by P. N. Elrod
Bobbi. He was talking about Bobbi.
“How could you do that to her?”
I’d done it for her. He just didn’t understand. “She saw?”
“No, thank God. Instead I came in first and found you.”
I shrugged. Better him than Bobbi, I guess.
“I’ve waited all day to see if you’d bloody wake up. All bloody day, DAMN you!”
“And I woke up,” I murmured to myself.
His lips twisted. Teeth showed. “How could you do this to—”
“Because I hurt, dammit!”
“And how do you think she’d have felt?”
“She’d get over it. She’s better off without me. Everyone is.”
I saw it coming and didn’t duck. He hauled back and landed one square and hard, one of his best. It knocked me clean from the couch. He’d know I wouldn’t feel much; this clobbering was about expressing anger, not to cause pain. I had plenty of that already.
“Get your head out of your backside and think of somebody else for a change—”
“I was! Don’t you see? I’m no good to her or anyone like this. And I hurt!”
“We all hurt! But you don’t inflict your pain on others by doing this!”
I dragged off the floor onto the couch again. “Yeah-yeah, well, too bad, I thought it over, and it’s better for everyone if I’m gone.”
He called me a bloody coward again and knocked me over again. Much harder. The second time made bruises.
Dammit. Why couldn’t he just leave me alone? I started to get up…
He got a good one square on my nose. I heard and felt it break. While he rubbed his battered knuckles and glowered, I sat ass flat on the floor with blood slobbering down my chin.
“What the hell’s with you?” I snarled, snuffling messily at the flow. “You know what I went through!”
“That’s no excuse!”
“It is. I’m never gonna get better from it—”
“Not by killing yourself you won’t!”
“I can’t live like this! Every night it gets worse—”
“So you have a few bad memories, poor, poor fellow. It gave you a reaction you don’t like. Very scary, I’m sure. You’re going to let that destroy you? Destroy Bobbi—”
“It’s not your business, Charles. This is my choice, only I know what it’s like in my head, not you!”
“I know what it’s doing to the people who care about you. Don’t you give a tinker’s damn what you’re doing to Bobbi?”
“Since when do you have to butt in about her? I never asked.”
“But she did! We’re here to help, but you shut us out—especially Bobbi. You’re ripping her apart.”
“That’s what I’m trying not to do! This is to save her, dammit!”
“How?” he demanded.
The words stuck in my throat.
“How?” he roared. He rose, loomed over me.
“Because…”
“What? Come on, tell me! Save her from what?”
I couldn’t. It was too much. “Go to hell. Just goddamn get out and go to hell!”
“Tell me!”
I got up, grappled him, pulled him toward the door to throw him out before I lost myself. Bloodsmell clogged my nose, in another minute I’d fall into another damned fit. He could sell tickets to the freak show.
Then he got his arms up and twisted and somehow slipped my grip and threw another punch, this time driving deep into my gut. There was surprising force behind it, powered by adrenaline and sheer fury; I doubled over and dropped.
His face was so distorted I didn’t know him. “Tell me! You don’t know, do you?”
I spat blood. “Get out! It’s none of your damn—”
Then he really started in. Brakes off. Down the mountain. Full tilt.
Escott was always in control of himself. That iron reserve had only ever slipped once. He’d been blind drunk, then. Now he’d gone lunatic. He got me up only to knock me over, and when I was down he slammed my head against the wood floor again and again, cursing me over and over under his ragged breath.
Wood damaged, could kill me—and he knew it.
I didn’t fight, wanting him to cut loose. If he pounded me unconscious, that’d be one less night I’d have to suffer through. He pummeled until his sweat ran and his face went bloated and scarlet from the effort, until his breath sawed and he finally lost his balance and fell against the desk and ended on the floor, too, glaring at me. That look said I’d made the right choice about killing myself.
He hated me, they all did for what I was doing to them. I had to get myself away from it, spare them from the wreckage Bristow’s torture had left. No one needed to see me like this. I didn’t want to see me like this.
Neither of us moved for a time. I lay in the pain and stared at the ceiling and ignored Escott. My head thundered, and when I blinked the ceiling dipped and pulled a sick-making half spin. Shut my eyes, kept still. With no need to breathe it was as close to being dead as I could get at night. Not close enough, though.
I felt it come. The churning within, bursting outward from my battered guts, settling cold into my bones, hearing that pathetic whimper leaking between my clenched teeth as the shakes took me.
Escott suddenly within view, staring down. Yeah, look, get a good look at the crazy man.
“Jack…?”
Tried to vanish. Nothing doing. No escape. Was stuck solid because of the wood. Damn you, Charles…
“Jack, stop it!”
“I…c-can’t!”
“Oh, yes, you bloody can.”
He hit me again, an open-handed crack across the mouth.
It didn’t work, either. Another strike. Another.
I was kitten weak, limbs thrashing, no control, and he kept hitting me.
Damn you…
“Come out of it, damn your eyes!”
Crack.
“You’re better than this!”
Tried to push him off. Swatted hard with one arm, caught him firm in the rib cage.
