by Matt Minor
“Mr. Mason!” a voice echoes from within.
“Will?” I shout, confused.
Rusty hits my arm and shushes me with a stern index finger.
“Mr. Mason?” the voice repeats.
“Mason?” Brenna’s voice follows.
I break into a desperate charge towards the car. The voices repeat and repeat.
“It’s a trap!” Rusty shouts as I draw on the darkness inside the open door.
“Brenna! Will?” I plead into the metal echo chamber.
Rusty shines his flashlight into the void. The light reveals a small device sitting on the floor. “It’s a fuckin’ digital recorder, like something you’d get at Radio Shack! This is a trap! Let’s get the hell outta here…now, Mas…!”
Rusty hasn’t yet completed the second syllable of my Christian name when our ears are deafened by gunfire.
Rusty staggers.
I fire the .38 in what I think is the origin of the gunman. Rusty is grabbing his side. Grabbing his shirt, I drag him between two cars. ‘I’m gut shot, kid,” he says in clenched teethed agony. “Where the hell did that shot come from?” As the final word of his question bounces between the two metal cars, another slug strikes his shoulder.
“Whoa, where the fuck did that come from?” I ask, waving my revolver chaotically about.
“That was meant for you, Mason,” he answers, staring at the dark spot on his hand.
“What do I do? I don’t know what to do, Rusty!”
“Calm down…can you roll me under the car? Get under yerself.”
We’re both squashed under a rectangular box crate that sits atop a flatbed trailer. I squirm loose from my shirt. Rusty is panting in torment as I try to help patch the blood expanding from his middle. The gravel is like a bed of nails on my naked side.
“You see anything…any legs moving out from underneath this thing?” Rusty asks.
I roll from side to side the best I can. “Nothing. Not for lack of light, that’s for sure.”
“That’s why they led us here: hidden and well lit. What a fool I am,” he adds.
“You’re not a fool, Rusty. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known.”
“That’s only because you’ve spent your life around educators and politicians, kid.”
There’s a silence that’s hard to describe. It’s not an awkward silence, but a friendly silence between two friends who share an inside joke. “Sorry, Mason…didn’t mean to call you ‘kid,’” he comments, weakly.
“It’s cool. I am a kid. You were right all along. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
“You’re one of the good guys, Mason.”
“Well, this good guy doesn’t know what to do.”
A slight bustling is heard above us, just to our left. Something plops from the metal parts underneath the trailer. It’s a snake so fucking big it has to be a rat snake!
“Holy fuck!” I shout.
“What is it? Keep your voice down.”
“I think it’s a rat snake.”
“A rat snake? Those are aggressive,” he notifies me as the enormous snake coils and takes a swipe at my bare shoulder. But the teeth aren’t much and just barely break the skin. By now I’ve dealt with a lot worse. I bat the creature away with the nose of my .38.
A bullet breaks the tension as it ricochets off the bottom of the trailer and the concrete.
I roll onto my stomach and take a shot at the flying feet I spy. An, “uggh” is audible. I can make out a limping figure scurrying for the shadows.
“You git’em?” Rusty asks, his body is shaking.
“I think so.”
“Okay, Mason, it’s fourth and fifty, fifteen seconds on the clock, it’s now or never. I ain’t gonna make it, but you still can.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want you to pull me out from under here. Take off towards the Pontiac. I’ll unload my clip into all these goddamned lights. You just keep running!”
“No, I can’t leave you here, Rusty.”
“Now…” he’s interrupted by a fit of coughing. “Now…you sound like some bad movie, Mason. Sure you can leave me. I’m done, son. If I think I can make it I’ll give it a try—but don’t you wait for me. Here are the keys.”
“Rusty,” I plead as I scoop up the contents from his pocket.
“It’s been an honor fightin’ alongside ya, kid. You probably don’t want to hear this, but I think you’d make a damn good cop.”
A crunch of footsteps can be heard.
“Alright, time to move…let’s go!”
