Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  “What about our child-killer?”

  “We’re still at a loss for a correlation between him, this Cuszack guy, Elizabeth Slocum, Deputy Kearns, and his mysterious sidekick. But there’s got to be a connection.”

  “Of course there’s a connection, you idiot. All the players converged at the Slocum woman’s house. The common denominator has therefore got to be her. Check her background. I want to know everything there is to know about her.”

  “I’ll give it top priority,” Tatters said, scribbling in his notebook.

  “Anything on the young woman who sprung Kearns?”

  “The one who knocked you on your ass?” Tatters asked innocently, glad to finally get in a shot of his own.

  “Yeah, the one who knocked me on my ass. You got a problem with that, Phil?”

  “Hell, no. She was obviously some kind of trained martial arts expert, knocking out a senior federal agent with one punch like she did. Chuck Norris in a skirt.”

  “I don’t need any bruises to my reputation to match my face.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Boss,” Tatters said, unable to resist another jab. “Your reputation couldn’t get any more damaged than it already is.”

  Scanlon said nothing, glaring at his subordinate. Tatters returned a faux-bemused expression.

  He turned back to his notebook. “We still have nothing on the identity of Kearns’ male accomplice. We do, however, have a pretty good composite drawing of him, thanks to you. Apparently you’re the only person who got a good look at him.”

  The thought of the fake attorney magnified Scanlon’s headache. Twice, the mystery man rescued the deputy from his grasp. If only Kearns was still in custody answers to their questions could be had for the taking. Who was this man? Why did he keep rescuing Kearns? What was their relationship?

  Scanlon knew his professional reputation, and possibly his rank as Special Agent in Charge of the Des Moines Office, were in serious jeopardy. He had to find Kearns again, and soon.

  “When will Elizabeth Slocum be out of surgery?” he asked.

  “She’s already out,” Tatters said. “She’s in post-op, but she hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

  “I want somebody watching her around the clock. As soon as she’s able to talk, I want to be notified. Have a cassette recorder loaded and ready to start the minute she wakes. And keep me informed.”

  Tatters nodded, putting his notepad in his coat pocket. He knew his boss well enough to know when he was being dismissed. As he walked out of the room a nurse came walking in.

  “Hello, Mister Scanlon. How are we feeling? I see you took the ice pack off. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “We’re feeling like shit. And I don’t need any fucking ice pack.”

  The nurse, an attractive blonde with the demeanor of someone who’s been in the emergency room most of her career, ignored Scanlon’s biting manner. She looked at his chart and clicked her teeth.

  “Well, Agent Scanlon, I’m afraid we have some bad news. The x-rays are back, and it looks like your nose is going to require surgery. The last injury really did some damage. I gather your nose was already broken when it was broken again today?”

  “You know damned well my nose was already broken. Is everyone in this hospital incompetent?”

  The nurse only smiled, and headed for the door. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes. I hope you’ll be as pleasant and cordial with her as you’ve been with me.”

  “I’ll put on my happy face.”

  “One more thing,” the nurse said, her smile widening. “There’s another FBI agent in one of the other examining rooms right now. He’s got a concussion and a broken nose too. He also has your temperament. Mysterious, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?” Scanlon asked.

  “Why anyone would want to clobber two such charming men? It’s beyond comprehension.” Without waiting for a reply the nurse walked out.

  “Kiss my ass,” Scanlon said, after she’d gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  Vernon Slocum cut away the remnants of his left trouser leg with the blade of his pocketknife. Beneath the blood-soaked jeans lay his riddled calf and shin.

  When he peeled back the cloth from his wounds he found matted blood and tissue stuck painfully to three dime-sized holes in his lower leg. Two of the 00 buck pellets had struck meat alone, slicing neatly into the calf-muscle on either side of the tibia. These two balls exited the rear of the calf. Though they’d bled heavily, these wounds were not Slocum’s primary concern.

