PHILLIP THOMAS DUCK
TRIAGE
A Thriller
ALSO BY PHILLIP THOMAS DUCK
Distracted
Excuse Me, Miss
Modesty
One Quick Kiss
Exit
Counterfeit Wives
Apple Brown Betty
Grown and Sexy
Playing with Destiny
Young Adult novels:
Dirty South
Dirty Jersey
On the Web:
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www.excusememissptd.blogspot.com
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TRIAGE.
Copyright © 2012 by Phillip Thomas Duck.
All rights reserved.
New Jersey
He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much
Luke 16:10
“‘YOU HAVE WEAPON? You have weapon?’” JW said, glancing up at me. “Remember that, Shell?”
I nodded. We were in his den. It was still clothed in the dark colors he had chosen for it during his bachelor days. A breeze fluttered in through an open window just beyond us and carried the alcohol on his breath toward me. The sun had yet to make an appearance. A gray day.
“Oriental whore,” he went on, “had us both confused. I don’t remember what city we were in.”
“Asian,” I said.
“What?” Perplexity became his mask.
I sat down on the arm of the chair next to him and looked into his face. “You said ‘Oriental’. That’s considered offensive. Asian’s more appropriate.”
The years of friendship we shared drained from his eyes as he looked at me in turn. “Always the first to correct me,” he said, smiling without showing his teeth.
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “‘You have weapon? You have weapon?’ I think I might’ve actually patted myself to see if I did. That whore messed my head up. Yours, as well.”
I paused so maybe we could laugh at the memory together. It’d been awhile since we’d laughed at anything.
When the laughter didn’t come I said, “Then she pulls out a condom. Holds it up. ‘Weapon! Weapon!’ It finally dawned on me, she meant protection.”
He frowned. Pain showed up as lines at the corners of his eyes. “You still had to explain it to me, Shell. I didn’t get it right away.”
I embraced the silence that had become common between us.
“The Coppa family didn’t hire me for my brain, that’s for sure,” he grumbled.
“What made you think of the whore?” I asked, changing the subject.
He sighed. “Sex has always been so…accessible. That’s a word I’ve heard you use. Did I use it correctly?”
I nodded.
“What the hell happened in there?” he asked, changing course as I had done a moment before, the Asian whore forgotten.
I did not flinch at the bite in his voice or the memory of in there.
“It went to shit so fast,” he added. “Like they were on to me from jump.”
Silence.
“I keep telling myself I’m blessed,” he said. “Lefty Guns is no longer with us. They said his arteries were clogged like a toilet. I can still hear him wheezing just from climbing stairs. As far as I’m concerned that guy wasn’t living anyway. At least I’m…”
“You shouldn’t drink, JW.”
“The hell I shouldn’t.”
“I have to get going,” I said, rising from the chair arm.
“Stay for a bit. You got nothing going on,” he said.
“What?”
“Taj is gone. She isn’t coming back even if she wants to. And I don’t believe she wants to, anyway.”
I frowned.
He did, too. “That came out messed up, Shell. I’m sorry.”
“I’m going,” I said.
“What’s death like?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know, JW.”
“Not death,” he corrected. “You know what I mean. How’s it to kill someone? You feel anything after?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“They ever beg you for their life?” he went on. “I bet they do, all the time. Don’t they?”
“You shouldn’t drink,” I said once more. “You’re being very careless right now, JW. Some things shouldn’t be spoken about.”
“The bastards killed Veronica and Ericka. When you finally got hold of ‘em I bet they begged hard. Am I right? As crazy as you were after that shit happened to the girls. I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with you.”
“I could slap you silly right now, JW.”
“Slap?” he said, smiling. “You’re not one for slapping, especially when you’re angry. Slap? Hell. That a euphemism for putting me to bed for good?” His smile widened. “Euphemism, good word, huh, Shell?”
My nostrils flared.
“Don’t take it so rough,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You’re lucky you’re…”
“What?” he said. “Useless? Go ahead and say it.”
“Why do you do this to yourself, JW?”
“Saline,” he said, looking away.
I took several long breaths. It worked. I calmed some. Some.
“Saline,” he repeated in a whisper.
I owed him more than just conversation, but I would start with this. “What about saline?” I asked.
There was a tennis ball in his lap. He fumbled to secure it, and then tossed it my way with surprising strength and accuracy. I almost said something insensitive about the success of the toss. Luckily, I was able to bite down on the words and just caught the tennis ball. He squeezed tennis balls to try and keep some strength in his hands. I felt dirty for holding it.
“Look at it,” he said.
“It’s just a tennis ball.”
“Look closer.”
I frowned but did as directed while he fussed at the toggle switch on his electric wheelchair. The motor whirred as he powered the chair across the room, its sound grating on me. It was a reminder of my best friend’s paralysis. A reminder of my role in the tragedy. What the hell happened in there, Shell?
I bit down on my molars and examined the tennis ball. Words were written on it, with a black felt marker, in JW’s shaky handwriting.
