by John Avery
"Do you still have the gun?" he asked.
Ashley felt the cold steel pressing against her thigh and she nodded. But as she went to pull the. 22 out of the pocket of her robe, Aaron came to his senses and laid his hand on her arm. His gun handling skills, although excellent, were limited to video games. He wouldn't stand a chance in a real gunfight, against what was likely a highly trained professional killer. Besides, if they did get separated, he'd want her to have the pistol as well.
"No," he said. "You keep it."
"Really? But you — "
Aaron squeezed her arm, nearly to the point of hurting her.
"Keep it," he said.
Ashley looked at her son for a moment, struggling with her thoughts. Everything was happening too fast. Then she let the gun slide back into its satin holster.
Aaron looked at her squarely. "No police… okay, Mom?"
"What?"
"Trust me," he said. "You don't want to call the cops on these guys. Not yet, at least."
Ashley had never seen Aaron act this way before — like a man — and she felt the warmth of maternal pride move through her. It relaxed her a little and quelled some of her fear. But still she struggled to hold back her tears.
Aaron stood and breathed deeply. What they were about to attempt terrified him, too. "Okay, then…" he said. "Let's do this."
Chapter 15
300 Horses
Blood streamed down the side of Souther's face as he checked the upstairs of the apartment. In the master bath he found a clean towel and used it to wipe his face. Then he pressed it against his scalp to control the bleeding. He saw a utility bill lying on the dresser: It was addressed to an Ashley Quinn. He noted the name and left the room.
He crossed the hall and tried Aaron's door, but it was bolted. He slammed his shoulder into it, but the door held.
Again.
The door held.
He fired a bullet into the lock, but the lock held.
"Shit!" he said, enraged. Then he headed back downstairs.
– Aaron peered over the edge of the roof and down into the dark alley. The gunman was still only a few yards away. Aaron knew that the last section of the rickety fire ladder was missing, leaving an eight-foot drop to the pavement. This wasn't going to be easy.
He steeled himself then climbed over the edge and down the ladder where he hung from the last corroded rung for a moment before dropping to the street. He crouched low against the wall, watching the gunman, then looked up and gestured to his mother to follow him.
Ashley edged herself out over the parapet and onto the iron ladder, her hands trembling uncontrollably as her body tried to ward off hypothermia.
"Hey!" a voice boomed, sending a cold thrill of terror lancing up Aaron's back. Ashley leaped back onto the roof, stifling a cry as the sharp stones cut into her feet.
Aaron turned to run, but as he did an immense, powerful hand landed heavily on his shoulder and in an instant the hard black asphalt rushed up and smashed into him like a bus. He gasped for breath, crying out silently to his mother, Run when you can, Mom! Run to the Nova! But all he could do was grit his teeth in pain and prepare to meet his fate.
Ashley peeked over the edge and watched helplessly as Beeks dragged Aaron down the alley and around the corner of the building. She was nearly hysterical, her face awash with tears, her mind spinning out wild imaginings of what they would do to him. But she knew what she had to do if she was ever going to see him again. So she calmed herself, said a short prayer, and set her mind on escaping.
– Though still fit and agile at thirty-four, she had difficulty with the final drop to the street, hitting the pavement hard, twisting her bare ankle sharply. She grimaced in pain, then braced one hand against the rough stucco wall, with the other under her torn ankle, and hopped over to the small door into the garage.
– Johnny Souther caught up with Needles in the side alley. "I think they went out the back," he said, looking up at the roof over the garage. "Where's Beeks?"
"He was guarding the rear," Needles said. He noticed the fresh blood on Souther's face. "I heard shots. Are you okay?"
Souther started toward the back alley. "Let's just say I stood too close during batting practice, and the batter had to be taken out of the game."
Just then Beeks showed up dragging his prize along side him. Souther saw Aaron and seized him violently from behind and thrust his knife up under his chin, nearly breaking Aaron's arm with his powerful hold.
