Kill Tide

by Timothy Fagan

  Pepper rolled away from the man, who fought to his feet and stumbled backward into the muddy lane, just as a wedge of yellow moon found an opening in the clouds. He saw the man’s bleeding face, confirming he’d guessed right.

  It was Gus Bullard. Coach Bullard.

  Pepper saw Bullard’s face twist into a wicked grin. “Hey, Wonderboy! Ready to die a hero?”

  Then Bullard lunged for him.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Pepper saw Bullard was holding a broken wooden handle. The man pulled it back like a baseball bat and swung at Pepper’s head.

  He ducked, and the handle screamed past, brushing the top of his hair. He stepped back as Bullard swung it again. A more awkward swing, a backhand. This time Pepper grabbed the handle and pulled it, making the man stumble forward. Pepper lurched to the side and kept pulling, but he tripped over a bucket in the near darkness and fell to his side.

  Bullard dove on Pepper, landing like a damned avalanche. Two hundred and seventy-five pounds of fury. Pepper got one knee up to catch Bullard in the stomach as he landed on him, knocking the wind from the man as he crushed Pepper.

  Pepper could feel new pain in all the areas that had been sewn up after his battle with Leo Flammia. Stitches tearing, blood flowing. Except his injured hand, which felt like nothing—it had gone numb.

  And even worse, he was humiliated. Bullard had played him like an idiot. He must have sent texts from Delaney’s phone, luring Pepper here. And Pepper hadn’t noticed anything was strange? He was as mad at himself as he was at Bullard.

  “You fucked up my perfect plan, killing Leo,” snarled Bullard. “Cost me my two million dollars. And life’s about accountability, Pylon. I’ve never been able to beat that lesson into your thick head. But tonight’s the night…”

  Coach had always been a master manipulator and, in Pepper’s opinion, a narcissistic bastard. That part made sense. He probably got Flammia to do all the snatchings, take all the real risk.

  Pepper punched Bullard square on the jaw, but since he was underneath the man, his punch didn’t have much power.

  Bullard shook his head and grinned. He pulled his arm back and punched down at Pepper’s face.

  Pepper raised his head at the last second and Bullard’s fist hit Pepper’s forehead. The thickest part of his head—a trick Pepper had picked up scrapping in the British Columbia Hockey League last winter.

  The impact of the punch threw Pepper flat backward, and he heard a cry of pain from Bullard. Fist against the front of the forehead? No contest. The man had probably busted his hand.

  Pepper grabbed Bullard’s shirt and rolled him to the right, but not enough for Pepper to end up on top. They were lying side by side in the mud, straining at each other and trying to get the advantage.

  “It’s gonna kill your old man,” snarled Bullard, his sour breath in Pepper’s face. “His own son, an accomplice to the snatchings. The girls would have gone free, and now you’ve fucked that up too. It has to look like a murder-suicide, so no one’ll look for me.”

  Pepper’s only reply was to knee the man in the gut, two times fast. He rolled free, climbing to his feet.

  Somehow, Bullard found his feet almost as quickly. There was just enough moonlight for Pepper to see the man grope around in the back of a pickup truck and pull out something which looked like a piece of metal rebar.

  Bullard thrust it at Pepper’s face. Pepper threw himself aside, rolling away in the mud.

  He regained his feet and stumbled into the shadows of a shipping container and limped around the corner, taking a hard left, which led behind a different container. All the while searching in the near darkness for something to use as a weapon. Bullard might find him any second. Pepper found nothing.

  Pepper heard the sounds of someone running nearby, then nothing, then a door slam. Was Bullard changing his plan and trying to drive away? He scrambled up into the back of a pickup truck, his whole body protesting, trying to see anything in the near darkness.

  The heavy footsteps came towards him again. So Bullard was staying to finish the fight. Had he retrieved something from the oil tank truck? Pepper groped around in the pickup's bed, trying to find something he could use to defend himself, and scrapped his hands on concrete blocks. He grabbed one from both ends as brutal pain exploded again in his injured hand. He ignored it, lifting the concrete block up to chest level. Pepper couldn’t see enough to know exactly where Bullard was.

