by Deforest Day
“Make him eat ‘em, Daddy. Like you done the other one.”
Luther took another step forward, and Justice, crouching, took a step back, then two; slowly leading the men away from the water, away from Pen.
Then Luther moved in, quick, feinting with the knife, and Justice, watching the man’s feet, lost track of his own.
His next step brought his bare foot onto hot coals. He jumped, stumbled, fell beside the fire, felt the heat on his face, smelled burnt hair.
Luther planted his boot on Justice’s wrist, reached for his genitals with his left hand, and turned his blade sideways, with his right. “Say bye-bye to your goolies, asshole!”
Pen, behind the intruders now, slowly edged closer to the backpack lying in the water. She kept her focus on the three men.
What happened next was a blur, and later, when she thought about it, it became no clearer. One moment Justice seemed to be reaching down with his free hand, protecting his privates as he said, “Wrong decision, mister.”
Suddenly the man was on his back, holding his arm, and Justice was standing, holding the knife.
“You broke my fuckin’ arm!”
“Naw, I broke your fuckin’ wrist. Tell your boy to get over here, and sit hisself.”
“Fuck you!”
“Your choice. Walk out of here, or you and Allard can make this place a graveyard.” He knelt, and pressed the knife against the man’s neck. The blade was dull, and nicked, and stained with dried blood and bits of hair. It’s condition, along with the house trailer and the truck told Justice more than he needed.
The boy was frozen, waiting for instruction. Justice gave it to him. “Allard? Get over here with your Daddy, and take them boots off. Be quick, now, afore I hand you his head to remember him by.”
He looked past the boy, at Pen, who now had his hatchet in one hand, and the Corsica in the other, with wet hair curling over her shoulders. The school teacher, who at the moment looked to be more at home on the cover of a Tarzan comic.
“Bring me the knife, Pen, then get your clothes on. We’re about done here.” He flipped the man’s knife up, caught it by the blade, and threw it at a tree, twenty feet distant. It stuck, ten feet up.
He used the razor-sharp lock-back to slice down the laces of the man’s boots, and yanked them off. Wincing at the smell, he tossed them, and the boy’s, into the embers. Added wood, added his and Pen’s old clothing. Then pulled fresh clothing from his pack, kept an eye on the two men while he dressed.
They removed the three tarps from the lodge, carefully folded them. The man swore softly and cradled his swelling wrist. The boy sat beside his father and watched incuriously while the man and the woman loaded their gear on their ATV.
“He’s takin’ the scooter, Daddy.”
“I ain’t blind, you dumb shit!”
Justice surveyed the site for anything he had missed. Packing out what they had packed in. In a year their sweat lodge would be a pile of decaying wood on a circle of stones.
He and Pen climbed on the ATV, and he thumbed the starter. “Y’all have a nice day,” he called, and they followed the stream back to the truck.
In the truck, on the way back, past the trailer, past the farmhouse, Pen finally spoke. “Wow.”
“Wow, in-deedy. I ain’t had that much fun since me and Davy laid waste to a bunch of Taliban clerics, was beatin’ on some women for darin’ to show their faces.”
“You weren’t scared? I was ready to pee myself, except I haven’t had anything to drink since yesterday!”
He laughed, leaned over, and popped the glove box door. “There’s a liter of water in there. Don’t drink too fast.”
She struggled with the cap, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth.
“Give it here,” he said, and took the plastic bottle from her and she leaned closer, put her hand on the wheel. She could feel the bumps and ruts in the gravel roadbed.
He cracked the seal, and handed the container to her, took back control of the truck. She drank half, and offered it to Justice. Watched him drive, his eyes scanning the road ahead, his mirrors, her. “No, you weren’t scared, were you?”
He took a quick swig, handed the bottle back. “Courage isn’t the absence of fear, Pen. It’s being able to set the fear aside, and do what’s needed. I wasn’t afraid, because I been training half my life for moments like that.” He turned to her, caught her eyes, and held them. “You’re the one that showed backbone.”
“Me! I didn’t do anything!”
