“You know the definition of indignity, Shell?” he asked.
His voice was a cold finger traveling up and down my spine, searching for a soft spot to sink its nails in to.
“An act that offends a person’s dignity or self-respect, an insult, humiliating treatment,” he answered for me, and clucked his tongue. “Treat someone with indignity and you’re bound to get yourself in some deep doo-doo. Payback being a bitch and all.”
Shepard turned off the road, brought the nose of the Acura facing the chain-link fence of one of the industrial tombstones. Then he got out, the Acura’s frame sighing in relief without the strain of his weight, and dug in his pocket for a set of keys, one of which he eased in the Locinox gate lock that secured the property. I knew about Rad’s unchecked propensity for violence. I knew about Shepard’s sap, and stories, as yet unproven, about his missing tongue. A mixture of urban legend and truth, no doubt. But I’d heard nothing about this smallish warehouse building absent of windows and covered in Neo-Nazi graffiti that sat on the deserted track of land fronting the PassaicRiver.
“Rad,” I said.
“Now is not the time for you to speak, my friend.” He shook his head and made a dramatic shush sound, a finger pressed to his lips. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word...”
“Remember what you said about payback being a bitch,” I warned.
“I will,” he said, then back to taunting me. “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…”
Another chill snaked down my spine as Shepard made his way from the gate back toward the Acura, but I refused to acknowledge the crinkling of my flesh with a shudder. What I needed was time to put some kind of viable plan in motion. And quiet to come up with said plan. It didn’t appear as if I would get either, though. The car sighed again as Shepard dropped down behind the wheel. Meanwhile, Rad’s off-key approximation of singing continued to assault my eardrums. The mockingbird lullaby replaced by vintage Neil Young, Down by the River. The rasp in Rad’s voice was interrupted only by a deep wheezing sound every beat or so. I shot my baby, he droned, dead, oh, shot her dead, down by the river. I couldn’t help but think that the night, and all of the darkness that had and still surrounded it, was somehow my comeuppance for a life lived more than inappropriately. Rad was correct. Payback is indeed a bitch.
But maybe I’d be able to get some of my own payback. In order for that to happen, though, I knew I’d need some things to really break my way in the next few moments. Unfortunately, it started out terribly. I lost a precious thirty seconds or more of thinking time, of strategy time, when Shepard didn’t get out and shut the gate closed behind us. The fact that he left out that important detail made me swallow hard again. An open gate would certainly arouse suspicion and attract attention if someone were to pass by. Shepard and Rad were not at all concerned with anyone seeing it open. That spoke volumes of the situation. Not good.
We traveled down a path on the east side of the building. The warehouse was bigger than I’d originally realized. More depth, I thought. Not actually a homophone of death, but close enough for me to quickly tuck the word safely away and concentrate on my immediate surroundings instead. Several large, rusted oil drums. Metal frames of some sort stacked against the building. Loose cinderblocks and bricks in a high pile. An ancient bulldozer that resembled a bulletproof Tyrannosaurus Rex. A heap of trash formed into an improbably neat hill. And about fifty yards beyond us, off through a grove of trees, the blue-green-brown currents of the PassaicRiver. I could not look at the river.
Rad stopped singing and said, “Here’s good, Shepard.”
Here was the Acura parked at a haphazard angle, nose facing the river I wouldn’t look at.
I didn’t close my eyes, but suddenly sounds were more prevalent than sight. Particularly the sound of Rad reaching into his blazer. I heard the brush of his hands against the material, heard him rooting around in his inner coat pocket. I gritted my teeth in frustration, then went ahead and sighed. With the recognition of what was happening, came an unburdening, a weight lifted off of my shoulders. Nothing mattered anymore.
Rad’s hands came out of his blazer; he leaned forward from the backseat. Still too far away for me to run his nose bone up into his brain with a bad-intentioned head butt.
“Shell, Shell, Shell,” he said.
