“I won’t let him stitch him up.” David folded his arms across his chest, glared at Doc. His tone was cold and uncaring. Even hateful.
“Infection?” Gabriel asked.
“Well, I cleaned him up pretty good, but without stitches, there’s a greater possibility of infection.”
Gabriel nodded. “So what’s the plan, Dave? You gonna kill him as soon as he wakes up or wait ’til you’ve tortured him a bit?”
He assumed that the Janitor meant it semi-jokingly, but David didn’t answer, only intensified his unblinking glower at the man who had dissected his wife like a high school biology project and practically hung his cousin with her own shirt.
After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Randy said, “I’m gonna go check on Jessica. Doc did a number on her neck, and I want to be sure she’s doing okay.” He left the room, rolling the stool with him.
David could feel the Janitor’s eyes on him, figured the old man would probably say something about him getting cleaned up, changing his blood-soaked clothes. He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but he figured he looked pretty scary. Especially with the grungy bandages still wrapping his head and eye, and frayed stitches hanging out of his cheek. Probably resembled something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre or one of the living dead himself. Frankenstein, even. He didn’t care, though. Since finding Doc, David hadn’t taken his eye off the outlaw, and had no plans to.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up, Dave? Maybe get some rest. I’ll watch Doc and—”
“No, thanks.”
“You really should change clothes at least—”
More firmly, “No… I’m fine.”
Gabriel studied Doc for a moment. “Ya think those boot laces’ll hold him?”
“I’m watching him.”
“You can’t watch him all night and day. Eventually you’re gonna have to get some shut-eye and if he’s as ornery as—”
“I’ll sleep when he’s dead.”
The Janitor sighed.
More dead air passed before Gabriel spoke again. “I know you’ve got a lot going on inside you right now, Dave. Hell, I would, too, given what this fella’s done to you and your kin. Surprised he made it up here alive, to be honest.” He rubbed his chin. “All I ask is that you think through whatever it is you’re planning to do.”
David remained motionless, arms still crossed, unwavering glare aimed at an unconscious Doc.
“Ain’t gonna tell you what to do,” Gabriel continued. “Ain’t my place. I ain’t your pop. Just keep in mind that we all answer for what we’ve done, sooner or later.”
David’s cheeks flashed red, the words grazing his hardened conscience like ill-aimed bullets, uncertain if the Janitor meant the comment more for him or for Doc. But he was damn sure going to make his feelings on the matter crystal clear. He slowly turned to face Gabriel. “What we’ve done? What we’ve done? Gabe, do you have any idea what this guy’s done? What he’s capable of doing?”
Gabe’s peppered mustache bristled, his squinty eye focused on David.
After pulling in and releasing a huge breath, David said, “And just who the hell do you think we’ll be answering to? Huh? Because I can tell you one thing, this motherfucker’s going to be answering to me when he wakes up. Me. No one else. Not God, not Satan, not Buddha or Allah or Karma or Jesus or fucking Santa Claus.” He jabbed his thumb into his own chest. “Me, Gabe. He’s gonna answer to me.” He shot a quick glance at the cot. “I don’t trust any of those incompetent fuckers to handle it, anyway.”
“Guess that ‘naughty or nice’ list was a might overrated.”
When his lighthearted remark fell flat, the Janitor dropped his gaze to the floor, obviously wishing to avoid a philosophical or religious debate, and David resumed his seething scowl at the man on the cot.
Changing the subject, Gabriel said, “Gonna meet in the morning and decide the future of the Alamo. Well, those of us left, anyway. Had a bit of a mass exodus after… well, you know.”
David stood unmoving, disinterested in anything other than Doc.
Continuing, Gabriel said, “Would like for you to be there, since your actions today were pivotal in swinging popular belief around.”
A shallow nod.
“Gonna start early, ass-crack of dawn. With that festering mess out yonder surrounding the place, we wanna wrap up early. That way, whatever we decide to do, we can get to it.”
