Ragged Man

by Ken Douglas

  “ Uh oh,” Rick said.

  “ Why, uh oh?” she asked.

  “ It’s been a long time and I didn’t fly for that long. I got my license and maybe only flew for six months, before I sold the plane and stopped coming in here.”

  “ You remembered me, why shouldn’t I remember you?” She smoothed her skirt and gave a quick glance around the cafe to see if anybody needed anything.

  “ There were only two waitress here when I used to come in, easy for me to remember them, but you must see hundreds of customers,” Rick said.

  “ You were different,” she said.

  “ How so?”

  “ You flew every day, but you didn’t fly.”

  “ I could never really understand what made them stay up. In the back of my mind, I thought I could fall out of the sky at any second, so I wanted to be ready. I may not be the best pilot on the planet, but I can put a Cessna 172 down on a postage stamp in a hurricane.”

  “ I believe it,” the waitress said, still smiling, then adding, “My name’s Katherine Spencer.”

  “ No relation to Susan Spencer up in Tampico?”

  “ My sister, you know her?”

  “ I live up there now,” Rick said, thinking, wondering if he could ask this woman for help. “Susan’s one of my best friends.”

  “ You know how she used to work in the diner, saved up her money, then bought it?”

  “ Yeah,” Rick said.

  “ Well, this is my place. I own the Flight Room now,” she said.

  “ Really.”

  “ You’re in trouble, Rick Gordon. They’re saying some pretty awful things about you on the radio.”

  “ I can imagine,” he said. “Why didn’t you get on the phone and call the police the second I walked in?”

  “ Because Susan called right after I’d heard it.” She slid into the booth opposite him. “I remembered you and I brought it up. She said it had to be hogwash. She said she knew you and that it absolutely wasn’t true.”

  “ And you believe her,” Rick said, wary.

  “ We’re twins, not identical, fraternal, but we’re close. We think alike, no, not alike, the same, identical. What I experience, what I see, what I believe, what I feel, all that I am, she knows. Like I know about her. We talk everyday. We may live over five hundred miles apart, but we’re as close as two humans can possibly be. If Susan says it’s hogwash, it’s hogwash. I’d sooner doubt the sun was coming up in the morning than doubt her word. Now, how can I help you?”

  “ I need to get to Tampico, yesterday. I have my old plane, but I can’t fly it. It’s been too long. I need someone to fly me up.

  “ I’ll ask around. Meanwhile you look like you need a hearty meal. Meatloaf’s the special tonight. I can have it on your plate before you can blink. It’s on the house.” She slid out of the booth and true to her word, Rick was tucking into meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy in no time at all.

  He was halfway through the meal when she returned. She slid into the booth like they were old friends, while he swallowed a delicious bite of her meatloaf.

  “ I found someone,” she said. “I told him you were supposed to meet a pilot here to take your plane up to Palma-Tampico. He’s only going as far as Bakersfield, but it’s a start and it’s in the right direction. He’ll fly your plane for free, seems he got here a little too late to meet his ride. He thinks you’re a godsend.”

  “ Sounds like a match made in heaven. Where is he?”

  “ Finishing his dinner in the bar.”

  “ Has he been drinking?”

  “ No, he’s a regular, Bob Mitchel. Flew B-29s in World War II. Been flying out of here ever since. Teaches flying at Condor Aviation. He doesn’t drink, he just prefers the atmosphere in the bar.”

  “ Hey Katy, that the guy?” a deep base voice boomed across the restaurant. Katherine waved as Rick turned his head. A big man, with penetrating blue eyes and a shocking silver mane, waved back as he approached the table. Rick started to get up. “No, don’t get up on my account,” the man said, hand out.

  “ Rick Gordon.” Rick shook his hand as he sat down next to Katherine and for a second he felt like kicking himself. How could he have been so stupid as to give his real name. What if the guy had seen the news.

  “ Katy tells me you want someone to fly your plane up north.”

  “ That’s right,” Rick said.