He slowed, made the turn off gravel and onto blacktop. “You didn’t run. Even bare foot, and bare nekkid, you had to know you could outdistance them two. But you stuck. And then you went into my pack, grabbed the only weapons we had, and looked ready to use ‘em, even if you don’t know how. That’s pluck.”
“Or stupidity.”
“Naw.” He shook his head. He was a man who had seen courage, cowardliness, and stupidity, and knew the difference between the three.
Had to; it was how a team leader chose the ones you took along, when you knew things could go south. He reached across, squeezed her hand. Pen was Davy's sister, and what they said was true. The apple don't fall far from the tree. “When I went down, and the situation was turnin’ bad, you made the decision to stand your ground. In my book, that’s courage.”
Chapter 38
Chick’s Camaro was in front of the hotel, but he wasn’t in the bar, so Howie headed up the stairs. He found his best friend in his room, working out. Shirt off, working his lats with a pair of dumbbells. A can of beer sat on his dresser. Chick kept a six pack in the toilet tank; emergency rations.
He nodded toward the bed. “Take a look under my pillow.” A rag, old T shirt, wrapping something. Howie unfolded it. A gun, a shiny six shooter. He picked it up, turned it in his hand, checking it out. It was heavier than they looked, in the movies. Along the barrel it was stamped Ruger Blackhawk .38 cal.
This was what he had in mind! He put his finger through the hole, twirled it like he remembered the cowboys on the TV, when he was little. The gun fell on the bed, bounced, fell on the floor. He’d have to practice that some, before he did it in front of people. He wrapped it back up, stuck it under the pillow. “Where’d you get it?”
“My old man’s,” Chick said, grinning. “I dropped by the house earlier, when I knew he was out on his trash run. Gave my Ma a couple hundred. He keeps her on a short chain. Anyways, I went up to use the bathroom, and when I was done, I slipped into their room. The gun was the same place like always, his bedside table, under some titty books. May come in handy, we can’t persuade Mr. Baer to split up the RoachMobile peaceable.”
“You know how to work it?”
“What’s to know? You point it and pull the trigger. You feel lucky, punk? You seen how ol’ Dirty Harry done it.”
“Yeah, and I seen how Mr. Baer done it. I think I’m gonna see Mr. Tomczak’s face the rest of my days.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, when I got it pointed at his face. He killed our boss, Howie. Remember that, when it comes time to act.”
“OK, Chick. And when is that time? You got a plan?
“I’m working on it. Bumpsy says he might know someone who can deal with that bomb. Then all we got to do is make sure the cops don’t bother us.”
“Hey! That reminds me. Chief Schmidt pulled me over just now, was asking me about Baer.”
“Asking about Baer? Like what?”
“Who he was. Over there.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That he was an Army guy, showed us where to work.”
“I don’t know if that was such a hot idea.”
“Well, Frikko! What was I supposed to tell him? I couldn’t just say nothin’.”
“Yeah, you can. Like they say on the TV, you have the right to remain silent.” He continued to curl while he thought. “Means we got to do something soon if the Chief is sniffin’ around. I got a date with that real estate woman, look at some apartments
, then I’ll get aholt of Bumpsy, and we’ll work up a plan.” He dropped the weights and wiped his torso with a towel. “Maybe do it tonight.”
—o—
Cynthia Cross, Century 21, studied the boy across her desk. He was nice looking, in that beat up, coal cracker sort of way. Slavic cheekbones, dark eyes. Definitely buff. Bird’s nest hair and about four day’s worth of beard. Some men could get away with the look.
His car was a heap, but, if what she’d been hearing was true, that was due for an upgrade. His buddy had already done it.
Making conversation, she said, “I found a place for your friend, Mr. Baer, the other day.”
“Friend? Not hardly. I guess you could call him my boss, since he just bought Tomczak’s business. What place?”
“The old Bergen farm, across the river?”
“The Halloween House.”
She laughed, “That’s the one.” She opened the rental book and began to show the young man some listings, trying to get an idea of his budget, without coming right out. If he had a connection to Curtis, he could afford to go upscale.
