Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can't Put Down

by Clive Cussler

  Beanie, as Gus had called Bernadette for decades, dried off an old Adirondack chair. “You could have died up there,” she said as she plopped down. “If Nate hadn’t spotted your trail…I don’t want to think about it.”

  “All’s well that ends well.”

  The fugitive’s name was Frank Leonard. Two years ago, Nate had recognized him at a hardware store in the village of Cold Ridge. His mug shot was on the USMS Web site, and Nate had a good memory for faces. Leonard was wanted for failing to appear in court on a federal drug charge, and running in to Nate was especially bad timing for him—he’d just killed a fellow smuggler up on the ridge. They’d met there to divide the gold bars they’d received as payment for smuggling drugs and arms over the Canadian border.

  Picking the toaster-looking rock formation near the spot where Nate’s parents had died had been Leonard’s idea. On the way down the ridge, restrained in his stretcher, he’d told Gus that even then he didn’t like marshals. “They’d been after me for weeks. They never let up. I thought it was funny, picking that spot.”

  Funny.

  He and his partner in smuggling argued, and Leonard killed him and buried him as best he could, then hiked back down the ridge to clean up loose ends. The gold bars were heavy and awkward, and he wanted to get his ducks in a row before he went back on the ridge, fetched the gold and disappeared, a rich man.

  Only Nate had discovered him first.

  When he escaped from prison two days ago, he headed straight to Cold Ridge, but he couldn’t remember how to get back to the spot where he’d buried his colleague and the gold.

  And he wanted revenge against the marshal who’d recognized him. He couldn’t believe his luck when he spotted Gus on the trail and mistook him for Nate.

  Bernadette picked up a long, sharp-ended stick as Gus settled into the chair next to her. For a while, he’d wondered if he’d ever get warm again. But he was downright hot now, the flames licking up in the black sky.

  “Why did you go off on your own this morning?” Bernadette asked.

  “I had something on my mind. Beanie, these guys…” He motioned toward Nate, Antonia, Carine, their spouses, their children. “They’re my world.”

  “I know, Gus. You’ve been there for them all these years. It was good that they could be there for you today.”

  “I’d have nailed that bastard one way or the other, but I was pretty cold. And that’s not what I’m talking about right now.” Gus turned to her, the flames flickering in her eyes. “Beanie, we’ve known each other a long time, you and I, and I haven’t had a romantic thought about you, ever.”

  She gave a shocked little cough. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Until lately. Now I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “So you went up that trail this morning to get me out of your mind?”

  “No. To figure out how to ask you to marry me.”

  “Ah.” She picked up a stick and stabbed a fat marshmallow onto the end of it. “You asked me to marry you when we were in the first grade. Remember?”

  Actually, he didn’t. “What did you say?”

  “I told you to go soak your head.” She smiled and handed him her stick with the marshmallow. “You’re my hero, Gus. You always have been. It’s just taken us a few decades to figure out we belong together.”

  “I’m taking that as a yes.”

  Bernadette laughed, and Gus leaned forward and dipped the marshmallow in the flames. He was warm in front of the fire with his family and the woman he loved, and life was good.

  ROBERT FERRIGNO

  Robert Ferrigno has a background that would give him instant credibility with the type of intelligent but questionable characters who populate his books. Armed with a degree in philosophy and a masters in creative writing, Robert left the academic trail to spend five years as a full-time gambler living in dangerous places with dangerous people. Then he became a journalist, but instead of sitting behind a desk typing, he landed a job that had him flying with the Blue Angels, test-driving Ferraris and learning about desert survival with gun enthusiasts. Now a bestselling thriller author, his experiences have clearly given Robert a unique perspective and an unforgettable voice.

  “Can You Help Me Out Here?” showcases an ability to mix humor with suspense and a knack for creating villains that make us smile even as they send chills down our spine. No doubt Robert has met people like this somewhere in his travels. The rest of us will be happy to meet them through his words.

  CAN YOU HELP ME OUT HERE?

  “How much farther?” said Briggs.

