[Shelby Alexander 04.0] Serenity Submerged

by Craig A. Hart

  Shelby waited.

  “I saw the truck, all right. And I’m pretty damn sure it’s the one you’re lookin for.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The men driving it. Two of the shadiest fellas you’d ever want to steer clear of. Now the third one, he was a big hunk of a man. Biggest I’ve ever seen. Not the handsomest, but rugged. You know how I am, Shelby. I can’t resist the big ones. I even made a pass at you. But this drink of water…he’s two of you.”

  “Sounds like a charming gentleman. Do you know their names?”

  “One gave the name Harry Smith, but that’s obviously fake. The big man was named Trainwreck.”

  “Trainwreck?”

  “He looked it too. But in a charming, rugged way, like I said.”

  “It sounds like you have feelings for this Trainwreck.”

  “Oh, we hit it off right enough. I set him up in my special room and cancelled all other callers, if you know what I mean. We had a real good time, and I thought there might be somethin between us.”

  “You don’t think so anymore?”

  Charlene shook her head. “You’re looking for your friend Fritz, ain’t you?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I kinda hate to say.”

  “Because of your feelings for Trainwreck?”

  “Partly. But mostly because I waited so long.” Charlene tapped at her phone screen and then handed it to Shelby. “A few hours ago, I sent Trainwreck a text and asked him what he was doin. Bein flirty, you know. That picture on the screen was what he texted back.”

  Shelby took the phone and looked at the picture. For a split second, his vision went entirely red. When his sight returned, the reddish tinge slowly draining away, he noticed the hand holding the phone was trembling. A cold sweat popped out on his forehead and the back of his neck burned and prickled.

  “Shelby—”

  He held up a hand. “Charlene—don’t. Just…don’t say a word.”

  “Shelby, I’m sorry.”

  “Shut the hell up! So help me, if I had a gun on my hip, I’d be hard pressed not to blow your head off. Why the hell would he share that with you?”

  “It’s my fault. We got to talkin. Pillow talk, you know. He was a little drunk and told me stories. He don’t talk much to anyone, so I was flattered when he began tellin me about his life. He wanted me to talk too, but I couldn’t keep up with him. He’s been everywhere and done everything. My life’s been a good deal more boring, so I started makin shit up. We got drunker and the stories got crazier. So crazy I thought we were both just seein how far we could take it. Turns out, I was the only one tellin lies. I guess he took me serious and thought I’d be down with this.” She indicated the phone.

  “And you thought you’d wait for hours before telling anyone?”

  Charlene’s broad face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. “I thought he was the one, Shelby. I know it’d only been a coupla days, but I thought I’d finally found the one after all these lonely years. You don’t know what it’s like to be this big and want what everyone else has. I know what people in this town think about me. I know what they say.”

  On any other day, under any other circumstances, Shelby would have felt compassion for the woman. But not this day and not this time. The surge of rage had settled into a dark, burning fury that sat in the pit of his stomach like the coals of hell.

  When he spoke, his low voice was almost inaudible. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. I swear.”

  “Ask him.”

  “I did. He hasn’t replied.”

  “Ask him again!”

  “I’ve already asked him more than once!”

  Shelby brought his fist down on the desktop. “Dammit! You must know something, anything that could point in the right direction. Something they said, a careless word, a piece of their plan.”

  Charlene shook her head. “I don’t remember anything. If I knew, I’d tell you, Shelby.”

  “I wish to God I could believe you,” Shelby said, his eyes smoldering.

  Charlene sniffed. “I don’t know anything that could help you, I swear. But I know someone who might.”

  On the way to the diner, Shelby called Mack on his cellphone.

  “You missed a hell of a breakfast,” Mack said. “Even Ward admitted it was edible.”

  “Never mind that. I’m headed your way fast. Be ready.”

  Shelby disconnected and concentrated on driving. He was traveling over eighty miles per hour, not a wise speed on the wooded roads, but caution was not foremost in his mind. He came to a screeching halt in front of the diner and waited while Ward and Mack piled inside. Then he took off fast enough to throw them back in their seats.

