Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

  She recognized them. The sound of thick Cockney accents tugged at her memory. These were Allie’s men. The same two she had encountered in Virgin Gorda.

  Lydia draped the camera strap around her neck and headed into the park.

  The entrance to Burfoot Park sits high above Budd Inlet, an arm of Puget Sound. Giant evergreens stand rugged and tall, dense enough to block any view of the water two hundred feet below. A series of switchback trails wind through a miniature rain forest. Branches of cedar and fir offer a fragrant canopy; ferns and bushes grow underneath. The trails meander down and down. Where they end depends on the tide cycle. At low tide the end is a wide, rocky beach. It disappears at high tide, and the trails run straight into frigid salt water.

  Lydia made her way down the switchback, wishing she’d chosen different shoes that morning. The smooth leather soles of her flats were designed to negotiate nothing more rugged than carpet. They were no match for the damp dirt and slick pine needles carpeting Burfoot’s trails. She walked as quickly as she dared, covering at least two hundred yards before stopping at a bend to check behind her.

  There was no trace of either man. They had probably stayed in their car until the minivan pulled away. She trained her zoom lens over the trail she had just walked, scanning the forest left and right, seeing nothing.

  She continued on, negotiating the steep descent toward the water, hearing waves she could not yet see. The nearness of their roar told her the tide was reaching its high point.

  The vegetation was thick, brushing against the sleeve of her jacket at the trail’s narrower points. She looked over her shoulder, again hearing nothing but the incoming tide and the wind driving through the dense green canopy above her.

  To her left, on the uphill side of the trail, a massive cedar trunk rested on the ground. From the state of the vines and bushes growing over and around it, it had fallen decades ago. Bark was worn away the entirety of its length, either by the gnawing of generations of beavers and woodchucks or by the force of mighty storm winds that could roar through with gale force. Lydia climbed over the remains of the fallen cedar, crouched behind it, and hid herself in the dense vegetation.

  A minute later a drop of rain spattered on the giant ferns she’d pulled over her head. Then another. Then another. In less than thirty seconds the steady percussion of a light rain drummed around her. She pushed the natural music out of her awareness and listened for human sounds.

  A twig snapped. Behind and above her. She listened for approaching footsteps but heard none. She crouched even lower, allowing the ferns and vines to drape onto her shoulders.

  “Watch it!” a man’s low voice called out. “This is damn near a kiddie slide, now, innit? Mind yourself not to fall down. You’ll knock me right on me arse if you do.”

  The man was no more than fifty feet from where she hid.

  Lydia dared to shift enough to pull the camera from around her neck. She looped it over her right wrist and pulled the heavy body and lens through, forming a makeshift bolo.

  She took shallow breaths, remained motionless, and trained her eyes on the trail in front of her. Less than two minutes later a man passed. Tall. Hair the color of freshly baked bread. Wearing a sport coat and dress trousers.

  With a semiautomatic weapon in a two-hand hold.

  Lydia recognized the gun. A stripped-down Hi-Point Smith & Wesson, .40 caliber. She had three herself. She liked the simplicity of it. The gun was powerful enough to do what was needed without the weight of needless accessories.

  She also liked its ten-round capacity.

  The man passed by, making his way farther down the switchback, which grew ever more difficult to maneuver in the rain. In another minute the second man stutter-stepped his way in front of her. Dark hair under a gray stocking cap. Beige raincoat over denim jeans. Holding his own gun in his left hand.

  Lydia knew that weapon too. A nine-millimeter Glock 43. Not as powerful a gun as his partner’s, but more than capable of killing in quarters as close as these. The Glock had a six-shot capacity, as well as one bullet in the chamber.

  Assuming each man was fully loaded, seventeen bullets stood between Lydia and her hot shower.

  Beige Raincoat was one step away from being dead center in front of her when a hawk called overhead. Startled, acting on instinct, he raised his Glock and fired two shots toward the sound. Lydia leaped from her crouch, surprising him further. She swung her right hand hard and fast, landing the camera and lens square in the center of his face. Blood erupted from his nose and forehead. He let out a loud, angry groan, grabbing his injury with his right hand. Lydia leaped over the downed cedar, leaned against it, and brought her full might into a right-leg kick at the man’s groin. He doubled over, still holding his Glock. Lydia swung her camera again, smashing it into the back of his skull. The man dropped to the forest floor. Lydia grabbed his gun and dove headfirst into a thicket of ferns.