David acknowledged him with another shallow nod, his eyes never letting go of Doc.
“Anyway…” Gabe patted him on the arm. “Try to get some rest, okay? It’s pert’ near midnight, and it’s been a dog of a day.”
“Sure.”
“Oh…” The Janitor dug into his pocket, retrieving a key. “Here. For when you’re ready to hit the hay.”
David unhooked his gaze from Doc long enough to acknowledge the old man and take the key. He twisted the metal pinched in his fingers, then recognized what he was holding. “The master key?”
“You’ve earned it.”
For a brief moment, David was actually touched. Felt the tug in his throat. The Janitor entrusting him with the master key was something his own father would never have done. Looking Gabriel in the eye, he said, “Thank you, Gabriel.”
The Janitor smiled, patted him on the arm, then left the room.
Chapter 26
“Lift your chin… a little higher…”
Jessica did as Randy instructed.
He rubbed gently at her neck with his pudgy thumb. “You’ll be okay. Swelling’ll go down in the next day or so. You’ll look like your head was glued on, what with all the bruising and abrasions, but you shouldn’t have any scars or anything.”
“Randy?” Her lids were heavy, and her voice still hoarse.
He looked down at his hands. “Yeah?”
Speaking just above a whisper to save her throat, she said, “You didn’t come in here at”—she squinted at the clock high on the wall—“midnight and wake me up just to tell me what you already told me three hours ago, did you?”
He slumped on the stool, his head falling forward.
“What is it?” She picked up a cup from her bedside table and sipped some water.
Randy sighed, then said, “It’s just… I don’t know.”
“Randy.” Jessica narrowed her eyes at him. “We’ve known each other a long time. I know when something’s bugging you.”
Rubbing his palms on his pants, he looked around the room.
“Spill it, already.”
“Okay, okay. I’m worried about what’s going to happen to us.”
A bit of déjà vu touched her, the conversation reminiscent of one they had on Mitch’s porch several days ago. Right before Sammy and Gills showed up. She shivered at the memory. “What do you mean? Seems to me that things are finally leveling out. The Infirmaries have backed down and the Janitor’s basically in charge again. Most of the shufflers were taken care of, except for those in the pool but”—she cleared her throat—“I understand the Janitor’s gonna decide what to do with them tomorrow. And, most importantly, we caught Doc.” She shrugged. “Sounds like we can finally start focusing on living instead of just surviving.”
Randy chewed his beard, never a good sign. A nervous habit, it signaled his nerves were all lit up like the lighting aisle at a home improvement store. She’d need to tread lightly while still working to surgically extract what was really on his mind. Of course, she really wished she could just sleep…
If wishes were fishes…
“I’m really worried about David.”
“You think he’s gonna do something he’s gonna regret, don’t you?”
Randy nodded.
“Think he’ll kill Doc?”
“I know he will.”
“So what if he does?”
Randy looked shocked. “Because he’ll officially be a killer then.”
Jess slapped her thigh, “Well, he didn’t end up killing Sammy or Guillermo, and they were pretty bad dud
es.”
“Yeah, but Sammy and Guillermo didn’t chop his wife into bite-sized pieces and send them to him first-class, either.”
Jessica winced.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it so… harsh…”
“I know,” Jessica said, sipping more water, “we just have to trust he’ll do the right thing.”
“But what is the right thing in this situation, Jess?”
“I don’t know, Randy, but letting Doc just waltz right outta here certainly ain’t an option.”
“So, we’re just going to keep him locked up forever? Hope he behaves until the cavalry comes? I mean, we’ve talked about this end-of-the-world thing being a temporary situation but what if it ain’t? Then what? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’d fare too well in the Thunderdome.”
All Jessica could do was shake her head. “I don’t know, Randy. I just don’t know.”