  The accountant tripped over a tree root, almost fell. Sweat rolled down his face, his hands duct-taped together behind his back. “Soon.”

  Briggs grabbed the accountant by the hair and gave his head a shake. “How soon?” He jammed the barrel of the .357 Magnum against the man’s nasal septum. “You may like tramping around in the great outdoors, but me, I just want to shoot you and get into some air-conditioning.”

  “I…I appreciate your discomfort,” said the accountant, blood trickling from his nose, “but Junior wants my ledger detailing his financial transactions for the last eight years, so…” He dripped blood onto his gray suit, a soft, pale man with calm eyes. “So you better treat me nice, and keep your part of the bargain.”

  “Nice?” Briggs glowered at him, a beefy, middle-aged thug in a red tracksuit. “Maybe I fuck nice and just start blowing off body parts until you come up with it?”

  “That would be a mistake on your part.” The accountant held his head high. “I have a…refined and delicate nature. I’m already experiencing heart palpitations from your rough treatment. You torture me…you could send me into shock. I might die before I give up the journal.” He sniffed back blood. “What do you think Junior will do to you then?”

  “You didn’t tell me…” Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes hovering around him with the revolver. “You didn’t tell me we were going to be slogging through a swamp.”

  “That’s where I hid it,” said the accountant. “And it’s not a swamp. It’s a wetlands.”

  “Swamp, wetlands, who cares? It smells like an old outhouse,” said the other killer, Sean, a tall beach-bum with bad acne and a Save the Salmon, Eat More Pussy T-shirt. “What matters, mister, is that we’re going to keep our part of the bargain. You lead us to the journal, you get a double-tap to the back of the head, no muss, no fuss.”

  “I abhor pain,” said the accountant.

  “Trust me,” said Sean, “you won’t feel a thing.”

  The accountant glanced at Briggs, then back at Sean. “Do I have your word on that?”

  Sean gave him a thumbs-up. “Scout’s honor.”

  “That’s not the goddamned Scout’s sign.” Briggs raised the index and middle finger of his right hand in a V. “This is Scout’s honor, dumb-ass.”

  “That’s the peace sign,” said Sean, “and don’t call me dumb-ass.”

  “It’s the peace sign and the sign for Scout’s honor,” said the accountant.

  “What’s this then?” said Sean, giving the thumbs-up.

  “Keep walking,” Briggs ordered the accountant, “and stay out of the poison ivy.”

  The accountant started back down the narrow path, brush on all sides, trees overhanging the trail.

  “Fine,” said Sean, hurrying to catch up to them, “don’t answer me.”

  Five minutes later, the accountant turned to Briggs. “Are you saving your money?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Briggs.

  “A simple interrogatory,” said the accountant, his yellow necktie crusted with blood. “I wanted to know if you saved a portion of your money or lived paycheck to paycheck.”

  Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes darting around him. “I do okay.”

  “I could give you some suggestions,” said the accountant. “Something that would allow you to defer taxes and put your money to work for you—”

  “Taxes?” Briggs laughed.

&n
bsp; “You don’t pay taxes?” said the accountant.

  Sean shook his head. “Me, neither.”

  “Big mistake,” said the accountant. “You don’t want to fool with the IRS.”

  “How much farther?” demanded Briggs.

  “I kind of like the idea of my money working for me,” Sean said quietly. “Like having a maid. Or a slave.” He made a motion like he was cracking a whip.

  “Good for you, Sean.” The accountant tried to scratch his nose with his shoulder. “Now you’re thinking. I can give you some tips—”

  “You think this is a fucking seminar?” said Briggs. “Move!”

  “Is that how you got this place?” Sean said to the accountant. “Making your money work for you?”

  “Absolutely,” said the accountant. “I’ve got forty-five acres here, owned free and clear. Practically surrounded by national forest. I enjoy privacy…up until now.”

  “We should listen to this guy before we pop him, Briggs,” said Sean. “Maybe take some notes.”