  “ You the same Rick Gordon that used to fly One-Six-Tango in the pattern every morning, before Christina Page bought it out from under you?”

  “ The same.” Rick thought he was about to be busted. “How do you know about that?”

  “ Worked the control tower for twenty years. I’ll never forget you taking off and landing, taking off and landing, touch and go, touch and go, but it was the power off, side slip, practice emergency landings I remember best. You’d dump the power halfway through the downwind, go into the slip and drop like a rock, then straighten out at the last possible instant and set it down, squeaking the wheels on the numbers every time. It was beautiful to watch. She sell you the plane back?”

  “ Yeah,” Rick lied, relieved that the man apparently wasn’t aware of his present problems. “She wants to buy something a little bigger and a little faster and I kind of missed flying, so it worked out all the way around.”

  “ So what do you need a pilot for?”

  “ I haven’t flown in ten years.”

  “ Shame.”

  “ I really need to get up to Palma-Tampico.”

  “ Don’t suppose you have your log book handy?”

  “ You’re kidding, I haven’t seen it in years.”

  “ But you have your license? They’re good for life.”

  “ In my wallet.” Rick wondered why the man was asking.

  “ Anybody that flies a plane the way you did should be able to get it back by the time we get to Bakersfield. I’ll grab a blank log book, by the time we put down, we’ll have gone through all the basics. I’ll sign you off and you’ll be legal again. Then you can fly the rest of the way by yourself.”

  “ That’d be great,” Rick said, genuinely grateful.

  “ Rick Gordon, that you?” Rick turned. “Just the guy I want to see,” Harrison Harpine, Palma Chief of Police said.

  Rick’s heart sank.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “ I fell in love with the wide blade that day in Tampico. So shiny, so sharp, so right for what I want to do,” the Ragged Man said.

  J.P. braced himself for the pain that was going to come, but instead felt only a small pin sticking sensation below his chin.

  “ Open your eyes or I’ll shove it up into your brain.”

  J.P. refused, keeping his eyes closed with all his might.

  “ I’m not kidding!”

  J.P. felt the knife break skin and he felt a gooey wet tickling as small droplets of blood dripped down over both sides of his neck.

  “ Open them!”

  J.P. opened his eyes wide.

  “ That’s better. You see we can get along, you and me.”

  J.P. stared into the man’s steel eyes and saw nothing there. He thought of the under-the-bed monster that had caused him so many sleepless nights shortly after his father had left them. Nothing, he had thought, was worse than that thing that lived under the bed, but he was wrong, there was something worse and that something worse was staring into his soul, holding a gleaming Jim Bowie knife that was dripping his very own blood.

  His eyes must have held a question, because the big man reached out and ripped the tape off his mouth. The tearing, ripping sound of the tape was worse than the stinging pain.

  “ What?” the man asked.

  “ Are you the Ragged Man?”

  “ Not so ragged, I don’t think.” The big man stepped back and looked down at his clothes. “Hmm, maybe I haven’t changed in a few days.” He rubbed his chin. “Or shaved. Maybe I am pretty ragged.” He seemed to be talking to himself.

  “ Then you are the Rag
ged Man,” J.P. said, his hoarse voice traveling through a parched throat.

  “ What the fuck are you talking about?”

  J.P. didn’t answer

  “ Don’t make me mad, boy. I can be nasty when I get mad.”

  “ The Ragged Man can’t die. He kills and kills and he can’t die.”

  “ Everybody dies.”

  “ Not the Ragged Man. If he dies he takes over another body.”

  Sam Storm dropped the knife and J.P. heard it thud against the ground. For a second J.P. thought he saw a glimmer of something in the man’s eyes. Then for a another second, he saw the big man’s crooked frown change into a smile, but it didn’t last.

  “ How?” he asked through bone white lips.

  “ He’s a demon from Australia and he can’t die. He takes over people and makes ’em kill, and now he has you.”

  “ You’re full of it, nobody has me. I should peel off your skin, but you stink. The last thing I want is your shit on my hands.”