"You cost me a lot of time and trouble tonight, punk," Souther said, teeth clenched. He tightened his grip with a grunt. "Now it's payback time."
Aaron was consumed by fear, unable to think or move as the cold sharp blade quivered beneath his jaw. But just as Souther went to slit Aaron's throat he stopped and looked at Beeks.
"Where's the woman?" he said.
Beeks was still patting himself on the back for rounding up the boy. "Woman?" he said, surprised by the question.
" The kid's mother, damn it!" Souther said. "The lady whose husband I just killed. She can ID me, for Christ's sake." He glanced up toward the roof again.
Behind the wheel of the Nova, now, Ashley fumbled desperately with the keys.
Beeks was sure that the boy had been alone. "I never seen any — "
"Shut up…" Souther said, cutting Beeks off at the sound of a car starting. He tossed Aaron to Needles and ran toward the garage, yelling over his shoulder: "Take care of the kid… we may need him."
– Ashley gripped the wheel and mashed the Nova's accelerator through the floorboards. The small-block V-8 coughed twice, then responded with a throaty glass-pack roar, sending all 300 screaming horses to wide rear tires that billowed thick white smoke like a coal-fired locomotive.
The little Chevy smashed through the wooden garage door in a shower of splinters, narrowly missing Johnny Souther before swerving off down the alley and out of sight.
Neighborhood dogs barked hysterically as Souther slowly picked himself up off the pavement.
Chapter 16
The Photo
The two vans pulled inside the cannery, and everyone got out. Beeks rolled the big door closed, and Needles lit a gasoline lantern.
"Put him over there and tie him up," Souther said, pointing to a chair in a corner.
Beeks led Aaron to the chair and as he turned to grab a roll of duct tape to secure him, Aaron quickly slipped Michael's cell number into his shoe.
Souther walked over and went through Aaron's pockets.
"Did you call the cops?" Souther asked.
Aaron still struggled with his decision not to. "No," he replied.
"Good. Because you'd have signed your mother's death warrant."
Souther found Aaron's wallet and inside it a small snapshot. He held the photo up to the lamplight. It was the shot of Aaron's mother and father in the alpine meadow. There were very few photos taken of his parents together and to Aaron this one was priceless.
"Give me that!" he cried, straining against his bindings. "That's mine!"
Souther had gotten a brief look at the boy's mother back at the apartment, but it had been dark, and he could see that she was much more beautiful — and desirable — than he remembered.
"I can see where you get your good looks, kid," he said. "How old's the photo?"
"I don't know," Aaron said stubbornly. "I want it back."
Souther turned away and studied the photo. Ashley's large eyes looked straight into the lens, her lithe body was turned slightly toward the camera as she leaned into her man, her slender arms around his neck, a breast pressed lightly against his powerful bicep, a bare foot raised a few inches off the grass, her shorts and halter top seemingly airbrushed on. Souther felt a stirring in his loins as he took it all in.
"We'd better get moving," Needles said.
Souther took a moment to archive the delicious image… then he tossed the photo to Needles. Needles stared at Ashley for a long moment. Beeks took a look for himself over Needles's shou
lder.
"Her name's Ashley Quinn," Souther said, using the name from the electric bill. "You know what to do…"
"We'll find her," Needles said.
"On your way out, drop by the apartment and clean up the mess on the stairs," Souther said.
"Will do," Needles said. He pocketed the photo then climbed into the white van and fired up the engine. Beeks opened the large roll-up door, then jumped in with him.
Souther called to Needles. "Don't lose that picture… I want it back."
Needles smiled to himself, thinking, Like that would ever happen.
Then the two thugs headed out into the city.
Chapter 17
Cold Concrete
Souther rolled the big door closed, then walked over and cut Aaron's restraints. He picked up the lamp and led Aaron to the cannery's main floor break room: a space the size of large bedroom with a kitchenette; a legless, maroon-velvet sofa; and a large, heavy wooden table.