I eyed him defiantly, my lower body turned awkwardly in the other direction, hands straining against the constraints looped through the door handle. Until the very end I’d be at odds with him. Until the very end I wouldn’t give him the benefit of seeing or breathing or touching or hearing or tasting what little fear I had. Nothing to lose anymore.
Nothing at all.
Rad reached over the seat and I noticed the glint of something in his hand. He handed the something to Shepard, who took it without missing a beat, their dance smoothed by lots of practice. Two versus one. Two versus one. Those odds echoed.
The something turned out to be an Emerson police utility knife. Short, stout blade, dragon’s teeth serration, a knife favored by the British SAS, special forces soldiers with a worldwide reputation for competency. Cherie’s knife would make the faint of heart piss their pants. The Emerson would make that same individual shit themselves. Shepard took the Emerson knife in his fist grip, blade pointed out and facing me. I treated the knife as I’d done the river, wouldn’t look at it.
Knew it well enough anyway.
I’d bent Rad’s wrist back and taken this same type of knife from him once upon a time.
“Got yourself another one,” I said to Rad.
His face clouded for a beat. “That I did, my friend,” he said.
“Too bad I don’t have your old one right now. Make this a fairer fight.”
I thought of that old knife, how close I’d come to having myself filleted like a flounder. We’d traded some devastating blows, both of us shrugging the majority of them off. And then I’d gotten a corner of breathing room, all I needed, wrapping my hand around Rad’s thick wrist, completely changing the stakes in a beat. Knife-to-hand combat turned to hand-to-hand combat. More fair. I’d left the fight with my life still intact, met Nevada for the first time the next day. At the time I’d considered that good fortune.
The day at the Farmer’s Market. “You need medical attention,” she’d said.
I’d fought Rad to near death one day. Stalked Nevada Barnes the next. Those were some very dark times. And here we were again.
Irony?
Rad brought me out of my reverie with, “One day you’ll learn how to better negotiate your mouth, Shell. Or, as paramount as it is, maybe not. I have a sinking feeling that time will run out on your worthless life before you ever get the chance to learn.”
I glanced at Shepard, and then Rad. Bravado made me say, “Oh, I think I’ll be around a bit longer, Conrad.”
“A bit,” Rad agreed, and chuckled. “A bit indeed.”
My brain clicked through my next course of action, settling on nothing.
“Cut this asshole loose, Shepard. Time for his baptism,” Rad said. Then to me: “Wade in the water. That’s a song isn’t it?”
It referenced the Israelites escape from Egypt in the Bible, the escape of slaves later in history. But I wouldn’t give him the benefit of my knowledge.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Shepard. Let’s get started.”
Shepard exited the vehicle for that clopping walk, behind the Acura and around to the passenger side. The cool night air slapped my face as I waited. The Passaic sung a melody that registered barely more than a running faucet. Parts of the sky were gunmetal gray, the better parts were coal black and absent of stars. My nose picked up a scent I didn’t trust as real: coconut.
Rad reached in his blazer, came out of his belt holster with the .38, thumbed off the safety, and planted a kiss behind my left ear with the peacemaker. “You get stupid I’ll scramble your eggs,” he told me.
I’d heard s
omething similarly said in a novel, which one I couldn’t recall. A bloody shoot ‘em up, for sure. It had sounded completely cool on the page, less so in real life.
Shepard made it to my side, pulled open the door without a thought of my well-being, the momentum of the door swing pulling me out and down hard to my knees. He cut the TUFF-TIES in one quick motion. Rad was out, too, standing above me, the .38 in hand.
“Get on your feet,” Rad said.
“No,” I said.
“Get on your feet,” he shouted. “Or this ends sooner than expected.”
I got on my feet, stood facing Rad, Shepard looming behind me. I didn’t care.
Rad said, “An act that offends a person’s dignity or self-respect, an insult, humiliating treatment.” The definition of indignity he’d quoted to me earlier.
I said, “Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you.” I smiled. “See, I do listen, Conrad. Okay, your turn. Quick, tell me your favorite quotable of the night.”
“Fuck you.”
