Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (26 page)

"Oh shit," Jerry said. "We might be out of gas."

Without a word, I jumped out of the passenger door and raced away. I moved up the side of the cliff and into the trees, crouching down to bury myself in the leaves, brush, and dirt.

Jerry, down below, had already lost sight of me. "Mick? Where the hell did you go?"

"
Oh, boy.
You move, you die," Donny Boy said.

I was lying in a mound of brush and dirt, watching through some leaves. Jerry looked to his left and saw the drawn bow and the vicious tip of the arrow.

"Your friend turned rabbit," Donny said. "Easy, take your hands off the wheel. Do it now."

Jerry lifted his hands up. The girl called Frisco stumbled out of the trees, panting for breath. They must have left the Ford a bit further up the road and followed on foot. I held my position. My nostrils made the leaves tremble.

"Where's the other one?" Frisco asked.

"He ran," Donny said. "We'll catch him.
Oh boy, oh boy."

Jerry said, "Hey, listen . . ."

"Hey, I feel like a cop," Donny Boy said. "You, step out of the truck. Frisco, you get behind him."

"Why don't you shoot?" she asked. "What are you waiting for?"

"Shut up," Donny said. "I'll tell you in a minute.'

They tied his hands. Jerry seemed more dazed than frightened. Donny Boy was picking his nails with a hunting knife, muttering. I started to move, but just then he looked up and scanned the tree line, so I waited.

"What are you going to do?" Jerry asked. I could barely hear him. Donny looked down again just as Frisco finished tying his legs. She shoved and Jerry fell to his knees and onto his left side. He was going to die. For a moment the only sounds were the water singing down the falls and the growl of a distant engine. I could smell the teeming life in the freshly turned earth and the faint stench of gasoline. The green of the trees was darkening to a dusty rose as the sunlight began to fade. The colors were vibrant, thick and beautiful. Night was close, now, in more ways than one.

I slipped out of my position and edged down a few yards, wincing every time pebble rolled or a leaf crunched. It seemed to take me forever. I leaned against a tree and carefully stepped over some pine cones.

Jerry screamed. I looked down. Donny Boy had used the knife on him. That voice:
oh boy, oh boy.
Jerry began to mumble prayers.

"Now you cut him," Donny said. "Do his throat."

"I don't know how," Frisco said.

"I showed you on the deer," Donny snapped. "Just do him like that, across the neck."

"This like some fucking club we all gotta join? I mean, what
is
that?"

"I said cut him."

Jerry gurgled in terror. He began to sob in short, shallow gasps. The couple continued to bicker, now fully engaged in their macabre conversation. I made my move, came out into the open.

"Like this?" she said, drawing a crescent moon in the air with her tiny fingers. She seemed bleary-eyed and stoned.

Donny Boy smiled. "Not bad," he said. "But press down with your thumb as you go, like this." He made a sharper, cleaner move and gave the knife back to her with a flourish.

"I do this, you'll get off my ass?"

"It's rad," Donny said. "Just remember to jump back out of the way of the blood."

Frisco knelt by Jerry. She grabbed his hair with one hand and yanked his head back. His throat was exposed to the cool evening air. To me, the stars seemed huge and getting closer because I was too far away and still searching for a weapon.

"Don't!" Jerry screamed. "Don't fucking do it!"

"Oh shut up," Donny laughed. "Don't be such a pussy. You won't hardly feel a thing."

The huge rock hit Frisco right in the center of the back. She dropped the knife, made an odd, kittenish sound and then curled up into a tiny ball of agony. Donny Boy whirled and went for his bow, but now I was standing two yards behind him and already had it in my hands. I undid the taut bowstring and flung the bow out into the trees. Seeing my calm face and cold eyes, Donny Boy seemed frightened for the first time.

"You're going down, now," I said, evenly. "This can go easy, or it can go hard."

"Fuck off," Donny Boy said. He gathered himself to fight. I walked over to Jerry; knelt, grabbed the knife and cut the rope around my friend's wrists. Donny Boy kept his eyes on the knife. I handed it to Jerry, who began to free his legs.

