by Dennis Yates
Not long after she’d spoken to Robert on the phone, Walker had led her and Connor to an Air Stream trailer behind the farmhouse. Connor had kept his face hidden against her chest as they’d walked.
She saw three trailers in all, spread out in a circle. Each was equipped with its own power source, water and sewer hookup. Black spray paint and barbed wire mesh sealed off every window from the outside. The doors themselves were fitted with heavy- duty latches and key padlocks. In the middle of the prisoner trailer park was a large tent where she could hear voices talking low.
She’d spent time in the high desert before, but a low-lying band of white cloud on the far horizon kept her from spotting any recognizable landmarks. On a clear day she would have been able to orient herself with the mountain range to the west. When she stopped to watch a pickup moving down a distant highway, Walker frowned and looked impatiently skyward.
“Mrs. Crain…”
Laughter made Peggy turn her head to look behind her. Two men armed with rifles stood watching, their eyes staring menacingly as they lit cigarettes and puffed from smirking lips. Peggy had recognized their raspy cackles. They’d been the one’s who’d carried her and Connor out to the van after binding their wrists and mouths with duct tape. Later, while the van sped unnoticed down the highway the night before, they’d taken turns feeling her bottom through her jeans.
She turned back to Walker, her eyes widened with anger. “So whose shoe did you scrape those two off of?”
Walker met her gaze with a crooked grin. “You’re not going to want to make any trouble for them.”
****
Connor had spent the entire day huddled in a corner of the bed. His condition hadn’t changed much since they’d arrived. Peggy tried to comfort him the best she could, and a few times he actually opened his eyes but they looked as if he were staring at something far away. When night arrived, she searched the entire trailer from top to bottom for anything useful, finding nothing but some forgotten rusted pliers wedged beneath a cabinet.
A man she hadn’t seen before brought them their dinner. He was brittle-thin and appeared nervous as he stood next to one of the armed guards who called him Stick. He handed her a cardboard box packed with sandwiches and bottled water.
“Why are you doing this?” Peggy asked. Stick’s jaw quivered as if he wanted to say something, but the guard quickly motioned him to move away. The guard held up his hand so she could see the open padlock swinging on his finger.
“You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?”
“What the hell is this all about?” Peggy screamed. Her voice had carried out into the desert night, causing the guard to take a step closer.
“Keep it down or I’ll have to gag that pretty mouth of yours.”
“I’m not shutting up until I get some answers.”
“Enjoy your dinner, lady,” the guard said. He slammed the door shut. She heard the snap of the padlock and crunch of rock as he walked away. Other than the hum of trailer generators, the place was quiet except for the occasional howl of a lone coyote or far off wail of a passing train.
Peggy sat down on the bed next to Connor and started to cry. His hand crept out from the blanket and touched her face.
“Mommy?”
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. He’d finally made the long journey back to her.
“I’m here, baby.”
“Where’s dad?”
“He’s trying to find us.”
“I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared.”
Peggy closed her eyes and wondered where Robert could be, what he was doing.
You’re going to find us baby. I know you will…
CHAPTER 12
Sitting in a dark booth at the rear of the bar, Robert chewed down the last of his turkey sandwich. He hadn’t felt at all hungry, and every bite seemed to take forever to swallow. The shot of tequila, however, had warmed him up nicely. It also smoothed away some of the edginess he’d been feeling since the dope in his body had worn off.
He watched as the regulars came and went, happily engaged in loud chatter and laughing over their private jokes. Robert had stopped hanging out in places like this years ago. But it wasn’t as big of a town as people wanted to believe. He still worried that someone might recognize him.
After a while he noticed that when people glanced over at him their faces tended to sober before turning away. Even the tough-as-nails bartender seemed apprehensive about him at first. He couldn’t blame her, for the bruise on the side of his face really did look awful.
His fingers played with the empty shot glass. He stared outside at the shafts of rain angling past the streetlights. The taste of Cuervo was still present in the back of his throat, and for a moment he contemplated ordering another shot. He began thinking about his father, and the whole nasty business in Mexico.
Two years after Robert’s father had his stroke, the body shop dipped close to bankruptcy. His father had taken measures to hide their financial problems as long as he could. He’d started drinking again, despite his doctor’s warnings. After months of trying to work out a deal with unsympathetic creditors, Frank saw no other choice than to call his brother Barney.
An ex-con who’d recently done three years for burglary, Barney still could not see himself ever walking the straight and narrow. Each time he’d been released from prison, his only thoughts were on how he was going to make up for lost time. As always, Robert’s father would give Barney a job around the shop, hoping this time his brother might not stray. But once Barney had saved enough money, he’d disappear for another year or two. Then one day Frank would receive a letter with a prison’s return address, and things would start all over again.
Robert’s mother could never understand why his father always let Barney back into their lives. She didn’t like seeing her son being exposed to a man who’d spent a greater part of his life behind bars. In retrospect, Robert believed his mother just cared too much for Barney, and it broke her heart to see him throwing his life away. Barney had always treated his sister-in-law with the utmost respect.
