32

 

Meshach’s knee pushed into the middle of Wes’s back. The .45 pressing into the base of his skull hurt, but not as bad as his injured pride. One-upped by a psychopath. Again! Had Meshach been hiding in the trailer all along? Even last night when Wes had discovered the car and freed Jess?

Not a shot fired, either. Wes hadn’t seen that outcome in all the scenarios his mind had produced.

Once they’d engaged, Wes lost track of time and events. Not a word spoken in anger, just a struggle as two men fought to stay alive. If that meant killing the other man, so be it. What felt like minutes might have lasted only a few seconds. Then his mind settled and he realized he had the advantage. He reached for Meshach’s pistol lying in the grass. Another moment and two inches farther, and it would have been game over for the bad guy, but Meshach had pulled some kind of mixed-martial-arts move on him, reversed the hold, and grabbed the pistol.

Now, here he lay, the vanquished wallowing in what-if.

With his face pushed into the grass, Wes couldn’t see. That didn’t prevent him from hearing a slow-moving car along the highway. Had to be Tony looking for him. Wes prayed he’d stay put. God help them both if he decided to get out and wander around.

Just drive off.

The Corps taught recruits hand-to-hand techniques during boot camp, but like many physical abilities, if you didn’t use it, you’d lose it. In Iraq, Wes had operated under one self-imposed rule: never let the enemy close enough to put a hand on you. He’d flunked this time.

Despite the obvious injury to Meshach’s right hand, he’d used the fist like a battering ram. Wes took every opportunity to inflict pain and further damage to the bandaged area, but the man never acted like he felt a thing.

Stories of men doing superhuman feats, running on adrenalin—Sampson with God’s power upon him—floated among troops in the Iraqi desert. As some war stories went, they grew with every telling. Some he’d heard were true, some were not. Drugs could make a man crazy so that he would fight and kill with abandon, oblivious to wounds that would make a grizzly whimper. Meshach was methodical. No doubt evil, insane, but in control, and he had an uncanny ability to protect his eye. Wes had managed to break Meshach’s sunglasses, but every other attempt he made to disable the man’s vision Meshach thwarted.

The car stopped. A second later, another vehicle sped past, followed closely by a heavy truck with bad tread or a lopsided tire zinging every revolution. The sounds mixed into one and then faded.

Had a car door slammed? Tony? Did he get out of the car?

The pressure of the pistol eased and left the back of his head. Then it went off with a deafening explosion.

“Tony, run!” Wes screamed and tried to turn over, but Meshach had the advantage and hit him on the side of the face with the barrel of the gun.

Wes’s world flipped out of control like it did the first time he jumped out of an airplane. Ground and sky inverted and spun. Two more rounds exploded from the .45 and rammed into the ground inches from his nose, jerking the sanity back into him just like the parachute did when it finally opened. What felt like a hot cigarette touched his right cheek as Meshach pressed the .45’s muzzle against his skin. He shook his head and screamed and the pistol impacted the side of his head again.

“Keep it up,” Meshach said and pushed himself away. “The fat guy in the hoodie took a round. You’ll get one next. Come on, pops. Up. Walk.”

Oh, Tony, Tony. Wes rolled to his right, onto his back. Meshach stood a couple of feet away, gun leveled at Wes’s head. He knew he wouldn’t survive lunging at the man.

Looking across the top of the barrel from the business end and into the lightless green eye of a murderer wasn’t what Wes had envisioned. He did a quick sit-up with his knees pulled to his chest and stood without using his hands. He looked back over his shoulder for his techie but didn’t see his body. The top of the levee spanned twenty yards, a long shot for a .45 automatic. Tony might be fine and just laying low, but Meshach seemed confident that his round hit home.

I’m going to kill you, Meshach. You shouldn’t have left me alive. Whatever it takes, however long, I’ll find a way.

“I love Louisiana. The sound of gunfire is as normal as the ding-dong-ding of church bells around here. Your cell phone, where is it?” Meshach had just shot a man, but he talked as calmly as if they were discussing what to have for lunch.

Wes felt his shirt pocket and inclined his head to indicate where they’d just come from, next to the trailer.

Meshach looked him up and down. “Show me. Turn your pants pockets out. Drop your wallet and back up.”

Wes complied. His wallet landed in the grass next to his lip balm. He took three steps back.

