muttonchops and handlebar mustache emerged from the mist into the headlights. He held his hands over his head, the machete gripped in the right one. “Don’t shoot, boy!” he called. “I just wanna talk about this.”
“Talk about what?” Steve shouted.
“We don’t wanna hurt you, y’hear? We only wanna get our friend some help.”
Steve hesitated. Could this be true?
In a show of peace the man turned and set the machete on the hood of the utility coupe. He turned back, smiled, and stepped forward.
“Hold it!” Steve said. “You can get your friend, I’ll let you get him, you can take him to the hospital, I won’t shoot. But first tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I told you, we heard—”
“You heard nothing! There were three shots, not two!”
“That’s what I said earlier. Three shots.”
“Stop bullshitting me!”
“I ain’t bullshitting—”
Steve sensed movement to his right and dropped to the floor just as a gunshot boomed and a bullet whizzed past his head, so close he heard it. In the second it took the bookish man to cycle the rifle’s bolt and fire again, Steve had moved fast and far enough to avoid the second shot. He charged the man, driving him into the dining room table and chairs. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, dropping their rifles. They were roughly the same size and their struggle became a grappling match that had them rolling back and forth. Steve gained some leverage and kneed the man in the groin and shoved apart.
Steve considered scrambling for one of the rifles, but the man got to his feet just as Steve did. His eyeglasses sat askew on his nose. Blood smeared his mouth and chin. He raised his fists like a boxer, taunting Steve, then launched a punch. Steve dodged it and kicked him in the right knee. The man buckled. Steve went for the nearest rifle and grabbed it just as the man wrapped his arms around Steve’s midsection. Steve jammed the rifle’s stock into the man’s gut. They stumbled backward and crashed into the dining room table a second time. The impact knocked the wind from Steve’s lungs but also broke them apart. Spinning, Steve swung the rifle with all his might. It cracked against the man’s shoulder. He cried out in pain and sank to his knees, holding onto the table to remain upright.
Steve raised the rifle over his head. He was going to bring it down on the fucker’s head, he was going to crush him like an insect, he didn’t care if he killed him, he was half insane right then and in a fight to the death, and he was going to—
Steve sensed someone behind him. He spun to find the hard man a foot away, machete at the ready. The man didn’t say anything. He didn’t smile. He showed no emotion at all.
Steve opened his mouth, to plead for his life, but the blade ended it first.
Jenny heard the reports of two successive gunshots. At first she thought it was Steve firing through the window, but then she made out the commotion of a scuffle. They’re inside! Her first impulse was to rush downstairs and offer Steve whatever assistance she could. Yet reason nixed that idea. The men were both armed. She was five-foot-five, one hundred twenty pounds. She couldn’t help. She could only die, and she didn’t want to die. More than anything she’d ever wanted in her life, she didn’t want to die.
Glancing frantically around the bedroom, Jenny searched for a place to hide. There was nowhere—nowhere but under the bed. She contemplated returning to the hall, fleeing down the staircase, out the front door. But it was closed and locked. She wouldn’t be able to escape before the men captured her. She had to hide.
She dropped to her chest and wormed beneath the bed. She lay perfectly still. She was so afraid she felt simultaneously flushed and chilled, headachy and nauseous, almost as if she were in the initial stages of the flu.
Something loud crashed downstairs. Steve cried out, what sounded like a roar.
Of triumph? she wondered. Was Steve winning the fight? Should she return and help him after all?
She listened, but heard nothing except the blood pounding in her head. No—she heard footsteps. Coming up the staircase, quickly. Only one set of footsteps.
Please be Steve, please let it be Steve, please God please.
The footsteps stopped outside the bedroom. They moved away, into the room across the hall. Jenny’s hope was already curdling into doom. If it were Steve, he would have called her name by now. So it wasn’t Steve. Steve was dead. Just like Noah was dead and she was going to be dead next. As soon as the man finished searching the room across the hall he was going to come into this room and he was going to—
The footsteps returned to the hall.
“Darlin’?”
The word iced her blood. It wasn’t spoken with singsong cockiness but softly and monotonously, almost as if it were a scolding.
The man entered the bedroom where she hid. Jenny’s left cheek was pressed flush to the floorboards. She could see his black boots. He took three steps into the middle of the room and stopped.
Jenny became acutely conscious of her breathing. It sounded far too loud. It was going to give her away. She bit her lip and tried not to go insane as she waited for the man’s face to appear upside down, peering under the bed at her. He would grab her by the hair and drag her out and kill her.
Abruptly Jenny found herself praying for a quick death. She didn’t want to experience it. She didn’t want to lie there, bleeding out, in excruciating agony, waiting. She didn’t want to see her life flash before her eyes. She didn’t want to think about never seeing her mother or father again, her two older brothers, her friends. She didn’t want to think about everything that could have been. She wanted a painless bullet in the head—
The black boots shuffled in a circle, then left the bedroom.
Jenny knew she couldn’t remain beneath the bed. It had been stupid to hide there in the first place. She had trapped herself. She needed to get out of the house, make for the trees.
She wiggled out from the small space and went to the window. The upper sash appeared fixed in place. The lower one, however, slid vertically in grooves in the side jambs. She tried to shove the sash upward. It didn’t budge. Had sloppy paint sealed it shut? Had the wood swelled or distorted? Fighting frustration and terror, she felt along the top of the sash and found some kind of metal latch. She worked the keeper free and s
hoved the panel upward. This time is slid easily.
She climbed through the opening.
Having checked all four bedrooms, and not finding the thin blonde in any of them, Cleavon suspected she would be behind the last door on the right. What he discovered instead was a steep set of stairs leading to the main floor.
He took the steps three at a time and emerged in the kitchen.
A back door led outside.
Cursing, he hurried to the door and found the deadbolt engaged.
Which meant the girl couldn’t have left through it.
Jesse appeared in the hallway, eyeglasses busted, face a bloody mess.
“Where is she, man?” he asked. “Where’d she get to?”
“Go wait by the front staircase,” Cleavon told him, then returned upstairs.
Arms and legs spread wide, back pressed against the house’s weatherboards, Jenny inched away from the window along a thin horizontal strip of molding. Blinking rain from her eyes, she glanced to the fog-frosted ground twenty-five feet below and suffered a moment of vertigo. It was too far to jump. She’d break her legs. Fifteen feet to her right, though, a tall maple tree grew close to the house. She thought if she could reach the branches, she could climb safely down.
She continued inching sideways, her fingernails clawing the wet wood for a grip that didn’t exist. With each small step she half expected to lose her footing and plummet to the ground. Still, she pressed on. She didn’t have a choice.
“Well, fuck me blue!”
Jenny was so startled she pitched forward. For a sickening second she was convinced she was going to fall. But then she flattened her back against the weatherboards once more.
World's Scariest Places: Volume Two Page 13
