Seconds later, he approached a small pickup truck. A Ford Ranger. White. Nineties model. Not that it mattered. Or that he cared. He held his tongue, waiting for Doc.
“Stop,” Doc simply said, shining his flashlight on the truck. The vehicle was bright in the light, despite not having seen a carwash in months.
David already broke his promise to himself. “She in there? My Natalee?” His voice cracked.
“Yes.”
“Can I… see her?”
“You will.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. A flood. His throat clogged with emotion. His chest thumped, hammered. He was home. It would all be over soon.
“You try anything,” Doc warned, “I’ll kill you.”
David dropped to his knees. “You’re going to anyway.”
A slanted smile from Doc. “Quite astute of you.”
“Show her to me.”
“In time.”
“Now.”
“Patience.”
Doc plugged the mini-flashlight between his teeth, then approached the driver’s side door. He slipped his newly freed hand under the handle, pulled the door open. He disappeared into the cab for barely a moment, then reappeared, cardboard box in hand.
Natalee!
David started to press to his feet.
“Ah-ah,” Doc cautioned, transferring the light to the same hand carrying the box. “Stay.”
“Please…”
“I’m doing you a favor. I don’t have to do this.”
“Just… please.”
David couldn’t see Doc’s face, the flashlight’s blinding beam aimed straight at him. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“This wasn’t the way this was supposed to happen,” Doc said.
Questioning blinks.
“That day… in your house… I planned to kill your wife… and your friends… while you watched. Then, your turn. Not once, but twice.”
David stared into the light in complete silence. He didn’t want to risk not seeing Natalee. He’d listen. Not say a word.
Doc continued, “Sammy and Guillermo altered those plans.” He chuckled. “Quite the double-crossing bastards, those two. Though they made one hell of a mess of you, I’d venture to say.”
David said nothing.
A sigh, then, “You understand why I have to kill you?”
“I just want to see—”
“No!” Doc snapped. “You have to understand why.”
David didn’t care. Just didn’t… fucking… care. “I understand.”
“Do you? Do you really, truly understand why I have to kill you? Why I have to be the one?”
“I ran over your wife.” The cold admission landed on his own ears in a weird, surreal way.
I ran over your wife.
“It goes beyond that. You took everything I had away from me. Everything I loved. Cared for. Kate was my everything. And you”—Doc’s voice cracked—“took her… away.”
David lifted his arms slowly, reaching for the box.
Doc twisted his torso, taking the box with it. “Why should I let you say goodbye, when you took that privilege away from me?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. You have to believe me. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Not your fault? Then whose fault was it, if not yours? You ran over her, David Morris. Ran her down like a dog. You killed my wife. My Kate. She’s dead because of you.”
David held his hands to Doc, ready to take the package, knowing what was nestled inside. “Please. You can kill me—”
“Maybe I don’t want to kill you,” Doc suddenly interjected. “Maybe you should live. Maybe… maybe that would teach you the error of your murderous ways. Perhaps killing you so soon is letting you off the hook too easily.”
He actually sounded somewhat… confused. Conflicted. As if he was second guessing himself. Questioning his mission in life. Maybe even questioning… life.
“What’s your name?” David asked bluntly. It was so out of the blue, he surprised even himself with the question.
Doc pointed the blaring light at the ground, sparing David’s pupils the brilliant onslaught. “Doc Holliday—”
“No. Your real name. The name your mother gave you.”
“My… real name?”
David nodded. “Yes. Your full name. What is it?”
The man in the long leather duster appeared flummoxed, and his tongue stumbled. “My… my name?”
Again, David nodded, slower this time.
Hesitation, then, “Why?”
“I’m about to die. To meet my maker. If you were about to take that same trip, wouldn’t you want to know?”
Doc stared at the inquisitive man kneeling before him for a long, long moment. He set the box on the hood of the pickup, then leaned against the vehicle, pistol still pointed at his prisoner, flashlight at the ground. More seconds dragged by, then, hesitantly, “Tom. Thomas Theodore Mackey.” He sounded almost ashamed.