  “Jesus, you look pissed,” Mack said. “And what’s the big idea of dragging us away? I didn’t get a chance to finish my free dessert. And it was apple pie—my favorite.”

  “Did you find out anything?” Ward asked.

  Shelby nodded. “Charlene cracked and confessed to seeing the truck.”

  “Did she know the men?”

  “No. And she didn’t know where they were today either.”

  Mack huffed. “It doesn’t sound like we’re any better off than we were before I was torn away from the best apple pie I’ve ever eaten. If we don’t know anything more, where are we off to in such a hurry?”

  “The sheriff’s department.”

  “You’re going to ask Wilkes’ help for this? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’m not asking Wilkes for help. I think Wilkes is involved. Charlene said he seemed familiar with the men who had the truck.”

  “What are you planning to do at the sheriff’s department?” Mack’s voice communicated genuine unease at the idea of Shelby bursting into a law enforcement facility in his current frame of mind.

  Shelby gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles white. “I’m planning to do anything I need to do. Fritz’s life may depend on it.”

  Their arrival at the sheriff’s department did not disappoint in terms of style. Shelby careened into the lot, power slid sideways across two parking spots, stopped the Jeep, and then jumped out of the vehicle. Mack and Ward followed close behind as he went up the front steps and into the building.

  The receptionist, Kylie, greeted Shelby with a cool smile; the two had never hit it off and today didn’t appear to be the day on which they would strengthen their relationship.

  “Wilkes,” Shelby said, striding up to the desk and bringing both palms down with a mighty bang. “Where is he?”

  Kylie’s eyes widened with surprise and then narrowed to slits. “He’s out.”

  “Where?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “I don’t track his movements.”

  “But you could find out.”

  “He doesn’t report to me. I’m only the receptionist here.” She said this last with a great deal of judgment, as if her lack of upward mobility was entirely Shelby’s fault.

  “You must have a radio room or a dispatcher in the back.”

  “That’s only for department business and emergencies.”

  “Good, because this certainly qualifies as the latter.” Much as he had at the auto lot, Shelby swept around the desk and began walking into the rear of the department. Unlike the auto lot, he was not met by a frail old man but Truman, the beefy deputy he’d met at Fritz’s campground.

  “Hold on there, pal. Just where do you think you’re going?”

  “I need to contact Wilkes and find out his location.”

  “Tell me what’s going on and I’ll fill out a report.”

  “A report?”

  “It’s protocol,” the deputy said, sounding proud of his big word.

  “The hell with your protocol. It’s imperative I find out Wilkes’ location. A man’s life is at stake.”

  “Tell me what’s up, and if it’s urgent, I’ll radio the sheriff and run it by
him.”

  “I don’t need a gatekeeper. Move aside or I’ll move you.”

  Mack moved forward. “Shel—be careful.”

  Shelby advanced on the deputy. The image of Fritz in the chair, bloodied and broken, was seared into his mind and nothing mattered except getting to him as quickly as possible.

  The deputy put a hand on his sidearm. “Sir, don’t take another step. I will take appropriate action.”

  “Shel—” Mack gripped Shelby’s upper arm. “Stop. You’re going to get yourself shot. You can’t invade a police station.”

  But Shelby was beyond hearing and reason. He lunged toward the deputy, who pulled out his weapon.

  A gun blasted in the confines of the office. Shelby rolled instinctively to one side. He’d assumed Truman’s gun had been the firing weapon, but a glance told him otherwise. The deputy’s weapon was still frozen halfway to a firing position.

  “Nobody move!” Ward stood, her feet apart, a pistol now pointed at the deputy. A light cloud of smoke wafted over her head and Shelby noticed bits of ceiling falling from above. Another look showed a neat little hole where Ward’s bullet had pierced the ceiling tiles.

  Mack looked like he might have a stroke. “Oh, Christ. Discharging a weapon in a police station and pointing a gun at an officer. We’re so screwed.”

