The Rented Mule (43 page)

C
ooper thought he heard movement deeper in the cavern and tightly squeezed the pistol’s grip. He briefly flashed his light and tried to memorize the cave. He carefully positioned himself in order to be clearly visible to Mark. He squatted to wait. Cooper was counting on Mark’s gun exploding when he fired it. It was incredibly risky and with each passing second, Cooper’s doubts grew as to the wisdom of it.
What if it doesn’t explode and the bullet has enough force to hit me? Will it kill me? Shit! I’m an idiot. I shoulda just kept the gun.

Cooper didn’t have many options now, and he needed to find Grayson. If he could shine his flashlight, he could avoid the rattlesnakes, but first he needed to neutralize Mark.

“Polo!” he yelled again loudly.

Mark smiled as sweat dripped from his nose. He could tell Cooper was close and in a few more yards he would be able to see him. The soft dirt and bat dung muffled Mark’s steps.

“Hey, Marco. I said Polo! What’s the matter? Don’t cha wanna play anymore?” yelled Cooper.

Mark quickly moved past another large rock outcropping, and then he saw Cooper’s full silhouette standing on a rock twenty-five yards away.
Perfect!
He didn’t move for over a full minute as he methodically studied Cooper. He was confident that he could make the shot, and he was savoring the setup. The thermal goggles provided a near perfect image. His hatred and jealousy boiled.

He raised the pistol and took aim at Cooper’s chest. The front and rear sight melted into one, hovering around the right side of Cooper’s chest. Mark badly wanted to mock Cooper one last time, but he realized that he had exactly what he wanted. It was time to act. Cooper’s upright stance told Mark that he had no idea he was so near. Mark slowly thumb-cocked the pistol.

Cooper heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol hammer locking back, and he wheeled to face Mark, clicking on his flashlight with one hand and aiming his pistol with the other. The moment Mark was illuminated, Cooper fired his weapon and dove to the ground.

Mark was too far into his trigger pull to stop and duck behind the rock. Cooper’s Hi-Power flashed fire, the cave amplifying with the percussion of the shot. Simultaneously, Mark’s .38, trained squarely on Cooper’s chest, barked and exploded from the back pressure created by the plugged barrel.

Mark screamed in anguish as pieces of the destroyed pistol slashed his face and hands. Quickly dropping behind cover, Mark saw white dots splashed everywhere on the cave wall and realized it was his own blood. He continued to scramble backward, out of Cooper’s line of site. Everything hurt. His face was warm with dripping blood. The goggles had protected his eyes, although the left lens was damaged badly. He was confused and furious.

Cooper’s left wrist felt like it was on fire, but he ignored the pain as he carefully approached the rock he thought Mark was hiding behind. He was going to put a bullet into Mark’s skull, find Grayson, and then get the hell out of there. By the time Cooper reached the rock, his adrenalin was surging. With his pistol drawn, he quickly stepped around the huge boulder and clicked on his flashlight. Mark was gone.
Damn it!
he thought. Before he turned off the light, he noticed that the cave walls were blood-spattered and there was a small piece of the pistol laying on the floor.

Cooper stood motionless, trying to listen over the ringing in his ears for any movement and struggling to quiet his breathing. After a long moment, the burning sensation in his left wrist and a warm feeling in his hand got his attention. He clicked on the flashlight and saw that his wrist was bleeding badly. Quickly cutting off a shirtsleeve, he bound the wound as tightly as he could. By the time he finished, the makeshift bandage was completely soaked.

W
hen Don Daniels arrived home Friday afternoon, he discovered his beloved female tabby curled up in his favorite chair. The frisky kitty typically would bound out from wherever she was hiding or sleeping outside to greet him at the door before he could open it.

Suspicious of the cat being inside and concerned that she wasn’t moving when he called for her, Don eased over to the chair, knelt, and touched his limp companion. “Oh, God! No! No!” he wailed. “What happened?”

Don never left her inside the house while away because he feared that he would be called away on business and she would be trapped. The little feline was like a burglar, though, constantly sneaking inside unnoticed. But Don specifically recalled feeding her on the back deck before leaving for work that morning, without her going back into the house.

With shaking hands, Don gently checked her for injuries. As he lightly stroked her fur, he noticed something wedged
into the crease of his old leather recliner. He tried to determine what it was without touching it. Leaning closer, he saw a needle sticking out of the fold. It was aimed straight at whoever sat down. He cautiously spread the seat cushion from the back of the chair to reveal a syringe that appeared to be glued to the leather. A piece of wood the size of a mousetrap was attached to the plunger. He carefully pulled it free. The barrel of the syringe still contained some liquid, presumably a drug. There was a single orange cat hair clinging to the tip of the tiny needle.

It was obvious to Don that this setup was meant to impale him. The needle would have stuck him in the small of his back, instantly surging the drug into his body. Apparently, the cat slunk in unnoticed with the intruder, and later, when she jumped onto the chair for a nap, the needle gave her the lethal dose intended for him. Don studied the syringe and then turned to his lifeless friend and screamed, “Damn it!”

Don had begun sweating profusely from the knowledge that he had been so very near death. He also knew who was responsible. There was one person who would want him out of the way. The thought of Mark Wright, his own kin, trying to murder him made his blood boil.

Fearful of Mark and more deadly traps around his house, and also likely at his lake cabin, he decided to check into the Renaissance Montgomery Hotel for a few days to think through the situation and his options. Calling the police wasn’t a choice because Mark knew too much. Don realized that he had to handle this himself. He was never quick to react, but rather cold and methodical. His plans almost always worked, unlike Mark’s. Don smiled at the thought of Mark assuming that he was dead and the added element of surprise that mistake would afford Don.

