Michael Palmer

by The Last Surgeon

  “Enough! All you need to know is that I’m very good at my job, which right now is watching over you two.”

  “I understand. Tell me something, Butch, did your boss or bosses tell you what to do if your sixty-two-year-old captive’s bladder was about to explode?”

  The man chuckled.

  “You can go to the bathroom. You just got to keep the door open.”

  “If you wanna watch, that’s not my problem.”

  “Door stays open, even though I don’t see you as much of a threat.”

  “You’re right there, Butch. Hey, I don’t want to push my luck, but after I get this bladder business straightened out, any way I could make us some coffee? It’s instant, but you’d never know it.”

  “Well, we’ll see. First things first.”

  Butch removed the small brass key from his pants pocket and unlocked her cuffs.

  Junie managed a sideways glance at Jillian, who immediately picked up the ball.

  “Me next?” she pleaded.

  “Like I said, first things first.”

  Junie rose with no small difficulty, groaning mightily as she did.

  “Someday, someone’s going to handcuff you to a pole, Butch, and make you sit in just that position for a million hours.”

  “Sorry. Orders are orders.”

  “I can barely move.”

  “You’ll loosen up.”

  “Maybe and maybe not. About that coffee . . .”

  “What is it with you two? First things first. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Let me just get some water simmering while I use the bathroom. Like I said, you’ll love this stuff.”

  Junie had already taken a large saucepan from beside the sink, run in some water from the tap, and set it on the propane stove.

  Jillian was astounded watching the woman operate. It was just as Junie had said—as if Butch was responding to his mother.

  “There’s a box of matches right here,” Junie said. “I just have to light the—”

  “Okay, enough! Put those down and get into the bathroom.”

  “Sure. You take cream in your coffee? Sugar? I’ll bet neither. You look like a neither type of guy. My son is a neither guy, too. Here, I’ll light the burner and you can take charge. Then I’m off to the restroom. The coffee’s in the refrigerator right next to the cream. I take both cream and a couple of sugars.”

  By the time she had turned around and headed up the aisle to the small washroom across from the shower, the propane burner was on and the water was beginning to heat.

  “In and out,” Butch insisted, adjusting the gun in his shoulder holster for emphasis. “I don’t have much patience.”

  “My son doesn’t have any patience either.”

  Deception . . . diversion. The woman was good, Jillian was thinking. Incredibly good.

  She risked a glance over at the stove, where the saucepan had begun to rattle on the burner. That they had gotten this far was a miracle, but they couldn’t stop or even hesitate now. These men were professionals, committed to learning how much the two women knew and then eliminating them. Unless they did something about it, they were both going to die. It was as simple as that.

  Jillian swung around as much as she could. Junie had maneuvered her way into the tiny bathroom near the rear of the RV. Then suddenly she closed the door. The guard raced past the stove and pounded on the bathroom door. Jillian noticed that the saucepan on the stove was beginning to clatter as the water approached boiling.

  “I told you not to close the door. Open it up now, or I’ll kick it in.”

  “I can’t go with somebody watching me. Two more seconds.”

  “Now!”

  The door flew open and Junie stepped out with both her hands in the air. “I’m done. Don’t shoot.”

  Junie lowered her hands and began moving down the narrow aisle as Butch backed up two feet in front of her. With all the commotion, Jillian wondered if he even remembered the near boiling water just a few feet behind him. With luck, if gentle, loving Junie wasn’t tentative in anything she did, he was about to get a fearsome reminder.

  Three feet, Jillian estimated.

  Suddenly, Junie reached one hand behind her back and brought it out holding an aerosol can of disinfectant. Butch was reaching for it when she sprayed him in the face. It was a feeble effort and the guard swatted the can away after only one blast. But some of the chemical had stung his eyes. His hand shot up and grabbed her by the throat as his other hand wiped the aerosol away.

  “Please don’t hurt her!” Jillian screamed. “She’s never harmed anyone. Junie, don’t be foolish.”