Randy glanced around the room again, like he had a deep, dark secret to spill, and it was obvious to Jessica that something else was pressing against his conscience. But unlike his concerns for David, she was going to have to drag out of him whatever else was on his mind. And the sooner she did, the sooner she could go back to sleep.
“What is it? Something else bothering you?”
He hesitated, munching his beard some more. She swore she could see missing whiskers, casualties of chewing.
Finally, he said, “I was going to wait until tomorrow to show you this.” Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a billfold. “I found this on Doc.”
“His wallet?”
Shaking his head, Randy said, “No, not Doc’s.”
“Then whose?”
He handed it to her without a word.
She shot him a curious look, then pried open the leather. Jessica’s eyes suddenly went wide. There, beneath the clear plastic retainer, was Mitch’s license, his picture staring right back at her. She sucked in a small, surprised gasp. “What… what is he doing with Mitch’s wallet?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe he got it from Sammy or Gills. Or maybe he went out there and took it off of Mitch. But I… I thought you should have it.”
Jessica swallowed hard, ignoring the simmering in her throat, and just stared at Mitch’s picture. Despite her intentions to divorce him and leave him, she never wished for his life to end, especially so violently. He’d been an asshole, sure. He’d been difficult to live with, treated her badly, and he and David bumped heads non-stop. But he’d done nothing to deserve death. She felt the sudden urge—need—to say goodbye to her husband. Maybe tomorrow.
Still staring at Mitch’s wallet, Jess said, “Taneesha and I pulled Doc’s guns and his knife. Got my pistol back. But we didn’t search him. We were honestly scared that he’d wake up at any second and find us rummaging around in his pockets and grab one of us.” She coughed, then snapped the wallet shut. Shaking it, she said, “I want to know how he got this.”
She could feel her face flushing, her anger rising. She wanted an explanation, and she wanted one right then. She just hoped that David would keep Doc alive long enough to get one.
Jessica swung her legs out of bed, and slid into her tennis shoes.
“What are you doing?” Randy asked.
“I’m going to see if Doc’s awake.”
“What? Why?”
She shook the billfold at him. “This. I need to know how he got this.”
“Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow? You really need the rest and—”
“Bullshit, Randy. If I needed rest that badly, you wouldn’t have woke me up.” Her voice started to crack and grate again.
He stood, backpedaling from her bedside as she pushed to her feet. Stammering, he said, “Doc’s still unconscious.”
“He ain’t in a coma, is he?”
Randy stroked his beard. “Well… no. I don’t think so… but—”
“Then let’s go wake him up.”
“Jessica, wait. Please. Can’t we do this in the morning? We’ve been through so much today.”
From beneath her pillow, she pulled her compact pistol. She ejected the magazine, verified it was loaded, then jammed it back into the grip. “Ready?”
“Me? You want me to go with?”
She cocked her head at him. “Well, of course. You found the wallet. And if he gets squirrely—”
“Seriously, Jess. I think this is a really, really bad idea. David’s in there and—”
Her brows climbed her forehead. “David’s in there? Right now?”
“Well, him and the Janitor.” He scratched at the bandage on his arm. “I think David planned to guard him all night.”
“Then let’s go say, ‘hi.’”
And then it came: the big sigh that signaled Randy’s surrender. All she had to do was keep pressing him until she heard it, then pop the cork on the champagne, because it meant she’d gotten her way. If only her husband had been that easy.
She crossed the room to the door, then almost as an afterthought, said, “Oh, and you may wanna grab your pistol.”
“Great.”
Chapter 27
Patience. David lacked it. If Natalee or Karla were still alive, they would attest with gusto to his severe deficiency in it. Similar to a diabetic who requires daily shots of insulin, David needed the occasional prodding to practice it. But neither his wife nor his daughter were there to inject his daily shot of patience. And now, he was sick.
Five minutes. That’s how long Gabe had been gone when Doc first moved. The cot creaking beneath him, the injured outlaw twisted his head and groaned, perhaps dreaming something mildly unpleasant. Or outright awful—flying rocks and bottles and zombies, maybe. If he was smart, he would stay right there in dreamland and bar the door. Even the worst of nightmares could not prepare him for what David was planning.