There was a small door in the back of the room that Aaron and Willy had always been too afraid to open. Souther didn't have that problem, of course. Without hesitation he turned the knob and opened the door wide.
A clammy vapor wafted up into Aaron's face, smelling of mold and urine. It was icy cold and damp against his skin, contradicting the Biblical fire-and-brimstone he had expected to encounter in hell.
"Go on down," Souther said, gesturing with the lantern.
Aaron could only imagine the myriad of horrors waiting for him down those stairs. He stepped cautiously through the low door and started down the steep steps. Souther followed closely, his lantern casting a hazy gloom over the forbidding space as they descended into thickening darkness.
At last Aaron's shoes found the packed earth of a dirt floor, and he paused to look around. The room was basically a rough concrete cube, about ten by ten feet, and mostly empty.
Souther set the lantern on a box and pointed to a corner. "There's a coffee can over there if you need to pee," he said. "When you're ready to talk, bang on the door and someone will hear you." Then he turned and climbed back up the stairs.
Aaron sat down heavily on a blue plastic milk crate. There was a fresh bottle of water sitting in the dirt next to him. He looked at it for a moment. They say you can last three weeks without food, he thought, but only three days without water. Then he twisted it open and drank deeply.
Souther paused near the top of the stairs. "I'll find your mother with or without your help, kid," he said. Then he ducked through the door and locked it behind him.
Aaron screwed the cap back onto the bottle and set it in on the box with the lantern. Then he leaned back against the cold concrete wall and fell asleep.
Chapter 18
The Boiler House
Needles and Beeks were in the white van heading back to the cannery. They had succeeded in cleaning up the apartment and had Tom's body stashed in the back of the van.
Beeks rode shotgun. "I'm hungry," he announced.
"You're kidding me," Needles said. "Fifteen minutes ago I watched you down five beef n' cheese burritos, two sides of beans, and a boatload of chips."
Beeks thought about that for a moment. "I only had one thing of beans," he said, "and them burritos was plain — no fuckin' cheese."
"How would you know? The whole meal only lasted thirty seconds."
"Yeah… well, I know one thing, motherfucker, you're wrong about what I ate, and I'm fuckin' hungry."
"That's two things, dumbass. And I'm never wrong."
"The hell you ain't."
Needles paused, then said thoughtfully, "Yeah, well, I thought I was wrong once… but it turned out I was right. So, I guess I was wrong about that."
"Fuck you."
"Well, I'm not stopping again."
"I'm starving, and you could give a shit," Beeks said.
"Doesn't your wife ever feed you?"
"No."
"So why'd you marry her?"
"Does your wife feed you?"
"She would if I had one."
"Kiss my ass."
– Johnny Souther hated to be cold, an obsession he picked up after many chilly years in Northern prisons, and his men were instructed to keep the cannery furnace firing full blast. The heat came from radiators supplied by steam from a natural-gas-fired boiler, as the city had neglected to shut off the gas when condemning the building. The current boiler, housed in a brick-and-mortar boiler house attached to the rear of the cannery in the area of the shipping yard, was installed as part of the 1907 reconstruction following the accident that destroyed it in 1905.
Needles and Beeks entered the boiler house struggling with the dead-weight of their load. Beeks had the shoulders and Needles the feet.
"I got the heavy fuckin' half," Beeks grunted.
"Like hell you did," Needles said, gritting his teeth.
The huge welded-steel replacement boiler (converted from coal to gas in 1965), was 17 feet long and six feet in diameter and nearly filled the space. Years of greasy soot clung to every surface and caulked every crevice. Shafts of firelight flashed through the boiler-oven's vent slots, generating brilliant patterns on the blackened brick walls.
The thugs dropped the body in front of the furnace, creating plumes of ash. Beeks yanked on the lever and when he pulled the massive cast-iron door open a blast of super-heated air knocked them both back a step.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Beeks exclaimed, feeling his forehead. "I think I'm missing a damn eyebrow."