“I would’ve gone with ‘One inch. And only ‘cause it curves to the right.’ But, okay. You got that. My turn again?”
The .38 was a finger pushing in the center of my chest. That quieted my foolishness.
“You treated me with indignity, my friend. I haven’t forgotten. Now it’s my turn.”
“Give it your best shot.”
Shepard’s right hand, the size of two normal hands, was on my shoulder, prodding me toward the Acura. I didn’t resist. No point.
“Take out the cases of water,” Rad said.
“What?”
He moved to me in one motion, slapped me in the back of my head with the .38.
I bit down on my molars.
“Take out the cases of water,” he repeated.
Three cases of 48-pack Poland Spring water bottles, 8 oz. I took them out, one by one, stacked them by the Acura’s rear tire, then turned to face Rad again, my face blank.
“Good,” he said. “Now the rest of the stuff. Stack it the same way.”
Seven-pound bags of dry dog food, Purina Beneful. Twenty-two ounce buckets of Buddy “Luv” dog treats, Chocolit Chip Cookie flavor. All stacked neatly by the Acura. A thin layer of sweat covered my brow and dampened my armpits by the time I’d finished taking everything out and stacking it. Covered in sweat even though I hadn’t exerted very much effort.
“We’ll start with the dog food and treats,” Rad said. “You can do the water last.”
“That’s supposed to mean something to me?” I said.
He used the nose of the .38 as a laser pointer, beaming it at the dog food and treats, then toward the Passaic.
I realized at once what he wanted, and frowned in response.
“You’re going to dump everything,” he said. “I want you to go out at least twenty feet when you do.”
“I can’t swim,” I said.
“I know,” he said, smiling, “Taj has mentioned as much.”
I glanced toward the grove of trees, thought of the water beyond them, and then turned my attention back to Rad.
He said, “There’s a point where you’ve gone too far to turn back.”
“What?”
“I listen, too, my friend. That’s one of your more poignant quotables of this fine evening. Now get moving.”
I nodded. What else could I do? Then I moved to roll up my pants legs and slide out of my shoes.
“Leave that be,” Rad said, shaking his head. “Start with the dog food, then the treats, then the water. Do it now.”
My head filled with homicidal thoughts, but I went ahead and corralled the bags of dry dog food, grabbing two in my right hand, and two under my left arm. That gesture seemed to please Shepard. He grunted, probably as close as he’d ever come to actually speaking.
“Open the bags when you get out there,” Rad said, “and feed the water.”
Indignity.
Instead of fixating on my lungs, I considered the damage the briny water would exact on my handmade leather shoes. Michael Toschi. Expensive, like my watch. I imagined the black leather turned soggy and spongy and faded gray. Gray. My socks, a silk and cotton blend, might fare better. My pants, too. But in the end, I’d be a wet mess.
That’s if I didn’t drown.
I shook off that thought and started walking.
Rad stayed put, leaning against the Acura, tapping the .38 against the door in rhythm. Metal on metal. It made a sound. His purpose, I suppose. Don’t scratch the paint, I thought. You’ve already broken out a window. Ishmael will not be pleased. Minutiae.
Another sound trailed me, a hammering sound. Shepard’s footfalls following in the cover of my shadows.
The ground was mostly hard and uneven and littered with trash. It slanted down the nearer I came toward the waterline of the Passaic. I moved through the grove of trees, branches slapping me in the face. I didn’t pause, and certainly didn’t stop. Neither did Shepard. I could hear his feet snapping fallen twigs behind me. Through the trees, I came upon a knee-high cement wall that separated land from river. I finally risked a glance at the water. I did not spot any ripples in it, it didn’t look very menacing to be honest, yet I had a healthy fear of water that settled in my stomach like a rock. When I had nightmares, often water was involved in some way. I wasn’t happy now.
I stopped by the low cement wall, took a moment to get my bearings, then went ahead and stepped over. Both my feet were submersed in the water. My brain locked up immediately and so did all of the muscles it controlled. Paralyzed. They expected me to wade out to a distance of twenty feet, but I struggled with the first foot about as much as I’d ever struggled with anything. The temperature of the water caused my body to react all on its own. My abdominals tightened, deep breaths that sounded like a busted muffler escaped my chest, my teeth chattered, my nostrils flared. Nineteen more feet lay ahead of me.