Chapter 39
Bumpsy had a long neck in one hand and Murphy’s in the other. Sitting the way he was, he couldn’t watch what she was doing, but that didn’t lessen his enjoyment. “Get ready, babe,” he said, and finished the beer. He was wired, been up all night; ridin’, tweakin’, screwin’ with his new buds, down river.
Dudes with scoots, drawn to his sudden wealth like flies on shit. But they were a good crew, with this rented farmhouse, far enough removed from neighbors that their activities went unnoticed. He left Murphy to clean up, turned his phone on, and clomped downstairs, looking for Jap. The man who would help him cut through this shit, and liberate his money from that fuckin’ truck.
Jap wasn’t one, was a regular person, but with a face so fat his eyeballs were little black marbles in slits. He’d been a Marine, had Semper Fi on one arm, the Eagle Globe and Anchor on the other. Also had a DD, for a rape charge on Okinawa, a real Jap, some kid. His ears got bigger when Bumpsy told him about the dragon guarding the treasure cave.
“Sounds like a Claymore. Hell, yes; I know all about them bastards. What you need?”
“I want to know how to unhook it. Man’s got it wired up to a truckload of cash, only way in, is past that bomb.”
“Well, hell! Show me to her, I’ll fix yer problem. How much money we talkin’ about?”
“Lots. Like, thousands.” That’s when his cell rang, and he said hello to Chick.
Chapter 40
Justice parked beside Pen's VW, turned off the ignition, waited. To see what came next.
“I’m starving,” she said. “Since you saved our bacon, lunch is on me.”
“Deal. But after a fast—even a short one like this—it’s good to go slow. Some soup, couple of crackers. Few hours later another small meal.”
“Short fast? I’d like to know what your idea of what a long fast is.”
“Four, five days. That’s when you start to hallucinate, have visions. Learn to see what you haven’t seen before. At least that’s how my Meemaw taught me.”
“I don’t know if fasting had anything to do with it, but I sure as heck feel like I learned a whole lot from our adventure.”
“That’s the ghrelin at work.” They carried their gear upstairs. He hoisted his bag on the table.
“Gremlin? What gremlin?”
“Ghrelin. It’s a hormone. Your stomach produces it, when it’s empty. There’s been studies that show animals learn to run a maze better on an empty stomach. The ghrelin goes from the bloodstream to the brain, where it helps spatial learning and memory. Theory goes that if you’re hungry, your stomach produces a substance that helps you go find something to eat.”
“Man! I wish I’d known about that in college. ‘Fast before Class’.”
She opened the refrigerator, peered inside, shut it, reached in the cabinet above the stove. “Class is over. I’ve got some dry soup mix and a box of tea biscuits.”
“Perfect. You get that going, while I repack my go-bag.”
“What’s a go-bag?”
“What you have ready, when the call comes.”
“What call?”
“The call in the middle of the night. It can be your top kick, with orders to airlift to the other side of the world, or the EMS dispatcher, telling you about a six-car pileup on the Interstate. Or a phone call from the sister of your best friend.”
She put the soup on the stove, and watched him empty the bag, then re-stow its contents. “What are those things?”
“This is the Zak tactical entry tool. Name pretty much says it all. That’s an EMI Extricator 5 in 1. Cuts seat belts, deflates air bags, smashes car windows. Tools to use, before the fire truck gets there, with the Jaws of Life.”
“And those?” She poked a set of four pieces of metal, bent into an odd set of angles.
“Blackhawk fence climbers. Get you up and over a chain link fence with speed and stealth.” He picked one up. “Stick it through, lock it down, you got a step on either side. Faster than bolt cutters.”
He dressed the Corsica again, shaved a patch on his forearm with the result. “It’s mostly rescue gear. I volunteer to ride the community ambulance on weekends, to keep my skills sharp.”
“Davy told me about the little girl, in Afghanistan. Along with a bunch of other tales of battlefield heroics. He said you should go to medical school.”