  Briggs slapped a mosquito that had landed on his cheek, his face flushed and as red as the tracksuit now.

  The accountant stopped.

  “This it?” said Briggs. “Are we there?”

  “Can you help me out here?” said the accountant. “I…I have to urinate.”

  “You’re only going to have to hold it for a little while more,” said Briggs.

  “I have been holding it,” said the accountant.

  “What do you expect us to do about it?” said Briggs.

  “I expect you to cut my hands loose,” said the accountant.

  “I got nothing to cut the tape with and not sure I would if I could,” said Briggs. “We might not be able to find you if you take off running—this is your home turf.”

  “I have no intention, Mr. Briggs, of wetting my pants,” said the accountant.

  “If it puts your mind at ease, sir,” said Sean, “you’re going to piss yourself anyway when I give you the double-tap. It’s a natural reaction…loss of control, you know? A real mess, too. I seen it plenty times.”

  “Yes, Sean, but I’ll be dead then, so it won’t matter to me,” said the accountant. “Now, being presently alive, it does matter.”

  “Oh.” Sean nodded. “I get it.”

  The accountant wiggled his fingers behind his back. “Do you mind?”

  Sean bent over the accountant’s hands, tearing at the tape, while the accountant shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Please hurry, Sean,” said the accountant.

  “Tapes all tangled up,” said Sean. “I…I can’t do it.”

  “Told you, dumb-ass,” said Briggs. “That’s why I use that kind of tape, ’cause you can’t get it off.”

  “Then one of you is going to have to unzip my trousers and hold my penis while I urinate,” said the accountant.

  Both Sean and Briggs burst out laughing.

  “I’m quite serious, gentlemen,” said the accountant.

  “Pal, if you want someone to hold your joint, you’re out of luck,” said Briggs, still laughing. “Now, I had a partner ten years ago…he might have accommodated you.”

  “If you force me to wet myself, Mr. Briggs, I can promise you with absolute certainty, that I will not lead you to the ledger, no matter what you do to me,” said the accountant.

  Briggs punched the accountant in the side of the head, knocked him onto the ground. “You sure about that?” He kicked the man in the chest, then grabbed the accountant’s bound hands, jerked him to his feet, bones popping. “You sure?”

  The accountant didn’t say a word.

  Briggs lifted the accountant’s hands higher and higher, the man bent forward, silent, tears rolling from his eyes onto the dirt. Still silent. Briggs finally released him, out of breath.

  “Damn, Briggs,” said Sean. “I believe him.”

  “Yeah,” panted Briggs. “So do I.” He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “So grab his joint and help him take a piss.”

  “Me?” said Sean.

  Briggs shrugged. “I cleaned up after the two software geeks. They must have had the combo platter at El Jaliscos but you never heard me complain. While you were ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ over their fancy laptops, I was mopping out the car.”

  “I’m not doing it,” said Sean.

  “You were the one who forgot the handcuffs,” said Briggs. “That’s why I had to use the tape.”

  “I don’t care,” said Sean.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the accountant. “Decide.”

  “Did I share on the last job?” said Briggs. “I didn’t have to, but I did.” He glanced at the accountant. “Last job we found…I found a half-kilo of smack in Mr. Unlucky’s dresser. I didn’t have to share it with you, but I did.”

  “The smack was stepped on, and we probably should have turned it over to Junior anyway,” said Sean.

  “Gentlemen?”

  Sean stared at Briggs.

  “You know it’s fair,” said Briggs.

  Sean jabbed a finger at the accountant. “I ain’t touching it with my bare hands.” He walked around until he found a tree with wide leaves, tore a couple off and strode back to the accountant. “Don’t say a fucking word.” He unzipped the accountant’s trousers, fumbled out the man’s penis holding the leaf around it, then pointed it into the brush. “Hurry up.”

  The accountant closed his eyes.

  “Come on,” said Sean, giving the accountant’s penis a slight shake.

  “I’m trying,” said the accountant.

  “You’re the one who had to go so bad,” said Sean.

