Acoustic Shadows (28 page)

Thiery was standing in the small dining room of the beach house, looking out the window, his vision blurred from the emotions of what Bullock was telling him, when he saw the first car go by, driving very slow. The windows were tinted, but he thought he recognized the car. When the second car went by, he could make out Moral’s silhouette, looking up toward the house.

‘Shit,’ Thiery uttered, snapping off the lights. ‘It’s too late, Jim. They’re
here
.’

‘What?’

‘Listen,’ he spoke calmly and clearly, ‘I’m at 16 Sunset Road in Ormond Beach. Call for help, Jim. We’re going to need it.’

‘Wait,’ said Bullock, but the phone had already gone dead.

Adding the lies Moral was spewing to the media to what Thiery had already told him, Dunham knew Moral was dirty. You didn’t have to be a rancher to recognize bullshit when you saw it. He called his assistant chief, told him he was off the clock, and asked him to cover for him if the city manager called. Then, he slipped into his Kevlar vest and followed Moral all the way to the east coast, watching him, a desperate man completely devoid of his surroundings, oblivious of anything beyond a singular purpose.

Chief Dunham saw Moral meet the group of shady looking men at Betty’s diner, watched them through binoculars while perched on a quiet shoulder on a section of A1A by the beach. They hadn’t sat at a table. It was just a meet, with a purpose, no dinner or drinks with old pals, no hands were shook. No one smiled, least of all the grim-looking tank of a man wearing too much big city bling for a fellow cop, or anyone who followed rules.

Dunham waited until they came out. He tried to call Thiery several times, but understood why he wasn’t picking up. Thiery didn’t want to be found. The small town police chief from Sebring wasn’t sure if Moral and his new friends were going after Thiery, but he was bet-money sure they were up to no good.

Moral and his amigos got into their cars and drove, slowly, quietly, letting the cars idle their way a couple of blocks north, finally turning into the residential community of Silk Oaks.

Dunham waited a few minutes, drove by the street they turned onto, passed it and turned onto the next street, Sunrise Road. He parked in front of a darkened house with a ‘For Sale’ sign sitting in the overgrown lawn. The street ran parallel to Sunset Road where Moral and the others had parked. He checked his pistol. He still carried the gun they issued him ten years ago, a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, six-shot, double-action revolver. He was a good shot, and the gun had stopping power, but it was slow to reload and not the best weapon of choice in an extended gunfight.

He popped his trunk and pulled out the one item he’d treated himself to over the years: a Mossberg 500, 8-shot, pump-action, 12 gauge shotgun, with Ghost ring fibre-optic front sight and tactical slide. It weighed just under seven pounds. The department never would’ve sprung for it, but his loving wife of twenty-one years told him to pick one out for Christmas one year because she, ‘didn’t want him standing there with a pop gun, while the bad guys had those semi-automatics out there robbing gas stations and general stores’. He loved her for that, especially now, as he hefted the weapon in the pale night light, its dull, flat black winking at him like a promise. He knew the weapon was loaded, because he kept it that way.

As quickly and quietly as he could, he made his way between the vacant house and across backyards, praying no dogs would give him away. After passing a few houses, trying to guesstimate where Moral was parked, he heard a car door clunk shut, then two more, followed by the sounds of hard-heeled dress shoes scuffling along the pavement. He peeked out between the slits of a shadow-box fence and saw three men, one of them Moral, walking hurriedly down the road. They were all openly carrying guns, emboldened by the sparsely populated street lined with several vacant houses.

Dunham watched them approach a darkened house then stand in front of it for a moment as if contemplating their attack. The squatty man with the black suit and shiny bling slipped away from the others and disappeared into the shadows as he rounded the back. Moral walked confidently up the drive toward the front door, as if he had just arrived home. The last man, a tall guy in a fitted suit, remained at the end of the drive behind a parked Porsche Cayenne, cradling a short automatic rifle like a deadly baby.