  He concerned himself mainly with the final 00 pellet, which penetrated directly into the shin below his kneecap. This pellet didn’t exit, and was embedded in the bone itself. Each time Slocum stepped on that leg, or even pointed his toe, excruciating pain resulted. This wound didn’t bleed much, but instead seeped a clear liquid. This had steadily increased since the firefight.

  It was only a few hours since Buddy died. Slocum didn’t give his former pal much thought. He’d been a casualty. He knew the risks of the mission when he signed on, and his death brought neither sorrow nor regret.

  Slocum scooped a pinch of the methamphetamine on the blade of his knife and inhaled it. The pain moved to the back of his mind.

  He gently scraped away the scabbed flesh surrounding the bone-wound. The tendons in his neck and forearms swelled as he poked into the ugly hole. He held a small flashlight in his mouth like a metal cigar, its pinpoint of light illuminating his grisly work.

  Slocum opened another quarter-gram bindle of methamphetamine. He used his knife blade again to scoop out some of the dirty powder, but this time, instead of ingesting it, he put it inside the bullet-holes. The meth mixed with blood, creating a paste. The numbing effect was instantaneous. He spread the makeshift painkiller in and around the bullet wounds.

  He found the bottle he’d liberated at Fornier’s farm. He took a long pull from it, spilling bourbon down his unshaven face and onto his jacket.

  Gritting his teeth, Slocum poured whiskey into the shotgun pellet-holes in his leg. Barely a sound escaped his lips, and he tensed every muscle in his formidable body. The pain seared through his leg and into his whole being. This was not an unfamiliar feeling.

  Slocum knew he was dangerously close to collapse. He hadn’t slept in over seventy-two hours. He’d been staying awake with methamphetamine to keep vigilant. Buddy split the duty and made it easier for a while, but Buddy was gone. And Vernon was alone again.

  Slocum was disappointed that he failed to see the ambush back at his sister’s place. Had he been alert, and not so zoned on crank, he would have recognized the cul-de-sac as a trap. He would have seen the enemy waiting in ambush.

  How the enemy knew he was going to get his sister, Vernon didn’t know. All he knew was that the young dude who’d killed Buddy was the same man he’d fought hand to hand once before. Slocum couldn’t remember where he’d encountered the older man with the shotgun, but he sensed he’d met him before too. He couldn’t remember if it was in the Nam, in one of his dreams, or in one of the places he’d gone and forgotten. It was the same enemy, though. He was almost sure.

  Or was it?

  Slocum knew they’d stolen his mind in the VA hospital. They’d stolen his past, his memories, and his life. They’d blurred the lines between reality and dreams. He knew he had to reclaim himself. But he also knew he couldn’t trust his mind; it had been poisoned by the doctors. The doctors taught his mind to play tricks on him.

  After he left the hospital he hoped his mind would clear. There were still many blank spots, and he often had difficulty distinguishing the past from the present. But as time passed, his mind didn’t clear; it became more clouded. It became even more difficult to discern nightmares from reality.

  Only one thing was crystal-clear to him; one irrevocable truth. The key to reclaiming his life and his past.

  He was a Marine.

  He realized that to accomplish his mission he would need help from somebody who could be tr
usted; a veteran. He’d sought out Buddy.

  Now he was alone again. But even alone, he had to go on.

  The mission.

  He’d been wounded many times before. His concern for the condition of his leg was not due to the agony it caused him, but instead for how it would affect his mobility. Slocum knew his injury was a liability and could jeopardize his mission. He needed rest and medical attention.

  Slocum sat in his truck, parked on a side road at 120th and Pacific near the Westroads Shopping Plaza. The area was largely residential, and in the bitter cold of the December night looked sleepy and peaceful. Christmas lights cast a serene glow over the neighborhood.

  He took inventory. He still had a sizable quantity of cash, over eight thousand dollars, courtesy of the now-dead Zeke Fornier. He still had plenty of methamphetamine. The AR-15 was gone; the spare magazines for it under the Dodge’s seat were now useless. He still had the sawed-off shotgun and his .45. He also had a magnum revolver taken from a dead state trooper. Buddy had lost the other trooper’s gun, along with his life, back at Elizabeth’s.