  “Rick?” The other man’s voice called out from the trail below. “What’s brewin’ up there? Remember the rules, now, mate.”

  Lydia couldn’t see him. She kept her eyes trained on Beige Raincoat, bleeding and lying across the trail.

  “Rick-O?” Lydia could see his face now. Handsome. Holding his weapon by his side and fighting to maintain his balance as the rain made the already slippery switchback even more treacherous. He made his way to his partner and grabbed the man he called Rick by the lapels. Lydia watched the man come to. He struggled to raise his hand.

  Lydia fired a shot and Rick’s temple exploded before he could give his partner Lydia’s location. She rolled just in time to avoid a bullet coming at her from the other man’s gun.

  “There you are, luv,” Rick’s partner called out. She rolled ten feet north, stopping behind the wide trunk of a century-old Douglas fir and flattened herself against the ground.

  “What’s that you’ve done with me mate?” The man scanned left to right. “Old Rick didn’t have a mind to ’urt you. For the record, I’m the same. Nobody’s ’ere to ’arm one ’air on your precious ’ead. You ’ad no call to lay Rick-O flat, now, did ya? I’m ’ere to take you on a little trip is all. Boss lady’s got a nice new ’ome waitin’ for ya.”

  He inched his way closer, focusing his attention ten feet to her right, where he estimated the shot that killed his friend had originated. “Me boss wants you in one piece. After what I see you’s done to me friend, I’m not so inclined to deliver as instructed. So what say you step out now like a good little bean. Save me from this damnable weather, and all is forgiven. ’Ow’s that?”

  Lydia kept her lower body flattened against the forest floor, raising only her torso on both elbows, aiming her gun at the man’s head. As she pulled the trigger, her left elbow slipped in the mud. Her bullet missed him by an inch.

  The three shots he returned missed her by less than that.

  He charged toward her, barely able to stay on his feet as he ran through the rain-soaked brush. Lydia scrambled upright and leveled her weapon.

  The man was on her with a roundhouse kick that knocked the gun out of her hand and into the dense thicket. His next kick landed behind her knees, sending her sprawling to the ground.

  Lydia reared back on her shoulders, flailing her legs, not caring what part of his body she hit. She got his right arm. He lost his grip on his gun, dropping it two steps behind her head. Lydia reached for it, but he lunged at her, pinning her shoulders down against the mud.

  Lydia jammed her hand under his jaw, grabbing at his face, hoping to rip as much of his skin as she could. He wrenched his head clear. She grabbed a handful of his hair in her left hand, twisted, and yanked so hard his neck craned back. Lydia pulled harder, then delivered an open-right-hand chop across his windpipe.

  His body recoiled. He rolled off her, coughing and gasping for air. Lydia scrambled to her feet and went for his gun, lying in the mud.

  His left hand found her ankle. He pulled, bringing her to her knees. He was impressively strong despite straining
to breathe. He dragged her toward him. Lydia reached out for the gun, feeling the steel of its grip at her fingertips as he pulled again, gurgling through an obviously shattered windpipe. The gun was now out of reach.

  Lydia went limp, ending all resistance. He gave a last mighty yank, let go of her ankle, and immediately grabbed the waist of her trousers. Lydia twisted, trapping his arm underneath her and freeing access to her jacket pocket. She reached in as the man grabbed her by the collar, his open mouth wheezing inches from her face.

  Lydia pulled her flashlight free and jammed it down his injured throat.

  The man’s eyes bulged. He released her and pawed at the flashlight. Lydia jammed it in harder, shoving the metal casing deeper and deeper, until the lamp struck the front of his teeth.

  Then she rammed it harder still.