Meshach bent at the knees. The pistol barrel never wavered. “Who was in the car? The guy you talked to?”

Wes couldn’t think of any reasons to lie. “An FBI agent.”

Meshach reacted with slight hesitation and a blank stare, but he didn’t seem surprised. After pocketing Wes’s wallet, he motioned with the gun which way he wanted Wes to go. “You’re dumber than I thought if I have to tell you to move or I’ll shoot ya.”

Unless someone in the house across the highway witnessed the fight, saw his hurried ascent over the levee at the point of a gun, or saw Tony fall, pistol fire wouldn’t even warrant a glance toward the report.

Wes didn’t have to be told to stay away from the top of the levee. Deep weeds and grass made the walk a workout. A half-submerged refrigerator, the rotten hull of a wooden boat, sheets of corrugated aluminum from destroyed trailer houses, paper and plastic dotted the shoreline. All debris scattered by past hurricanes.

He didn’t know a thing about Tony’s parents or siblings. He had an older brother he’d mentioned in passing once, but where? Lord, help me! What a mess!

His left shoulder felt strange. He’d pulled something in the fight. Muscle shakes from fatigue quaked through his hands. Now that he had time to think about and assess the aches and pains, he was beat up and spent. He hadn’t fought like that since high school, but then he hadn’t tried to kill the kids he’d fought back then either. Looking back, he couldn’t even remember why they’d fought.

The enemy had a face now. Short dark hair, a good start on a beard that hadn’t been trimmed in several days, nose distinct but crooked from a poorly mended break. He looked like any man until the sunglasses had come off. A red spot replaced the left eye and the skin was drawn, like there wasn’t enough to cover the hole where the eyeball had been, so the doctor had used a drawstring to pull it together. The wound didn’t look like anything a plastic surgeon couldn’t fix.

Wes realized Meshach relished the look. A reminder? Fuel to drive his hate?

They walked several minutes before the bay boat came into view, grounded against the levee. He’d yet to see a way out. A boat ride looked inevitable.

Meshach kept Wes alive. Why? Hostage? Save him for another fate? Wes wasn’t going to complain about any options the man had in mind. He knew he’d barely slipped from the reaper’s grasp. Time. He’d take all he could get.

Two kids trotted over the levee fifty yards ahead. Both boys were dressed in jeans, one in a red shirt hanging loose around his waist, the other, a pudgy kid in a white T-shirt a size too small. Their laughter stopped when they saw the boat. They pointed. The boy in the red shirt looked around and saw Wes and Meshach and nodded to his friend.

“I’ll shoot both of them in the head.” Meshach’s tone remained flat, conversational.

Again, Wes didn’t need to be told. Boys first. As they approached, the kids glanced at each other. They looked fifteen, maybe sixteen, barely old enough to drive.

Meshach had already put Wes’s pistol in the waistband behind his back. His pistol he’d stuffed in his belt, in front and handy.

Wes said, “Good morning, men,” with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“Morning,” the chubby kid said, almost a whisper.

“Isn’t school in session?” Wes said.

“Yeah, but school stinks.” The red-shirted kid flipped his hand and eyed the boat as he talked.

He’d called them men to bring them up to his level. The compliment went right over this kid’s head. “I have news for you, boy. Dumb stinks too. You’ve got what, three more years of school and sixty years of living afterward, on average. That’s a long time to be dumb. Go to school before you get in trouble.”

He had their attention. They moved back the way they’d come, mumbling between themselves. Wes ignored them on purpose and picked up his pace. What they didn’t know would hurt them.

“Real profound words for the boys there, pops. One of those kids will be a rocket scientist because of your advice.”

A retort came to mind. He left it there.

Wes didn’t have a gun to use against Meshach, but he possessed information. Throwing out a name, a place, an event in the man’s life could buy seconds, minutes, maybe hours. But what should he reveal and how much?

When he reached the boat and looked back, the kids had left. He stopped. “What now, Elgin?”

Oh yeah. He’d hit a nerve. It wasn’t much, a slight twitch in Meshach’s neck muscles, but enough.

“You called her Jess on the phone a few minutes ago. Who you talking to? The fat boy I shot in the head? He was your computer guy, eh? Blue-eyes, Jess, she’s one to pray. How about you? Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Fairchild? Do you?”

Meshach shrugged. “Of course. I make it a point to know my enemies.”