Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (25 page)

"The fuck?"

I was not where I was supposed to be. Donny Boy reacted at once. Quick as a snake, he jumped down into the cellar. I was expecting Mex, and aiming the shovel blow to the area of the shorter man's head, so I only caught Donny with a glancing blow to his shoulder. It hurt, but not enough. Down on the cellar floor, in the bright patch created by the open wooden doors, Donny lost his balance momentarily. He fell to his knees. Mary was crying, Jerry was awake and writhing.

I threw myself down from the second step and onto his muscular chest. It felt like a Coke machine with a head on top of it. I bounced off, smacked down into the filthy dirt and rolled away into the darkness. Donny Boy's eyes were still used to the sunlight. I'd only have a few more seconds.

"Skanky, you bitch," Donny Boy hissed. "Bobby's gonna kill you for this." And he kicked at the shivering girl. As his leg went up I rolled again, out of the shadows, and kicked hard for the side of the locked right knee. I was a half a second late. Donny Boy slammed a huge fist down onto my left ear. It hurt like hell. I found myself right where I didn't need to be, on my hands and knees. Donny laughed and tried to kick at my testicles. I spun, grabbed his boot in mid-air and savagely twisted the extended right leg. Donny cried out and fell. I jumped forward and brought my fist down hard on the kid's jaw. It connected. The shock ran up my arm to my shoulder.

I rolled away and got to my feet, waiting. Donny moved more slowly. He was rubbing his jaw and he now favored his right leg; only gingerly put his weight down on it.

I locked on the boy's eyes and closed the distance, hands rotating up in the dusty air; palms open and knuckles half closed. Donny still had some quick stuff left, and he landed a sharp right to my chin. The world went blurry and bright for a second.

"Stop it," the girl cried. "Just let them go."

Donny Boy was glaring at me. He wasn't used to getting hurt, and he felt humiliated and enraged. My lip seemed slightly swollen and tasted of copper. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and saw blood. I surprised myself by smiling.

"She's right," I said. "This could all stop right here. You let us go, and by the time we tell anybody, you're long gone."

Donny Boy didn't answer, just whispered
oh boy, oh boy
and then he lunged forward and grabbed the left sleeve of my shirt. He yanked the arm away and down and landed a strong shot to my exposed ribs. I cupped my palm and put my full force behind a slapping blow to the kid's right ear. I felt the contact and the sudden suction and registered the subsequent cry of pain. I snarled with satisfaction. I was in the rhythm of the fight now, not thinking about avoiding it or wondering how long it would last, just concentrating on inflicting as much damage as possible.

Donny Boy suddenly stood straight up tall, a soldier on parade. His expression was child-like; eyes wide and bewildered. Then he fell like a sack of cement. Mary had freed Jerry, grabbed the shovel and slammed the back of it into Donny Boy's skull.

I held my ribs, leaned over, and checked for a pulse. The slender girl seemed horrified by what she had done. She was shaking her head back and forth in the shadows.

"He's alive," I said. "But he'll be out for a while. Thank you, Mary."

"They'll kill me for sure," she said.

"Now they will, yeah."

"Oh, my
God
. . ."

"You have to come with us, Mary. We have to get you the hell away from here."

Jerry was sitting up, shaking his head. "What's going on?"

"We're leaving," I said. "And I mean right now."

We stumbled up the steps, leaning on one another, and went out into the afternoon heat. Someone had lifted my watch, so I checked out the angle of the sun. "I make it to be maybe 4:45 or 5:00. We can try for the Memorial Day picnic on Starr ranch. Or maybe we go into Dry Wells and look for help."

Jerry stumbled and fell. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a shiner and some facial contusions. "Jesus fucking Christ, Mick. I can't believe I'm still alive. Why don't we just call the law?"

"I'm still not sure whose side the law is on, Jerry."

The girl was sobbing helplessly. I looked around, spotted Jerry's red scooter by the cars. Jerry followed my gaze. "Oh man," he sighed, but he seemed in agreement. We staggered towards the vehicles. He stopped at the scooter, spoke rapidly. "Skanky, you get on this thing and ride south. In about an hour's time there is a town with a bus station. Are you listening?"