Donny sprang, going for the open field tackle, but I was faster. I spun and landed a hard left hook. It snapped his head back while he was falling forward. He rolled face down. I had a smaller rock in one fist. I stepped to one side and brought that fist down onto Donny Boy's kidney. Then I dropped the rock, held the boy by the hair and slammed my knee up twice, catching him under the chin with the second strike. Something snapped and Donny Boy went down. I stepped back, breathing slowly, watching without emotion.
Good job, Mick
, Daddy Danny said.
But he's not done
.

Donny Boy was bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. He got to his knees, swaying, and struggled to get up. While he was still on all fours, I stepped to the right and kicked the side of his head. Donny Boy cried out in pain and went down hard.

"Don't get up," I said. "I might kill you."

Donny boy wheezed and then struggled back to his feet. Before he could focus his eyes, Jerry stepped in front of me. He started to pound away with his fists, emitting little grunts and cries of rage.

I let it go on until Donny was unconscious, grabbed Jerry from behind. He fought me for a few seconds and then went limp. I felt warm wetness on my open palm. Jerry was bleeding on the left side. I checked him out. The knife had sliced deeply into fatty tissue, missing vital organs, but he was losing a great deal of blood.

"Can you walk a little ways?"

"I think so."

"Dry Wells is close. Doc has some medical supplies in his office. We'll take the Ford."

We hog-tied Frisco and Donny Boy together and left them to spend the night in the open. I wished them nightmares in the dark.

Monday Night, 8:36 PM . . . Memorial Day

Jerry and I got out of the car near Doc Langdon's office. Outside, we heard brass band music echoing through the foothills. We paused for a moment and watched as a spotlight began to slice through the black spring sky. The celebration in Starr Valley had begun. Jerry picked the lock and we went inside.

The telephone on the antique desk wasn't working. "The main line's probably been cut," Jerry said. "I'll bet it's down from somewhere out near Palmer ranch."

"Lie still." I did not want to turn on the lights, so I worked near the desk, under the glare of the high intensity lamp. Jerry groaned and leaned back in Doc Langdon's swivel chair. The harsh light made his facial scar look scarlet.

"That hurts," he said.

"All I can do right now is disinfect the area and pack it with gauze."

"How bad does it look?"

"It's bad, but you'll live. You're going to need a ton of stitches, but I don't have the talent or the time."

"No shit," Jerry grunted. "Bobby Sewell is probably out there looking for us. At least we helped poor Mary get away. And admit it, Mick. It sure looks like I was right about that son of a bitch, doesn't it?"

"Not much doubt about it," I said. "The boy's been dealing drugs with the Palmers, and he may be guilty of a murder or two. Now, you try and rest. Nobody knows you're hurt, so I don't think anyone will come looking for you here. I'll try to get us some outside help."

"Mick?"

I was moving fast, but stopped in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Do you think I'll ever see her again?"

"Mary? I think so."

"Good," Jerry said. "You sure you don't want me to go with you? Maybe we can make it to where I have my gear stashed. I could get the word out over the Internet."

"By now they've either trashed all of your stuff, or they're waiting there for someone to try and use it."

"Mick?" Jerry said, theatrically. "This is where I'm supposed to tell you to be careful, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, screw you. I'm thinking about me. Don't get killed, get back here with some dope."

I was outside again and slipping behind the wheel of the Fairlane. I drove it back towards the sheriff's office and parked it down the road from the Saddleback Motel, hoping to throw any pursuer off Jerry's trail. Now all I had to do was move through the virtually empty town without being spotted and find a way to get some help.

The first house was dark. The second had a radio playing in the kitchen, and the porch light was on. I could hear Loner McDowell's voice, describing the holiday fireworks. I knocked softly, but no one answered. I tried the knob, but the door was locked. There was no car in the small driveway.

"What a beautiful sight this is," Loner said over the radio. "Bright colors that just plain light up the night sky. All you folks should be here to see this for yourselves."

The radio station.
Of course
. . .