“Tom,” David repeated. He pressed to his feet. “Nice to meet you, Tom Mackey. I’m sorry that I killed Mrs. Mackey. I hope that you’ll accept my apology and find it in your heart to forgive me. I understand your reluctance if you don’t.” He held his hand to Tom.
Doc eyed him with warranted suspicion. “I will not shake your hand.”
Stepping back, David said, “Understood. Given that you killed my wife, I’d say we’re even. Now, please, may I just say goodbye—”
“I don’t think so. I’ve changed my mind.”
“What?”
“I’ve changed my mind. You don’t deserve the gift of a goodbye.”
“But—you can’t—you said—”
“I can and I will.”
“You promised—”
“I promised you nothing but death. Death to you. Death to her.”
David swallowed hard again, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m going to say goodbye to her.”
“No, you’re not.” Doc pushed from the pickup, straightened and stiffened, standing tall. “You’re on the naughty list, David Morris. You don’t get your last present.”
David would never remember the next several moments. At least not exactly as they happened. Snippets here and there, perhaps. Out of order, reality a discombobulated, clusterfuck of a mess. Whether his subconscious deemed the events too traumatic, or he just chose to suppress the hellish memory, he’d never know. Those seconds and minutes that followed would be forever buried in his mind, and right there at the pond’s edge. Perhaps in his sleep, his dreams, he’d toss and turn, the flashbacks chiseling their way through to his waking consciousness.
He launched himself—his body and spirit—at Tom. At Doc. Every bit of fury he could muster, propelling him toward both entities. He’d kill them both. Deader than dead. The true death.
There was a gunshot, El Jefe’s brilliant flash, barking at his master. If the bullet hit David, he didn’t feel it. And if it did hit him, it only served to strengthen him. Because he suddenly felt very much alive. Powerful. Immortal. Nothing could stop him. The entire energy of the world pressing through every inch of his being. He simply couldn’t die. Wouldn’t die. Didn’t have time to die. Not yet.
With both hands, he found Tom’s neck, and squeezed. And squeezed some more. Another gunshot, another blinding muzzle flash. The flashlight tumbled away, retreating from the violence, leaving the two men to grapple in the dark. Another gun blast.
Tom on his back. David on top of him. They were right next to the truck. David grabbed Tom’s gun-hand, smashed it repeatedly against the fender until El Jefe broke away, flying free, following the flashlight into the tall grass, landing with a thump. No guns now. Only bare hands and determined spirits.
Doc gurgling, choking. David squeezed harder than he’d ever squeezed anything in his life. He swore he could feel his hands come completely together, the man’s neck collapsing between them.
The box perched on the front fender fell on top of the tussling men, slapping David’s ba
ck.
Natalee!
David drew back a fist, cocked his arm, fired repeatedly at Tom’s face. He punched him. Then punched him again. And again. Again. David’s hand slick with blood. Doc’s blood. His own blood. Didn’t matter. He punched him again. Gurgling groans. Coughs.
Pressing to his feet, David glanced around for the box. The present. His gift.
Tom rolled, his own hands now massaging his neck. More coughing, hacking. Spitting. Wheezing. Lungs groping for denied air.
David kicked him. Then kicked him again.
The box! Natalee!
In the peripheral glow of the fallen flashlight, David spied the cardboard containing his wife’s remains. He stumbled over to it, scooped it, then staggered to his knees. Standing, he pressed himself against the truck, propping his vibrating body. He hooked the taped cardboard flap, and ripped it open. And stared into the abyss.
In the brilliant moonlight… her eyes… her lips… they moved.
He reached into the box with the gentlest of touches, brushed away blonde tresses from her forehead and out of her eyes. She blinked.
A smile?
A tear zipped down his cheek. “Natalee.”
Her lips… her mouth… she was talking to him. Talking.
He leaned in, an ear pointed to her. Through a shaky voice and blurry vision, “What, dear? What is it?”