Inside the house, Thiery had pushed a fresh clip into his Glock and handed Millie his BUG, or back up gun: a Beretta Tomcat .32 calibre, with a seven-round clip shoved up its tiny butt. The gun was small but accurate and with little recoil. Most importantly, it was the only other weapon they had. In the darkened house, they had slid the heaviest furniture against the doors, in the few seconds after Thiery noticed the cars cruising by. He hoped Bullock had made the 911 call for him and that police were on the way. But, in a small town like Ormond Beach, he could only wonder how many cops they could send and how long they would take. If it took more than a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter; they were outgunned and outnumbered by people who had no other reason to be there than to make sure he and his companion were dead.

‘Millie,’ Thiery whispered harshly, ‘hide in the bedroom. If they get past me, kick the window out and run.’

She shook her head. Her face looked like a fragile ceramic figure, one where the artist’s intended expression of fear had somehow turned to anger in the kiln. ‘I told you,’ she said, ‘I’m not hiding anymore.’

‘But, you
need
to survive and we might not … ’

‘Shsssh,’ she said and held her finger to her mouth. ‘I won’t. If I get a chance to kill one of these bastards before I go, it’ll be worth it.’

Thiery saw the determination in her eyes and realized there was no sense in arguing. No matter the consequences, the scene was set. Even if it was going to be the Alamo. He nodded and extended his hand. She took it and squeezed. It was no ‘one for the Gipper!’ pep talk, but it was good to know they were in this together. Gripping their guns, they stood ready for a fight. They peered out the front window of the living room, their faces glistening with nervous sweat.

The front door knob clicked as Moral tried to open it.

Thiery tried to aim his gun at him through the small, frosted window in the door, but couldn’t get the right angle. He considered shooting through the door when he saw headlights coming down the road from A1A. He glanced at Millie, who nodded her confirmation that she’d seen them, too, and mouthed,
‘Thank God!’

Julio calmly laid his rifle against the mailbox as if he were depositing a benign UPS package and stood with his arms crossed as the car slowly rolled up and parked in front of him.

Moral sidestepped off the front stoop and slipped into the shadowed carport, unseen.

A big man got out of the car and approached Julio. Thiery recognized him as a neighbour he’d seen earlier mowing his lawn. He stepped into the car’s headlights and said, ‘Evening, sir. I’m part of a neighbourhood watch here in Silk Oaks and—’ Before the man could finish, Julio unfolded his arms, produced a small semi-automatic pistol with an attached sound suppressor from inside his jacket, and shot the man in the head. He quickly picked up his rifle, hurried to the cruiser, turned off the lights and engine, and, in an exaggerated whisper, called out to Moral, ‘Hurry!’

The cold-blooded shooting happened so fast Dunham was taken aback. His mouth hung open in surprise as rage filled his head like a thermometer heated to bursting. ‘No!’ he yelled as he ran forward, pumping the shotgun and firing, laying down a barrage of shot as thick as a swarm of killer bees.

Julio took cover behind the car, aiming loosely and returning fire in the direction of the shotgun’s muzzle blast.

Thiery flicked on the porch light. He wasn’t sure who the cavalry was, but he thought some light might help them target Moral. Within seconds, other houses along the small street lit up as residents, stirred by the sound of gun blasts, began to investigate.

From the temporary safety of the carport, Moral thought about his plan of attack.
They might expect me to come through the door, but what about that window? One more roll of the die; could I get in and get off one more shot without taking one myself? What the fuck do I have to lose?

Thiery was holding his aim on the door when Moral flung himself through the front bay window, shattering glass and firing wildly as he rolled across the floor. The gunfire was deafening in the small living room, and the space was lit up like strobes at a KISS concert. Moral kept rolling and took cover in the kitchen.

In the backyard,
El Monstruo
took advantage of the distraction out front and, using the tip of his hunting knife, quietly pried open the lock to the back door.

From inside the waiting car, Emilio watched the gunfight with trepidation. ‘Jose,’ he called to his driver, his voice high and dry with fear as he watched his plan deteriorate before his eyes. ‘Go,’ he instructed. ‘Get Julio and bring him back.’

Jose opened his mouth to say something, but Emilio didn’t give him a chance.

‘Even if he’s dead,’ Emilio continued, ‘get him. We can’t be found here. Go. Quickly!’