I have no choice.
Rusty jerks up just enough to start scooting forward. I push myself out from underneath the car with several powerful motions.
“Grab my ankles—pull me out—NOW!” he demands. Only half his body visible.
Rusty lifts up from his premature grave and starts firing above with tenacious rapidity.
I take off as he ordered, but not before I grab his checkered fedora from off the ground.
“Call Curlee, that’s an order!” he shouts into the violence.
Darkness claims section after section with each successive pop.
I’m running faster than I’ve ever run in my life because I’m running for my life.
I turn back in one last expression of allegiance. I see nothing but the blank blur of the yard’s contents; the fence of cars on the fading track.
A hail of separate gunfire crackles like distant firecrackers.
Rusty has met his end.
I make it to the Pontiac. I’m jostling the car keys, trying to find the right one to open it. I hear something but then nothing. I’ve got to get out of here!
I make it inside the car. The engine fires up like Grendel.
It’s October and I’m sweating profusely.
When I collapse back into the fine leather of the driver’s seat I feel a thousand stings jagged across my back. I switch on the above light and lift up from the seat. Behind me, I see splotches of sweat-diluted blood cry their way down the fine upholstery. I put the car in reverse, brake hard, and then abruptly into drive.
I have no idea where it is that I’m even going. Some miles down the road I pull into a Walmart. It’s late and the place is nearly empty. I’m not wearing a shirt and expect to be told to leave; forget the fact that my chest, stomach and back are covered with blood. I follow the restroom signs and they lead me to the back of the store.
The wasps in my stomach are starting to stake their claim again. I sit down on the toilet in one of the bathroom stalls and stare at the grey-flecked paint of the stall door. My stomach is in so many knots I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go the bathroom again.
I just sit and think…
I can’t believe Rusty is dead. He saved my life–again. I realize that I don’t really know anything about him. His wife’s name is Sally, I think. He never spoke of any children or anything like that… wait…I think he did mention a daughter. For all his dictatorialness he was really kind of a quiet man…didn’t talk about himself much at all. He hated texting and selfies, I know that much. I have his car, basically the coolest thing on wheels in these parts. He was so colorful…colorful in a way that people simply aren’t anymore. Like the coaches on the sidelines today, they all look like they stepped out of the same corporate mega-sports store—no personality. No Bums, Landrys, Royals, or Bears. Just the same thing over and over again. I guess he knew his time had come and gone.
I need to call Curlee…I know…but I need rest. I’m so tired. Brenna is probably dead. Did I get her killed?
I walk out of the stall. I splash water on my face and dampen some paper towels. I look like I’ve been attacked by a werewolf. I probably need to get some alcohol, not to drink but to spot my wounds with. I think I’ll stick with the latter…or is it the former…I can’t think straight at this point.
I yank a cheap shirt off the rack and grab a six pack of beer. The checkout girls loiter about me as I use the automate
d checkout. But they don’t say anything even when they approve the purchase of the booze.
The night is cool and damp. The air feels good against my wounds. But I’m a little chilly in my half naked state and pull the t-shirt over my head. I don’t know where to go, but I need to sleep. I have to detune. I don’t think I can keep going.
I can go back to the ranch house, maybe the goons don’t know about it. But Rusty did. Probably not a good idea.
There’s the apartment. I can get my car back. I feel awkward in Rusty’s car. Keith won’t be there, so if anyone shows up to waste me it’ll just be me. If they show up at the ranch, then it’ll be weeks before they find the body. I think I’ll chance the apartment.
Now I understand fully how Rusty felt, living in secret. No wonder he rebelled. I feel sorry for his wife. She must really love him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
D.O.
I woke up in my own bed both consoled and horrified. I had another dream about Ann. But this one was different from the others.
I was standing in a pecan orchard. Why? I have no idea. It was early fall and the leaves were changing. I felt a breeze on my face. Then Ann emerged—I think from behind one of the trees—or maybe she just appeared…I don’t know. In all my other dreams of her she appeared to me naked, but this time she was wearing a white flowing gown as she came and stood before me in her bare feet.