  Mucky footsteps came along the left side of the pickup truck, and Pepper turned and heaved the concrete block like a shot put. He heard it collide with a body, heard Bullard’s scream of rage and pain and the man splashing down into the mud.

  Pepper vaulted over the other side of the truck and staggered farther into the maze of containers, pickup trucks and trailers. He needed something better to use as a weapon. Preferably one-handed… But it was too dark—clouds had choked out the moon again. He wove through the Big Red Yard like he was in a nightmare. And found nothing to help him in his fight.

  The window of a panel van beside him exploded and Pepper flinched away. That explained what Bullard had gone to the truck for—a handgun.

  Pepper bent lower and hurried forward around the front of the panel van, then down the side of a high-sided trailer parked behind it. He was losing the fight so far. However, he would stay and finish it, win or lose.

  His good hand found the handle of a tool, and he grabbed it. It was only a broom. Barely better than nothing, but he kept it.

  The only thing keeping Pepper going was his rage at Bullard for all the horrible things he’d done to the Emmas and Delaney. The pain and trauma they’d suffered…which they were still enduring.

  He wasn’t going down easy. He’d fight and cheat and do whatever it took to stop Bullard. That guy was a fucking monster and he just couldn’t win. No way.

  Pepper crept past the trailer and inched down the side of a container. He couldn’t see two feet in front of himself. He held the broom out like a blind man’s cane.

  “Give it up, Pylon,” yelled Bullard, somewhere to Pepper’s right. Not too far away. “Quit now and I’ll let the two Emmas live. They haven’t seen my face… Is that a deal?”

  Pepper didn’t respond. He tossed his broom high in the air to his left, as far as he could. It clang against a container.

  As Bullard rushed past in that direction holding his gun up in front of himself, Pepper tackled the man low and dirty.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  They smashed into the side of a container, and both fell again. Pepper got the forearm of his bad hand across Bullard’s neck and wildly tried to grab the handgun with his other hand.

  He couldn’t let Bullard win. No way. If Pepper lost, he was dead. And so was Delaney. Probably the Emmas too. Families shattered.

  And that wasn’t all. Pepper’s family would also be disgraced, thinking he was the monster behind all this insanity.

  No damned way.

  Bullard grabbed Pepper with two hands. So he must have dropped his handgun. They wrestled in the mud, like Pepper had wrestled with Flammia only one long day ago. Bullard was heavier than Flammia. Probably forty pounds heavier than Pepper too. And Pepper was wounded and exhausted.

  But Pepper was younger and in better shape. And he was at least as pissed off as Bullard. They wrestled for control in the near darkness, throwing punches which mostly didn’t land or do any damage.

  They were both breathing heavily and Bullard was swearing, calling Pepper every name he could think of. Pepper saved the little air he had for breathing. He just wrestled and threw punches and scrapped for his life.

  The stories were that Bullard had been a hell of a fighter in his East Coast Hockey League days until concussions ended his playing career. But that was a long time ago…and fighting on ice and fighting in mud were two different ways to scrap.

  Bullard pulled Pepper to the right, trying to roll him over, and Pepper went with it and kept rolling. The move caught Bullard by surprise and Pepp
er ended up on top. He brought back his good left hand, so heavy he could barely lift it, and punched the man’s face with every bit of energy he had left. He caught Bullard on the side of his jaw, heard his grunt of pain and felt him go limp under him. Probably unconscious.

  A very lucky punch.

  Pepper hit him one more time, just to be sure and also because he was still in a full-on rage. This punch caught Bullard square on the nose, which broke with a snap. The man didn’t fight back.

  Pepper sat up, still straddling Bullard. His mind was spinning.

  It wasn’t always about speed, Coach. Sometimes it all came down to who was willing to sacrifice more.

  Pepper took a deep, ragged breath. Sure, Bullard was headed to prison. But once Detective Miller found out about Pepper’s role in bringing Bullard down, he’d make sure Pepper lost everything too, like he’d promised. No Harvard and no music career either. Pepper’s dad would have to resign under the scandal of all the laws Pepper had violated this week. Possibly his dad would face charges too.