She nodded, trying to pull herself together. They were both crying, holding on tight. "Shit," Mary sobbed, "I'm never gonna see you again, am I?"

"You got money?" Jerry gripped her hand.

"No," she answered. "Nothing."

"When you get there, you sell my scooter," Jerry said. "You get on a bus and get out of the state."

"But, Jerry . . ."

"Go," Jerry said. "You'll be safer this way." He looked down. "And then maybe someday . . ."

I interrupted him. "Mary, where are you from?"

"A little town in northern California," she said. "By Grass Valley."

"It's time you went home again."

Jerry started the scooter and she got on it. He kissed her and stepped away. "What if my folks won't have me back?" Mary asked.

"One step at a time," I said, and recited a simple 800 number. "If you ever need help, you call that number and ask for Hal. He'll know where I am, and then I can put you back in touch with Jerry."

"Mick," Jerry said nervously, "she'd better move it."

I nodded. "We'd better haul ass, too."

Mary repeated the 800 number. She leaned over and kissed Jerry. She smiled weakly, gunned the little engine and then she was gone. Jerry touched his face where her lips had been. He looked terribly sad. I put a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll see her again."

"Maybe," Jerry said. "If we live. Let's boogie."

We moved through the settling dust. I pointed to the red pickup. "Hope you can still remember how to hot wire that truck, because we need to get the hell out of here. And I mean yesterday."

"Sure I remember," Jerry said. He crawled into the truck, fumbled around beneath the dash, and the engine fired. Country music blared from the tinny radio, somebody who sounded a little bit like Merle Haggard:
Oh I'm so sorry
. . .

Jerry got behind the wheel. I shrugged and rode shotgun. My raised eyebrow asked him if he was up to this. "I used to steal them, remember? I'm used to making getaways."

"If you say so," I said. "But you'd best prove it right now. We're running out of time."

So sorry
. . .

"Come on, Jerry, let's move it."

And right then Donny Boy came lumbering up the cellar steps, screaming
oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,
like a banshee. Jerry spun the wheel and started toward the front of the property. I peered into the dust and swore under my breath.

"God damn it."

I'm so sorry I hurt you baby
. . .

"What?"

"The metal gate has a chain and padlock," I shouted. "Head out the back way. Go!"

Donny Boy threw something that smashed into a corner of the windshield, leaving a spider-web pattern and a sizeable dent in the safety glass. I had barely registered that it was a cement block before it bounced off the hood and into the dirt. I started coughing from the dust and tried to roll up the passenger window. There wasn't one.

The rear tires spun out as we drifted into a ditch in the yard. Jerry fought for traction. We could see Donny Boy approaching in the rearview mirror, dragging the shovel.

"Jerry?"

"What?"

"Get us out of here. I think that good old boy is seriously pissed off."

The tires caught some rocks, and Jerry thumped them up onto the lawn. He drove right through the vegetable garden; twine and sticks and fertilizer went flying. He aimed the old red truck at the back gate.

"Shit."

As we left the garden, Mex appeared from the right, sprinting like a wide receiver. He was carrying a pitchfork, and he aimed straight for the tires with the sharp prongs. Out of pure reflex, I elbowed open the passenger door and slammed Mex with it, sending him flying. But I lost my balance as well, fell out of the truck and flopped down onto my belly in the parched earth. Jerry sped away. I groaned and struggled to my feet.

Maybe this is how it ends
. I felt a small, pinched sadness in my gut, and a stinging in my eyes. I hadn't lived the life I'd wanted. It seemed a shame to die this way. Mex grinned and closed in for the kill.

The training kicked in. Time slowed down and I felt loose, like this was just an exercise. Mex came at me with the pitchfork. I knew Donny Boy was closing the gap behind, shovel in hand. I needed a weapon, but decided I'd relieve one of the boys of theirs. I settled in and waited for Mex, hoping I'd judged the relative distances correctly. Mex came in low, stabbing for my groin. I jumped away. It was only a feint; Mex had seen Donny approaching and wanted to drive me backwards. Instinct made me duck just as the shovel whistled past my shoulder; I had missed being decapitated by a matter of seconds.