  Butch hesitated, then loosened his grip.

  Junie dropped to one knee, gasping for air, but Jillian noticed that she had moved the guard backward another two feet. Butch, still rubbing at his eyes, was paying no attention to the saucepan of water, which Jillian felt certain was boiling now.

  “That was a damn stupid thing to do,” the guard said.

  “You’re going to kill us anyway, aren’t you? I had to try something.”

  “Shut up and get back to your seat. There’s not going to be any killing here.”

  Inch by inch, Junie moved ahead, purposely keeping her gaze down.

  “Thank you, Butch,” Jillian said. “Thank you for not hurting her.”

  Butch glanced behind him at Jillian. The distraction had lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

  Junie’s moves were quick and deadly accurate. She grasped the saucepan handle, cried out Butch’s name, and as he turned back, splashed the boiling water into his face from just a few inches away.

  Before the guard had even hit the carpeted floor, screaming and pawing at his eyes, Junie was pounding him again and again with the saucepan—powerful strikes that sounded like rifle shots. It took just two blows for him to become limp, but Junie landed half a dozen more, each more forceful than the last. At some point, Jillian thought she heard bone crack.

  She stared wide-eyed at the woman.

  “I grew up in a dog-eat-dog neighborhood,” Junie said, breathless. She reached down first to check Butch’s carotid pulse, then removed his pistol, and finally fished inside his pocket for the handcuff key. “Sometimes just making it to the corner grocery store was a serious adventure. He’s still got a pulse. But I don’t think waking up is in his near future.”

  “Just remind me never to ask you for any coffee,” Jillian said.

  CHAPTER 49

  Koller exited the highway, pulled to a stop on an unlit, deserted street, and cut the engine. He had been using only one hand to steer. The other he rested on the dead man’s lap, pointing the gun he held there at Nick.

  “Move this guy into the truck bed back there,” Koller said, motioning Nick out of the Ford with the gun barrel. “He stinks. And don’t get any ideas. I’ve left instructions with my people that if we don’t show in thirty minutes, to start scalding the ladies with hot oil. You understand me?”

  Nick nodded and slipped out of the passenger door and onto the grassy roadside. He was desperate to get to Jillian and Junie, and believed that as long as he did what Koller asked of him, that would happen soon enough. There was nothing he could do to help the old man now, except to add that guilt to the guilt he was already dealing with. He felt terrible about indirectly being the cause of his death, but he forced himself to remember that it was Koller who killed him—Koller and fate.

  Cold, hurting, and tired, Nick struggled to lift the body, relying essentially on his one good arm. Then he laid the old man down gently on the truck’s muddy bed and covered him. One more score to settle with Koller when the time came.

  “What will you do with the body?” Nick asked, as soon as they were traveling again.

  “My clients have the means to dispose of bodies. I just provide them.”

  “You don’t feel a thing for that man’s life, do you, Koller?”

  The killer smiled. “Think of me like an animal put on earth t
o hunt for food,” he replied. “I’ve been put on this earth to use my considerable skills to kill people. That’s just what I do.”

  “Somebody might report the truck stolen. Aren’t you afraid of getting stopped by the police?”

  “Do I strike you as a man who’s afraid of anything?”

  Nick did not answer.

  “We have plenty of time to get where we’re going without speeding,” Koller added.

  “You really think of everything, don’t you.”

  “You think of a lot yourself, Doc. I’m curious. Why didn’t you bring the DVD with you up to Siliski’s office?”

  “Saul tipped me off,” Nick said, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain, this one centered in his belly. “He used his dead brother’s name instead of Umberto’s.”

  “So you knew exactly what he was doing,” Koller said with a laugh.

  “I picked up on it, yes.”

  “Well, I did, too. That’s why I made him suffer before I killed him. I don’t like people messing with me or thinking they’re smarter than me.”