  All because of Bullard’s savage, evil acts. Which, at the end of the day, may have just been about the old coach’s anger at being tossed aside by the high school. And partially about the two million dollars of ransom money he must have felt was fair payback. What a psycho.

  Then Pepper realized he had a way out, after all.

  No one (other than trusty Angel) knew Pepper had been there—not if he got away before the police arrived. Justice could be quickly served, and Pepper’s life wouldn’t be ruined. Win-win. All he had to do was choke Bullard to death. Exactly the rough justice the man deserved for murdering Dennis Cole and kidnapping three woman.

  As Pepper’s hands closed around Bullard’s thick neck, he realized he could see the man’s bloody face. The moon had slid just enough from behind the clouds. A fresh breeze swept through the container park, followed by thin, warm rain.

  Pepper squeezed, thinking about the terror Bullard and Flammia’s victims must have experienced over the past week. The fear, the helplessness, being imprisoned by such evil bastards. Bullard deserved the Greenhead Snatcher nickname with Flammia. They were both just parasites. They should be wiped out. That would be Pepper’s final sacrifice, no matter the consequence to him.

  He could do this. He could end everything right now. His fingers tightened harder around Bullard’s fat neck.

  Police sirens wailed in the distance. The sound shook him like the ringing of an alarm clock trying to pull him from the deep, troubled sleep of a nightmare.

  Could Pepper really kill an unconscious man?

  Maybe he should just tie up Bullard and let the police take him. Pepper was light-headed, unable to decide.

  If Bullard lived, everything would come out at his trial. Pepper could almost picture the manipulative bastard in court: using Pepper’s involvement as a weapon, try to poison the case and twist Pepper’s acts into something they weren’t.

  But if the alternative was for Pepper to commit murder, no. Just no.

  He released the man’s neck.

  He would have to let the D.A.’s office try to do their job, even though the fallout for Pepper would be total. He could picture the smile on Miller’s face when the state police detective kept his promise and built a case which would completely ruin Pepper’s life.

  Pepper climbed to his feet. We all get what we deserve, even if the price is high. That’s what justice means. He would not kill an unconscious man in cold blood. He couldn’t run away from that act if he committed it, or blame anyone else. It was the simple truth.

  In that moment, for the first time in a long time, Pepper was at peace. He felt completely free, despite the consequences to himself.

  He started walking, swaying from fatigue. He needed to find some rope or duct tape to tie Bullard’s hands. Which should be easy, surrounded by contractors’ trucks and work equipment. There should be tons of it somewhere nearby.

  Tie up Bullard. Then go free Delaney and the two Emmas. He deserved to be the one to free them—that would almost make up for whatever hell Pepper was going to face in the legal system. So he’d need to find something sharp to cut those miserable tie wraps…

  It was still way too damned dark. He groped his way along a trailer but didn’t find a rope or anything else he could use to tie Bullard’s hands and feet.

  The police sirens were getting louder.

  He reached a shipping container and pulled at its door; it was locked. He crossed a path—feeling the open space around him—as another hint of moonlight mercifully broke through, helping him locate another pickup truck. He crawled over the tailgate into the bed. At the very front, he found a big snarl of nylon rope. It was as thick as his pinky finger. It would be perfect. Pepper grabbed it and turned to climb down from the truck.

  The next sequence unfolded in slow motion, like a nightmare. Pepper saw the enormous dark form of Gus Bullard charge into the open space of the path. It was clearly him—the thin moonlight illuminated his muddy form, his bloody face and his extended arm, with something shiny in his fist. How could Bullard have regained consciousness so quickly? How had he found his handgun in the mud?

  “I’m gonna kill you,” shouted Bullard, lumbering toward where Pepper kneeled in the back of the pickup truck.

  Pepper gathered the big tangle of nylon rope to throw it at the man. Probably an empty gesture, but it was all he could do in his defense. Pepper had nowhere to go, and Bullard could get as close as he liked before pulling the trigger.

