Hell and Gone

by Duane Swierczynski

  Look at him. With a cane and everything. If the moment weren’t so horrible Deke would have maybe found a little amusement in the notion of Charlie Hardie, baddest man in Philadelphia, having to get around with a cane.

  Didn’t explain where he’d been the past five years.

  “Come on, Hardie,” Deke said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Deke briefly looked past Hardie to see the interior of the trunk. At first it looked like somebody had shoved a bunch of medical gear back here—oxygen tanks, IV bags, tubing. But then he saw how neatly it was all arranged. “What the hell is that?”

  Deke was so mesmerized by the contents of the trunk that he didn’t feel the tip of the cane against his chest until it was too late.

  He barely felt the shock.

  31

  The question is not when he’s gonna stop, but who is gonna stop him.

  —Cleavon Little, Vanishing Point

  HARDIE DROVE THE big bad black Lincoln Coma Car down the Pacific Coast Highway.

  If you’re going to check out the gorgeous California coast, might as well do it in style—with someone special on life support in the secret trunk.

  They stopped in Big Sur. Hardie had a burger and a beer in a small place called Ripplewood. The beer hit him hard. He used to have a high tolerance, but five-plus years on the secret-hospital-and-prison wagon must have killed it. His head swam. Not good. He couldn’t afford to be drunk for the next twelve hours. Hardie ordered three glasses of ice water. The waitress didn’t even flinch—she brought all three and one straw, as though she knew the deal.

  Back outside, and once he was sure nobody was around, Hardie popped the trunk and slapped Doyle until his eyes opened. He hadn’t gotten everything perfect back here in the trunk of the Coma Car—and Hardie was no doctor. But the fucker was securely bound, at the very least. And guaranteed to be super uncomfortable.

  “So, which address?”

  Doyle tried to spit on Hardie, who jumped back, but caught some of the saliva on his hand anyway. Hardie leaned over and press-wiped it on Doyle’s overalls, which only made Hardie’s hand greasy and wet. Disgusting. Doyle leered at him.

  “Okay, then,” Hardie said. He punched Doyle in the head twice, then closed the trunk.

  The scenery along the Pacific was breathtaking and beautiful, that much was true. But what they didn’t tell you about the Pacific Coast Highway was that it pretty much went on forever. Repeated itself, too, to the point where you could have sworn you’d passed this exact same eye-popping view of a canyon overlooking the perfect blue ocean just a few minutes ago. It was an orgy of supermodels at sixty-five miles per hour, all beauty, no imperfections, and after a while it just made your dick want to shrivel up from all the splendor.

  God, that beer had really hit Hardie.

  Near the Hearst Castle, Hardie found a place to pull over and stretch his throbbing right leg. He tried to use cruise control, but one near collision convinced him he was better off regulating his own speed. It was tough, though, using his left leg on the brake and accelerator. His right leg just wasn’t trustworthy. Who knows if it ever would be.

  Hey, asshole—you’re the one who got shot in the head. I served you well until then. Remember that.

  You’re right, leg. You’re right.

  There was a lonely stretch of beach not far from where a group of enormous sea lions basked in the sun, rolling around in the wet sand. Hardie once read that sea lions, though cuddly, could be quite ferocious. Maybe having a thousand-pound creature snapping a bite out of his leg would convince Doyle to cough up the address…

  Instead Hardie drove farther, to a more secluded spot, pulled over, and decided to try again. He woke Doyle by twisting a crimp in his breathing tube. The man’s eyes popped open, and his face turned a sickly cyanotic color, but he still refused to pinpoint Abrams’s address.

  A one-in-five shot; those odds sucked. If he was going to win this, he needed to trap Abrams immediately. A break-in at one of the other addresses would only serve as a tip-off.

  Hardie continued down the California coast as the sun dropped down onto the flat gray slate of the Pacific.

  Morro Bay at night.

  Even in the gloom you could see the BIG FUCKING ROCK right in the middle of the water, as if a killer meteorite had crash-landed on earth. But instead of wiping out the human race, it just decided to kick back off the California coast for a while. With the sun down, it was chilly as hell out here, wet salty air lashing your skin.

  Might be mildly romantic, if it were just him and Kendra out here, lounging around the seaport restaurants, maybe even holding hands and looking at the big fucking rock.

  Instead, Hardie found himself with Doyle—his new main squeeze. Hardie found a quiet, desolate space behind an abandoned store and opened the trunk again. Hardie wasn’t going to ask this time. He popped the hood and started in with his fists, beating Doyle for a solid minute, not really worried about killing him because, you know—the bastard was already on life support.

  “Not asking you again,” Hardie said.

  Doyle spat blood. Like, everywhere. But he didn’t say a word.

  Well, that went well.

  Hardie slammed the trunk lid shut.

  An hour later, as he passed Santa Barbara and the early rays of the sun seemed to warm up the entire universe, he got an idea.

  Finally—

  Hello, L.A. Can’t say I’ve missed you.

  Feels like I just left you.