He grunted, but kept hitting, harder, more frenzied. His eyes…he was right-out-of-his-mind berserk.
Using me for a punching bag. Wouldn’t let up. All that rage…
“Dammit, Charles!”
“…bastard…” Hitting. Hitting.
I hit back. Full force.
WASN’t sure when I woke out of it. Gradual return of awareness, of senses.
Of pain. A lot of that. Body pain for a change, not soul pain. That was there someplace, though. Had to be.
Pain followed by perception, then growing horror.
Escott’s body lay across the office on the floor under the windows. He faced away from me and was very, very still.
Could not move myself. Only stare.
Oh, God…no.
“Ch-charles?”
No response. Stillness.
“Charles!”
Nothing.
I crawled over to him, afraid to touch him, but I had to see.
A heartbeat in the silence.
His.
Damn near fainted from the relief. There was life in him, but…turned him, very carefully. He was a bloody mess in the literal sense. I checked his eyes, rolled up in their sockets. He was definitely out for the count.
Crawled to the desk, dragged down the phone, and called for an ambulance. I could barely see to do it, barely speak to the operator.
He groaned as I hung up. Went back to him.
“Charles?”
He took his time answering, seemed to have trouble breathing. I went to the liquor cabinet and got the brandy. Wet his split lips.
“You bastard,” he finally said.
“I’m sorry, Charles. I’m so sorry.”
“Good.”
“Help’s on the way, you just hang on.”
“Oh, I’m not dying yet. I won’t give you the satisfaction, you sorry bastard.”
“Just don’t move. Is your breathing okay? Your ribs? I could have broken some.
”
“Shut up, Jack. Check me, see for yourself.”
I didn’t understand him, but he clawed for one of my hands and pulled it onto his chest. Something hard beneath his coat.
“Think I’m a total idiot? That I’d pick a fight with you without preparation?”
He had on his bulletproof vest. There was steel plating under my hand.
“I will have some hellish bruises, but nothing permanent.”
“Oh, God. I thought I’d killed you. I thought you were dead.”
“And how did it feel?”
“How do you think?”
“I already know, you fool.” He sounded tired, tired to death. “I went through it for most of the day looking at your corpse, wondering if you’d wake at sundown. Not knowing, not daring to hope. Hours of it. The whole time wondering what I’d done, what I’d not done, how I’d failed you. Reading over and over the unfinished notes you wrote. Wondering how I could ever break the news to Bobbi.”
Stunned, I watched tears stream from his eyes. He seemed unaware of them.
“And I hated you, Jack. I hated you for giving up. For not talking to us, to anyone. You gave up. I can’t forgive you for that.”
I lurched away, tottering blindly to the washroom, made it to the basin just in time.
It was all red. What was left of Hoyle’s blood flooded out of me in a vast body-shaking spasm. I came close to screaming again. Or weeping. I hurt too much to know the difference.
When the bout passed, I crept back to the office and sat on the floor. I didn’t trust myself not to fall out of a chair. Escott had propped himself up a little against the wall. His puffed and bruised eyes were hot with fresh anger.
“How long did Bristow torture you?” he asked.
What?
“How long did it go on? Tell me.”
“Too long.”
“How long? An hour, two?”
“An hour, I guess.” I wouldn’t have had enough blood in me to last beyond that. “So what?”
“An hour. Think of it. One hour.”
I didn’t want to think of it. “What are you getting at?”
“One. Hour. Out of the whole of your life.”
What the…
“How many hours have you lived, Jack?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“How many hours are ahead of you?”
“Charles—”
“An unlimited span if you’re careful. Are you going to let all that’s come before and all that can follow be utterly destroyed by one tiny increment stacked against the broader span of time? It’s one hour of your life, Jack. Only one.”
“The worst I ever had.”
“There’s worse to come if you don’t do something about yourself. And I don’t mean eating a bullet. You’ve been letting that single hour control you. Hog Bristow is still torturing you so long as you allow it.”
“Allow? You think I want this?”
“You’re stuck in that damned meat locker until you make up your mind to leave.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve done things.”
“Then cease doing them, you fool!”
“I can’t help it.”
“Of course you can! You’re the strongest man I know! It’s sickening to hear you bleat on like that. While you’re buried in your hole for the day, Bobbi and I have to wonder what it’s going to be like when you wake up. We’re walking on eggs the whole night catering to you, trying not to add to your pain. Do you think we can’t see you bleeding inside?”
“She hates me.”
“You wallowing idiot! She loves you! You’re so turned in on yourself you can’t see that. You’d rather sit there and whine than accept such a precious gift.”
“I could hurt her, the way I hurt you. Worse.”
“Bollocks! Ultimately, you are in control, you are responsible. You can cower and let your fear run rampant like an ill-mannered child, or you can be in charge. Don’t tell me you can’t. If I can do it, you can, too.”
“What do you mean?”
His look was steady and burning. “After what happened to my friends in Canada, those murders…they were my whole family for God’s sake! Dead in one night. I couldn’t sleep for months. Kept waking up screaming. Drank myself unconscious, and I still kept waking up. Nothing I ever faced in the War was that awful. It was Shoe who finally helped me realize I had to get control of myself or…”
“What?”
