SHEEP
When Jordan pulled into the parking area behind Le Vieux Puits, he saw Neil’s truck idling. The exhaust billowed in the frigid early-morning damp. Jordan could smell the sea. The coast was just a mile or two to the northwest. Neil was on the phone, sitting in the open door of the cab. He nodded in greeting as Jordan pulled up and snapped the phone shut.
“Mornin’, Billy. Ready to hit the road?”
Jordan nodded. Neil climbed down and walked around to the back of the truck. He raised the door and pulled the ramp out with a metallic clatter, startling a cote of doves nesting under the eaves of the shuttered hotel. Jordan drove the rented silver Peugeot up the ramp and into the truck. He climbed out. Neil had already stowed the ramp and was sliding wedge-shaped blocks behind the wheels. Moved fast for a big guy.
“Put the parking brake on, mate,” the trucker snapped. Efficient, calm, reassuringly professional. Jordan pulled up the brake and shouldered the black duffel. It was heavy and awkward. Besides the Taser, the surgical supplies and a couple changes of clothes, it was almost entirely cash. With the year’s sublet from the empty nesters and his combined poker losings he had a little over 250,000 euros in tightly wrapped bundles. Enough to get them somewhere safe.
“You can put your gear up front, then give me a hand with the car, all right? Cheers.” Jordan wedged the duffel under the glove box in the cab and came back to find Neil struggling to wriggle his substantial torso under the Peugeot’s front end to attach a hook and chain.
“Let me do that,” Jordan said.
“Yeah, better idea,” Neil said with a husky laugh. “I’d probably get stuck and then where’d we be, eh?”
Jordan worked his head and shoulders under the car and Neil passed him the hook. “Try and get it ’round a solid bit of frame, yeah?” Jordan did and Neil tugged and grunted his satisfaction before taking up the slack in the chain and locking it down. “She ain’t going anywhere,” he said with a firm push on the fender. “Let’s make a move.”
For three hours they drove in silence. Jordan was lost in his own thoughts and only vaguely registered the small towns they drove through—Verson, Pont-l’évêque, the outskirts of Rouen—places that conjured up cheese and cathedrals in Jordan’s memory. They had a simple sandwich of ham on a buttered baguette and an espresso at a medieval stone inn with a faded Stella Artois sign.
As they turned onto the E402 just north of Abbeville, Neil said, “Reckon I got to ask. None of my business, I know. Feel free to tell me to fuck off.”
“No, it’s okay,” Jordan said. He felt light, almost euphoric. What he was doing was crazy, impossible, but he was doing it. And it could actually work, couldn’t it? It had to. Stephanie would have to find the message; she was the only one who could. She would know what to do.
His feet rested on the lumpy duffel, so his shins bumped on the glove compartment when the lorry bounced. They were driving through immaculately groomed farmland now. Pastures as far as the eye could see on either side of the narrow two-lane road. You knew you weren’t in Kansas. Farms in the states had a symmetry, rectangular fields with tight, even furrows, efficient like a GI’s flattop. Here, there was a casual charm, a sweep to the rows and a little wild growth, like graying locks peeking out from under an artist’s wool cap. The French, raised on Monet and van Gogh, knew a thing or two about bucolic beauty; even the most functional barn or silo was situated for maximum aesthetic effect.
“Shitty divorce,” he said. He saw Neil’s eyebrow arch a little higher. “No, really. Very, very shitty. Kids, money, unpleasant. I don’t want to go into too much of it but it’s bad. Bottom line is I need to get back into England and my ex can’t know I’m there. That’s the big thing. And she’s the kind who’d know. It’s her money.”
Neil nodded. “So you got kids in England?”
“Yeah.”
They drove in silence. Jordan leaned his head against the window. The low hum of the road filled his ears and he drifted until Neil’s voice brought him back. “And the sheep?”
Jordan sighed. “You’re not going to believe it. This is where it really does get crazy.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” Jordan reached over and showed the trucker the scar on the back of his hand.
“And...”
“I had a skiing accident a while back and broke my hand. Had to go to the hospital. While I’m under, the crazy fucking bitch gets the doctor to implant something in me, like a tracking device or something.”
“Fuck you.” Neil laughed, shaking his head. “I was going to believe you, too. Now I know you’re full of shit.”
“I know, it sounds insane but it’s true. You can feel it. There’s this hard little bump in there and ever since that happened she’s always known exactly where to find me. It’s fucked up.”
“That’s paranoid crazy bullshit.”
Jordan shrugged. “Maybe, still.”
Neil thought a minute. “I still don’t get the sheep.”
“Well, if I just take the thing out, she’ll know I’m onto her, right? So I’m going to cut it out and put it in the sheep. That way she’ll think I’m still in France. Get it?”
Neil abruptly swerved the truck onto the narrow shoulder and put on his hazards. “Get the fuck out!”
Jordan put his hands up. “What are you talking about?”
“How fucking stupid do you think I am? You’re either completely full of shit or completely out of your mind. I don’t know which and I don’t care. I want nothing to do with you. Someone’s after you, I believe that. Americans, French police, whatever, it’s too big for me. I get caught with some Syrian kid it’s a fine, maybe just a wrist slap. I think helping you could get me killed. Take your shit and get out. I’ll leave the car up the road.”
“No, wait,” Jordan said. “Listen, please. It’s nothing like that. I promise. I’ll pay double. I told you she was rich.”
Neil searched his face, jaw working furiously. “Seventy-five thousand.”
Jordan nodded. “Okay.”
Neil’s eyes widened. “You have that much?”
He nodded again.
“I want it now before I drive another foot.”
Jordan pulled out the duffel and opened it on his lap. He pulled out a stack of bundles and passed them to the driver. “That’s sixty. I’ll give you the last fifteen in Dover.”