Robert and Barney grew close when Robert’s father was in the hospital. In many ways Robert looked more like Barney’s son. Both stood well over six feet tall and carried a lot of muscle. Whenever Barney came over to have dinner or just to visit, he’d always set aside time to teach his nephew how to fight while his mother was busy in the kitchen. Barney rarely went looking for trouble, but it frequently came to him. Over the years, his skills had become legendary on both sides of the prison wall.
Not long after Robert’s father had made the call, he and Barney announced they were going on a fishing trip to Mexico. Robert, then in his early twenties, had asked if he could come along. His father had told him no, that he’d wanted to spend it alone with his brother. Maybe he could finally talk some sense into him this time, get him committed to the straight path before he wound up dying behind bars.
Robert was suspicious from the beginning. He knew his father hated fishing, and he couldn’t buy the idea he’d be willing to do it even for his brother’s sake. In the weeks before they took off, Robert had seen them spending a lot of time in the office in back of the garage—his uncle on the phone and his father pacing the concrete floor, lighting one doctor-forbidden cigarette after another. They were acting unusually nervous, not at all like two men about to go somewhere to relax and fish in the sun.
Across the border in Tijuana, the brothers met some members of a lucrative car- theft ring. Barney had done some prison time with the leader and they’d become friends after Barney had saved the man’s life from a shiv-wielding neo Nazi. There was a reunion celebration of sorts, with plenty of food and drinking, until a ruthless rival gang swarmed down on the hacienda and shot Frank and Barney’s new business partners through the head. Failing to escape from the attackers, Robert’s father and uncle were tied and beaten, blind folded and kept in a cramped room behind a shop selling purses and belts to A
merican tourists.
It was of course a case of mistaken identity. Their kidnappers believed they’d captured two worthy prizes—not some auto body repair man and his burglar brother, but a couple of wealthy drug smugglers who’d come down to visit the home office.
Robert was working at the shop when his father called. He could barely recognize his father’s voice as he pleaded to his son for help. Frank’s voice had sounded broken and repentant, so unlike the man who’d managed to undermine Robert’s dreams.
Robert could see his destiny was jumping tracks once again and there was nothing he could do about it. The rage inside him pushed up to the surface like an angry weed. Had his father not been so reckless then maybe the violence would not have been allowed to germinate. But this was his father, and aside from the fact he deeply resented him at times, Robert would do anything to protect him.
There was still the matter of finding the money, and then getting it to the right people before it was too late. His friend Will had driven to Mexico with him, had helped get Robert’s father back alive. Uncle Barney hadn’t been so lucky…
****
A soft hand reached down and slowly pried the shot glass from Robert’s tight fingers. He looked up and saw a woman leaning toward him. Her mouth formed a garish frown of heavy lipstick.
“You’re going to break it if you aren’t careful,” she said.
Robert’s mind was still deep in Mexico, and it took a few moments for him to stroke sluggishly back into the present, where a strange woman holding an empty shot glass was searching his eyes for something she could cling to.
What the hell does she want?
He stared coldly back, unable to speak, but the woman pretended she hadn’t noticed. Not bothering to ask for an invitation, she slid into the seat across from him and set the glass on the table between them. Her eyes were a deep brown, and they seemed to soak up what little light there was.
For a brief moment Robert wondered if she was working for Walker Marsh. He waited for another one of Marsh’s messages to issue forth from her mouth, but she only looked at him hopefully, hungrily.
“Why are you staring at me that way?”
“I don’t know you,” Robert said, pulling up his sleeve and eyeing his watch, surprised that a half hour had vaporized since he’d knocked back the tequila. He took out his wallet and pulled free a twenty to pay his tab with. When he glanced up he saw that the woman was playing nervously with her crispy tri-colored hair.
“Do you have some place you gotta be honey?” she asked.
This time he heard the slur in her speech, noticed the broken blood capillaries webbing her face like fine lace when she lit a cigarette. He grabbed his jacket off the seat and stood up tall, purposely giving all the rubbernecks sitting in the bar one final look.
“Yes, I do have some place I have to be.”
“My lousy luck.”
“Lady, you don’t know the meaning of bad luck.”
“Then why don’t you go to hell,” the woman said, blowing a cloud of nicotine venom as he turned to walk away.
He didn’t bother telling her that he was already there…
CHAPTER 13
The rain was coming down harder than ever. Because Mt. Tabor was closed to motor vehicles at night, Robert found a quiet side street at the base of the park to leave his truck. He pulled his cap down and began hiking up toward the reservoir. Other than the sparse sodium lights illuminating the single road circling to the top, the park became very dark at night, especially where he took short cuts through groves of trees and thick undergrowth.
He saw no sign of anyone around. There was only the hum of cars off in the distance below him, moving along roads somewhere beyond the dense fog that ringed the park off from the rest of the city.
When he saw the reservoir his heart started pounding. He leaned against a tree and inhaled deep breaths to slow the throbbing in his temples, pressed his palms against his eyes.
“And the third rule?”
“You must fight to the death.”