I charged Mex, feinted right and lunged left. The prongs narrowly missed. I slammed into Mex with all of my strength. The boy flew backwards, dropping the pitchfork. I kicked at his balls, grabbed the weapon, rolled and then rolled again in yet another direction, trying to keep Donny Boy off my ass. I got to my feet, swinging the fork back and forth at chest level. Mex was up again, swearing.

Baby I am so, so sorry
. . .

Donny Boy didn't see the truck coming. It clipped the shovel right out of his hands and sent it spinning away. The force of the blow must have rocked his arms to the shoulder blades, for he dropped to his knees and looked stunned. Jerry drove right into the surprised Mex, the hood of the big red truck striking the kid about chest-high with a sickening thump. Mex disappeared under the front of the vehicle and there were some more thumping sounds. I didn't wait to see what came out of the other end.

"Get in!" Jerry shouted.

I jumped back into the passenger seat and Jerry gunned the engine and took off again, screaming towards the back gate.

"My car is in some brush by the highway," I said. "Maybe we should split up?"

"Bullshit," Jerry said. "There's strength in numbers, my man."

We passed the mobile homes. The girl called Frisco was seated on a bale of hay, smoking another joint. She looked stunned to see us roar by. The wooden gate was halfway open, but Jerry didn't even try to avoid it. The gate splintered and gave.

We bounced up and down through ditches and over clumps of sagebrush. A few seconds later, when we arrived at the old Ford hatchback, we saw that the tires had been slashed and the hood was open. Someone had already cannibalized it for parts.

Jerry paused at the highway. "It's your call, Mick," he said. "Down to Starr Valley or up to Dry Wells?"

"Safety in numbers, you said? You're probably right. Let's head for the picnic in Starr Valley. Maybe we can slip away into the crowd and buy some time to think things over."

"Hey, Mick?"

"What?"

"You came after me. Thanks."

"You came back for me, too, so we're even."

"Can I change the radio to a rap station?"

"Just drive, kid."

Jerry turned the wheel, shifted and headed south. As he hit the accelerator, someone returning from a hunt stepped out of the sage to the side of the road. He was big, well-muscled, and carried a wicked-looking black crossbow. He reacted instantly, bringing the crossbow up and firing. I pulled Jerry down onto the seat and the metal arrow screeched right through the left side of the windshield and buried half of its length in the front seat. I peeked up, saw the hunter's hands were busily re-loading.

"Like I said, let's head for Dry Wells."

Jerry slammed into reverse. The second arrow took the side mirror right off the body of the truck. We spun around and started south, towards town. Just then, the old white Ford Fairlane came roaring out of the front gate of the Palmer ranch. Donny Boy was hanging out the shotgun window, holding a long bow. He seemed intent on our tires.

"Side road," I shouted. "Down there, by the creek bed. How are we fixed for gas?"

"We ain't got dick," Jerry said.

We left the highway and then slid down a gravel rock face toward the flowing water. There was a small concrete retaining wall, but we sailed over it. Jerry seemed to anticipate every bump, but I slammed my head into the ceiling of the cab several times.

"Jesus, Jerry."

'Hey, you want to drive, we can pull over!"

We hit a small dirt road that went back into a grove of cherry trees, went through some tall pines and then up the side of the mountain. We passed a small building that might have been an old power station. Jerry turned to avoid a tree trunk, and scattered some deer. It was getting late and the sun was melting down into the western hills.

"Headlights don't work," Jerry said. "That could be a problem."

"Don't say that. We don't need any more problems." I looked over my shoulder. For the first time, there was no sign of pursuit. "How do we avoid leaving tracks in this thing?"

"We don't."

And then we pulled out into a clearing. I immediately saw that we were trapped. The rock face went straight up for perhaps thirty feet; it had a small waterfall flowing down the face and a clear fishing pool at the bottom. Some rusty old car bodies were stacked up to the west of the little cove, blocking any exit.

"Back up?"

"Can't. Better turn around."

Jerry gunned the engine, but now circumstances slowed us to a dangerous crawl. We had to go forward a few feet, back a few, painfully edging the truck around to go back the way it had come. It was noisy work. And then the truck stalled completely.