Bone Deep (28 page)

He did. I watched him remove the helmet . . . scowl . . . then lob it toward his bike. Didn’t look at me for a moment, then turned, letting me see his face. No mask around his neck today. “What do you think?”

“This doesn’t have to go south,” I replied. “The cops have you down for a stolen plate and vandalism. So what? If you shoot me, though—”

“Not that,” Quirt said, “the job that asshole surgeon did on my face. When the sun’s low like this, his needlework looks like seams on a football. I’ve been thinking about hiring a lawyer.”

I said,
“Oh,”
as if interested, then used my shirt to clean my glasses.

Quirt talked while I made up my mind, asking, “Why don’t you trust Harris?”

“If you met him,” I said, “you already know.”

“A whining little punk, yeah. I can’t disagree. Him and the other one, Owen—that’s his name—they’re in to friends of mine, a sort of organization, for three hundred thou. Which those fools let grow into a half a mil. That’s the trouble with rich kids. They don’t know the value of a dollar.”

“Leland, the property owner,” I replied, “he was just saying the same thing.” Then took a long look at the biker’s face before adding, “I’ve heard that if you sue a surgeon for forty thousand or less, their insurance doesn’t even bother fighting it. Turn a little to your right—the light’s better.”

“That’s how this happened,” Quirt said, tilting his head. “A kid in his daddy’s Corvette caused me to dump my bike as he was pulling out of a Denny’s. Forty thousand, huh? That ain’t nearly enough.” He glanced at me to warn
I’m
not stupid
, then forgot he was posing and strode to my truck, pistol ready.

“Ask four million and let them pick a number.”

“Yeah,” he said, “and sue the kid’s daddy, too. I look like a turd dropped in cat hair, but he didn’t give a shit. I’ll tell you this”—Quirt opened the truck and leaned inside, tossed my dive bag onto the ground, before continuing—“That accident gave me what you’d call a different outlook on life. A few years before—you’d find this hard to believe—I was quite the stud. Even did some art modeling at school. Sparks Community College, which is close to Silver Springs.”

“You’re talking about Nevada?”

“The Fighting Cougars, yeah. We were ranked as high as seventeen, Division II football. Point is, that art teacher didn’t hire me ’cause I was a faggot. I had looks.”

I was thinking,
Keep him talking until he makes a mistake
.
“If you sue,” I said, “the problem will be convincing a jury your financial position has been impacted. What position did you play?”

Quirt opened my glove box after checking under he seat. “Quarterback—I wasn’t just another pretty face. That’s something else that hitting the asphalt at seventy-plus will do. After business school, I was on the fast track, got recruited by the Plaza. That’s a hotel in Vegas. I would have been a blue-chip prospect, maybe worked for the Bellagio. But then a shit sandwich appears in the form of a Corvette. This idiot hippie kid, tanked up on waffle syrup, with a full-on Denny’s buzz. Two years later, I’m wearing a steel plate in my head and collecting for loan sharks. No more beauty queens fighting to tickle my pud. Instead, now what I do is, I play Frankenstein and scare the shit out of deadbeats like those two.”

He stood, looked down the road, letting his anger build, his mind on Owen and Harris. Or not. I was worried the word
hippie
had connected Tomlinson with the Corvette.

“Did you date any fashion models?” I asked him, Ava Albright on my mind.

Quirt gave me that look again—
I’m not stupid—
and slammed the truck door. “I was sort of hoping I’d find your pistol. If it wasn’t for them scuba tanks, I’d’ve loaned you mine. My rifle, I mean. Put it in reach, with you on the ground, and backed away ten paces. Ever see
A Fistful of Dollars
? Sort of like that. It’s still going to happen, but let’s take care of some business first.” He went to the Harley and yanked the rifle from its scabbard.

Insanity . . . now he was challenging me to a showdown.

I said, “Quirt, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but it doesn’t make much sense to collect money from Owen and Harris, then risk it all in a shoot-out. Think about it.”

“Hell, hoss, I’ve
done
it. You’ll be my fifth notch—not that I’d notch these fine buffalo-horn grips.” He held up the revolver to show me black handles on chrome.