  All this flashed through Pepper’s mind in a second. His hands brought up the rope, turning to heave it at Bullard.

  Bullard’s mouth wide open and his ruined nose was a mass of red. The loony bastard was laughing—a broken, coughing howl. So close now. He saw the man’s gun come up, reflecting silver moonlight.

  Then Pepper saw a bigger glint in the night air, saw it descending toward Bullard. Saw it meeting Bullard’s head with a soft, wet thud. He saw arms emerge from the shadows, then a person. Long hair. A woman.

  Delaney Lynn.

  He saw her axe rise again, less shiny than before. He saw it descend again, making the same wet, dull thud.

  Pepper heard Delaney screaming, “Kill me? You’ll fucking kill me?” Pepper saw the axe come up a third time, then down again into Bullard’s body, now a still bulk in the mud by the front of the truck. Delaney continued screaming, her voice hysterical with rage. “Fuck you!”

  A police car slid to a stop ten feet from her, flooding the scene with impossibly bright light. Its white high beams. Its light bar with swirling blue lights alternating with flashes of red. An inferno of brightness after all the dark.

  The police car door opened, and a man was yelling at Delaney. Still kneeling in the pickup's bed, Pepper could see the officer’s handgun pointed at her from behind the officer’s car door. He saw her drop the axe, step back, fall to her knees in the mud.

  The officer was still shouting. Delaney put her hands in the air but did not otherwise move.

  Pepper stayed just as frozen. He was positioned off to the side and so was almost entirely hidden in darkness. The officer would have to look right at him.

  Should he join Delaney on the path? Should he yell to the officer, announce his presence?

  The police officer quickly had Delaney flat in the mud and cuffed, then led her to the back of the police car. Securing the scene, or so the officer probably thought.

  Pepper didn’t do either of those things. He just watched, trying to make sense of what had happened.

  Delaney had still been mostly tied up in the oil delivery tank. She must have broken the tie wrap Pepper had tried to cut off her hands, then removed the duct tape from her legs and head. Somehow she must have had the strength to climb the metal ladder and escape.

  But then, instead of running away, she must have armed herself with the axe, either to protect herself or to help her get revenge on the man who’d kidnapped her. And when she’d seen Bullard with a handgun yelling threats and
running in her direction—Pepper’s direction too, unknown to her—she had buried the axe in the man’s damned head.

  Shit, good for her. Bullard had snatched her, terrorized her and made her fear she would die when he had charged toward her with the handgun. The asshole got exactly the death he deserved.

  Pepper climbed stealthily and painfully down the far side of the pickup truck, moving slowly because of his injuries and to make as little noise as possible. Staying low, out of the light.

  He had a momentary impulse to step out of the darkness and identify himself to the officer. He wanted to get in the back of the police car and hug Delaney. To comfort her. She must be completely traumatized.

  However, he couldn’t do anything for her without destroying his own future. And his gut told him she would be fine, emotionally and legally.

  Delaney would tell the police what she’d seen—Bullard advancing toward the spot where she hid, yelling that he would kill her. She’d likely never seen Pepper kneeling in the bed of the pickup truck. She’d acted in self-defense against the man who’d kidnapped her and now was advancing to kill her.

  Her act was completely justified.

  Reluctantly, Pepper left her. He slowly worked his way deeper into the maze of the Big Red Yard, away from the lights. Pepper soon reached the place where he’d climbed over the wall earlier.

  What was he going to do now? He could barely walk, let alone scale a wall…

  Pepper located a ladder on the roof of a panel van. He dragged it to the wall and extended it a few feet, which took agonizing effort.

  Then he climbed to the top, sat on Angel’s ruined blanket (still draped on the barbed wire!) and kicked the ladder away to the ground.

  And there, waiting in El Diablo in the corner of the machine shop parking lot, was Angel. He’d come back for Pepper and the police sirens hadn’t scared him off. What a buddy… But he was parked about ten feet forward of where he’d been earlier. Pepper had no choice except to jump off the wall.