  J.P. watched as the big man turned and left his sight. He heard footsteps walk away. He heard the car door open, then heard heavy footsteps coming back. The man had a roll of gray duct tape in his hands.

  “ Gonna tape your mouth shut again.”

  “ I won’t make any noise,” J.P. promised.

  “ Not when I’m through with you, you won’t.” He raised J.P. by the neck and started winding the tape around the boy’s head, covering his mouth, cheeks, chin, ears, the back of his neck and with the last wrap his nose. J.P. saw it coming and sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils before the stubble faced man closed off his air and slammed the trunk down, again encasing him in the dark.

  “ Sweet dreams,” the man said with a bang on the trunk that hurt his ears.

  J.P.’s hands were leaving their hiding place behind his back and going to his face even before the trunk slammed shut and the light was gone. His fingers met his cheeks below the eyes and he ran them down along his nose, digging them under the tape. He tugged it down, pulling with all his strength. His lungs were bursting with the need to breathe and the tape didn’t want to give.

  He inched his fingers down further under the tape and jerked out, pulling the tape from his nose. Then he pulled down again and the mummy wrapping slid over his nose and he filled his lungs with air. After a few breaths, he tried to dig his fingers under the several layers that covered his mouth, but he couldn’t do it. He pulled his fingers out and started working the tape down, pawing at it over and over, until, after several attempts, he had it sliding down over his upper lip. He opened his mouth wide and took in several breaths of the stink-filled-air. No air in all his young life had ever tasted so sweet.

  Now, able to breathe, he felt around his head and found the place where the tape ended and began to peel it off. The first couple of layers peeled off without difficulty, but the last layer hurt as it pulled hair from his head, but he had been through too much to be put off by a little pain. He ripped it off with the same speed a doctor uses to remove a bandage, quickly done and quickly over with.

  With the tape off, he rolled onto his side and bent his body at the waist, stretching his arms, grasping the rope that bound his feet. He tried to untie it, but his small hands were no job for the masterful way the big man had tied the knots. He tried to wiggle his feet out of the rope, but he couldn’t get it over his heels.

  He wished the Ragged Man would have left the Jim Bowie knife, but he hadn’t.

  There had to be another way. He began a thorough search of the trunk. Above his head, he felt the tire jack bolted onto the center of the spare tire. He ran his hands over and behind the tire and grasped what could only be battery cables.

  He pulled the cables from behind the tire, grasped one of the ends in his hands. He opened and closed the clamp. He ran his fingers along the sharp teeth of the clamp’s jaws and had an idea. If he could break the clamp in half, he could use the copper teeth as a saw.

  He grabbed one end of the clamp in each hand, twisted and twisted again, working the clamp back and forth like he would a metal coat hanger he was trying to break in half. The bottom and top of the jaws separated a little further from each other with each twist, till he managed to twist the clamp enough that the jaws came apart. Again he ran his fingers along the teeth and thought they would be sharp enough to saw through the rope.

  He was wrong. After repeated attempts at sawing on it and making no progress, he gave up. The rope was stronger than his makeshift saw. He would have to find something else.

  He found the battery cables behind the spare tire, maybe there was something else there, too. He shimmied back over to the spare and reached over it. Nothing. He ran his hands into the well under the front part of the tire. Nothing! He searched the rear area and bingo, wedged between the tire and the well, he found a flash light.

  He pulled the light to his breast like a mother would a baby. He was almost afraid to turn it on for fear it wouldn’t light. He counted to ten then flicked it on, sighing as the beam of light illuminated the cramped space, and to his absolute relief, on the other side of the trunk, up against the wall, the light landed on a bright red tool box.

  His shaking hands caused him to lower the beam, and he fought tears as it landed on the dead form of the poor little kitten. He scooted around, carefully moved the white kitten’s bloody body out of his way, without noticing the sticky blood that stuck to his hands. Then he opened the tool box.