Teeth clacked. A choking sound, like she was swallowing her tongue. Skin moving against cardboard…
“What is it, baby?” David dropped to his knees. He set the box gently in the grass, reached in with both hands, gingerly extracted Natalee’s head.
“I’m here, baby. I’m here. I’ll never leave you again. I promise.”
Her moonlit eyes twisted, unfocused. Lost. A tear.
His own tears spilled onto her face, mixing with hers. “Tell me baby. What is it?” He leaned in, his face close to hers. His nose brushed hers. He leaned in closer, his lashes tangling with hers. Butterfly kisses. His lips puckered, ready for a long-missed kiss… A kiss that would fix everything. Make everything alright…
A flash of lightning across his vision. Tom’s fist finding its mark. David fell over onto his side, dropping her head to the ground.
“No!”
Another punch. Another. A boot in his back. A boot to Natalee’s temple.
No! No! NO!
David pressed to his feet, immune to the strikes and blows. Death didn’t matter. Pain irrelevant, nonexistent.
From the ground, the flashlight lit Doc’s face perfectly, his wispy mustache and soul patch a bull’s-eye in the glow. David heaved his tightly clenched fist straight toward the target, scored a direct hit. Tom’s lids fluttered, knees buckled, and he crashed to the ground.
David’s eyes searched frantically for his wife. He could escape. They could escape. He and Natalee. They could run. Far away. Tom—or Doc—would never find them again. David would take good care of her, just like he’d promised on their wedding day. Another chance. A second chance. Vows renewed.
David found her. Held her again.
Fingers clutched David’s ankle. Tom’s fingers. A hard yank, and David was on his back. His head hit the ground hard. Fireworks across his vision.
Fuck!
More punches. David coughed, his breath gone.
Blood? Are my lungs… bleeding?
Didn’t matter. He expected to die tonight. As long as he got to say goodbye, it didn’t matter. But before he could say goodbye the way he wanted to say it, he’d have to kill Doc. Tom. Whatever. No way around it. David wasn’t a killer. But tonight, he’d have to kill.
David’s fingers found Tom’s face. Doc’s mouth. Tom bit down hard.
“Fuck!” screamed David. “Goddamnit!”
David bucked, throwing the cowboy off of him.
Curling his fingers into a fist, David unleashed a barrage of blows, Tom’s face swelling before his eyes. He punched and punched and punched until his hand went numb and slick with blood.
“Leave!”
Punch!
“Her!”
Punch!
“Alone!”
PUNCH!
David struck him again and again and again.
Winded, exhausted, David fell backward onto his ass.
Tom or Doc—or whatever the fuck his name was—retched. Blood and bile and spit spilled to the grass. Poison on the earth. He was almost unrecognizable. His face was swollen. His hat was gone. His face and head slippery with blood. But still, he lived. Stumbled to his knees, but kept coming. Then did the unthinkable.
Tom’s fingers found Natalee’s hair, he pressed up on wobbly legs, held her head high like a trophy. Her lids fluttered, mouth opened. Then Tom kissed her cheek, then licked it. Turned to face David. Swayed. Smiled wide. The ultimate fuck you.
David swore she spoke.
Save me. Please. Save me.
It was everything that David had left inside of him. If this didn’t work, then it was over.
The end. Tom wins. You lose. Fuck you. Now just… die already.
David’s legs and lungs burned as he hurled himself at Tom like a lion downing its prey on the African plains, tackling the madman. They rolled. David ended up on his back, Tom mounting him, Natalee’s head still in his cruel clutches.
No!
A growling laugh left Tom’s fist-plumped lips. “I told you, David Morris! I told you!”
David coughed, “Please, don’t.”
“Not only did I kill your wife,” Tom bragged, “the last lips she’ll ever taste will be mine.”
“No! No! No!” David screamed.