The man was unbalanced, so I tried twisted reasoning. “This is different. For one thing, I don’t owe you money. But what’s really going to piss people off is if you hurt that elephant. Shoot me, to be honest, it’s no big deal—the news media, I’m saying. But shoot an elephant, people are going to be screaming for your head. I’m telling you, Quirt, this is a bad idea.”

He filed that away, then motioned to the hood of the truck. “You ride up there. I want your back to the windshield so I can keep an eye on you. I’ll drive.” He waited until he’d opened the door to ask, “Are you saying I’m crazy?”

“A college quarterback is smart enough to walk away from a situation like this. Something’s not right with the way your mind’s working—have you seen a specialist?”

Quirt appreciated me not ass-kissing. “Good for you. I was losing faith in your style, ol’ buddy. But now I’m gonna tell you what’s what. ’Bout three weeks ago, I finally found that kid in the Corvette. Who wasn’t such a kid, it being six years since the Denny’s incident, but he still bawled like a baby when I gave him my rifle and backed away. What I told him was, ‘You get first move.’ He was still bawling when he made it . . . my fifth notch.” White ceramic teeth grinned while he added, “I’ve got me an undefeated season going.”

“Your fifth gunfight,” I said.

His grin widened. “Sure as hell not the fifth person I’ve killed. You got any idea what it’s like collecting for Vegas loan sharks? Those boys are like ticks in Italian shoes.”

I said, “That’s my point. Your lifestyle’s not normal.”

Quirt extended his arm; the stainless snippers made a hedge-clipping sound. “
Normal?
Hell, I left out the best part. See, what I did was I cut the kid’s trigger finger off first—but not for the reason you think. Well”—he wanted to be honest—“there’s no doubt
cutting his fingers off gave me an edge in a shooting contest. What I’m saying is, I
like
hurting people since my wreck. It was just my way of thanking the kid for opening up a whole new way of life.”

He said it in a bragging way to conceal what I believed he actually meant. “You want someone to stop you—is that it, Quirt? If it is—”

Face coloring, he shouted, “Let me finish my story! This happened out in the desert, mid-May, not even a month ago. No one around, so I cut that boy’s nose off next, and”—he clicked his pincers to illustrate—“a snip here, a snip there. Well, I just sort of lost control after that. As you can understand, that had to be my last night in Nevada. As to the loan sharks, they’ll be looking for me, too.”

He enjoyed my reaction—a look of disgust—and was adding gory details when we heard
pop . . . pop-pop
: a small-caliber weapon, three careful shots fired long spaces apart. It puzzled him. He reached for his phone, saying, “That dumbass Harris, he told me his daddy had a Remington big bore rifle he could use—something that could handle the job.” Then dialed and put the phone to his ear.

“Shit—voice mail,” he said, and tried again, muttering, “Answer, damn you.”

He was dialing Harris Sanford a third time when his hopes were realized.
BOOM . . . BOOM
—the report of a heavy-caliber weapon from somewhere near the pond. A trumpeting call, more like an elephant’s scream, followed. Then a third shot,
BOOM
, that chased a flock of egrets out of the sunset, a sky streaked with pink and turning indigo.

Moonrise was hours away, but it would be dark soon.

Quirt smiled and put away the phone. “Hope you’re hungry for elephant steaks. Now, sit your ass on the hood like I told you.”

On the wild ride to the pond, I was thinking,
He didn’t make bail. The crazy bastard escaped.

The pasture gate was locked as we bounced toward the Escalade and red Dodge Ram parked outside the fence, no one around, so Quirt laid on the horn, driving way too fast. That’s when Leland staggered out, holding his chest, the office door open behind him, garage open, the concrete building leaden against trees.

The man’s shirt didn’t show blood but looked wet. He’d been shot. On the hood of my speeding truck, I lay back and banged at the windshield.

Quirt saw him and locked the brakes. I expected that but still went flying from the hood, which is what he wanted. I landed on my feet but momentum tumbled me. The crazy biker was out, revolver ready, by the time I was up.