The whirring of the wheelchair ceased. I looked up.
He’d maneuvered the chair behind his big wooden desk. A smile lit his handsome face. Despite my best efforts I was unable to suppress a frown. It had been ages since I had smiled myself.
He said, “Crazy, right?”
For a moment, I was unsure of what he meant, but then I noticed his gaze focused on my hands. On the tennis ball.
“Saline. Sodium thio…thiopental. Potassium chloride and pan…pancuronium bromide,” I read. “What is all of this stuff, JW?”
“The sodium thiopental’s a sleep-inducing barbiturate.”
My frown deepened.
He had only gotten through college because of his athletic prowess and my willingness to peril my own bright future by writing his papers and sneaking him the answers on all his exams. I myself, though more than physically capable, had eschewed football because it was not violent enough to nourish my natural tendencies.
“The pancuronium,” he went on, “is a muscle relaxant.”
I swallowed. “And the potassium chloride?
”
Another smile. “Now that’s the interesting one, Shell. Stops the heart.”
“What the—”
He raised his hand. “Relax, Shell. I read up on all of this stuff—euthanasia, lethal injections—but that’s it, just reading. I wouldn’t even know how to get my hands on all those drugs. And it would take courage I don’t have to take that slow sleep.”
He opened one of his desk drawers then, and my body tensed even more. In the days to come I’d question myself about those seconds I stood there and watched him peering into that drawer.
“Who would’ve ever thought I’d make it to the NFL?” he said, still looking dazedly in the drawer. “That’s some crazy shit, huh, Shell?”
“JW?”
But his mind was somewhere else. I’m not sure he ever heard my voice.
“These concealed carry laws are a bitch,” he complained. “My father toted around a shotgun like it was the second son he always wanted.”
“Your father was a degenerate alcoholic shithead, JW. You’re headed down the same road.”
“You gotta conceal, basically leaves you with the choice of either a 9mm or a .380. Little pisser guns, the both of ‘em, if you ask me. And I don’t wanna hear that shit about ‘a .380 in the pocket is better than a .45 in the truck.’ Screw that.”
I should’ve crossed his den at that moment.
Should’ve moved to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“So I go with the .380,” he said. “Bersa. Guy sells it to me tells me how similar it is to a Walther, but cheaper.” He paused, smiled again. “One more year and I would’ve been eligible for the damn NFL pension. Then I never would’ve gotten in bed with the Coppa family.”
An ACL injury had cut his career short.
“Don’t beat yourself up about that,” I said. “You have a family to look after.”
Wrong thing to say. I’d have done better to chant ‘Asian’ until I lost my voice.
His smile turned to a frown. “Family? Kat lives on the Internet looking up shit. Vacuum pumps, dick injections, some extra-powerful vibrator ‘sposed to wake my peter piper all the way up. It’s all too complicated and messy for me. We tried something once and I shit the bed. Now Kat’s saying the doctors can get at my sperm other ways. Imagine that? That sound like any way to start a family? I don’t think so, and I doubt Kat is as enthused by it all as she pretends to be.”
Kat was the nickname he’d given his wife.
“Kat”—I cleared my throat—“loves you, JW. Even when you act like an asshole. All she’s ever wanted was for you to do the right thing.”
He either didn’t hear that or didn’t care. “The Coppa family is standup, Shell. I know you have your issues with them, but they’ve offered to take care of me. Some type of wounded-in-the-line-of-duty bullshit.”
“Honorable,” I said.
“Honor. Tradition. Respect. Dignity.”
“You…” His hand reached in the drawer and turned my thought to an ellipsis.
“Some things should be quick. To hell with a slow sleep,” he said, hefting the aforementioned Bersa. “Twenty-three shitty ounces.”
“Holeup.” The precise diction and intelligence left my voice as I called out to my best friend.
Forever I’d think about how his last word ever was “ounces”.
Ounces. Weight.
The Bersa’s bark wasn’t that loud but its bite was shocking. I nearly vomited on the carpet. Tears stung my eyes. The room clouded with the stink of my best friend’s blood and voided bowels. I thought of Veronica and Ericka as I took in the sight of JW’s broken body slumped over in the wheelchair I’d put him in.
I had given up the killing game, but like a scorned lover it had a great willingness to still insinuate itself into my life.
No, they didn’t always beg for their lives, JW.
Shit.
ONE
BECAUSE OF JW AND Veronica and Ericka and countless others I didn’t think of killing her those first moments. Those thoughts would come later. Initially, I just followed her, kept her in my sights. Stalked her, most would say. Mirrored her every move for several hours. Emotionally, I was in a place devoid of light or sound or reason. Yet every corner of my thoughts demanded that I turn around and stop trailing her. No good would come of this, a voice in my head screamed. I’d already caused enough destruction. Despite that understanding, I did my best to believe my actions, however regrettable in hindsight, had been part of a greater purpose. The tallies would show that even though I’d sent quite a few people to their eternal rests, they’d all deserved it, and that their loss was someone else’s gain. I’d made a career of killing men who’d harmed women in some great way. Unrepentant abusers, rapists, etcetera.