Millie stood up, framing herself in the now glassless window as, outside, Julio turned his attention back to the house and sprayed bullets across the front of it. Plaster exploded into powdery dust, curtain rods flew off the wall, as street light filtered into the room.

Thiery saw Millie standing, exposed, arms extended, gripping the pistol, but obviously confused as to which way to point the weapon. He jumped up and grabbed her, shielding her body with his own, drywall dust clogging their eyes and nostrils. Pushing her down the hall, he paused once to shoot back toward the kitchen, where he’d last seen Moral. He needed to use his dwindling ammo efficiently, but also wanted to keep the heat of return fire going.

El Monstruo
leapt from the shadows of the hallway and onto Thiery’s back, shoving the blade of his knife into his shoulder. It hit bone and stuck.

For a moment, Thiery felt as if he was back on the gridiron, like he’d just completed a touchdown pass. The huge, block-like man who used to be his college coach was there to slap him on the back. But the slap was hot and piercing, to the point where it knocked his breath out, and the squatty man was a black and deadly bear, metal glinting off its claws in the dark, its face shining, baring its teeth as it tried in vain to extract the knife, so it could strike again. Gunfire continued to echo from the street and into the house like cannon fire. What had Millie called the sounds, again?
Acoustic shadows
…?

The pain caused him to drop his gun, but he pushed Millie forward as he turned toward his attacker. She stumbled into the bedroom and twisted back, aiming her gun at the knot of men grappling in the narrow, dark hall, trying to get in a shot without hitting Thiery.

El Monstruo
gave up trying to free the knife and, instead, pushed one meaty hand under his jacket to free his gun: a well-used, nickel-plated, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Airweight .38 Special, with the serial numbers filed off. It was well worn, as evidenced by the black-taped grip, and designed to be used up close, as
El
liked, which typically meant against someone’s head. He drew quick, but the big cop was quicker, gripping
El
’s hand in his own and crushing it against the small gun. He tried to pull the trigger, but the man’s huge hand covered his so completely he couldn’t get his finger inside the trigger guard. In desperation, he launched an explosive left against the giant cop’s head. He felt a knuckle break.

Thiery used his height to his advantage, bending at the waist and plying down on his wide-shouldered attacker, pushing him back, but taking a punch that caused his vision to jiggle wildly, and his ears to ring. It pissed him off, and he was too big an opponent to piss off. The pain of the punch and the knife piercing his back brought a rush of adrenaline that fuelled his rage. Thiery grunted like a bull gator and headbutted the man, then he did it again, then again. Each time, he could smell the man’s skin and his greasy hair tonic wafting into his nostrils.

The force of a headbutt from a man with a neck that squeezed into an eighteen-inch collar was like being hit in the head with a twelve-pound sledge.
El Monstruo
felt his legs turn to rubber, his grip on the gun loosened. He could no longer feel his crushed hand and, when the giant finally released it, the gun fell to the floor with a metallic clatter.

The brief respite allowed Thiery to glance back at Millie, and he yelled, ‘Get out the window and ru … ’ He was cut off as
El Monstruo
grabbed him by the throat and began to squeeze.

Thiery clenched his colossal hand on his attacker’s neck. The man didn’t have much to grab onto; it was as if his head had emerged like a fetid mushroom from his muscled shoulders. He managed to wiggle his fingers between the man’s chin and chest, and his grip pinched like a hydraulic vice. Like the bull with the picador’s lance that boils its blood and fuels its charge, Thiery’s strength was bolstered to an unreal level from an overdose of adrenaline. He grit his teeth and felt the man’s tight neck muscles weaken, then felt a satisfying ‘pop’ as a gush of hot, beery breath pushed into his face. The man went limp. Thiery wasn’t sure if he’d crushed his windpipe or broken his neck, but he didn’t care as he released him and let him crumple to the ground.

Glancing up again to search for Millie, he was relieved to see her slipping out the window, gun in hand, waving him toward her. As he struggled to his feet, he heard her scream, ‘Look out!’

Thiery turned his head as Moral pulled the trigger. There was an earth-shattering explosion and a bright white light that turned a dull red, then maroon. Then the world went black.