  He got stiffly out of the truck. He packed his wares into the green army duffel bag, all but his .45, the Ka-Bar USMC knife, and revolver. These he stuck in the pockets of his jacket.

  In a hobbling gait Slocum left the truck parked at the side of the road and headed for a group of houses nearby. Each step was agony, and shooting pains traveled through his knee into his hip.

  He stopped at the first house he saw without a porch light on. He stumbled up to the porch and rang the doorbell several times. He took out his flashlight, and put it into his mouth again. He switched the duffel bag to his left hand, and drew the Ka-Bar knife with his right, holding it along his hip.

  After several long minutes the porch light came on. He heard locks unbolt, and the door opened a crack. “Who is it?” came a meek voice from inside.

  Slocum slammed his shoulder into the door, forcing it open. He felt the weight of a small body behind the door as it swung inward, and as soon as he was inside closed the door.

  The house was in darkness, and he switched on the light clenched in his teeth. He heard a scraping sound and looked down to see a very old woman on the floor. She was extremely thin, and wore a bathrobe. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she had a toothless mouth opened in a scream that made no sound. Slocum ignored her and walked into the house, grimacing in pain with each step.

  Within thirty seconds he’d made a sweep of the one-story residence and determined the old woman lived alone. The home was furnished with the knick-knacks common to elderly women, and he found nothing to indicate another resident.

  He returned to the woman. He walked heavily to where she lay by the door, unable to get up. The sparse glow of the penlight in his mouth was all the light he needed to cut her throat. She thrashed briefly and was still. He turned off the porch light.

  He dropped his duffel bag and went into the bedroom. The walls and dresser tops were plastered with faded photographs of what was once the woman out in the hall. There were black and white pictures of a tall, handsome man in Thirties garb. There were pictures of children and grandchildren as well.

  Slocum went to the closet. He found both men’s and women’s clothing. The men’s clothing looked big enough to fit him, even though it was outdated and smelled of mothballs.

  He found a linen closet in the hall. He felt dizzy as he gazed at the stack of clean white sheets, neatly piled on top of each other. He was near the point of exhaustion, and the linen reminded him of the VA hospital.

  He returned to the bedroom and lay face down on the bed. Within seconds he was asleep.

  Vernon Slocum slept soundly for the next twenty hours, with only occasional nightmares to interrupt his slumber. He dreamed, as always, of children screaming in pain and carnage in the jungle. When he finally awoke it was to his own screams.

  He took a hot shower and shaved with an old-fashioned safety razor he found in the medicine cabinet. He soaked his injured leg in the tub long after the shower was done. Using peroxide found under the sink, he cleaned the jagged bullet holes as best he could. He bandaged the wounds in strips of torn linen.

  He hobbled back into the bedroom and ransacked the closet. Though snug around the chest and shoulders, one of the suits fit him. It took several minutes of rummaging to find a pair of shoes. The black loafers he selected were dusty and stiff with age, but fit.

  In the back of the closet was a leather suitcase of a style not common for many years. He opened it to find musty towels and linen. He emptied the valise and filled it with the items from his duffel bag. He also packed the peroxide, sheets for bandages, and one of the other suits that fit.

  He hobbled to the hallway and stepped over the body of the woman he’d carved the night before. Coagulated blood lay in a thick puddle around her. Her face was ashen, and her gray eyes stared sightlessly. Slocum took her by the feet and dragged her body out of view behind a sofa. He put a rug from the kitchen over the pool of caked blood.

  Vernon opened the front door and looked out. Night had fallen again, and gentle flakes of snow drifted steadily down in a straight line. He guessed the temperature at a little above zero. He glanced at the address number stenciled on the top of the front door.

  He went back in and closed the door. He limped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A large pitcher of orange juice was the first thing he saw. Grabbing that and a carton of eggs, he closed the refrigerator. He opened cabinets until he found glassware. He broke four eggs into a glass and filled the remainder with orange juice. He drank this concoction and picked up the phone.