“Shitfire,” he said, “them boys were supposed to be here.” He reached through the window and used the horn again. Looked at the red truck, his mind on the lockbox Harris had promised, but sniffed and said, “Goddamn place stinks. I thought goats were bad.” Then studied the pasture, the musk of elephant strong in the air, it
was true, but Toby was not in his usual spot. “That weed-chopper sounds nasty, hoss. I bet those rich pricks locked the gate.”

The electric fence, he meant, four cables spaced ten feet high. High voltage, low amperage, Owen had told me. Not lethal.

I hoped that was true, because Leland needed help. He had stumbled to one knee, blood on his face, and was trying to get up.

“The combination is under the solar panel,” I told Quirt, then ran toward the fence before I could change my mind. The bottom cable was a yard off the ground, humming in synch with three cables above—a sizzling sound. With enough speed, I told myself, I could dive between the first and second cable without feeling much.

I didn’t feel much . . . until my trailing foot snagged as my hands touched ground on the other side. A hundred thousand volts sparked behind my eyes . . . then it was gone . . . and I was on my feet, Leland’s face dazed as I ran toward him.

“You’re . . .
not burned
?” Albright, in shock, was coherent enough to call out. Then pointed vaguely at the pond and said something I didn’t understand. By the time I got to him, I saw what he was pointing at: a bright blue shirt near the cattails, a human arm protruding from what might have been a body.

Owen had been wearing a blue shirt.

I told Leland, “You’ll be okay,” although I had no idea if it was true. I got my hands under his arms and helped him sit, then laid him on his side, fearing he would aspirate. I ripped his shirt open, Leland saying, “Hurts like hell to breathe. Harris . . . he darted us both.”

The man sounded drunk.

I said, “You mean shot you.” A pneumatic cattle dart would have knocked him unconscious, and it didn’t explain the blood.

From outside the fence, I heard a door slam and looked to see Quirt carrying a box away from the red truck. Then he dropped the box, smaller than a footlocker but heavy. He stuck the stainless pistol in his belt and knelt for a closer look.

On Leland’s sternum, a tiny black dot appeared when I wiped blood away; I found another bruised spot low on his chest, right side, that might have shattered a rib. Not holes, more like needle marks. A gun designed to dart cattle would hit with a hell of an impact, but why was there blood on his face?

I said, “Open your mouth. Did you call nine-one-one?”

Leland shook his head, mouth wide, and let me look—no obvious internal bleeding—then insisted, “I’m okay. But . . . Owen. Go check. And where’s Toby? Harris shot him, too, used a real rifle.”

“Are you sure you were darted?”

He groaned, attempted to get to his feet, and fell back. “The first one bounced off . . . hit bone. I pulled out the next one but got dizzy as hell. He shot Owen in the back, though—is he okay?”

He turned toward the pond where his stepson lay hidden by cattails, not moving.

I asked, “Where’s your phone?”

He had trouble processing that. “Harris must have took it. Or . . . maybe in the office. That’s where I passed out.”

I said,
“Shit,”
then jogged toward Owen but stopped a few yards away. There was nothing I could do to help him—that’s how obvious his injuries were. Harris might have darted his old college buddy, but something else happened to finish the job.

Leland was waiting for an answer when I turned, but was spared the bad news by a gunshot, then another—Quirt trying to shoot the gate open, the biker furious when he inspected the lock. He waved
the pistol, yelling, “Hoss! Drag that tall bastard up here and make him open this damn thing. You hear me . . . Hey,
Ford
!”

I ignored that and was soon kneeling by Leland again, him asking, “How is he?”

“Owen’s still out,” I said. “We need a phone.”

From the gate, Quirt hollered, “Screw the combination. How many volts you say this fence is?”

We both turned. The biker was reaching his bionic hand toward the middle cable. Leland struggled to sit up, a panicked expression that told me Owen had lied. The fence wasn’t harmless, might even be lethal, which fit with what Leland had said after watching me dive through the thing.

You’re not burned?

I whispered to Leland, “Quiet,” then waved Quirt toward us, calling, “It didn’t hurt me.”