Julio Esperanza never stopped to identify the shit stain who’d fired the shotgun, leaving several buckshot pellets in his thigh, but the return fire he’d laid down from his AK-15 had stopped whoever it was and left him bleeding in the street. He sprayed the house with another clip and reloaded before limping toward the front door.

He approached cautiously, careful not to brush the door, now a mass of splinters barely hanging on by its hinges. Inside, the place looked like the surface of the moon: dark, quiet, and with crater-like chunks missing from the walls. The flashes of light that had earlier illuminated the struggling figures had subsided, as had the screams of those within. He wasn’t positive, nor did he care, who was still alive, but he was determined to make sure they were all dead. If that included
El Monstruo
, or Moral, so be it. He never cared for the fuckers anyway.

‘Moral!’ he hollered. No answer. He reached inside and flipped on the light switch. The living room brightened, revealing a lump dressed in black, stretched into the room from the hallway. He looked closer and saw it was
El Monstruo
, staring up at him, his face still shining from its sweaty exertions. His eyes were bulged and bloodshot, his mouth gaping open, revealing gold caps and yellowed teeth. The place smelled of something burnt, mixed with the scent of blood powerful enough to be palpable on his tongue, like smelting copper.

Beyond
El Monstruo
, Julio could see the big state cop he remembered from the lobby of the Gaylord, sitting upright against the hallway wall, his head tilted over on his massive shoulders, his face a mask of blood, a sticky clot at the edge of his hairline where a bullet had entered.
So where the fuck was Moral?

‘We have to go,’ an urgent, familiar voice broke the silence and startled him. Julio whirled around to see Jose the driver had come up from behind.

‘Scared the shit outta me, man,’ said Julio. ‘Where’s the woman?’

‘Don’t know, but your
padre
says we need to go.’ Jose looked at Julio’s leg. ‘Man, you’re bleeding. Bad.’

Julio looked down. He hadn’t thought it was so bad. Looking now, he could see his pants were soaked red from the crotch down. For the first time, he felt ice creeping up from his feet to his belly. When he swallowed, it was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He and Jose had retreated no further than the front doorway when, from outside, shots rang out again.

Pop. Pop. Pop.
Unreal. Like firecrackers.

Jose looked surprised when tiny holes appeared in the pressed white shirt he was wearing. It seemed like forever before the blood began to flow, though only seconds passed. He looked at Julio, appeared to try to smile, then fell forward onto his face.

‘Sonofabitch,’ screamed Julio, just as a shadow – a small, feminine-looking shadow – ran across the front yard, firing its popgun in his direction. He felt a slap to his chest, then another to his face, as he tried to raise his weapon. The assault rifle was suddenly very heavy, and he struggled to hold it. The weapon fell from his hands, and he stumbled back onto the porch as Millie stepped into the light, holding a small pistol. Her mouth was trembling, tears streaming down her face, leaving white streaks in the dirt on her cheeks.

The irony of a life that intimately blended violence with sex – ever since that beachside trip with his father – was not lost on him but it was just a notion as his consciousness slipped away. Julio went to his knees as if in prayer, his mouth spilling blood and teeth.

With a throbbing head and a touch of justified satisfaction, Millie watched as he fell forward onto Jose, and died. She was about to go back into the house and check on Thiery when she heard, ‘You’re done, Millie.’

She spun, her gun pointed at Moral, and fired. But, instead of emitting a loud
bang
, the pistol whispered an impotent
click
.

‘I knew you had to be empty,’ Moral said, smiling, as if his comment was charming.

Knowing her options for escape were limited, Millie lunged forward, trying to grab Julio’s weapon before Moral could shoot. Before she was able to stretch far enough to reach, she felt the cold barrel of the US Marshal’s gun against her head. Closing her eyes, she waited for the explosion that would end her life. Instead, she heard Moral hiss, ‘Let’s go,’ as he gripped her neck, guided her to her feet, and pushed her ahead of him toward the dark street.

As he shoved her down the road toward the parked cars, he noticed people standing on their porches, watching cautiously. Most of them were older retirees, a few hunched over on canes, some with flashlights trying to peer into the road. They walked past them; it seemed to take forever from Moral’s point of view.