I was moving before my consciousness fully registered the sound, a millisecond before I actually heard the sudden, loud buzzing; like some angry hornet flying too close to my ear. The air contracted and then expanded again, as the metal hunting arrow split the wooden doorjamb with a dull
thwack.
I threw myself over the porch railing and down onto the lawn. I landed awkwardly, rolled away and sprinted towards the next house. I feinted, as if going for the front door, then vaulted the waist-high chain link fence and ran in a jagged pattern through the back yard.

A man, whispering: "Callahan? Come out and play."

I stopped by an overflowing trashcan to catch my breath. I had to disguise each destination until the last possible moment. If I went in and out of the various yards there was always the slim chance someone might be home and in a position to offer assistance. I decided that I'd cut back and forth across First Street, and if I failed to lose the pursuer I would run down the alley behind the abandoned garage, up Caldwell Street and then over to the radio station. It had an emergency backup system. They could cut the central telephone lines, but they couldn't stop the broadcast without shutting down power to the entire area. Besides, I'd be leading the hunter blocks away from Jerry.

I heard footsteps cross the porch next door, grunting, and the sound of the metal arrow being retrieved from the doorjamb. I waited for the man to step down onto the grass on either end of the porch, so I could set the location in my mind. The hunter traced my steps, coming closer. When he stepped off the right side of the porch and began moving towards the back yard, I bolted again; heading across the street at an angle for the next well-lit home.

The man, the hoarse whisper still disguising his identity: "Come out and play with me."

Boots make a racket in gravel. I slipped in the driveway and tore out the knee of my blue jeans. I swore softly and rolled behind an old Chevy that was up on blocks in the middle of a blotchy front lawn. I could see the man following me, but only from the waist down; camouflaged hunting pants on big, muscular legs. The man started to cross the street, the metal crossbow loaded and hanging low at his side. I looked around frantically. I grabbed a sizeable stone and threw it into the kitchen window of the home. Glass shattered. I waited for a voice, for an alarm, but nothing happened.

As I'd hoped, the man assumed that I was trying to enter the house, perhaps get to a telephone. His big legs turned towards the kitchen of the house and he broke into a trot. I inched around behind the Chevy, smelling the sweat and motor oil on the scattered rags. My fingers touched a screwdriver; large, flat-headed, handle wrapped in duct tape. I slipped it into my belt and duck-walked behind the car, wincing at the noise my boots made in the gravel.

This guy was formidable. He was wearing a sleeveless hunting shirt, camouflaged in brown and green, and in the shadowy light his arms seemed abnormally muscular. The wicked looking black metal crossbow was up at his shoulder now, as he stalked the front of the house and closed in on the kitchen window. Discretion seemed the better part of valor. I planted the toes of my boots in the gravel for traction and shifted my weight up onto my fingertips, like a fullback. When the man arrived at the broken window, his back to the old car, I took off again.

The hunter tried to lead me as I ran broken-field across the road, back where I had started, but two houses closer to Caldwell Street. I came to a vacant lot surrounded by a tall, piecemeal wooden slat fence. I kicked in a board and pushed through to the other side, but trailed my left leg for a moment too long. An arrow caught the fabric of my jeans and tore some flesh from my calf. The pain was blinding, especially when I yanked the barbs free of my skin. I bellowed.

The man whooped with excitement and charged across the street, notching another arrow.

Leg throbbing, with sweat pouring down my face from the stress and the pain, I limped across the lot. I found an open spot on the other side of the fence and broke through it. I was vaguely aware that the pursuer had once again stopped to pick up the expended arrow. I had planned on making a foot race out of the last hundred yards, but with a wounded leg the odds were against me. I needed an advantage. I made another broken-field run towards the abandoned garage.

A missile raced past my ear and smacked into the lower end of the corrugated tin roof, missing my head by a few inches. It buried itself in a wooden beam. In the few seconds it would take to load another arrow I cut through the long-dead gas pumps, aiming for the empty, shuttered hotel next to Margie's Diner.

"Take your time," the hunter whispered hoarsely. He was right behind me. "As far as I'm concerned, you can drag this out all night."