  Only that was five-plus fucking years ago.

  But you haven’t changed.

  Not really.

  Your streets still confuse me with all your sprawl. Your hills still scare the shit out of me—no offense, but I think it’ll be a long time before I go anywhere near the Hollywood sign, thank you very much. You’re still vain and wrapped up in yourself, which, frankly, is good, because I don’t want you even noticing I’m here. Just want to talk to one of your citizens for a while.

  Hardie drove the car into the long-term parking lot at Los Angeles International Airport, took a ticket, instantly crumpled it his fist, and let it drop to the ground. The entire parking lot was a multilevel garage. He chose the top level. Right in the baking sun. Few cars were up here at this early hour of the morning.

  Hardie opened the trunk. Doyle was already awake, as though he were waiting for him. Hardie put his hand on the breathing tube, but before he yanked it out of the man’s mouth, he told him the deal.

  “This is the last time I’m going to ask you for that address. If you say nothing, I’m going to pull the battery and leave you to die in this car. It’ll probably take a while. I don’t imagine it will be a very pleasant death. Understand?”

  Doyle nodded.

  Hardie pulled the tube.

  As soon as Doyle coughed up some phlegm and blood, he said in a raspy voice: “The Arcadia address.”

  Hardie blinked.

  “If you’re…”

  “I’m not. Abrams is always there. Fuck—fucking let me out of this thing!”

  “No. You should take another nap. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll come back and let you go.”

  “You won’t. You’re going to leave me to die here, aren’t you, you prick?”

  Hardie slammed the lid shut, walked around to the front of the car. Then he popped the hood, unplugged both of the batteries he found, closed the hood again, and walked away.

  Yeah, he was.

  32

  Just walkin’ in the rain, gettin’ soakin’ wet…

  —The Prisonaires, “Just Walkin’ in the Rain”

  YEAH, THIS WAS IT.

  Hardie had a suspicion this might be the place, but it wasn’t until he saw the loading area—through which he entered now—that he completely and for sure recognized the place.

  This was where they’d stuffed him into that life-support trunk…what was it, more than five years ago?

  And see, it felt like just yesterday they’d sentenced him to a
life of unconsciousness and forced detention.

  With each step Hardie steeled himself to be ready to open fire. Left hand on the cane, right hand on the gun. Left arm was still the weakest but he still felt the cane was the wisest choice for that hand. He could fall, he could be knocked down—but at least he’d still be able to shoot no matter what. And there would be nothing worse than to raise his left arm to blow somebody away only to discover that oops, sorry, body, the left hand is unable to take your call right now, please try again later.

  Hardie fully expected to be blowing people away any second now.

  If his memory served—and this place was the last thing Hardie remembered before waking up, handcuffed, in that room with that bitch Mann—then this secret little hospital facility should be absolutely crawling with armed guards. He needed to move as quickly as a man with a cane could move. The first gunshot would alert the rest; then it would be a simple matter of Hardie having enough bullets to take out every person between himself and Abrams.

  Curiously, the loading area was deserted. No resistance as Hardie made his way up a cement ramp. No locked doors. No one guarding the hallway leading back to offices and operating rooms.

  Abrams was sitting at a desk in a small office when Hardie walked in. Just sitting there, newspaper in front of her, remnants of a grapefruit and a glass of orange juice next to it. Hardie had caught her having a morning snack.

  Hardie showed her the gun, cane-stepping toward the desk, saying, “Don’t move.”

  “Okay, I won’t move,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  Hardie shoved the gun into her mouth. He even heard the metal chip her tooth enamel. Smudged her lipstick, too.

  “Nugh,” Abrams said, wincing.

  “You stole five years of my life. I’ve killed your partners. Gedney first, then Doyle. I’m going to kill you next unless we reach some kind of arrangement. I don’t want your word. I want an honest-to-fucking-god arrangement, or however you pieces of shit do things. Airtight, locked down, the whole thing. You’ve done it before, you’re going to do it now.”

  Abrams, mouth wrapped around Hardie’s ballistic “cock,” waited to see if Hardie was finished speaking. Eyes wide open and patient.

  “Do you understand me?” Hardie asked.

  Abrams nodded gently, the gun moving up and down in Hardie’s hand slightly.

  Hardie slid the gun out of her mouth. A trail of saliva followed with it. Abrams wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smearing more lipstick. She felt her front teeth, felt the chip. Shook her head, disappointed.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” she said. “I promise I won’t move, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No.”

  “Your leg must be killing you by now. Seems you’ve got—”

  “Shut the fuck up. There’s only one thing I want to hear from you. And that’s how you’re going to convince me that nothing else will happen to me or my family.”

  “I suppose giving you my word wouldn’t do the trick, huh?”

  Hardie flashed back to Eve, down in the prison, giving him a look:

  Duh.

  “Okay,” Abrams said. “Let’s get down to it, then. You claim we stole five years of your life, and for that, you killed Gedney.”