David’s body gave in. Nothing left. It was time to admit that he’d failed. Failed Natalee. Failed Karla. Failed Jessica and Randy, Bryan, the Janitor, Lenny, Taneesha. Failed himself. Failed everyone. He didn’t deserve death. Death would be too kind. If Tom still had the gun in his hand, David would take it from him, and put it in his own mouth, and pull the trigger.
“Watch close, David Morris. Watch close.” He turned his head to face hers. Through a sinister smile, he said, “C’mere, dahlin’.”
And with that, Tom planted his lips on Natalee’s.
The insane jealousy coursing through David practically stopped his heart. He had to be the one to kiss Natalee goodbye. He had to be the one who tasted her lips for the last time.
But something happened. Tom’s eyes went wide, Natalee’s growing angry. A muffled scream. Tom tried pulling away, but he couldn’t, their lips locked. More screaming. A sudden gush of crimson spilling between them. His lips in her teeth…
Oh my god… she… she’s… biting his lips… his tongue… she’s biting them…
David could only watch in stunned silence. Horror.
Tom rolled off of David as he ripped himself from Natalee’s kiss of death. He tossed her head to the ground like a ball, then felt the grass for the handgun.
David sat up. Watching. Natalee’s head lay on its side, blinking. Her lips still moved, fresh blood adorning them like glossy lipstick.
“You’re both gonna die! Tonight! Right fucking now! Both of you!” He drawled through a speech impediment.
Tom slapped the ground furiously with his palms, searching for the pistol, obviously intent on shooting both David and Natalee.
It was the best chance of the night. Despite his dwindling strength, David had to act, had to move. Tom’s back to him. The enemy. His enemy.
David pressed to his feet. Swayed.
“David?”
Lenny?
David turned, searching for the familiar timbre. He brought the edge of his hand to his brow out of habit. “Lenny?”
“David!”
It was Lenny. And others.
“David! Bro! We heard shots and—” Leonard halted, his huge branch of an arm extended, holding back those following him.
“Lenny,” David rasped.
“Bro, you alright?”
David turned back to Tom, who was still on his hands and knees, patting
the ground, the grass, the dirt, frantically searching.
“You’re alive… all alive.”
Lenny, Taneesha, Jessica, the Janitor, Randy, and Bryan all gazed at the remnants of the toughest fight David had ever experienced. That he had yet to finish.
But they were alive. Goddamnit, they were alive. It was as though he’d been reborn.
“Do you need…?” Lenny asked.
Quickly approaching Leonard, David lowered his voice. “Take them away. Hurry. It’s still dangerous, and”—he glanced back over his shoulder—“I’ve… I’ve gotta finish this.”
Finish what you start… or someone else will.
Unbridled fear and understanding lit Lenny’s eyes. “Sure, bro. Whatever you need.” He started to turn.
David reached for Lenny’s hip, pulled his hatchet. “Just need this for a sec.”
“Uh… yeah. You gots it.”
David motioned toward the path. “Hurry, please. Go. I don’t want them to see this.” Lowering his voice, he said, “He’s already dead.”
Lenny dipped his chin in understanding, then turned, his arms out like barricades, rounding up the survivors and corralling them back a short way down the trail.
Hatchet in hand, David approached Tom, who was still on his hands and knees, desperately groping at the ground and tall grass.
David straddled the man like a horse, grabbing a tuft of hair, and yanking it backward and to the side, exposing Tom’s neck. “Thomas Theodore Mackey… tell your wife, ‘I’m sorry.’” A tear slipped from David’s eye.
This is merciful. He’s dead, anyway. Finish what you start… gotta finish it.
Tom stilled beneath David. “Tell her yourself.”
“I will one day… but not tonight.”
David cocked the hand axe high, aiming straight for Tom’s exposed neck, and brought the blade down with everything he had left. The fleshy thud was sickening. David couldn’t stifle it, the burning bile that claimed his throat. But there was nothing left inside of him. He pulled the blade up high again, and dropped it like a guillotine, the second blow decapitating Tom.
Doc’s body collapsed like a lifeless bag of bones beneath David, and David fell on top of it. Retched again. And he cried.
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 29