  Even with the truck’s heat on high, Nick could not stop shivering. The bullet wound was throbbing more intensely now, perhaps irritated from his efforts moving the body. Chatting with Koller disgusted him, but it seemed like the only thing keeping him conscious at the moment. He was afraid that if he closed his eyes for anything longer than a blink, he might never open them again.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t do to you and the women what I did to your pal Mollender,” Koller said, breaking a brief silence. “After all, a deal’s a deal.”

  Nick dug his index finger into the bullet hole in his arm, and discovered that the intense pain caused by the maneuver made him feel more alert and even more determined. From now on, he decided, he would repeat the action again and again for as long as he could stand it. Until this was over between him and Koller, he wanted to feel the hurt. He wanted to feel the hatred.

  By the time the killer eased the pickup to a stop in a wide, grassy field, Nick doubted he had the strength even to stand.

  How can I help anyone if I can’t even walk?

  Once again, he dug his finger deeply into his wound.

  With his gun drawn, Koller crossed in front of the truck and dragged Nick out, letting him drop to his knees on the ground. They were at a farm of some sort, reached by a road that had no traffic. Outside lighting was minimal, but Nick could see a number of barns, none with any windows, and another pickup truck. Koller hoisted him up by what remained of his shirt, and dragged him to the closest door. A man wearing a shoulder holster was standing guard.

  “This the doc?”

  “Yeah. Open up the door. You might not want to stick around in there for what’s going to happen.”

  “I signed on to die for my country or to help someone else die for theirs. Whatever’s going to happen I can handle.”

  They spoke as though Nick were not present, which in his current state was not that far from the truth. Nick again pressed his finger into the bullet hole, and was a bit dismayed that the pain he generated seemed less. Still, his alertness was enhanced. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he began casting about for anything he could use as a weapon, while at the same time testing his limbs.

  The barn door slid open on a track and Koller pushed Nick inside. Nick’s heart sank at the sight of the Helping Hands RV parked in the center of the space. The interior of the barn was poorly lit, partly because the bulb hanging over the van, one of three dangling on cords from the rafters, was out. Then he realized that the RV, itself, although the passenger door was open, was dark.

  Could the women be in there?

  Once inside the barn, Koller hesitated, then stopped.

  “Where’s the other guard?”

  “Butch?” the guard called out. “Butch, where in the hell are you?”

  “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “He’s the best, sir. The very best.”

  “Call him again.”

  “Butch. Hey, buddy.”

  Nick was awake now. Wide awake. Something was going wrong.

  Koller was tense.

  “Shit,” the killer muttered, scanning the barn, which was stacked with cartons, crates, and any number of places to hide. Violently, he pushed Nick down so he was leaning against the rear tire of the bus. Then he turned to the guard. “Gun out. Watch the door and stay here with him. If he opens his mouth, if he says one fucking word, shoot him in the balls. Don’t kill him.”

  Nick was fully with it now.

  Pistol ready, Koller cautiously approached the open RV door. Then he dropped down to one knee and peered inside.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “What?” the guard called out.

  “Your pal, Butch, the very best, is on the floor unconscious. There’s water everywhere, and unless I miss my guess, his prisoners are no longer in this bus.”

  “Yes!” Nick whispered.

  He could see that the killer’s face was contorted with anger.

  “This door is the only way out,” the guard said, “and I was out there on duty every second, just like you ordered. I swear I was. If they’re not in the bus, then they’re still somewhere in this barn.”

  A determined smile crossed Nick’s face. He had enough circulating adrenaline now to hold his head up and survey his surroundings. Dark corners, tall rafters, mountains of crates and boxes would give the women ample places to hide. Despite their being trapped inside, they were smart and resourceful and had the advantage of surprise on their side, as well as the fallen guard’s gun.

  You go girls, Nick was thinking. But for God’s sake be careful.

  On red alert, Koller spun in a circle, his gun aiming wherever his eyes traveled. He walked backward a few feet, moving away from Nick, to scan areas of the barn that were obscured from his view by the RV.