Somehow I managed one.
Shepard stood by the wall at my back, a sap and size to his advantage, ready for me if I failed.
I managed another foot out into the water. As I did, the ground below me softened, and my handmade leather shoes sunk in. Despite that, I took another step. The water swelled to just above my waist. I took a deep breath, then another, and stepped forward again. Water surged around my shoulders. I’d learned of my fear of the water by being in it, down south in the Carolinas for some kind of outdoor camp, probably only ten or eleven years old at the time. I remember handling the water just fine until it approached my shoulders, just inches from my mouth, inches from my nose. Then I panicked, started flailing, and made a bad situation worse. Story of my life, I suppose. Here we were close to two decades later, and I was that scared little boy again, on the precipice of panicking.
I thought of JW, my best friend. Lying motionless in his wheelchair. Veronica and Ericka. Decapitated.
I cared for each of them as much as I could ever care for a human being.
But I wasn’t ready to join them on the other side.
Then the water plunked next to me. I studied it, as puzzled as Jiang was in the alley when I kicked the Coca-Cola can over to him. And as it did for Jiang, realization came to me also only a beat later, with another splash of water beside me in the Passaic. I managed to look back over my shoulder. I could see Shepard in the gloom, pitching loose bricks out into the water to make me move forward. Each pitch was effortless, as though he was only tossing pennies into a fountain. But the sound of the bricks plunking the water let me know without a doubt that I didn’t dare risk a shot in the head or back from one.
I treaded the river with my arms and legs, a hard task with four bags of dry dog food in tow. But I kept at it, floated out deeper. Two of the bags got away from me, but I didn’t bother worrying about them as they floated away. I ripped open the two I still had in my grasp, sifted the dog food to the water like lawn seed. Then I released the empty bags, and actually watched as they floated away from me, too. The water hadn’t warmed any, but I was on autopilot.
Cold be damned. I turned to go and gather up the other items.
Shepard stood by the wall, no more bricks in his hands, expressionless.
I passed him without a word.
It took me three trips to feed everything to the water.
I turned back after the third trip, pleased with myself. Rad had joined Shepard, waiting for me by the wall. I reached them, looked back over my shoulder at the water, and silently cursed it. But I’d won. This round at least. I gripped the wall, pulled myself over.
I stood in place there, as spent as I had ever been, weighed down by my soaked clothes.
Indignity.
Even in the darkness I could see the icy cold blueness of Rad’s eyes.
I waited for his soliloquy.
He hesitated, seemed to struggle with inner thoughts.
I tried to think of something to say, came up with nothing.
After a moment, Rad turned to Shepard. “No head shots, big man. Can’t afford to have his face marked. That would make it obvious he’d been in a struggle.” Then Rad started walking, ever so slowly, back through the grove of trees and toward the Acura.
Shepard and me. One versus one. Still bad odds.
I strained for the sounds of a city, and got nothing. No honked horns. No sirens. No revved engines. No harried voices. No babies crying. No gunshots. Nothing. Just the stillness of a night, down in a desolate industrial graveyard, with a quiet river at my back.
I licked my lips and crinkled my nose; the smell of coconut was in the air.
Déjà vu all over again.
Not the first time I’d fought a man with Shepard’s build and a desire to bring me serious bodily harm. I silently hoped that I’d learned something all of those other times. Hopefully my muscles would remember and respond on impulse.
Shepard pounced, struck me in the shoulder with his sap. I wondered if it garnered its name because of what it did to its victim’s strength. Suddenly I felt useless and sluggish. He aimed for my midsection next. I bent at the waist and caught the blow in the same shoulder. It throbbed in immediate pain.
I managed to drive my right knee into Shepard’s lower back, left side. It was corded with muscle, but I dug in deep. A kidney shot.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 12