He was up against a wall. If he refused to fight and ran, he’d never see his family again. It was as good as being dead. There’d be nothing left but a cowardly shell of a man carrying around a dead heart, until the day he finally put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger...
You’ve got to stay focused…
He pushed away from the tree and hiked down an ivy-covered hill to the concrete walk next to the reservoir. Mist hid the lapping water on the other side of the wrought iron fence.
On clear windless nights the reservoir would reflect the night sky and city lights like a giant ebony mirror. Robert had taken Peggy and Connor to see a full moon in it more times than he could remember. Once in the middle of freezing winter they’d witnessed a comet.
He quickened his pace toward the southern end. Voices echoed from somewhere nearby. When he rounded the corner he saw figures gathered next to the stone pump house. They stopped talking and turned to watch him as he advanced. Their faces were obscured by hoods. As he drew closer, one of the figures stepped in front of the rest and pointed a gun at Robert.
“Stop. Turn around, put your hands on the fence and spread your legs,” ordered the gunman.
Robert did as he was told. The iron was cold and bit his hands. He held his breath and listened to the thud of boots. A hand slammed down between his shoulder blades, causing his face to strike the fence.
“Don’t fucking move,” said another voice. His body was patted down thoroughly. Robert tasted blood where he’d split open his lip.
“He’s clean.”
The gunman leaned next to Robert’s ear.
“Do you need to be reminded of the rules again, Mr. Crain?”
Robert shook his head.
“Good. You will stay where you are and not attempt to follow us. Wait until you’ve heard our signal, then you will be free to look for your opponent and kill him.”
“What if I think he’s dead and he turns out not to be?”
The man behind him laughed coldly. “If you’re in doubt, then I suggest you do anything you can to make certain. Otherwise you forfeit. Good luck, Mr. Crain.”
Robert gripped the bars tighter, flexing his arms. It seemed like an eternity before a single gunshot pierced the night.
He assumed it must be the signal.
Stepping back from the fence, he quickly scanned both directions for anyone coming. He saw no one. He began walking, keeping watch for any shadows possibly lying flat on the ivy hill waiting to spring on him.
When he cleared the pump house he began to wonder if the whole event was some kind of cruel joke. He imagined the kidnappers sitting somewhere on the hill above, snickering as they watched the show.
An owl hooted from a cluster of trees at the top of a ridge.
Robert found a broken wine bottle on the ground and picked out the sharpest piece he could find. As he continued forward, he wound his handkerchief around the duller end, creating a handle he could grip tightly. Once he finished tying the loose ends into a tight knot, he slid the knife into his coat pocket.
He picked up his pace, thinking he’d head for the road where the daytime runners parked their cars.
Out of nowhere a heavy weight smashed down on his shoulders and crushed him to the ground. Robert rolled several times across the wet pavement with his attacker clinging from behind. Strong fingers dug into his neck and choked him. His head was slammed into the ground, sending out a white flash behind his eyes. Then suddenly his attacker fell back, out of breath, and after Robert wiped the grime from his face he found himself eye to eye with his first opponent.
He was heavyset, out of shape. But he deserved an A for surprise.
While he lay on his side and sucked hungrily for air, Robert struggled up on his elbows, wondering how he’d been ambushed. He soon noticed a section of the iron fence was missing, the hole strewn with torn yellow tape. His attacker had been waiting on the other side.
The man rose to h
is feet and glowered over him, his thick bare arms covered in tattoos and bloody scrapes. “You’re going to pay for what you did to my Dawn and Jenny. I’m going to tear you apart piece by piece just like you done to them.”
Robert stared up. “I didn’t harm your family. I swear on the lives of my wife and child.”
The man spit a gob of blood. “The police told me everything. They told me how you killed them.”
“The police? What are you talking about?”
The man smiled crookedly and shook out his legs as if preparing to run a marathon. “I guess you didn’t know they were going to nail your ass, did you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Thought so,” he said before kicking Robert in the side with a heavy work boot. Robert moaned and tried to drag himself away. When the boot came flying toward his forehead he reached out and caught it in both hands and pulled. The big man back-slammed the pavement and growled.
“Shit! My fucking back!”
As soon as he found a better grip on the man’s boot with both hands, Robert twisted it around like a shark pulling away meat. He heard bone give way and the man scream. When he let go the man’s foot dropped limply to the side.
Having thought of an idea, Robert stood up and took the man by the arms and dragged him into shadow so they wouldn’t be seen. He fumbled in his coat pocket for the piece of glass. He could have slashed the man’s throat. He stared into his fat sweaty face, searching for a reason to finish the job.
But there was something oddly familiar about him... Had they once drank beers together? It was such a small town when you really thought about it. Robert was usually good at remembering faces, but he couldn’t place were he’d seen this man’s before.
“What’s your name?”
“Fuck—you!”
Robert’s fist came down into the man’s face. He wished he hadn’t done that, but it was too late. Blood oozed from the man’s nostrils and into his mouth. He lay still with his eyes closed. Robert searched his pocket and found a wallet. He pulled out a driver’s license and turned it so he could read it in the faint light of his wristwatch.
