Promises to Keep (9 page)

He'd
broken into houses before, and he knew that most people didn't lock their
upstairs windows. Even if she did, he could jimmy the latch damned quick with
the flathead screwdriver in his right hip pocket.

If
Laura wasn't in the room, he'd get in without her noticing at all.

If
she was, then the taser he had with him—bought on sale at the sporting goods
store—would take care of that.

The
thought of her, helpless and lying on the floor with him in complete control,
gave Jonah a hard on. He rubbed himself absentmindedly, as he thought what he
would do to her first.

Maybe
he'd hold onto the taser and give her jolt after jolt until she said,
"please." Maybe he'd put the gag in first, just to shut her up. Maybe
he'd tear open her shirt and bite down on one of her perfect, pink nipples.

Whatever.

Regardless
what he did first, he was gonna make sure that she respected him. That's the
one thing that Jonah needed to feel from her and anybody else—respect.

He
didn't have a fancy uniform with shiny buttons and a chest full of ribbons. Imagine
that, a man walking around wearing ribbons like some sort of faggot.

Jonah
was a real man, with well-worn jeans and shirt and all. He had dirty, callused
hands that she always complained "need washing." Laura liked
everything to be clean and tidy. Well, too bad for her.

She
was going to learn the real meaning of "dirty" this night, by God.

Jonah
stood up to the vine, grabbed its branches with both hands and pulled. It held.
Tentatively, he put his foot into the greenery and then the other. It still
held. Emboldened, Jonah pulled himself up, hand over hand. He lifted his leg up
for another step when he felt it clutched by a strong hand.

He
gave a little yelp as he was pulled back off the vine and onto the ground.

"What
the fuck—?"

"Shut
up," said a voice as a burlap sack was pulled roughly over his head. It stank
of cow shit. He didn't have the chance to see who had attacked him.

"Hey,
I wasn't doing anything," Jonah started to say, when someone kicked him
hard, right in the balls, driving out what little breath he'd had left in him
with a grunt. He'd yet to recover after the shock and impact of his fall.

"I
said shut up!"

Jonah
saw stars as whoever it was kicked him in the ribs.

He
scrambled for his taser, but his hands were suddenly pinned. Through his pain,
Jonah could tell that there was more than one set of hands working on him.
Quickly, his assailants tied his wrists together with what felt like wire—the
kind farmers use for electric fences. He'd strung some as a kid on his dad's
farm.

It
was tight, and he could feel it biting into his skin. The more he struggled,
the more it bit, so he relaxed—a little.

"Better,"
said the voice. "Now stand up."

Rough
hands jerked him to a standing position. Then he felt a push in the small of
his back.

"Get
going."

Jonah
stumbled forward. He wanted to ask what the Hell the men wanted, but he was
afraid that might bring another kick, or even a full on beating. He sure as
shit didn't want that.

Jonah
had seen what angry men with heavy farm boots could do to a person. It wasn't
pretty.

The
bag that covered his head stunk to high Heaven, but he sucked in air
gratefully. His balls ached something fierce, but at least his lungs were
working again.

Struggling
not to trip, Jonah let himself be led across the lawn and onto the street. He
heard a car door open and he was literally picked up by his belt and flung
forward. He landed on a hard, metal surface that vibrated from the idle of an
engine.

This
wasn't good. Jonah guessed he was in the back of a truck or a van. The door
slammed shut and the vehicle lurched forward.

It
sure as Hell wasn't cops. Jonah had been arrested before—for minor stuff, sure.
Cops don't do this sorta crap, even if they'd somehow known what he'd been
planning—which was impossible. They don't put a shit bag over somebody's head
and tie him up with wire.

Jonah
wracked his brain.
Think, think, who've I pissed off lately?

There
were too many possibilities. Jonah had a way of pissing people off. He was
gifted in that regard.

No,
not cops. It couldn't be that old nigger down the hall, either. He didn't seem
the type to snatch somebody like this, even if he could find a friend to help
him. He was more the get in your face, holier than thou type.

Jonah's
body suddenly slammed against a wall as the van took a hard turn.

He
stopped wondering who his attackers were for a second and started thinking
about how to escape. He'd seen this movie once, where the hero kept track of
where he was being taken by counting the turns. That way, he could figure out
where he was if he got out of the situation.

OK,
that was one
, he thought to himself

Another
sharp turn and another slam against the wall, the opposite one this time.

Two...

A
stop for a few seconds.

OK,
we're at a light.