  “Do you have a flashlight in that truck?” he asked the guard.

  “Um . . . I’m afraid it’s Butch’s truck, so I don’t know.”

  “Of course. . . . Come on now, ladies. I’ve got your friend Nick here. Do you really want to see him die?”

  Koller’s voice was less commanding, Nick noticed, his confidence not as evident.

  He absolutely can’t stand being at a disadvantage, Nick was thinking.

  “Nobody else has to get hurt. But only if you come out from wherever you’re hiding. I’m going to get you, ladies. If I have to burn this barn to the ground, I’m going to get you.”

  Nick dug his finger deep into the bullet hole in his biceps again. It was time to get active.

  “Stay where you are!” he shouted. “Make him come to you. He can’t kill us. He needs—”

  His words were cut short as the butt of a gun whipped against the side of his head, dazing him and knocking him over.

  “I thought I said shoot him if he talks!” Koller screamed. “Disc or no disc, shoot him.”

  Nick pushed himself to his feet as Koller took up a position five feet away.

  “Sorry pal,” the guard said, stepping forward.

  “Wait,” Koller ordered. “Ladies, you have three seconds to show yourself, or we kill him. One . . .”

  “Don’t come out!” Nick yelled, loud enough for his voice to fill the barn.

  “Two . . .”

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” the guard said again to Nick, “but this is war.”

  “Three!”

  Nick clenched his jaws. There was a loud gunshot, but remarkably, no pain. Nick looked up just as the guard reeled past him and Koller and slammed into the RV, smearing a broad crimson stroke on the white wall as he slid to the ground. Another shot rang out. They were coming from somewhere among the crates to Nick’s right.

  Koller whirled in the direction of the first shot and fired a rapid spray. The second shot was accompanied by a muzzle flash that both he and Nick saw. The killer needed no more. He snapped off a four-shot volley aimed precisely at the spot. Junie cried out and pitched forward, face-first, co
llapsing a tower of crates and boxes on top of herself.

  Slowly, agonizingly, Nick pulled himself to his feet.

  At that instant, there was another scream, this one from the shadows overhead.

  Jillian!

  Koller spun around and peered up through the gloom at the roof of the RV. He was still raising his gun when several gallons of gasoline were poured down into his face. Nick was close enough to be splashed a bit, but Koller was doused. Nick scrambled away as the killer, screaming and pawing futilely at his eyes, stumbled and fell. In the dim light, he could see Jillian, kneeling on the roof of the RV, hurl a now empty metal bucket down on the man. The bucket hit Koller squarely on the top of the head, but the pain had to be nothing compared to the agony he was already experiencing.

  “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” he was screeching, though his words were barely audible through his violent gagging. “I’LL KILL YOU.”

  Koller was on his feet now, spinning wildly, coughing, and rubbing fruitlessly at his eyes. Jillian, on her feet as well atop the RV, had one more surprise in store for the monster, whose thick, black hair was matted with gasoline.

  “Paul Regis or whoever you are,” she screamed, “you killed my sister. Her name was Belle Elizabeth Coates, you son of a bitch!”

  Nick was backing toward where Junie lay motionless when he saw Jillian light a match and drop it into the small cardboard box she held in her other hand. The matches within the box flared, illuminating her face and the beams above her.

  At that instant she released her grip and let the container drop.

  Nick felt as if he were watching the fireball descend in slow motion. It landed a foot away from Koller, but that was close enough. There was a moment of silence, and then an explosion of fire that lit every corner of the expansive barn, along with a tremendous sucking sound as oxygen rushed to fuel the flames. The pungent odors of gasoline and smoke were overpowered by the stench of Koller’s burning hair and flesh, carried skyward inside a towering pillar of fire. In seconds, flame swallowed his face and his skin charred off before it could even blister.

  Koller’s saturated clothes were consumed as one, incinerating the flesh beneath them, which melted in places down to the bone as the killer continued to stagger around the floor of the barn.