Doc’s captor crossed the room, palm on his pistol, and stopped a few feet short of the cot. He leaned, like that famous tower, and watched his prisoner breathe for a moment. Observing the rise and fall of Doc’s chest, a curious thought crossed his mind: how it felt to know one’s breaths were numbered. Without exception, everyone’s lungs quit eventually. No secret there. That was just how the universe worked. Life, then death, a single breath bridging the two.
But David just couldn’t shake the thought of that inescapable finite number that existed in everyone. His own lungs would process the air only so many times. At birth, his breaths were already numbered and accounted for. Predetermined in hindsight. He could spend his life counting them until the very last one, or he could live them, as they were intended. But the fact remained: everyone’s counter hit zero eventually. Everyone reached the bottom of the bucket. Even the living dead. It was only when a man neared the end of the countdown that he could peer off the ledge, spying the jagged rocks below.
It was time to move, not muse. He had no intentions of letting Doc wake up completely before setting his plan in motion. He’d waited with a rare thread of patience for Randy and Gabriel to leave. For the Alamo to go to sleep. He didn’t want anyone trying to stop him or talk him out of what needed doing. His style of retribution would be very unpopular with those close to him. He felt sure of this. Gabe had already hinted as much with his ‘answer for what we do’ comment.
And Randy. Jesus. The man questioned him constantly. He was that guy who sat on David’s right shoulder, dressed in white, yammering away in his ear. Always suggesting David think things through, do the right thing. Think about this and what about that. Well, David didn’t need Randy telling him anything, prodding him toward the ethically correct choice. It wasn’t about right and wrong. Not anymore. It was just about doing.
All his life, David allowed those above him to map out his course. His boss. His boss’s boss. His boss’s boss’s boss. His in-laws. His father. His mother. Even his wife and kid. And circumstances.
Well, no more. He was his own man, and he’d do with his remaining breaths as he damn well saw fit. If that meant limiting another’s, so be it. He only
regretted that he couldn’t take those breaths and add them to his own. But wasn’t he, in a way, doing just that by eliminating Doc?
The faux gunslinger was again quiet, his breathing steady, his body still. David minced to the door and peered into the dim hall. Not a soul stirred. In order to save on generator fuel, the building switched over to a nighttime lighting circuit, which limited the amount of fluorescent tubes burning throughout the halls, which was typically about every fifth socket. He decided it’d be enough cover to transport his prisoner.
When I drag him down death row.
Fortunately for David, the holding room was near the east wing and the warehouse. The Janitor had done him the favor of returning the Dodge dually to its spot beside the back loading dock, and the vehicle was already loaded up with his bag, as well as the gun belts stripped from Doc’s waist. David made it clear he was taking those guns as trophies, but didn’t broadcast just where he was taking them to. While Randy had tended to Holliday, David asked Lenny to stash the cowboy guns in the pickup, along with Natalee’s heart and hand. Done and done.
He’d also spotted a few odd and end tools in the warehouse when he and Gabriel passed through earlier in the day en route to the construction machinery. Some that might come in handy during Doc’s ‘interrogation.’ David also hoped to grab a few days’ worth of food. He didn’t plan on returning right away, as he intended to be present for every second of Doc’s miserable suffering.
David crossed the room again, standing over Natalee’s killer. Staring. His teeth ground together so hard he was giving himself a headache while his hands clenched over and over. Despite the limited air conditioning, he was sweating slightly. His old friends impatience and impulsivity wanted to hang out. Have a beer. Get into trouble. Just like old times.
Why wait? Let’s do this! Now!
Was he really going to go through with this? Was he really going to torture and kill another man, a fellow human being? Men were dying faster than they were being born, and one could argue that David was simply hastening the downfall of mankind.
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 23