Neil picked up one of the bundles and riffled the edges. His eyes gleamed lupine in the gray light. His smile was cold. “Okay, Billy boy, we have a deal. Do yourself a favor, though. Don’t tell me any more fairy tales. I never liked ’em. Just tell me to mind my own fucking business.” He put the truck in gear and slowly pulled back onto the roadway. He glanced quickly in the rearview mirror before flicking off the hazards. He texted someone. There was no reply.
No one spoke again until they passed a sign for Calais and Neil took out his phone and made a call.
“Oi. You here?”
Jordan heard a muffled voice on the other end. Couldn’t make words out. Then Neil said, “Yeah, five minutes. Cheers.”
He turned onto rue Nationale and then a half mile later onto an unnamed road that ran behind a low brown warehouse. If there was a nowhere between Calais and Sangatte, this was the middle of it. Perfect for what Jordan had to do. There was one other truck in the parking lot, a livestock carrier. Its lights were on. Even though it was only three in the afternoon it was almost completely dark.
Neil pulled around so the two cabs were side by side with the bodies pointed in opposite directions. He rolled down his window. “Pat, Bill. Bill, Pat.” Pat Murphy was a big, athletic guy with thick black hair and a boyish face. Jordan guessed he was pushing forty but he could have been fourteen save the laugh lines around the eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Billy.” His accent was thick working-class Irish. He hopped out of the truck and came around as Jordan opened his door. Jordan climbed down. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. The sheep, he should have heard them. He walked to the back of Pat’s truck and looked in. Black. Empty.
He turned around with a puzzled expression. “There are no sheep.”
Pat shrugged with a funny little smile. “No. No sheep.” Then he hit Jordan. He knew how to fight; his feet were grounded. The blow came out of his legs, short, efficient movement. Jordan felt all the air go out of him. His eyes popped as he doubled over. He couldn’t get a breath. Then the next blow came. Pat caught him on the cheekbone. It felt like he’d been hit with a hammer. A shock to the jaw, sharp pain, ear and cheek. He tasted blood in his mouth. The left side of his face was numb. Finally he managed to gulp for air. He looked up to see another left coming at his body. He just managed to turn so it caught him in the ribs instead of the stomach. There was a crack and searing pain tore across his side.
“Fuck!” he screamed and rolled to the ground. Pat’s boot caught him in the small of the back. He heard the heavy footfalls as he rolled and caught a glimpse of his attacker’s face. Pat was grinning, his face flushed bright red and his tongue stuck out slightly as if it were too big to fit in his mouth. Jordan rolled toward the truck but Pat grabbed his jacket before he could slide underneath.
“No, you don’t,” he panted, cuffing Jordan’s right ear with an open hand and pulling him to his feet before slamming him back against the truck and pinning him with a steel forearm against his throat. He was pressing against the windpipe and Jordan’s vision started to go dark with bright flashes of light, like little fireworks. He clawed with his free hand at Pat’s face, which just enraged the trucker. He kneed Jordan repeatedly in the groin without releasing the forearm press. Jordan twisted frantically, finally turning his neck enough to suck a tearing gasp of air. His mouth was pressed against Pat’s fist. He bit down as hard as he could.
With a bellow of pain the larger man ripped his hand back but Jordan held on. His neck cracked as it wrenched forward and he felt a pop in his mouth and pain and blood filled it. He assumed a tooth had pulled out. Pat meant to kill him, he was sure. He couldn’t let go.
Pat readjusted his free arm and put Jordan in a headlock with their legs intertwined, hunched over. Jordan heard his breathing in his ear, guttural and savage. “Neil! Get him off!” The pressure increased on his neck, and Jordan felt like his head was going to explode. He bit down as hard as he could and twisted his head to the side. There was a terrible scream and he felt the thing between his teeth separate with a harsh grinding sound. Something was tugging at the corner of his mouth like a string. Pat’s grip loosened and Jordan twisted away and the stringy thing snapped. They were separated by a couple of feet and Pat was holding his hand and screaming. Blood was rhythmically pumping through his fingers and occasionally bubbles would form, swell and pop with a sticky slowness. Jordan had something hard and rubbery in his mouth and he spat it out. It took a moment to realize it was the top half of a finger. It rolled under the tire of the truck and Pat fell to his knees, his bleeding hand pressed to his belly as he dug with the other hand.
Suddenly there was a stinging sensation in Jordan’s leg and his entire body went rigid. It felt like every muscle was contracting as hard as it could. He collapsed to the ground, unable to move. He saw Neil walking toward him with a vicious smirk, holding the Taser.
“Nice toy you got here, Billy.” He touched the trigger and Jordan’s body contorted again.
Neil kicked him in the stomach and ribs repeatedly. Jordan heard another rib snap like a rifle shot. Neil kicked him in the face, splitting his lip. Blood filled Jordan’s mouth again. He couldn’t move or protect himself. He was going to die. Then headlights swept the parking lot as someone pulled around the side of the warehouse.
“Shit, we gotta go,” Neil yelled to his partner with one last kick at Jordan’s face as he pulled the Taser darts out of his thigh and emptied his pockets.
“What about my fucking finger?” Pat screamed, blood-flecked foam flying from his mouth.
“Bring it. We’ll go to hospital, see if they can put it back.” Neil was laughing. “Put it on ice or something.”
“Ice?” Pat screamed. “I don’t have any fucking ice!”
Neil climbed up into the cab of his truck. “Then put it in your fucking mouth, keep it wet.”
Pat wiped off the bloody finger and tucked it in his cheek, looking for all the world like a redneck with a good-size chaw. He picked up Jordan’s head by the hair and spat in his face, then head butted him right on the bridge of his nose. There was a brilliant flash of white light and then darkness.