Then
another sharp corner to the right, and another, left. Then another. Some of the
turns and stops came so quickly that, by the time they'd moved off the paved
road onto gravel that skittered under the tires, he wasn't sure how many turns
or which way they'd occurred.

Jonah
lost count twice, started over once, and finally gave up.

Stupid,
gay-assed movies.

Cool
night air rushed in as the doors opened. Jonah braced himself. Hands grabbed
his ankles and yanked him out. He landed on his back, knocking the wind out of
him, once again. Gravel cut into his skin as he landed on the dirt road.

"Get
up!"

Jonah
was jerked to his feet and then led down the road. Grass replaced gravel and
wooden steps replaced grass. He heard the creak of a screen door opening and he
was pushed inside.

"Sit!"

Jonah
sat, half expecting to fall again, but his butt found a chair underneath it.
Only then was the bag pulled off his head.

He
was in an old farm house, by the look of it. Warped wood covered the floor,
stained and worn from generations of muddy boots and dogs and children, long
since gone. Jonah could hear the slight creak behind him as the night breeze
pushed against the screen door ever so slightly.

The
room was not furnished at all, except for a single rough wooden farm table in
the center across from where Jonah sat. Four chairs lined the opposite side of
the table and in those four chairs sat four men. Jonah recognized only one.

"Chet!
What the fuck man?" He tried to rise but strong hands behind him shoved
him back down.

"Joney,"
Chet ran his fingers against the table's surface. "We got us some trouble
here."

"What
trouble, Chet?" Jonah could feel the nervousness creep into his voice. He
could hear it too. "What you playing at?"

Chet's
fingers found a long splinter on the cracked and weathered tabletop. He pried
it off, revealing a long narrow strip of lighter wood beneath. He looked at the
splinter for a moment and then placed it in his mouth where he twirled it with
his tongue until it settled comfortably in one corner.

The
look Chet was giving him was cold and dangerous.

What
have I done?

He
tried to remember some of last week, but all he came up with was a happy, kind
of blank haze.

"Joney,
Joney, Joney,” Chet said with a disappointed sigh. “We need to talk about
money."

"Money..."
Jonah stammered out. "I don't remember anything about any money. I've owed
you before; you know I'm good for it."

"This
isn't a couple of hundred bucks of pills on credit, Jonah. This is fifty large
we're talking about."

Chet
leaned forward, the makeshift toothpick poking out from his grizzled mountain
man beard accusingly.

To
Jonah's memory, Chet had always worn a beard as thick and shaggy as the top of
his head was bald and shiny. It made him look like a maddened killer—a look
that he'd always used to his advantage.

Tonight
though, it wasn't all beards and haircuts making him appear pissed. Jonah was
certain that Chet was truly angry.

"Fifty
thousand dollars? I don't know what you're talking about." Jonah laughed
nervously. "C'mon, Chet. This is a joke, right?"

"No
joke, Jonah."

Chet
reached over to the gas lantern that provided the room's only light. He fiddled
with the knob on the tank, coaxing just a little more light out of the twin
mantles. As he did so, he went on, still speaking very calmly, very coldly.

"Last
week, you were strapped. Last week, you said you'd do anything to earn your
fix. Remember that?"

"Yeah,
I do—kind of."

This
wasn't looking good.

Sure,
he remembered not having any money, but he never had any money. Sometimes, if
Chet was in a good mood, he'd let him do stupid shit for a couple of pills.
He'd washed his Lexus, he'd picked up his dry cleaning, he'd even pumped out
his septic tank, but he'd never done anything worth fifty grand.

"Not
'
kind of
,' dumbass, most definitely. You were busted last week, and I gave
you a job to do.” Chet leaned forward. “Did you do it?"

"Yeah,
sure. Of course I did it," Jonah lied. He still had no clue what Chet was
talking about.

"You
did?
" Chet gestured to the man at his left with an open hand.
"Then why, pray tell, did my associate drive all of the way from Ashville
to ask me why his package never arrived? Why is the good Mr. Sanford sitting
here before you, empty handed? Why did he express his extreme disappointment
with my organization and myself? Why, due to this unfortunate incident, is my
judgment and trust in you called into question?"

"I
told you, Chet. I did what you asked." Jonah still had no clue.

Jaw
clenched, Chet stood up and walked around the table toward him. His hands
balled into fists. "
Which was?
" he said with deceptive
mildness.