  She felt his body go limp. His full weight crashed upon her. She shoved him off and stood. His arms twitched as his scratched and bruised face turned blue from lack of oxygen. She took two steps back. When his eyes stared unblinking into the cold rain, Lydia turned away. She stumbled through the brush to the cliff’s edge and stood there, sixty feet above the water. The tide was fully in. She watched three waves crash to the shore.

  You’ll have to try again, Allie. Her chest heaved as she inhaled gulps of cold, salty air.

  As she turned to make her way back to the trail, she heard a hawk’s call high above her.

  Chapter 28

  Seattle

  Kashawn Meadows smoothed a hand over his hair and practiced his smile.

  Should I show some teeth? He stared into the mirror over his bathroom sink. No, fool. You look like a clown. Keep it simple.

  He tried a wide, closed-lipped grin.

  Now you just look like some old pumpkin sittin’ too long on somebody’s porch, left over from Halloween.

  He forced his face to relax and prayed the right expression would materialize when the moment came. He stood on tiptoes and tried to catch the reflection of his new sweater. He could see no further than midchest. He jumped up and down but still couldn’t judge how the clothes he’d purchased that morning from four different stores looked when he wore them all at once. He climbed on the rim of the bathtub and faced the mirror. Now he couldn’t see his head, but he had a pretty good idea the haircut he’d gotten after his shopping spree had left that part of him looking the best it could.

  He wasn’t used to wearing clothes like this. Sweatshirts, basketball pants, and gym shoes were his style. But today he needed something special.

  He’d gone downstairs early after a long night of no sleep. Only two brothers had been there to greet him. Everybody else was still sleeping. When he and D’Loco had gotten home from their meeting the night before with the leader of the Pico Underground, D’Loco had told the brothers gathered at the clubhouse about the truce. There had been grumblings about not being able to trust a lying Pico, but D’Loco had convinced the group their rivals would hold fire for three days.

  “What’s to happen when them three days expire?” Big Cheeks had asked. “We got four dead brothers they owe us for.”

  Kashawn had stood against the wall, listening to his brothers. Keeping his eyes fixed on D’Loco. Watching for some kind of sign of what his leader was going to do about Spice’s demand that he hand over the 97 who’d killed the younger brother of his right-hand man.

  “And they got six dead by us,” D’Loco had reminded them. “This war is necessary. I hear that. But we gotta know, too, all this killing is bad for everybody.”

  “So what we gonna do next?” Turk had asked.

  “We gonna take advantage of these three days and get some sleep. Sell some product. Hell, even soldiers fightin’ them Al Qaeda entitled to a little down time now and again.”

  D’Loco had made no mention of what Spice needed to end the war. He spent a few minutes talking with each of the brothers, assuring them everything would be all right.

  Then he’d left the house without speaking to Kashawn.

  “Where you off to?” J-Fox had asked Kashawn the next morning. “You don’t have to be on your corner for a while yet. And I ain’t never known you to leave this house without eating at least three helpings of bacon and half a loaf a toast. You sick, boy?”

  J-Fox’s jovial tone led Kashawn to believe his brothers were still unaware this entire war erupted because Benji Jackson, the kid folks called Banjo, was dead. The same kid Kashawn had claimed he’d killed to prove his worthiness to be a 97.

  “Stuff to do is all.” Kashawn had been out the door before he needed to answer more questions. He drove to the Walmart first, but they didn’t have the kind of clothes for what he had planned. He ate some drive-through breakfast and waited for the mall to open. Two hours later he was back at the clubhouse, ripping off tags in the privacy of his room. Building his courage for what came next.

  He spent one last minute studying his reflection. Blue sweater, soft as the fur he’d once felt on a kitten he found dead by the side of the road. Khaki pants, held around his waist with a genuine leather belt. The lady who’d helped him at the store had told him a well-dressed man wore shoes to match. So he’d shown it to the man at the shoe store, who found him a pair the exact same color. They were leather, too.

  He thought of his mother. Can you see me, Ettie? I’m a well-dressed man. Your boy’s all growed up and lookin’ like he could walk into any place he cared to. No one take a second look at somebody dressed like this.

  He hopped off the bathtub, grabbed the jacket he’d bought at one of those expensive sporting goods stores where white folks spend a thousand dollars on a tent, and headed to his car.