  Ward moved forward and gestured with her pistol. “The gun. Put it down.”

  Truman obliged, slowly, never taking his eyes from Ward.

  “Now kick it over to me. Easy.”

  Truman did so. He looked as if he wanted to rip Ward limb from limb.

  “Now,” Ward said. “Let’s give Wilkes a ring, shall we?”

  20

  Although Fritz had hoped the call would force Wilkes away from the scene, it was not to be. It had been too much to hope for anyway, Fritz thought. Things hadn’t exactly been going his way all day; why would they start now? For the first time in a long time, he began wondering if perhaps he should have paid more attention to the possibility of a Man Upstairs. Was this punishment for a disregard and sometimes open hostility toward the idea? He shook his head. He was really slipping if this was the kind of thing he was considering. But perhaps everyone did when they possessed knowledge of their imminent departure from the living—a natural human response to that most human experience. If nothing else, it told Fritz how fragile was his grip on life and the will to live. And he considered giving up. Tell them what they want to know, he thought. Put an end to the pain and the horror.

  Wilkes climbed back into the truck.

  “Everything on the level?” Simon said.

  Wilkes shook his head in disgust. “It was that stupid deputy of mine. Wanted to know how things were going and if I needed any help.”

  “Is that normal?”

  Wilkes shrugged. “He’s new on the job and doesn’t quite know how we do things up here, by which I mean never bothering me unless the entire town is burning down. Now let’s get back to work. We’re close to breaking this piece of shit. I can feel it.”

  Shelby watched as the deputy stepped away from the radio. The dispatcher, an older woman with obviously dyed black hair, sat in her chair, face pale and hands trembling.

  Truman straightened and said to the dispatcher, “Can you pull up the location now that I got a radio ping?”

  The dispatcher nodded and began working on her computer. Truman turned to the others, still moving slowly under the watchful muzzle of Ward’s weapon.

  “We have an automated vehicle location system,” he said, “but it’s not a constant. Usually, it updates the location of a vehicle when the operating officer presses either the radio transmit key or the emergency button.”

  “And this will give us his location?” Shelby said.

  “It should, yes. As soon as Dorothy pulls up the map.”

  “I got it,” Dorothy said, her quavering voice barely audible. She pointed at the screen.

  Shelby nodded. “I know where that is. It shouldn’t take long to get there. Oh, and one more thing. Do you happen to have a large closet with a lock on it?”

  Fritz watched Wilkes retrieve the mallet and chisel from the floor. The sheriff tapped the chisel against the head of the mallet and began pacing.

  After a few moments, he said, “You know, James. I admire you. Not many men I know could have withstood the abuse you’ve taken and not cracked. Hell, I probably would have spilled my guts the moment the first nail pierced my hand. I used to think you were a weak person. And once I found out you were the one who murdered my brother, I assumed you had to be a worthless, conniving shit. I didn’t think there was any way you’d have been able to take him without shooting from behind or pulling some other low technique. But you have shown yourself to be much more of a man than I ever thought. I still have to kill you, of course. You’ve done too much, know too much to be allowed to go free. At least, however, you can die with the knowledge you’ve gained the respect of your enemy.”

  Fritz tried to swallow but failed. He had to force the words. “That’s a real comfort.”

  Wilkes smiled, lips thin and pale. “I suppose I should admire the humor as well, but I find it galling. I paid you a compliment. The least you could do is acknowledge the gesture.”

  This brand of logic was lost on Fritz’s fevered brain. Here he sat, nailed to a chair and missing a finger, a mass of bruises and who knew how many cracked ribs, and one of the prime torturers had his feelings hurt because his compliment hadn’t been graciously received by the victim.

  Fritz felt an unlikely bubble of laughter stir in his chest. The absurdity of it all—the sheriff was clearly much more unstable than he’d ever thought.

  “I—apologize for my lack of, what you say, manners.”

  Wilkes nodded, his expression loosening. “You sound thirsty. Perhaps a drink of water?”