"As if you had any to begin with," Needles said.
"Bite me," Beeks said.
They hefted the body again and shuffled up to the brink of the inferno.
"Let's get it right this time," Needles said, turning his face away from the heat of the flames. "I don't want a repeat of the last horror show."
Beeks nodded — he remembered it well. They had muffed the toss and the corpse had landed half in and half out of the roaring furnace; and by the time they managed to stuff the rest of the body inside and shut the door, the sight and smell of it had nearly killed them both.
Needles called the count: "On three, ready? One… two… heave! "
Chapter 19
Sun-dried Squid
The thugs showed Ashley's picture to everyone they met: shop owners, passers by, vagrants, motel clerks.
The trail led them to an all-night gas station located out on the old highway, west of town. Needles pulled off onto the muddy drive, then rolled the van's front tires up against a railroad tie and killed the engine.
Beeks thought they'd arrived in the Old West: the hitching rails; the wagon wheels; the ancient, glass-top fuel pump out front. Needles marveled that the property was wired for electricity.
They glanced at each other then stepped out of the van and started toward the office.
Out of nowhere, a tall, shirtless, ninety-year-old strip of beef jerky wrapped in denim coveralls, a straw cowboy hat, and ancient snakeskin boots appeared. His faded, pink-paisley neckerchief looked like a rope quoit tossed over a stake. Beeks took a half step back, convinced that they had traveled back in time.
The old man was visibly grateful for the company, speaking in an aristocratic, yet lively manner that belied his years.
"Greetings, friends," he said nobly, his s's making short whistling sounds as they passed through the gap where his front teeth used to be. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"
"Greetings to you, sir," Needles replied, then asked him if he'd mind answering some questions. The old man nodded and invited them inside.
– The business office was little more than a shack; however, a couple of years back, in a sad effort that consumed the bulk of the old man's life savings, he had converted it into a miniature convenience store complete with wall-length cooler, credit-card reader, and surveillance camera.
The card reader actually functioned, but the camera was a cardboard fake, and most of the food in the cooler was stocked there when the unit was originally installed. Beeks grabbed a pre-packa
ged ham 'n cheddar sandwich from the cooler, but he changed his mind about eating it when he noticed some extra protein running around under the cellophane and a sell-by date from the Great Depression.
An open bottle of premium whiskey stood on the counter by the register near a baby-moon hubcap full of cigarette butts — one of which was still smoldering. The old man picked up the bottle and turned to his guests.
"Would you boys care to join me?" he asked.
"Sure, old man," Needles said. "We'll drink with you." His answer surprised Beeks, since they were "on duty," but he wasn't about to argue.
The old man poured, and the three men clinked glasses before downing the shots. Beeks smacked his sizable lips and burped, then shoved his glass forward for seconds.
Needles took out Ashley's photo and showed it to the old man. He studied it at arm's length for a while, and judging by his reaction, his eyesight and hormones were still functioning reasonably well.
"She was here, all right," he said at last. "I remember, 'cause I used to have a '65 just like hers — 'cept mine had a stick instead'a the Powerglide. I topped her off, and she bought grape juice, crackers, and a pint of gin."
Beeks doubted the wisdom of the non-alcoholic portion of that purchase.
The old man continued. "I figured she was some sort of outa-town movie star or somethin' — bein' so uncommonly pretty and drivin' around town in her negligee and all. But she was acting strange — kinda nervous I guess you'd say. And she had this look in her eye — like someone barely clinging to sanity."
Needles thought about that for a moment, then laid a $50 bill on the counter.
The old man's silver-thatched eyebrows twitched at the sight of it — it had been a long time since he'd seen anything larger than a $5. He pulled a wadded, white-lace-bordered handkerchief out of his pocket, put it to his lips, and coughed something disgusting into it. The thugs tried not to imagine what it was, but they couldn't help themselves.