  He hovered over the metal box, like a pirate over treasure, and went through its contents. He removed the top tray and its assorted nails and screws, then he rummaged through the tools-wrenches, screw drivers, a tape measure and a hammer-not quite sure what he was looking for, then he found it, a metal gray utility knife.

  He took the utility knife out of the tool box, handling it as if it were Spanish Doubloons. His prayers had been answered, this was his magic ticket. He caressed the smooth metal tool with his thumb, then used that same thumb to flick out the razor sharp blade.

  Boy, he thought, if that Ragged Man came back now he would be in for it. One slash and no more eyes Mister Ragged Man. A second slash and no more throat. Let’s see how brave you are now, he angrily thought. And then common sense took over and he began to think. If the Ragged Man came back, he, not the Ragged Man, would be the one in deep shit.

  He slashed through the rope that bound his legs, wincing as blood started free flowing to his bare feet. He lay still through the pain and tingling, waiting for normal feeling to return.

  He played the light over the top of the trunk, then directed the beam to the lock. He could see there was no way he could open the lid, but he had to give it a try. He felt around the lock, hoping that maybe there was a cable or something he could pull on to open it. There wasn’t.

  From the lock, he sent the light back over the tools and saw no help there, unless he wanted to use the hammer to beat on the metal sides of his coffin-like enclosure to draw help. But what if his captor was the only one outside? He would be in for it then.

  Moving the beam, he rested it on the gas can. Its fumes, suppressed by the combination smell of his fouled pants and the dead cat, were no longer noticeable. He jiggled the can. There was gas in it. Moving the light more, he checked out the spare tire, the tire iron and jack, oily rags, the battery cables, the dead cat and lastly he pointed the beam on the back of the back seat.

  Then he lay very still and listened.

  No sound. No sound from inside and no sound from outside. He tried to think. How long had it been since the Ragged Man had slammed the trunk shut? Five minutes, ten, maybe fifteen? When he came back, would he check the trunk? If he did, he would be mighty mad that he was still alive and not dead like a mummy.

  But if the Ragged Man was up front, sleeping or maybe reading, and he tried to get out of the trunk by kicking his way through the back seat, he would be in just as much trouble as if the Ragged Man found him alive in the trunk.

  He had to make a decision. He decided to go
for it.

  He squirmed around so that he was laying on his back, feet facing the back seat, head facing the back of the car, and using his bare feet, he pushed against the seat. It gave a little. He saw hope and pushed harder. He could feel the seat want to give way, but something was holding it in place.

  He drew his legs back by bending his knees to his chest and kicked. Pain racked his feet as they hit metal and he felt no give, only resistance. He was not going to be able to kick his way through with his bare feet.

  He wormed his way around to study the situation. From the top right end of the seat to the bottom left end was a metal brace and from the top left to the bottom right was its opposite twin. The pair of braces formed a large metal X. When he had pushed and felt the seat give, he was pushing on the seat. When he kicked and met resistance, his feet, both of them had hit the braces. Even if he was able to push the seat out, he wouldn’t be able to squeeze between the supporting bands.

  The metal X blocked his way, so it would have to go.

  He pulled the tool box closer, took out a claw hammer. He worked the claw end between the body of the car and the top part of the brace that started on the right side of the seat. Using the end of the hammer as a lever, he pulled up and out. To his amazement the spot weld gave and the metal brace sprang free.

  He pulled the metal strip away from the seat, saw that if he managed to kick the seat out, he would have room enough to squirm through.

  He had to think. The back of the seat was covered with springs. If he kicked against them, they would cut into his feet and he would never be able to get out of the trunk. Then a light bulb went off in his head. He needed shoes and he had none, but what did shoes do? They protected his feet. He needed to protect his feet.

  He emptied the tool box, careful to set the tools well out of his way. Then he took the oil rags and stuffed them into the metal box. This had to work. He wiggled back around into position to kick against the seat. He drew his knees back against his chest and stuffed his feet into the tool box with the rags between his feet and the metal bottom to cushion them. Then using the box as a battering ram, he kicked out against the seat. He felt it give as a metal bracket, that held the seat in place, popped.