“Do you need shoes?” I asked, “Aren’t you cold?”
“No, Mason, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m setting you free.”
She pointed behind me and I turned in that direction.
An open gate… no fence…just an open gate.
When I turned back around, only her gown remained. It cascaded to the ground.
I went to touch it…
…it turns to medical gauze.
I shudder as I recall the dream. The clotted gashes that cover my torso reluctantly pull at my skin. Specs of blood dot the bed sheets. Droplets, too thick to tumble, appear on my chest and stomach. I need to shower and patch up somehow.
I get up and drag myself into the bathroom. I step into the steaming shower. The water soothes my sore muscles, but causes my wounds to seep.
Miraculously, I find a roll of medical gauze and white tape in a drawer below the bathroom sink. I don’t remember buying this stuff. I did bring some medicinal supplies with me from the cabin. I guess she’s still looking after me from the grave. I patch myself up as best as I am able. I try to wrap my mid-section in gauze, which is difficult. I have the roll in one hand and struggle with the other to keep the wrap in place. I stop and stare at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror. I don’t resemble the person I was before.
Regret, anxiety, remorse, and guilt flood over me. I have aged decades in just one year. Any wisdom I have found is only cause for sadness. I do not have time for reflection.
My cell phone vibrates from the nightstand next to my bed. I tear a piece of tape to secure the wrap, then pick up and read the text from Unknown #:
HAVE YOUR BOSS. EVERYONE DIES IF YOU DON’T SHOW 10 PM AT D.O. LAST CHANCE. DO NOT COME ARMED. BRING FILE.
Jules’ file? I wonder as I text back: OK
An unexpected response: YOUR FRIEND BEGGED LIKE A COWARD 4 HIS LIFE.
I know that’s bullshit. They’re just fucking with me. Jesus, they have Crane. My worst nightmares are realized. I know they actually have him because they used D.O. What am I going to tell Brandy?
I check the clock. I have twelve hours to prepare. Prepare for what? Everyone’s death or just mine? What have I done? I wish I’d never called Jules back the first time he called.
I can’t eat, can’t shit, the thought of sex is morbid. I finish wrapping my torso the best I can, find a semi-clean shirt and struggle into it.
I move into the living room…I unlock the door…check the outside hallway…and go back into my apartment. I plop down in the Lazy Boy…to think…
...It’s late in the afternoon when I finally come to. I hear kids, freshly let out of school, hollering and laughing.
I need to eat something. Everything in the fridge and pantry is old. Whataburger.
I know the Whataburger is within walking distance, but I’m in no condition to go walking. Besides, I need to start the Expedition.
I checkout the hallway again before I head to the parking lot and to the Expedition.
“Come on, girl,” I beg into the steering wheel as the engine tries turning like an old rotten millstone. “No, don’t you die on me yet,” I plead as the pistons fade.
Suddenly, she turns over as if she’s taking in a deep breath of gasoline. I pat the dash then pad the gas. I pull out, turn up the street, and get something to eat.
Although I don’t taste the food, I eat. When I’m done I realize that I still have hours to kill. It’s a peculiar feeling. The anxiety has subsided and I have a strange calm. Like a political prisoner before execution. I feel cloaked by a certain righteousness. If not for a lingering guilt I’d almost be at peace.
I decide to drive by the D.O., just to check it out.
The whole of the historical district is decked out in Halloween decorations: pumpkins in windows and littered about entrances, witches and skeletons hanging here and there, faux foliage lining doorways.
Shoppers come and go.
I park, put my wallet and gun in my briefcase, and then go and loiter in nearby shops. I’m in a fog…
…as the mist thins, I find myself sitting in a slanted parking lot in the historical district. I’m around the block from the D.O. It’s almost ten and the streets are empty.