  “Oh, Sean,” drawled Briggs, “I cain’t quit you.”

  “That ain’t funny.” Sean looked at the accountant. “I’m going to be hearing that for the next week.”

  The accountant sighed. “I…I can’t do it. It’s just…I can’t.”

  “Fine.” Sean stuffed the accountant’s penis back into his trousers, didn’t even bother zipping him up, the leaf sticking out of his fly. “Just take us to the damn ledger so I can blow your brains out and forget this ever happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the accountant. “It’s not easy, you know.”

  Sean wiped his hand on his pants.

  “If it helps,” said the accountant, “we’re almost there.”

  “About time.” Briggs looked down at the patches of standing water all around them. “Getting really muddy.”

  “Lot of rain lately,” said the accountant, walking ahead, the ground sucking at his shoes. “It’s really beautiful here after a storm, all kinds of flowers popping up.” He walked slightly off the trail, splashed through a puddle. “See that tree up ahead?” He pointed with his chin. “The one with the split trunk? The journal’s in a waterproof container under a large flat rock—”

  Briggs pushed him aside, stalked across a mossy clearing toward the tree, right through the water. He was in past his ankles trying to high-step free before he stopped and looked back. By then it was too late. He was up to his knees and sinking fast.

  “Don’t move!” said the accountant.

  “Get me out of here!” shouted Briggs.

  Sean pointed a pistol at the accountant. “You did this.”

  “There’s underground springs all over this part of the woods,” the accountant said to Sean, ignoring the pistol. “Nobody knows where they’ll pop up next.”

  “Hey!” called Briggs, the muddy slurry almost to his waist now.

  “Quit struggling, Briggs, you’ll only sink faster,” said the accountant, stepping slowly into the clearing. “Stay calm.”

  “How about we trade places and you stay calm, mother-fucker?” said Briggs, perfectly still now.

  “Sean, go find a long tree branch,” the accountant said gently. “Hurry.”

  Sean crashed into the underbrush.

  “I’m…I’m still sinking,” said Briggs, a cloud of mosquitoes floating around his head.

  The accoun
tant watched him stuck there, the late-afternoon light seeping through the trees.

  Sean rushed back, dragging a long, dry branch. “Is this okay?”

  “Perfect,” said the accountant. “Hold it out in front of you…but be careful where you step.”

  “I’m scared,” said Sean.

  “Fucking do it, Sean!” cried Briggs.

  Sean edged carefully into the clearing, one foot in front of the other, testing the ground under the water to make sure it was solid. He waved the dry branch at Briggs.

  “You’ll have to get closer,” said the accountant.

  Sean took another few steps, started to sink, the watery muck level with his high-tops. He reached out with the branch.

  Briggs lunged for the branch, missed it by at least three feet. His movements drove him deeper into the slurry, chest-high now. “Closer!”

  “It’s okay, Sean,” said the accountant. “Just a little farther. Lean forward with the branch.”

  Sean hesitated, took another step toward Briggs, bent over, the branch extended as far as he could.

  The accountant put his foot against Sean’s ass, and pushed. Sent him sprawling.

  Sean screamed, facedown, spitting out muck as he fought to get out, but only got sucked in deeper and deeper. He grasped at the tree branch. It snapped.

  The accountant watched them struggle. Sean weeping, frantic, mud in his mouth, sinking fast. Briggs moved slowly, trying to work his way toward the edge of the clearing.

  “There really is a natural spring under there,” said the accountant, hands still taped behind his back. “Been that way since I was a boy. Deep, too. No matter what you throw in, it just gets swallowed up. I tossed a neighbor’s new bicycle down there one time. Shiny red Schwinn with streamers on the handlebars and a chrome fenders. Never did like that kid.”

  Briggs reached for a tuft of grass, but it came apart in his hands. He tilted back, the slurry past his chest now.

  Sean made a final choking sound, and slipped under the surface.

  “If you can hold your breath long enough, Briggs, maybe you can find that bike on the bottom,” said the accountant. “See if you can ring the bell.”