“Or he’d beat the hell out of me again.” He paused, his gaze inward for a moment. Then, “I had to climb out of that pit. You’re stronger now than I ever was then. And you’re not alone. You are still needed here. This isn’t your time.”
I wanted to believe him.
“And however you think you could hurt Bobbi, it couldn’t possibly be worse than taking yourself away. Don’t put her through that, Jack. You’re her rock. Don’t crumble under her.”
“She’s strong.”
“Because you’re here! Stay! Stay for her sake. Or I swear I will beat the hell out of you again.”
THE white-jackets came with a stretcher and for a couple of guys who had to have seen everything, they gave us a double take.
“You can’t ride in with us,” one of them told me. I figured he wasn’t chancing my taking another shot at Escott.
“I’ll follow then.”
He didn’t seem to like that idea. They carted Escott downstairs and were gone in a minute. I looked for my coat, couldn’t find it, and borrowed Escott’s instead. A very neat and organized man, he’d left it lying on the floor like old laundry. Must have had it draped over one arm when he’d walked in and seen the inert, bloodied mess on the couch. He’d have stood frozen in the doorway a moment, the coat slipping away…
The office phone rang, jolting me.
It was Bobbi.
This wasn’t a good time to talk, but Escott would kill me if I brushed her off. “Hello, sweetheart. How are you?” I hoped nothing to tip her off was in my voice.
“Just fine,” she said, sounding very cheerful and awake. Quite a change from the last call. Certainly she was unaware of what I’d tried to do. “When you coming over, Sweetie?”
Huh? “I can’t right away, I’ve got to—”
“Oh, Jacky, you’ve been busy every night this week.” Her voice went sharp, shrewish, petulant.
What the hell…? I went cold. Deathly cold. “Well, Roberta, I got things to do.”
She was pouty now, and completely ignored my use of her given name. “Oh, come on. I’ll make it worth your while. Come on, you can spare a girl ten lousy minutes. Just come over and do it.”
Sickness bloomed in my gut. “Well, maybe I could…”
“When you see what I’m not wearing, you’ll wanna stay longer.” She giggled seductively.
“Okay, but I gotta to do something first. I’ll call again in an hour and let you know if I can get away. You’ll have to hold your horses until then.”
“You’ll call in an hour?”
“And you better answer, sweetheart, or just forget about having any fun tonight.”
“I’ll be here. Make it a fast hour.” She hung up.
Before I was aware of having moved I was down the stairs, heart in my throat.
But an apparition stood square in the middle of the lobby, blocking my way. I was in such a panic that the out-of-place presence didn’t register. I nearly collided, then halted at the last second, backing in confusion from a snub-nosed revolver shoved hard into my belly.
Looked down at the gun, bewildered, backed another step, then truly focused on the man holding it: Whitey Kroun.
He was worse for wear, eyebrows gone and some hair singed off. There were cuts on his burn-reddened face, and his left hand was crudely bandaged. His torn and bloodied clothes stank of smoke and sweat, but he was standing, solid, and very much alive.
“Surprised?” he asked, his voice whisper-hoarse.
My lack of reply was answer enough.
&n
bsp; “Thought you’d be.” His dark eyes blazed. “All right, you son-of-a-bitch punk, you tell me why you tried to kill me.”
“What?” I didn’t have time for this.
“You set me up, but for the life of me I can’t think why you would. What’s your game, Fleming?”
“No game. It wasn’t me.”
“I had the car, so I had to be the target. Was it some kind of deal with Gordy?”
“Kroun, listen to me—”
“Why?” His arm straightened to fire. He would shoot to wound. Killing would come later.
“It was Mitchell, dammit! I got half of Chicago looking for him!”
Kroun hesitated. “Mitchell. No…I don’t think so.”
“Why the hell not?”
He made no reply.
“Listen, dammit—he got with one of his old pals from here and they cooked up the bomb. I donno if he wants to take over your spot in New York or Gordy’s spot here like he wanted before, but you gotta believe me, he’s the one who did it! Now put that damn thing away—I know where he’s hiding!”
“Uh-huh. The hell you do.” He swung the muzzle up toward my chest.
I moved faster than he could fire. Snagged the gun from his hand and gave him a push. He spun around, but without his heater he was in no shape to take me. On second look he was banged up pretty bad. I couldn’t see how he was able to walk. He should have been in the ambulance with Escott.
I started for the door, then thought better of it. “You’re comin’ with me,” I told him.
“Where?”
“Mitchell’s got my girlfriend. You want proof? Come on.” I hauled him out the door, pulling it closed behind, and going left. “Into that Nash.”
Kroun was limping, his left trouser leg was crusted brown from dried blood. He wheezed badly. I gunned the motor, shifted, and shot us away.
“What’s with you?” I asked.
“Got some smoke. Coughed most of it out by now, but jeez.”
“What else?”
“Some burns, the concussion from the boom was the worst. Like someone hit me all over with a building.”
“How the hell did you survive?”
“Gordy’s car.”