Should I chance bringing the pistol? They said no guns. I grab my wallet and phone from my briefcase. I notice that the green light is blinking on the cell. Oh shit. What if I missed an important text from the goons?
No text. A phone message. I hit voicemail. It’s a returned call from the PUC director. As I listen, stupefied, the final piece of this puzzle falls into place.
I text Curlee from the number I found in Rusty’s cell. I let him know it is me.
RUSTY IS DEAD. HOSTAGES IN CRANE’S D.O. MAYBE. MAYBE NOT. SITTING OUTSIDE. GOING IN. SEND IN CALVARY. PROBABLY WON’T MAKE IT. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT’S REALLY GOING ON HERE.
I make sure the volume/vibrate is officially off on my phone and grab the gun. A stray fuzzy kitten darts into the alley as I approach our building.
The place is dead silent, and pitch dark. I enter from the back as I always do. I’m not sure what to say to let them know I’m in the building.
“Mason Dixon!” I announce into the long black hallway after carefully opening the French doors that guard its entrance. “District Manager for House District 100!”
No response.
There is no hall light, only the residual glow of the back foyer. From out of the last doorway at the end of the hallway, a hideously scarred freak emerges with a blindfolded Crane.
“Mason, just do what he says and I swear everything will be okay,” Crane implores as the freak ushers him down the hall, back towards me. “If you’ve got a gun, drop it now or he’ll kill all of us.”
“Where’s Brenna, her mom, and Will?”
“Everyone’s safe. Just give this man the information his people are looking for and we can all go.”
“It’s in here,” I say, pointing to the locked door of our office. I know Crane can’t see but Contact can. “I’m surprised they didn’t find it.”
“They tried.”
I cautiously unlock our office, reach in, and turn on the light. The freak shakes Crane and presses his pistol into his temple.
“The gun, Mason,” Crane states, impatiently.
“Where’s Brenna?” I demand.
“They’re all safe. I don’t know what exactly is going on here, but we’re all safe. Just give this man what he wants and we can go.” I enter the D.O. and head towards the back, near the sliding door closet where the filing cabinets sit. Contact and Crane follow behind. Contact stil
l has a gun to Crane’s head, but the blindfold is removed. They block the only entrance into this skinny space. My desk is the only thing between me and them.
“He’s looking for a file. Something to do with AUE. Do you know what he’s looking for?”
“What is it with you latter Roman legislators?”
“Huh?”
“You know, Jack Clark…he’s a cunning fellow. He has lots of connections, the right connections apparently.”
“Jack Clark? What are you talking about?”
“But Jack’s a political science guy; he wouldn’t know how to go about setting up what’s been going on here, and certainly not how to run it. That would take a numbers guy…that would take a banker…that would take an accountant. How’s Horatio Sanchez doing by the way?”
“What…who?
“Horatio Sanchez. You know: the guy you gave a glowing recommendation for so he’d be hired by the PUC—to cover your ass!”
“Just give this man what he wants and we can all go home!” Crane demands, desperately.
“Is that what you told Hank Garcia?”
“Who?” Crane asks, stunned.
“Hank Garcia. You know him. You had him killed because he was going to blow your little crime fiefdom all to hell. Oops…no Congress, no Senate.”
“What are you saying? Have you gone mad? Are you trying to get everyone killed?”
“No. I’ve never been so sane in my life. Let me get this straight: so you use a Mexican-owned power plant to buy up the market and serve as a provider as well. Then you start cooking the books so you can wash your crime money, turning it into political donations through scholarship funds, and numerous political action committees run by Jack Clark. Clark, who cut his teeth campaigning in Mexico, which means he’s intimate with the drug cartels.
“Not to mention the fact that a former state representative, who vanished in a hurricane nearly two years ago, is now running the brain center for this operation from Mexico. You got everyone who matters on the payroll. Most of them probably don’t really know what’s going on because it’s all in donations. But the cops know, and they’re your buffer. What a fucking genius! No wonder we’re getting our ass kicked on the border. You people are just too goddamned smart.”