  The thought of water galvanized Fritz. He hadn’t expected to ever taste water again, but the thought of the cool liquid trickling down his ravaged throat was just this side of divine. “That would be—appreciated.”

  “Very well.” Wilkes turned to Trainwreck. “There’s a bottle in my car. Fetch it, won’t you?”

  Trainwreck glanced at Simon, who nodded and waved him on.

  Wilkes turned back to Fritz. “While we wait, why not rethink your position?”

  “Before I’ve had my water?”

  “You make a good point. I suppose I wouldn’t trust me either.”

  Trainwreck reappeared with the bottle and handed it to Wilkes. The sheriff set aside the mallet and chisel, and took the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and began handing it to Fritz. Then he laughed.

  “Oh, sorry. I forgot your hands were a little, uh, occupied. It’s just as well. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to strengthen your opponent, and this water is something you obviously very much desire.”

  Fritz watched in horror as Wilkes tipped the bottle. A ribbon of clear liquid, sparkling in the sunlight, streamed down and splashed on the truck floor, mixing with the blood and eddying around Wilkes’ feet.

  The sheriff grinned. “Oops. Well, I suppose you should have simply told me what I wanted to know. You wouldn’t want to drink that now anyway.” He reclaimed the mallet and chisel, and stepped forward.

  21

  The Jeep flew down the road, its tires screeching at every turn. Shelby gripped the wheel and pushed the old vehicle to its limit. He stared through the bug-splattered windshield, with Fritz’s battered body forming a constant image. Like a HUD inside his mind, the awful picture persisted wherever he looked. He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator, but the Jeep was maxed out.

  “Shel—hey, Shelby!”

  Shelby heard Mack’s voice but couldn’t spare the concentration to respond. He faintly heard Ward say something, but he didn’t know what.

  Another turn, another screech of rubber on asphalt. Sunlight skittered through openings in the tree canopy, sprinkling the road with spots of shimmering gold. The
birds chirped, the air was musty and sweet. These things went almost entirely unnoticed by the man behind the wheel. A professional racecar driver would have had difficulty matching his concentration. Every minute adjustment of the wheel, every calculation of an upcoming turn was considered a thousand times in a hair of a second. It would only take a moment—an animal, an oncoming car, a large stick or rock in the roadway, and the Jeep would careen out of control and wrap itself and its occupants around a tree.

  “I had no idea this old rig would go this fast,” Mack said.

  “I don’t think it’s supposed to,” Ward said. “Expect the engine to blow at any minute.”

  At last, Shelby took his foot off the gas and let the Jeep begin losing steam. Then he tapped the brakes and pulled onto the shoulder.

  Mack wiped his forehead. “I didn’t think we were going to make it. I made peace with every deity I could think of. And then I invented new ones and made peace with them too.”

  Shelby eased the Jeep along the shoulder until he came to a dirt access road. He turned onto it and slowed even more. As the opening to the clearing came into view, he stopped, parked, and unbuckled his seatbelt. He opened his door and stepped out, surprised to find his legs a bit unstable after the intense drive.

  Ward followed suit and stood by the Jeep, looking around at the surrounding trees. “Is this the place? I don’t see any signs of a truck.”

  “There’s a clearing ahead. According to the map, that’s where Wilkes’ car is parked.”

  “If he’s still there,” Mack said, climbing out of the backseat. “The people at the sheriff’s office have either broken out or been let out of the closet by now. And speaking of that, you realize you’re in deep shit, don’t you? What the hell were you thinking?”

  Shelby avoided Mack’s eyes. “You didn’t see what I saw.”

  “What? What did you see?”

  “You’ll see for yourself in a few minutes.” Shelby walked around to the passenger side and reached into the glove compartment for his pistol. He moved toward the clearing, the pistol gripped in both hands. He found himself checking the tall weeds for snakes, even though the odds of coming across another massasauga were almost nonexistent. The thought of the snake made his foot ache, but he ignored it and kept moving.