Jonah
racked his brain. Nope. Nothing. He vaguely remembered talking to Chet about an
"advance." He could even remember offering to do
anything
to
get the "advance," but he didn't remember much beyond that.

"I
don't remember," he finally admitted.

Crack.

The
sharp unexpected punch to his face rocked his head sideways, rattling his
brains.

"You
don't fucking remember?” Chet snarled. “You don't remember saying to me, 'It's
in the bag, Chet. All taken care of, Mr. Debussy.' You don't remember
that?"

"Nope...uh...no
sir?"

"Are
you asking me or telling me?"

"No,
I don't remember."

"OK.
So I guess you don't remember me giving you a locked gray suitcase and a two
way bus ticket to Ashville?" Chet Debussy took out his toothpick and
flicked it at Jonah. It bounced off his cheek.

"No."

"And
you don't remember me giving you two hundred dollars in cash, for expenses? You
don't remember me dropping you off at the station?"

"No,
I–"

Chet
grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, wrenching his neck in the
process. "Jonah, where the Hell are my pills?"

"Honest
Chet, I don't remember. I don't remember any of it."

Chet
let go of Jonah’s hair with a shove that communicated his disgust. "I
blame myself. It's really all my fault. I was stupid, more stupid than I've
been in years."

He
turned to face the other men, still seated at the table. "You see,
gentlemen, I paid my mule in pills. Worse yet, I paid him in
advance
."

"Chet,
I'm sorry, but–"

Chet
spun back to Jonah and grabbed his throat with both hands. "You monumental
fuck up! You chugged down all of those pills I gave you, the minute I was out
of sight, didn't you? You don't remember anything because you were too damned
blitzed. You fucking idiot. Where are my pills?"

Words
tumbled out of him in a panic stricken stream, "I don't know. I don't know,
I swear! I'm sorry! I’m sorry!"

"Well,
fuck me."

Chet
let go and stepped back to sit on the table. "See Jonah? See what happens
when you let your baser urges take control of you? I hope you understand now,
why we have a problem here. I have to make good to these fine people, and if it
comes out of my pocket, I'll have to take my share out of your worthless
carcass. You owe me fifty thousand dollars."

One
of the men came up behind Chet. He was a bull of a man, just as bald as Chet,
but with alabaster skin, whereas Chet's was a pasty white. Chet smiled and gave
a little nod.

"Yes,
yes, I forgot. Please excuse me." He pointed at Jonah. "You owe
me
fifty thousand, and you owe this fine gentleman fifty thousand, as well. That's
one hundred grand Joney-boy. You got a hundred large or do we need to start
cutting you up right now?"

Jonah
squirmed in his seat.

He
was truly and thoroughly fucked this time. He didn't have a hundred dollars to
his name, much less a hundred thousand. There was no way he was going to make
Chet happy, much less that large, angry black man behind him.

Visions
of bags full of pieces of his body being dumped into some swamp swam through
his head. Jonah wondered just how much it would hurt and if they were going to
kill him quick or let him linger on a bit.

Unfortunately,
he suspected the latter.

He
couldn't run, not with God only knows how many men Chet had standing behind
him. Pleading would be useless—they wouldn't listen. Jonah knew he had no way
out. He'd likely die blubbering like a woman. That would be just awful.

Then
he had an idea. "I can get it," he said.

Chet
appeared stunned. "You can what?"

"The
money, I can get the money."

"How
the Hell are you going to get a hundred thousand dollars? A hundred
thousand
,
Jonah, not a hundred. Not food stamps, not Monopoly money. Cold, hard
cash
."

"I
can get it. My old lady—well, my ex, she just came into some money. A lot of
money."

Chet
looked unsure. "Where in the world does anyone you know have that kind of
scratch?"

Jonah
was thinking fast and talking even faster. "After me, she hooked up with
some Navy dude. He got his ass shot off in Iraq or somewhere. I read about it.
Those military guys have kick-ass insurance. She's got to have almost three
hundred grand from that alone."

"You
sure she's got it?"

"Sure,
I'm sure. It's all over the news these days. Widow's benefits and shit. They
got no kids and I've been watching her—no big spending sprees, she's got to
still have it."

"But
that begs the even bigger question." Chet stepped forward and tapped Jonah
on the chest. "I remember this girl, blonde? Pretty?”

Jonah
nodded vigorously.

“She
doesn't like to help you out none. What makes you think she'll give you
shit?"

Jonah
smiled, thinking of his backpack, the duct tape and the ball gag. "Oh, she
will."