‘Get inside,’ he commanded as he continued shoving Millie down the narrow neighbourhood road. ‘I’m a law officer, and this is a dangerous crime scene. Police are on the way.’ A few residents moved cautiously inside, though many stood their ground.

Millie screamed, ‘Help, he’s going to kill me!’

One man, with grey brush cut hair and faded military tattoos on his forearms, stepped forward, coming down his drive, boldly. He had a handgun at his side. ‘Hold up, sir. We need to know what’s going on here.’

Another neighbour yelled, ‘What are you doing to that woman?’

Moral fired his gun into the air. ‘Drop your weapon and go inside, or the next round will be for you. I’m a US Marshal, and I am
ordering
you inside. This woman is a dangerous fugitive. Now, get back inside!’

The man laid his gun down and inched back, slowly, toward his home. Others followed.

Moral continued with Millie, shoving her ahead. She stumbled and he pulled her up by her hair and prodded her with the gun barrel. The street was eerily silent as they reached the Esperanza car. Moral opened the rear door and pushed her in.

Millie plopped onto the back seat and looked to the darkened gargoyle seated across from her. And, next to Emilio, sat a small but deadly, lightweight Kel-Tec PF9, 9 mm, single stack, seven in the clip and one in the cartridge, pistol with a rubber Suregrip, and nickel-plated barrel. It gleamed in the low light like the smile on Emilio’s reptilian mouth.

‘Hello, Millie,’ Emilio said. ‘You’ve been so much trouble.’

Moral slid into the driver’s seat. ‘We need to go. Get this over with.’

‘Where’s Julio?’ queried Emilio, calmly. ‘And Jose?’

Millie proudly answered, ‘They’re dead, you piece of shit.
I
shot them.’

Emilio’s face twitched, then he shrugged, turning down the corners of his mouth. He struck out quickly, like a coiled snake, and backhanded Millie across her face. He turned to Moral. ‘What about when they find them?’

Moral turned to face him, his arm across the back of the seat. ‘They won’t find us. And they won’t find her. There’s no connection to us. It was dark out there. No one saw us clearly. Julio takes the fall – he was acting on his own – and there’s no one to refute it. We’re
golden
.’

‘What about your car?’

‘It’s not in my name, and I wiped it down before I went into the house.’

‘Then, let’s go,’ Emilio said. ‘We finish this somewhere else down the road.’

‘Agreed,’ said Moral, and turned around to start the car.

Millie tried to shake off the blow from the old man but her vision was still rattled. She had come too far to die now.
If she could come up with a distraction then jump from the car
…

Thiery woke feeling as if his skull was cracked. Little did he know it was. He’d smashed helmets before when he was sacked, but it had been nothing like this. He felt his head with a sausage-fingered hand and thought he felt something sticking out along the scalp line. It felt wet and squishy and, somewhere deep inside the fog of his thoughts, he decided he shouldn’t play with it.
It might be brains.

The lights were on in the room, and the brightness helped stir him. He remembered a sense of urgency; he remembered Millie, and his heart sped up, pushing blood back through his limbs, waking him.
Where was she? Was she still alive, or had they gotten to her?

‘Miserable fuckin’ bastards,’ he mumbled to himself, his tongue feeling as though it belonged to someone else. But the words didn’t sound right. The words said, ‘Mizz-fu-tids.’ He pushed himself up using the wall, and nausea washed over him like a wave. There were two of everything; two dead men lying in front of him, two knives with blood on them, two overturned couches, two doors that led out of this charnel house.
Now, which one to choose?

C’mon, you big tough quarterback
, he thought to himself, incoherently.
You’ve got another quarter to go in the game, and the other side is winning.
He stumbled toward the splintered front door, trying to call Millie’s name, but it just came out, ‘Moo-ryyyrrrrgh,’ like the bellow of a gut-shot elk. He leaned over and vomited, and the effort made little molecule-looking things dance in front of his eyes like microscopic bees. He waved them away and took a deep breath as he plodded forward, telling himself,
move one leg, now the other
, but he noticed one of them was dragging. Looking down and noticing one of his feet was pointed in to one side, as if it was dislocated, he concluded some neurological damage had occurred. He assessed himself further and observed that the hand on the same side as his limp foot was curled inward, too. The words of some comedian from long ago drifted into his head:
must be ‘dain-bramage’.
He didn’t remember the knife wound in his back, or much of anything, except that there was an urgent matter to attend to.