Don retrieved a small Ruger 9 mm semiautomatic pistol from his briefcase and checked the chamber and the magazine. Satisfied, he left it on the kitchen island while he retrieved a second gun, an old .32 caliber revolver, from his bedside table drawer. He palmed it thoughtfully as he walked quickly into the bathroom. A moment later he strode resolutely back into the kitchen, carrying a bag of cotton balls and the revolver. He laid both on the island and opened the refrigerator, taking out a half-full one-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi. He emptied the soda into the sink and then set the empty bottle next to the revolver. He opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Then he stuffed all of the cotton balls, as many as he could at a time, into the empty plastic bottle. Fitting the bottle opening over the barrel of the revolver, he ran several strips of duct tape around the bottleneck and gun barrel to secure the bottle to the weapon. The setup looked awkward, but he surmised that it would somewhat muffle the sound of the weapon should he need it.

The tired, old banker took a deep puff of his hand-rolled cigar, admiring his handiwork. He now had weapons for whatever situations he encountered. Don cursed under his breath as he loaded the weapons into a paper grocery sack. He knew what he had to do. Obviously, Mark was off his medications. Don had tried to help him in so many ways, but he knew that Mark had the genetic—and fatal—family flaw. He finished his cigar and then checked his watch.

One last time he punched a number into his cell and muttered, “Shit,” when there was no answer.

Don’s whole world was in jeopardy. He couldn’t trust anyone, and after Mark’s attempt on his life, he suddenly felt vulnerable, an emotion he had never experienced. He had to punish Mark and then kill him.

Grabbing his keys and the grocery bag, he walked out, slamming the door.

Don Daniels, bank president and CEO, looked every bit the part that night by the hotel’s pool. He was enjoying an authentic Cohiba Coronas Especiales and two fingers of Macallan 18, neat, when he took the phone call from the Coosa County Sheriff’s Department, informing him of the situation at his family estate. He stood stock-still in a controlled anger that matched his Cuban’s slow, hot burn. Don gave the deputy his quick assurance that he would get there as fast as possible.

After hanging up the phone, he stared at the city lights, trying to envision what might possibly be happening. He hoped that this wasn’t the loose thread that would result in the unraveling of his world. He now wished that he had confronted and killed his nephew earlier that evening.

With resignation, Don snuffed out his cigar, drained his scotch with a single swallow, and headed to his room to retrieve the paper sack.

C
ooper knew that Mark was injured, and he assumed badly because when he illuminated Mark with the flashlight beam, he saw Mark’s damaged goggles and the blood splattered on them.

Trying not to think about being shot himself, Cooper concentrated on what he needed to do to stay alive. He had to assume that Mark was still armed. Cooper decided he had to find his way back to the main cavern and get Grayson. He knew there was another route because Mark had circled back with the boy. From there, he could force something to happen, or he and Grayson could wait for the police to dig through.

All Cooper had to do was locate Mark’s tracks. He flashed his light briefly and set a course. The bat dung covering the cave floor was a double-edged sword for Cooper. It provided stealth for moving and easy tracking, and it contained deadly bacteria that could contaminate his injury. Inside the cave, Cooper’s internal compass was spinning wildly, but he sensed
that he was headed in the right direction and picked up the pace. As he padded softly through the dark, his mind was awhirl with worries—about Kelly, the police, and the quality of the oxygen levels in the cave. He knew that the police would arrive at some point, but it wasn’t right now. Which meant that he was going to be the one who either killed or subdued Mark, and then he would have to find a way out for himself and Grayson. Feeling the blood drip from his hand, he knew he needed medical attention. His primary fear switched to bleeding out in the cave.

Mark saw fading heat signatures, and his pulse accelerated at the thought of Cooper hiding so close. Mark knew that about twenty yards ahead was an elevated ledge where he would be able to look down on Cooper. He climbed silently to the top and then slowly peeked over the ledge until he could almost see the rock he expected Cooper was hiding behind. The rock, still warm, glowed with Cooper’s fading outline.

Mark wanted to scream in furious frustration but uncharacteristically controlled himself. The night wasn’t going as planned, but he still had time to salvage it. He bounded down the rocks and resumed his soundless stalk.

When Cooper arrived at the main cavern and saw that the tunnel was destroyed, his heart sank. He needed a serious miracle. This cavern would be his grave if he didn’t figure out something, and quick. Sweating and bleeding, he tried to estimate how long he’d been in there but couldn’t. He could tell that his motor skills were deteriorating, and the stress was wrecking his reasoning.

Cooper sat down, put his head between his knees, and tried to think of his next move when he realized that Grayson must be near. He called out to him in a voice just above a whisper, “Grayson? Grayson? I’m here to help you.”
In a little louder voice Cooper said, “Grayson, I’m a friend of your mom’s… I’m here to help ya.”

“I wanna go home,” a tiny voice answered from across the space.

Cooper clicked on his flashlight, quickly spotting the frightened little boy huddled underneath a table. Cooper went straight toward him. When he got near, he whispered, “I’m gonna take you straight to your mom, I promise. Okay?” Cooper grabbed him up with his good arm.

Cooper could feel Grayson nodding and wiping a tear after he sniffed.

“Do you know where your dad is?” Cooper asked as he clicked on the flashlight, shielding the beam to create only a small amount of illumination.

Grayson pointed in the direction of a tunnel. Cooper realized that Mark could pop out at any moment.

“Let’s get this collar off you.” Cooper sat Grayson on the table and then carefully cut off the zip ties with his pocketknife and unbuckled the collar.
I wish I could attach it to that son of a bitch and give him a little taste of his own medicine.
With disgust, Cooper tossed it to the floor.

“You gotta trust me and do exactly what I say, okay?”

Grayson nodded his agreement, with huge tears falling to the dirt floor as he whispered, “There’s a bunch of rattlesnakes in here.”