And now I was stalking a woman.
Some would say I was an enigma.
But most would say something else altogether.
They would say I was dangerous.
I WATCHED HER STANDING in the rain without the assistance of an umbrella. My hands at the ten and two on the steering wheel in my black Yukon, stereo muted, no sound washing over the interior of the SUV other than the rush of heartbeat in my ears and the methodical whoomp of wiper blades. Meanwhile, she stood there in the rain. Cars funneled by as she impatiently tapped her foot at the crossing and looked both ways, anxious to reach the other side of the thoroughfare. I considered approaching her right there on the street, my left hand grasping her elbow and pulling her deep into the shadows, but something about her paralyzed me. She was one of the most breathtaking women I’d ever seen. Beautiful and stylish. Big boxy sunglasses covered her eyes. Stilettos brought out the definition in her calves. Her jeans looked painted-on and had rich embroidery. The plunging neckline of her white blouse displayed generous cleavage and emphasized the mouthwatering points of her full breasts. She wore a dark jacket over the short-sleeve blouse that she’d probably classify as navy in color. Even under the threat of violence I’d never call the jacket anything but blue. An expensive pocketbook was slung over her shoulder. Its leather looked soft as warm butter. The fingers that opened the pocketbook’s clasp had nails that were painted white along the tip, clear at the base. Expensively done, in a salon no doubt. French manicure. No ring on any one of her ten slender fingers.
I’d been following and watching her for hours. During that time I’d learned nearly everything there was to discover about her appearance. Nearly everything, but not everything. Suddenly what I was ignorant of took shape and form. Big boxy sunglasses.
I needed to see her eyes. Only then would I know how to proceed.
Rain sluiced down the windshield of my Yukon. Illegal five percent tint comfortably concealed me from her view. Not that it mattered to me if I were seen. I preferred the shadows, but oftentimes anonymity wasn’t possible. What was to be done would be done, though, regardless. That’s how it worked when I was involved in a situation. I saw things through to their proper conclusion, whether I found the task at hand pleasant or not.
The roadway finally cleared. She sashayed across as though walking on a felt runner in Paris. A musical soundtrack must have been playing in her head. Her hips, hypnotizing in their movement, like the steady rhythm of a pendulum, caused me great discomfort. An erection bulged in my pants. I yawned open the driver’s-side door to continue tracking her. She moved inside the Farmer’s Market, the store on a corner across from a shuttered Mobil gas station. I stepped across puddles in the broken asphalt to get to her. My steps had the precision of a soldier in formation. A black leather glove soaked up the anxious moisture pooled in my left palm. I carefully wiped my ungloved right palm on the side of my pants. A scattershot heartbeat punched a wide hole in my chest.
Still, a beat later, my gloved left hand touched the metal frame door of the Farmer’s Market. I didn’t hesitate before I stepped inside. I walked over a carpet of corn husks and crushed peas and string beans and onion skins among other things. Wiped rainwater from my eyes with hands I’d been told more
than once were built only for mayhem; hands that weren’t gentle enough to touch a woman. I’d defied that notion the first time with a knock-kneed Catholic girl named Tammy, and more recently with a buxom post-grad student, improbably named Haven, that didn’t earn her tuition on a stripper pole. The mirror above a stand of plantains caught my reflection as I considered my long and sordid history with women. The reflection exposed a large man, head shaved nearly bald, in a button-down shirt soaked through with rain. Shirt and pants in a color as black as pitch. The mirror revealed this man’s eyes were concealed behind tinted black Aviator sunglasses and that his face was smooth of smile lines. But the mirror was adept at revealing only so much. There was a great deal more that existed below the surface. Some of it was good. Most of it, typically, not so much so. I had a very slim belief that would ever change.
I searched the Market, found her easily enough by a bin of peaches.
I’d moved beyond the point of no return so I headed in her direction.
Twenty feet away, my mouth was old cardboard in a dry, musty basement. I swallowed what saliva I could call up to correct that. Not very much as it turned out.
Fifteen feet away, I balled my gloved left hand in a fist, then unclasped it, and then fisted it again. My ungloved right hand rested quietly against the side of my leg.
Ten feet away, regret and hopelessness rang in my ears like the sounds of a wind chime.
Five feet away, I stopped thinking and just continued to move.
I paused at her shoulder and detected coconut, either on her skin or in her clothes or hair. I couldn’t tell which. She was the brown of beef gravy, with smooth and soft skin. It looked incredibly soft to my eyes, at least. Crystals of water from the downpour beaded her silky, black hair. The water crystals were shinier than crushed glass but duller than diamond. The dichotomy of her build had me studying her in wonderment. She was both slender and not slender at the same time. Swelled breasts, pancake-flat stomach, thin waistline, healthy ass and thighs. I moved beside her but didn’t pick up a peach.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 1