Thiery made it out into the yard where the world began to spin, and he fell into dew dampened grass. It felt surprisingly refreshing as he stared up at the stars and watched them move about like a giant monochromatic kaleidoscope. If there
were
urgent matters, they would have to wait while he figured out if he was truly going to fall off the earth.

Disturbed by a tapping on his window, Emilio turned and uttered a surprised gasp as he stared at the bloody hand on the other side, pointing a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. The hand was shaking, some of the fingers were missing, and the small man attached to it, aiming the weapon, was wavering, trying to stand erect on a leg that was missing at least a kneecap.

‘Get out of the car,’ Police Chief Dunham ordered. ‘You’re under arrest.’

Emilio smiled, as if he were merely an old man sitting in his car, minding his own business.
Move along, nothing to see, here
. He shot a warning glance at Millie before sliding the window down and lowering his gun so Dunham couldn’t see it. ‘What’s happening, officer?’ Emilio asked in his best ‘surely this is all a misunderstanding’ voice. ‘I was just sitting here and heard all the commotion … ’

Enough light filtered into the back seat for Dunham to see Millie. He knew without asking, without ever having met her, she was the teacher. This was the woman who had shot down two intruders who’d entered an elementary school Dunham’s children had once attended, a person who had survived several attempts on her life, someone who had come too far to be taken away by this creepy reptile; the old guy was obviously trying, but experience had taught Dunham it was nearly impossible to convey innocence through eyes with predatory slits that emanated evil as ancient and fatal as a cobra.

‘He’s got a gun!’ screamed Millie. Dunham didn’t have to see it. He fired the .357 through the glass and into Emilio’s head. The bullet hit at just the right angle to take off the top of his head, and send it flying out the shattered back window.

Millie threw open the door and rolled out onto the ground, covered with tiny cubes of glass, her ears ringing intensely from the gunshot.

Moral jumped out of the car, gripping his gun, and fired. He hit Dunham square in the chest, his breath gushing out of him with an audible ‘ugh’. The impact knocked him back several feet, and he slammed against the ground and did not move.

When Moral looked back for Millie, she was gone. He looked up and saw a pale figure in the distance, running down the road.

‘Shit!’ he said, and started running after her. ‘Stop … you … fucking …’ he began, already winded, but knowing he had no choice but to continue after her, and the distance was growing.

Millie ran east toward the ocean, toward what she hoped would be freedom. She thought of stopping at one of the houses along the way, hoping she could get in before Moral caught up with her, but she feared Moral might just kill her would-be benefactors as well, or maybe they would just give her up. Either way, he would win.

The wound in her side screamed with each pounding step, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be away from it all, even if she just got to the ocean and threw herself into the surf. Even if she drowned, she would do so knowing the Esperanzas, especially Emilio, were dead. Moral would be alive, but how could he explain all that happened? She could accept death knowing that, at least, he would get caught.

Still, she ran as though she wanted to live.

Thiery heard the shots in the street and rolled over nonchalantly to see what was going on. He watched hypnotically as Millie ran by, followed by a scurrying Moral, a moment later. It was the image of Moral that awoke his short-term memory.
That’s the fucker who shot me
, he thought, feeling his anger return. He let it give him strength, let it push him to his hands and knees, then onto wobbly legs that took one step, then another, and another, until he found he was actually able to trot. His numb side was beginning to come alive again and, while it felt as if a million needles were undulating along that side, it also gave him back some muscle control he sorely needed.

As he galloped unevenly, he came across an object in the road: Dunham’s pump shotgun. Part of the pump mechanism was missing, likely splintered from a round from Julio’s rifle, but when Thiery pulled it back, the gun ejected an empty cartridge, and he heard another slide into the chamber with an almost eager
clink
. He looked up and saw Millie dart across A1A without looking, illuminated by headlights of passing cars that beeped horns and yelled obscenities. Moral was about fifty yards behind, but he was forced to hesitate as a small but steady stream of cars passed.