  —

  Kashawn watched the main entrance of the high school from his front seat. His dashboard clock read 12:47. Students taking the late lunch period poured out of the building while those scheduled for the earlier break trudged back in. He scanned hundreds of teenagers milling about, looking for one particular pupil. He finally spotted her at the top of the stairs, scrunching her face against the cold November air before heading down the steps.

  Kashawn pulled a bag from his backseat, left his car, and trotted to catch up to her.

  “Hey, LaTonya!”

  She stopped, and Kashawn’s throat tightened when she turned toward him. He smiled as he closed the short distance between them, hoping he didn’t look as foolish as he felt.

  LaTonya gave him a quick once-over. “I know you?” she asked.

  “You headin’ to lunch?”

  She scanned the crowd of high schoolers swarming around them, her soft brown eyes registering alarm.

  “Hey, don’t worry none,” he said. “I’m Kashawn. Kashawn Meadows. You and me used to be in Ms. Bolton’s English class together.”

  A look of recognition dawned on her cherubic face. “Back row. Quiet all the time. What happened? Did you transfer out or something?”

  He knew better than to tell her he hadn’t been to school in nearly six weeks. Could be some social worker had been over to his foster mother’s house, fussing about how truancy wasn’t something to be tolerated. Could just as likely be nobody had noticed he’d been absent at all. His foster mother wouldn’t let anybody know he hadn’t been at her place in all that time. It was still nine months until Kashawn turned eighteen, and that old drunk needed every penny from those state checks.

  Kashawn nodded toward the strip mall down the block from the school. “C’mon. Pizza over to Risitti’s. My treat.”

  LaTonya pulled her jacket close around her neck.

  “Let’s go, girl! We only got forty minutes and we’re gonna freeze to death, we stay out here.”

  LaTonya’s face relaxed. “I’ve got study break after lunch. I don’t like to be hurried when I eat.”

  Kashawn put a hand on the back of her arm and led her across the street. “This must be my lucky day.”

  —

  She ordered two slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza with a small salad. He asked for the same. She thanked t
he waitress, then he did too. When LaTonya opened her napkin and laid it across her lap, Kashawn pulled his off the table and mimicked her move. She started talking about how she couldn’t wait to graduate. “I’ve applied for early acceptance to Reed. I won’t hear for sure until January, but my dad says a black girl carrying the GPA I’ve got is a surefire yes. Portland’s a long way away, I know. But there are buses. And I’m sure my mom’s going to be driving down to see me more than she should.” LaTonya told him about how much she was going to miss her dog but that her father promised to send photos every day to her phone.

  “It’s crazy, I know.” His mind lingered on the gentle lilt in her voice. “I suppose I should be saying I’ll miss my family the most. But I know when I’m alone in that dorm room I’m going to be crying my eyes out knowing Grady’s curled up on my sister’s bed instead of mine. Do you have any pets?”

  He shook his head. He wanted to hear her voice, not his own.

  “How about family? I’ve got one sister. Her name’s Onaleisha. Everybody calls her Leisha. She’s a sophomore. Her thing’s music. Plays oboe in the school orchestra. Do you play an instrument?”

  He shook his head again.

  “How about family?” she asked.

  The waitress arrived with their salads, giving him time. He’d spent months dreaming about what it would be like to have a girl like LaTonya pay attention to him. But in all that time he’d never given any thought to what he’d say.

  “I have brothers,” he said when the waitress left. “Lots of them.”

  “You’re lucky.” LaTonya used her fork and knife to toss dressing in her salad. Kashawn watched the process for a few moments before doing the same. “I wish my family was bigger. And I think it would be way cool to have a brother.” She let out a short giggle and Kashawn was certain his heart stopped. “And it might be nice for my dad to have another guy in the house.”

  Kashawn learned LaTonya wanted to be a teacher. Her favorite singer was Rihanna but her parents didn’t care for some of the lyrics. Her best friends were Charlize and Kimba. She didn’t like the boy Kimba was dating, and she and Charlize were hoping he’d go somewhere far away after graduation.