Dirty Money ARC
Page 26
Justice twisted the rear view mirror and examined his face. There would be some dandy bruises tomorrow. “Well, there’s the Uniform Code. Don’t rape the women, kill the children. Bypass the non combatants. But it’s hard to separate the shooters from the grandmas in this new kind of war. You notice we don’t keep count of the casualties on the other side. We hand out death like Halloween candy, and call it ‘collateral damage’.”
“Yeah. No big deal; it’s not like they’re people, or anything!”
“You’re catching on. Why do you think we call them slopes and krauts and ragheads? Or Redskins. A ways back, bunch of our people run a bunch of my Meemaw’s people off’n their land. And the man that done it, got his picture on the twenty dollar bill.”
“Trail of Tears. Might makes right, the victors write the history books.”
“Yes’m.” Something caught his attention through the rain streaked windshield. “Hit the wipers.”
As any casual hiker in the forest knows, motion draws the eye. Something both the hunter and the hunted are well aware of. Out in the river the black rocks and the white water formed a monochromatic tableau. In which a bobbing blob of pinkish tan stood out to anyone with a keen sense of situational awareness. Pen leaned forward over the wheel, squinted. “What’s that?”
That was a face, connected to a torso, connected to a seat cushion, connected to a rock. “That,” Justice said, “Is Mister Baer.”
—o—
Baer encountered the same pour-over which had nearly drowned Justice. The same one a few minutes earlier had flung the RoachMobile’s tank against the rocks with enough force to split it in two, spilling its contents into the river.
The noxious, petroleum-based insecticide, exposed to icy river water, congeals into globules that float, disperse, move with the current, until they come in contact with a dry surface. Rocks, trees, earth along the river banks. Something for the EPA to deal with, but otherwise drawing little interest or attention.
Shrink-wrapped bundles of hundred dollar bills in the dark, in the rain, in the river were like the proverbial tree that falls in the forest.
The churning waters, smooth stones, and sharper gravel tumbling at the bottom of the river tore at the plastic wrap and the paper bank straps.
U.S. currency is made of tougher stuff. Designed to be handled, folded, fed through vending machines, and the occasional trip through the family washer, the bills survived their swim quite well.
The pour-over, with the same dynamics as a washing machine, mixed the money, the gravel, and Baer in a swirling cauldron. He was dizzy, disoriented, and chilled by hypothermia.
But fueled by adrenaline, and collected enough to realize there was a chance to salvage triumph from disaster. He grabbed at the bobbing shrink-wrapped packs. Then frantically shoved as many as he could past the steel coils, up into the space between the springs, and the foam rubber.
After a wild thirty seconds on the spin cycle, the river sent him downstream with the remnants of his fortune.
That’s when his makeshift raft came to a momentary halt, fifty feet from the cobblestone ramp.
—o—
“I hope he drowns, the bastard!”
“Rough justice, I reckon.”
“Cosmic pay back.”
“Maybe so. But ten years down the line it’ll eat at me, if I don’t do nothin’. ‘specially since I’m partly to blame for his circumstance.”
“No way! He brought this on himself.”
“Yes, he surely did. But how he got where he’s at ain’t got no bearing on his condition. I’d be less than a man, if I left him die.”
Justice opened the door, and wincing at the pain in his side, rummaged in his go-bag. He swallowed a Percocet dry, pulled out a hundred-foot coil of braided nylon line.
Pen followed him to the front of the truck, watched him fasten one end to the bumper with a double half hitch, bend a bowline on the other, and loop it around his shoulders. “Call 911,” he said. “Cops, and an ambulance. That Claymore most likely tore him up some.”
“How? He took my phone.”
“In my bag. I got that youngster’s gun and cell phone.”
“Well, I hope his phone works better than his gun.”
Justice gave his head a little tilt, puzzled, but there wasn’t time to ask what she meant; the man’s makeshift raft was liable to bust loose and head downstream any moment.
Pen watched Bob wade back into the river, head up stream, planning to come down on Baer from above. The man, the one she was beginning to think of as her man, the same one who not five minutes ago had told her that he killed without a moment’s thought, was now going back out in the water, risking his life, to save the monster who had shot at him on the bridge. She realized that she had a lot to learn, and returned to the truck, found the phone.
Baer's fingers, locked around the steel springs of the seat, were numb from the cold. As were his legs. The first rush of adrenaline was wearing off. Now he was exhausted. Chilled to the marrow.
Some say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. If true, the the low point was missing that cocksucker with the forty-five, right before he jumped over the side of the bridge.
No, scratch that. The low point was when the Claymore detonated. Sneaky son of a bitch booby trapped the truck.
Baer wiped water from his eyes, and half-blinded by the truck's headlights peered through the rain. An escape vehicle, fifty feet away. and Mr. Ninja wading out with a rope. Some people you can’t figure.
Justice was his name, he remembered now, and he was tying off the rope, waving at the girl. Who finally figured it out, got behind the wheel, started backing up, pulling him and his money out of the river.
Up, onto the hard surface of the landing. He jolted to a stop. Suddenly things were looking up. No more life flashes, but there was plenty of pain. Pain, some fool said, was how you knew you were alive.
Mr. Ninja staggered out of the river and looked down at him, lying on the cold cobblestones, then frantically waved for the girl to bring the truck forward. The fool grabbed a carryall bag out of the truck, pawed through its contents.
Don't have the strength to stand. OK. Lie here, play possum. And when the guy gets close pull the little pistol from the ankle holster, put a couple in his face. Just like Tomczak.
Then do the girl. Toss RoachMobile’s seat in the back of the truck, and ride to freedom with a much-diminished fortune.
Except the little Taurus pistol wasn’t there. Dammit to hell! The river must have torn the holster away. He felt around; he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.