  Dialing information, he requested the number of a local cab company. He gave the address over the front door, telling the dispatcher his destination was the bus terminal downtown. She told him it would be forty-five minutes. Thanking her, he hung up.

  He went back to the bedroom and opened the suitcase. He transferred two tablespoons of methamphetamine into a flowery pillbox he’d found in the medicine cabinet. He put this, along with a roll of cash and his cigarettes and lighter, into his pockets.

  Vernon then field-stripped his .45 pistol. He pushed some linen patches through the barrel with a pencil and wiped off the carbon build-up as best he could. He lightly oiled the slide rails with some corn oil he took from the kitchen. He preferred to use machine oil, but could find none in the house. Reassembling the large pistol, he filled three magazines with seven rounds each. He then put a single round in the chamber and racked the slide forward, inserting a loaded magazine into the grip. Tucking the .45 in his waistband he pocketed the two spare magazines and closed up the suitcase.

  A film of sweat broke out on Slocum’s forehead through this effort. His left leg throbbed badly, and walking on it was becoming more difficult. He found a cane in the hallway and tested his weight on it. Then he sat down and lit a cigarette. Before it was finished the doorbell rang.

  Slocum limped to the door. When he opened it he found a short, heavy man in a parka and a baseball cap which read PARTY ANIMAL. The man was smoking a fat cigar.

  “You wanna go to the bus station?”

  Slocum only nodded.

  “Let’s go. Time’s money, right?”

  Slocum nodded again and walked with his cane over to where he’d set down his suitcase. Noticing the pronounced limp, the cabbie took the suitcase.

  “Let me get that; looks like you got a bum wheel. What happened?”

  “Hunting accident,” Slocum said.

  “I’ll be damned,” the cabbie droned on, making small talk. “Guns can be dangerous things.”

  Slocum again didn’t reply. He followed the cabbie down the porch to the sidewalk. A yellow taxi was parked at the curb with its engine running.

  “Christ,” the cabbie exclaimed. “Whatcha got in this thing? Bricks?”

  Slocum didn’t answer. He watched the driver struggle with the heavy valise and put it into the trunk. The cabbie opened the door for him and then got in himself. On
the radio, George Strait crooned, “All My Ex’s Live in Texas.”

  “OK,” the cabbie said breathlessly. “The bus station it is. You taking some kind of trip? I see you ain’t got no coat on, and it’s about five above friggin’ zero. Where you going, Florida?”

  Slocum lit a Pall Mall. He exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

  “California. I’m going to California to visit a relative. Shut up and drive.”

  The cabbie glanced at the huge man with the tight haircut seated next to him and put the car into gear.

  “You don’t want to make conversation, that’s OK by me. I can take a hint. It being the Christmas season and all, most folks want to spread a little holiday cheer, you know? Befriend their fellow man? Peace on Earth, and all that jazz?”

  Slocum smoked in silence.

  CHAPTER 33

  Deputy Kevin Kearns walked out of the elevator with a pretty redhead on his arm. He was dressed in a gray suit and shiny new black shoes. The red-haired young woman wore her hair up and was wearing a conservative dress and high-heels which accented her nicely shaped legs. Both had overcoats draped over their free arms, and Kearns carried a bouquet of white roses.

  The elevator stopped on the fourth floor of the Douglas County Hospital. This floor housed the Critical Care Unit. When they disembarked from the elevator, Kevin Kearns and Jennifer Farrell found themselves facing a nursing station which blocked further access to the unit. The desk attendant looked up from a series of video monitors and put down her copy of Stephen King’s Misery, but not before marking her place with a finger.

  Kearns could see patient’s rooms displayed on the monitors. He nudged Jennifer and whispered, “Stall her.”

  “May I help you?” asked the nurse at the desk.

  “I hope so,” Jennifer said sweetly. “My name is Ellen Gleason, and this is my husband, Edward. We’re looking for one of the patients registered here. Perhaps you could help us?”

  The nurse glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s after eight, and that’s when visiting hours cease. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”