“Goddamn thing’s sizzling, hoss.” The biker lowered his bionic hand, threaded the .357 pistol through his belt, and stepped back. “Where’d you say the combination is?”

Leland tried to sit up. “It could kill him.”

Voice low, I replied, “Good. I’ve got to find a phone before he kills us both. Leland, you’ve got to trust me—I want you to play dead no matter what happens. At least unconscious. Can you do that?” Then I yelled to Quirt, “It’s high voltage but low amperage.”

“What?”

I said it again, adding, “Why even bother? He already called the police. Harris shot Owen and they’re both in bad shape.”

“Goddamn greenhorns.” Quirt stomped his boot on the ground and walked toward my truck—fleeing, I hoped.

Leland grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer. “You’ve got to help Owen. I should have listened to you. Harris talked him into
robbing me, but now he wants to square things. Harris turned on us both. He might come back and kill my son.”

“Stop talking,” I warned, and forced his head back. The crazy biker, instead of leaving, was returning with his Winchester. Maybe more firepower to shoot the lock off—something that seldom works.

No . . . I watched him stride to the fence in bulletproof mode, shoulders wide, while showing his face to the world. He reached the rifle out as if to test the middle cable, then decided,
Screw it
. Used his bionic hand instead, extending his arm, pincers open, and whooped like a drunken cowboy before he clamped down hard. A fireworks of sparks . . . then a sizzling boom when the cables fell . . . and Quirt reappeared through the smoke, his face aglow in the sunset light.

The crazy biker was right about the way he pictured himself:

Frankenstein.

•   •   •

COMING DOWN THE HILL,
Quirt hollered, “
Woo-wee!
I am a miracle of space-age plastics!” Then, midstride, swung his rifle at me. “We got work to do. Is that the head honcho?”

“He’s unconscious,” I said, stepping away from Leland.

“I don’t give a shit if he’s dead. Grab his wallet.”

Albright allowed me to roll him on his side so I could, then I tried to decoy Quirt by walking toward the pond. “The cops are on their way. You should cut your losses. I’ll come along, if you want.”

He didn’t understand at first, then said, “Oh, and show me where you hid them Pelican cases. Ain’t that sweet—but it won’t stop Deon from doing a number on your hippie friend. I’ll get what you stole anyway.” Quirt was taunting me, in good spirits again. His head pivoted along the pasture until he saw one blue arm protruding from the cattails.

“Owen’s out,” I told him. “Harris shot the elephant, too. The elephant probably ran off and Harris went after him—into those trees, most likely.”

I wondered how Leland would react to that, but I kept my eyes on Quirt. He was angling toward the open garage, the rifle shouldered, his finger on the trigger. “What, you got X-ray vision now? I ain’t leaving until I get what I came for—half a million dollars’ worth. That prissy bastard could be hiding.”

“
Where?
Have you ever seen an elephant?”

“Seen three of ’em a couple days back; made a wrong turn and damn near got arrested. Not an inch of ivory on them, though, or that would be my next stop.”

He also had encountered security at Florida Elephant Rescue.

I started to repeat my lie about the police, but he cut me off, saying, “Hey . . . look what we have here.” And plucked a chain saw from the grass. Sniffed it, inspected the blade and approved, before returning his attention to me. “Hoss, I don’t like the way you keep pushing. Instead of running your mouth, get your flippers on and find what’s in that pond.”

“What did Harris promise you?”

“Ivory, dumbass, and some other goodies somewhere hidden on the bottom. A great big bag, he said. Now, get your butt in gear while I have a look around.” He placed the chain saw where it was easier to see, reseated the pistol in his belt, and continued walking.

An ambush from the garage, that’s what he suspected. It was obvious from the way he hunched down, taking slow hunter strides, his attention on the open garage. He poked his head in, then disappeared. It gave me an opportunity to whisper to Leland, “Stay down. Call police the moment I get him out of here.”

Seconds later, Quirt reappeared from the office doorway,
hollering, “Who you talking to?” and held up a cell phone he’d found. “Is this what he used to call the cops? Slick, I believe you been lying. Makes me feel better about you being my sixth notch. No”—his eyes found Leland—“my seventh.” Then smashed the phone against the wall and swaggered toward us, raising the rifle to his shoulder.