That’s when Justice leaned over him, said, “Hold on, buster; the paramedics will be here right quick.” Then he wrapped a cable tie around each leg, just above the knee, yanked them up tight. Used Baer’s own blood to put a big T on the man’s forehead. Probably an unnecessary precaution, but battlefield practice was still automatic.
Then he pried the man’s fingers off the seat, shook out a silvery space blanket, and wrapped it around him.
“He’s in shock, Pen. Delirious. Keeps grabbing at that damn seat, like he’s still in the river. Toss it in the back of my truck, so’s he cain't focus on it.”
Lights swung off First Street, and streaks of red and blue swept the parking lot. A pair of paramedics ran up to the scene. Two police cars followed, along with yelling and a frenzy of activity from a growing crowd of civilians pushing forward for a better look.
“Lost a lot of blood,” Justice yelled to the first paramedic. “I only did them tourniquets ‘til you got here, and could put on proper pressure dressings. He’s in hypovolemic shock, pulse is real weak; I cain't get but a flutter from his carotid. It’s a wonder he didn’t bleed out; guess that cold water done shut down his vessels some. Your option, but I’d get an IV goin’ if you got any distance to travel.”
The second paramedic wheeled a Ferno 35 up, and they lifted Baer on it. “You a doctor? What the hell happened to this guy?”
>
“Army medic. Explosion. You can see he’s bleeding from the ears. Hard to tell, him being cold and wet, but I’d guess there’s some cerebrospinal fluid there also. Neck and spine seem to be all right, judging from the way he was hangin’ onto his lifeboat.
“And then, when I got him ashore, he was reachin’ around down where he feet used to be. He’s about a ten on the Glasgow scale; verbally confused, some flexion. But he’s got unequal pupils, so I’d say he’s concussed. Grade Two; man is sure showin’ the altered mental state!”
Chief Schmidt told Morgan and Carl to get those people back and watched the paramedics load Baer into the ambulance, where they intubated him, got a blood pressure cuff on one arm, and an IV into the other.
The rear doors slammed shut, the siren chirped, and the vehicle left Paradise Park for Sunbury Memorial. That’s when the Chief saw the money.
—o—
Fifteen minutes earlier the fire company had aimed powerful lights down into the river from the safety of the bank. Only then had Chief Schmidt walked out onto the bridge as far as he dared, and peered over the edge. The hood and the roof of the truck were above the water. Missing was the windshield and a thousand-gallon steel tank. The one filled with money.
A diver in a wet suit and safety harness spent a frustrating ten minutes getting from the shore to the truck. When he finally reached the truck, the Chief learned that nobody was trapped inside.
That’s when Clark notified him that Mr. Baer had left the North Fork Bridge and was now at Paradise Park.
—o—
Justice was coiling his nylon rope, and Pen was folding the space blanket, when Chief Schmidt strode past, and stopped at the water’s edge. He dropped to one knee, and swept his hand through the water, came up with a half-dozen hundred-dollar bills, their serial numbers no longer in consecutive order.
“I reckon you’ll want to hold on to them bills, Chief. As evidence.”
Chief Schmidt looked up at the hillbilly, staring down at him, a coil of rope in his hand like some damn cowhand. “Evidence?”
“Yessir. Them two boys, ones folks call Cheech and Chong? They say they got that money over in Iraq. Same place Mr. Baer shot their boss.”
“How do you know Baer shot Tomczak?”
“They told me, couple hours ago. After a bit of what you civilians call enhanced interrogation.”
Justice limped back to his truck, and tossed the rope in the back, on the RoachMobile’s seat. “If you try some of that on them, most likely they’ll tell you how Mr. Baer broke my friend’s neck the other day. Eye witnesses to two murders.”
Chief Schmidt stared at the bills in his hand. Three murders, counting the biker.
That’s when a couple of kids climbed over the fence, slipped down through the park, past the picnic tables, for no other reason than they were kids. Kids who then saw bills at the water’s edge, swirling like leaves in the eddies. And, being kids, they yelled to their friends.
Ten minutes later a dozen youths and as many adults were up to their knees in the river. Everyone had their cell phones deployed, and the Chief saw there was no hope of controlling the crowd. He radioed Clark, told her to get the FirePolice back out, along with the fire company’s rescue boat and the divers, and hoped that nobody would drown in the chaos to come.
—o—
An hour later the money was twenty miles down river, some of it slowly sinking to the bottom. Where it would be covered with silt, until next year’s spring flood.
The rest of it was drifting ashore, to become snagged in tree roots, old tires, and other bits of trash. Where—days, weeks, months later—a farmer, a fisherman, or a couple of lovers out for a stroll, suddenly had their day become a bit brighter.
Chapter 70
Pen drove back to her apartment, with Justice wincing at every pothole. He glanced in the back of his pickup. “My go-bag and that old truck seat can wait until morning. I’m plum tuckered out.” They climbed the stairs, he stripped out of his wet clothing, and she turned his condition to her advantage.
Later, lying side by side, he said, “Well weren’t that some prodigious excitement! I wonder what’s comin’ next.”
She turned, ran her finger down his side, tracing the shrapnel scars. “I watched you with that horrible man. The way you treated him like any other battlefield casualty, friend or foe. What’s next, Justice, is you go to medical school, and take that up as a full-time job.”
He had studied on it, since she had given voice to the possibility a few days back. “Yes’m; I heard you the first time. Me and Davy spent some time working with them Doctors Without Borders people. I believe I’d like to go join up in their cause.”
He rolled to her and looked into her eyes. “I’ll need to find me a job. Med school is a costly undertaking.” He touched her lips with his thumb. “Cain't take it on alone. I'll need the help of a good woman.”
Pen smacked him upside the haid. “Well, DUH.”
THE END
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