Justice closed the bag, set it by the door. He remembered the arguments with Davy, and he again used the easy excuse. “Too old. I’d be pushin’ forty, by the time I got through my residency.”
“Get out! If you stay away from wars, you’ll live to ninety. Gives you forty years of practicing medicine, before you retire and spend another ten, being a pain in the ass to your wife.”
In the SF world you didn’t think that far ahead. Not that civilians in their thirties spent all that much time contemplating their mortality. “You put it that way, it’s an idea worth ponderin’.”
He sat and unlaced his boot, eased it off. The blister from the fire had broken, and his sock was bloody. He was glad they’d had the ATV for the trip back to the truck. Marching with blisters was an annoyance he was happy to have behind him.
“Oh, my God! Your foot is hurt!”
“Naw, just a little ol’ blister.” He took off his other boot, sock, wriggled his toes. “This civilian life is turning me into a tenderfoot.” He pulled his meds kit out of his go-bag, squeezed a dab of antibacterial ointment and slapped a gauze pad on his sole. “Good as new.”
“Well, you’re the doctor.” She poured hot soup in bowls, put a plate of biscuits on the table. “As you can see from the past two meals I’ve served you I am something of a gourmet cook.”
“You obviously never ate an MRE.”
“Davy has described them. I bet they beat worms. He told me about that, too.”
“Food is food. It’s either edible or it’s not. Everything else is just a learned perception.”
“That sounds straight out of some training manual.”
“I guess it does. Actually, it’s straight out of your brother. He said you two grew up on what you called ‘yukky stuff’.”
“Uh huh. Mom worked for a caterer, and was always bringing home exotic leftovers. Caviar, oysters, cheeses that smelled like gym socks. I was so tired of shrimp cocktail for supper.”
“I ate some weird things, as a young’un. My Meemaw introduced me to food that most people never even heard of. Put me in good stead, when I was eatin’ with the natives in Africa, Indonesia. A Philippine delicacy is a raw egg that’s about ready to hatch.”
“Well, that’s taken the edge off my appetite.”
She washed the few dishes, put them in the rack to dry. He leaned against the stove, watching. She turned, faced him. “So, teach me how you disarmed that guy. It was so fast, I didn’t see what happened.”
“Naw. It’s too dangerous; going up against an armed
person. Knife or gun, if you don’t know what you’re doin’, you’ll get hurt. The best defense against a knife is your feet.”
“Right; kick the knife out of their hand!”
“You watched too many pictures. You use your feet to run away.” He reached out, lightly touched a spot on her arm, and she felt the shock of a blow to her funny bone. Her eyes widened and she jerked away.
“Sorry.”
“No; show me how you did that.”
And he did. “The ulnar nerve runs down the inside of your elbow; it controls your fourth and fifth fingers, and the movement of your wrist.” He took her hand in his, and put her slender fingers against his skin, pressed, hard and quick. “That’s it.” He pulled away, flexed his fingers. “If the nerve gets bumped against the humerus, you get the tingle. Your funny bone.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” This doesn’t sound like hand to hand combat training.”
“Naw, it’s medical training. As a part of it we studied anatomy. The ball and socket joints, the tendons, the muscles, the nerves. I can take you apart and I can put you back together. And I’m not bragging, certainly not proud to say it, but I’ve done both.”
“And you can use this knowledge for self defense?”
“If someone attacks you, front on,” he said, stepping closer, “Hit them here, with your fingertips.” He extended his forefinger and pressed it gently into her throat, just above the point where her collarbones joined. “The border of the manubrium, between the sternal ends of the clavicles. It’s called the jugular notch.”
She swallowed, feeling a hint of the discomfort he promised.
“Do it hard enough, and the situation is over, before it even begins.” His finger trailed downward, barely making contact with her pale skin, dusted with a smattering of freckles. Stopping just below the rib cage, he folded his fore and middle fingertips into knuckles, pressed against the fabric of her blouse. “A hard punch here, the solar plexus, will knock the wind out of the toughest guy.” He stepped back, let his arms fall to his sides.