I stepped in front of Leland. “Shoot him, you have to shoot me. Then who’s going to dive for that bag?”

Quirt made a snarling sound that resembled a wolf and fired over my head. Spun the rifle one-handed and fired again. This time, the bullet kicked sand near my shoe and damn near hit Leland in the head.

I jumped away, yelling, “Is this your idea of a gunfight?” then took a few steps toward Quirt, who was closing the distance.

“You still got your trigger fingers, don’t you?” he cackled, and shot twice more, both slugs threading the space between my legs into the dirt—not accidental. The former quarterback was a good shot.

My instinctive reaction was to stoop. Instinct gave way to a flooding anger that leached colors from the sky and tunneled my vision. Suddenly, I could see only Quirt in his biker vest, his damaged face and eyes that glistened—a hopeful look, staring at me—while he spun the rifle to shuck another round.

Behind him was the concrete building, the garage open like a cave. He flashed a silicone grin and yelled, “You ’bout ready to do this thing?”

This was the showdown he had been wanting.

I said, “I’m done with your bullshit, if that’s what you mean.”

“I can see that, hoss.”

“Rifle or the pistol, I don’t care—throw me one. You promised me a chance.”

He held out the Winchester. “You mean this?” One-handed, he
leveled it from twenty yards away, chest-high, to kill me, but let the barrel dip just before he shot. The slug skipped off something to my left and tumbled toward the water, a buzzing sound that faded.

I flinched, despite my anger, and reassessed: A short-barreled carbine. Winchester 94, a western classic, with a magazine that held . . . I didn’t know how many rounds. Fewer than nine but more than five, obviously. And probably four rounds left in his stainless .357. If he wanted to shoot me, though, he would’ve done it.

I kept walking.

“For a big ol’ nerd, don’t he got
style
?” Quirt looked beyond my shoulder, and it took a moment to realize he was speaking to Leland Albright. Leland had stopped playing dead, was struggling to get to his feet, while the crazy biker, unsure he wanted an audience, watched. Then Quirt welcomed him, asking, “Hey . . . you ever see
A Fistful of Dollars
?”

Leland’s expression swung a question toward me:
Why is he doing this?

It gave me an opening.

“His brain is more screwed-up than his face,” I said. “If he had balls, he’d cut my fingers off first. That’s what he does. But I’m not some idiot kid.”

Use an audience to manipulate behavior—an effective tactic.

Quirt’s facial scars flushed white, but he regained control and pretended it was funny. Said to Leland, “Ain’t he something? He left this ol’ boy I know two miles offshore to drown. Sharks everywhere, but he didn’t give a shit.” Then leveled the Winchester again, fifteen paces away, and ordered, “Stop right there or I’ll shoot your tall friend.”

Leland, now on his feet, resembled a drunken crane as he staggered toward Quirt, intending to help me . . . but then surrendered
and stumbled toward Owen. Quirt tracked him with the rifle until I intervened by calling, “Hey—are you backing out?” Then flipped my middle finger at him. “Cut this one off first, then give me the shot you promised.”

The insult exceeded my diving skills, and I’d gone too far. Quirt appeared to shudder, his mood change was so abrupt. His voice changed as well, raspier, and oddly more articulate, the sham cowboy displaced when he said, “You don’t think I know what you’re doing? Psychological bullshit won’t work. You just killed your buddy, Ford—one piece at a time.”

He raised the rifle to shoot Leland . . . but then lowered it when Leland stumbled and fell, the last of the Albright males still far from the cattails where his stepson lay dead. Quirt, for some odd reason, saying, “I’ll be damned. Look at that—ivory on the hoof.”

Which made no sense until I followed the biker’s gaze to the hill where a Conquistador had once camped on bones of mastodons. An elephant was there—Toby, blood sluicing from his rear quarter. His eyes were fixed on Quirt, a man holding a rifle that might have been a spear. Wobbly, obviously wounded, but the elephant’s brain was still working.