  “And Doyle.”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. From where I sit, however, we did not steal five years of your life. You were in a coma for almost four of those years, and then in physical rehabilitation at a facility in Grand Island, Nebraska, for about a year. And sure, you could make the claim that we put you in that coma. But you were not responding to traditional amounts of anesthesia, as I recall, and you were in danger of hurting yourself. We had to take action to save your life.”

  “I was in…a what?”

  “A coma. And not our fault, Mr. Hardie. We were endeavoring to save your life. You were scouted. And we thought you’d be ideal for future projects. While you caused the Industry more than a little grief, we all saw it as a trade-off. Yes, Lee Harvey Oswald killed the president of the United States. But that kid sure can shoot, so let’s get him on board. Do you understand?”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t remember…”

  “Of course you don’t. Throughout the therapy sessions you were stubborn. Incorrigible, actually. A tremendous pain in the ass. Oh, you played along enough to actually bring your body back online, to some degree. But our staff knew you were up to something. And as soon as you deemed yourself physically fit, you tried to escape.”

  “Guess I didn’t pull it off.”

  “You came close. Killed quite a few people, too.”

  This was a lot like hearing about all the great fun you had while stinking drunk just before you passed out on the lawn. All the pain, none of the satisfaction.

  “So,” Abrams continued, “we decided that you weren’t the right man for the project we had in mind at the time. Still, you were a potential asset, and we never just throw away our assets. You were sent to site seven seven three four with a group of other potential assets. Your memory loss is normal. We wipe out about a year’s worth before sending anyone down there. Keeps the place secret.”

  “Right.”

  “Of course, site seven seven three four is useless to us now. Not long after you did away with Mr. Gedney, we sent a team down there and found it abandoned. Not a single living being. Not a single corpse.”

  “Whoopsie.”

  “No matter. That’s another issue entirely. I’m just trying to impress upon you that this claim that we stole five years of your life is really kind of silly. Not sure what we’re guilty of, other than trying to save your life and protecting our interests.”

  “Gee, if only your pals had explained it to me that way,” Hardie said.

  Abrams smiled. “The fact that you escaped…that’s truly remarkable. Makes me see your potential in a whole new light.”

  “Not interested. Let’s talk terms, or you can join your pals Gedney and Doyle right now.”

  “Just Gedney.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you shoot me, I’ll only be seeing Gedney. That is, if you believe in life after death. Which I do not. But whatever.”

  “Doyle’s dead.”

  “Mr. Doyle is alive and on his way to the hospital. We were talking to him from the back of the vehicle—there’s a wireless communications system back there. It cut out a little on the Pacific Coast Highway, but we were able to tell him how long to hold out, what to say to bring you here.”

  “Why? Why not just kill me on the open road? You could probably have blown up the car by remote.”

  Abrams sighed. “You’re not listening to me, Mr. Hardie. You’re still an asset. Blowing you up would get us what, exactly? A warm, tingly feeling inside? Grow up.”

  Oh, how Hardie’s trigger finger twitched. One little squeeze, a spray of skin and bone and blood…

  “I see you’re impatient. So here’s our offer. We still want you for this project. Gedney wasn’t sure, but Gedney’s dead. And unlike your stint in site seven seven three four, this project is aboveboard. We’ll tell you everything. Exactly what’s expected of you. In short, one year of service, doing what you do best.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Guarding something.”

  Hardie thought about it, then shot Abrams in the face.

  Okay, he didn’t.

  He badly wanted to, and the fantasy sequence that ran through his mind was so, so tempting. But instead Hardie asked,

  “What do you want me to guard?”

  “Agree and we’ll tell you everything.”

  “What do I get in return?”

  “A clean slate. Do this job for us and in one year you can walk away. Go back to your life, if you want.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Abrams shrugged and showed him her palms. “Look, I don’t have to sell you on our capabilities. Your wife and son have been left unmolested. If you decide to kill me and continue
on with this rampage of yours, it won’t end well. For any of us.”

  Hardie thought about it, then shot Abrams in the face.

  Wanted to.

  Wanted to oh so fucking badly.

  But for years now Hardie had been doing just what he wanted, and where had that gotten him?

  Sometimes your guts know it before you do. You’re about to take a step off a curb and your guts are screaming NO NO NO YOU FUCKING MORON but you feel your foot leave the cement anyway, hanging in the air, thinking that when you set it down again in 1.4 seconds you’re going to find solid ground beneath you, just like the billion other times you lifted your foot with the intention of putting it down again. You think your gut is wrong, your gut is being paranoid, just take a step, just like you’ve always done…

  Hardie placed the gun on the desktop, nodded, took a step back, balancing himself on his cane.

  Abrams allowed herself a polite smile, then settled back into her chair.

  Almost immediately armed gunmen poured into the room, automatic weapons in their hands. They were trained; they’d clearly practiced this move a hundred times before. They surrounded Hardie in such a way that if he went for his gun on the desk his arm would be separated from the rest of his body by a flurry of bullets.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t think about it, though.

  One second to fall forward…