Day One (37 page)

Then he tried to lift his head. Pain speared up his back and reached around to grab him by the jaw. He tried to scream, but managed only a huff, hardly a sound at all. His head dropped back into the muck. Silty fluid flowed over his teeth and into his nose and he spluttered. He couldn’t close his mouth, something fucked about his jaw.

When the pain receded, fire to molten earth, he tried rolling rather than pushing. Got onto his side, watched the rain flow past as he gathered his strength for another attempt. He pressed his hand into the mud, gulped sodden air as the spear pierced his back once more. Somewhere behind him he heard a clatter of stones like running footsteps. Fear of his attacker fueled a surge onto his hands and knees, then to his feet. He turned in a slow circle. He saw the Caddy above on the spur, doors standing open and interior lights
on, no sign of Myra or the babysitter. No sign of the leverage. No sign of the man in blue.

How did he get here, four hundred miles from a lock-down ward in a zombie asylum?
Near as anyone could tell the bastard didn’t even think actual thoughts. All he did was hiss, drool, and piss himself. And yet, somehow, he’d strolled out of the woods here on Mount Tabor and all but killed Big Ed in his tracks.

He ran a hand over his bristly hair, wincing. There was only one thing for it now—they had to get away. Leave Portland, return to Givern Valley and ride out whatever storm happened to chase them south. Everything had gone wrong. Same as always. Big Ed had been given a simple task, had nearly blown it when the leverage escaped the car this morning. He’d redeemed himself, he thought, when he followed the babysitter into the man’s back yard. All fucking day he followed him, Myra bitching the whole time, but he found the boy. Then this, right out of the woods. And now Myra was gone, their leverage fled. If he were another man, Big Ed might attempt to flee himself. Follow Myra’s lead and run like hell. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but the failing light told him the leverage had plenty of time to get away. Which left him with the choice of facing Hiram’s wrath or going to ground, all six-foot-
scarred-throat-robot-talking-
five of him. Yeah, that would work. Big Ed would be lucky to live out the week.

Still.

What else could he do? He’d been Hiram’s man for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. And maybe he could make the old man understand one more time.

For fuck’s sake, Hiram, has the goddamn party started yet?

His legs didn’t want to cooperate, but somehow he picked up one foot, then the other. The rain followed him downslope. At the loop drive, he stopped and gazed across the derby track to the reservoir. The water reflected the mustard glow of the lampposts and light from houses along the edge of the park. The little boy might be in
any one of those houses by now, awaiting the arrival of cops.
He wandered out of the park, Officer, wet and alone.
Big Ed would never escape Hiram so easily.

He crossed the road and climbed, winding up the hill as darkness thickened around him. The forested slopes chattered with falling rain. He flinched at every movement, the sway of a branch, the glint of city glow on rainwater tumbling through the undergrowth. His neck and back were a lattice of pain, his feet throbbed and his thighs raged against every step. The hillside seemed to groan around him, or perhaps he heard only his own nerves strained to their tensile limits inside his head. He shuddered and pushed on, only realized he was nearing the top when he spied the gleam of a lamppost ahead. He topped a rocky shoulder and found himself on a broad natural terrace sloping up to a steep, grassy bank. At the top, he could see a concrete curb illuminated by the lamppost. A short flight of steps, a dozen or fewer, climbed from the muddy terrace to the road bounding the summit. Hiram would be just beyond, waiting near the statue. Expecting his leverage.

Big Ed paused. His tongue felt swollen in his hanging jaw. How could he face the old man, having failed yet again? How could he tell Hiram of the one who’d appeared like a ghost from the trees to unravel all their plans?

A voice cried out above, the girl—had to be. Stuart’s bitch. A deeper voice answered, gravelly and edged with menace. Hiram. Big Ed could only imagine the conversation, the pleading and the threats. Ed knew they were waiting for him, anger and fear thickening in the air around them like soup. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take the last few steps. He hung poised on a blade’s edge, unable to fall to either side, wanting to be cut in half. Then he heard a grunt and turned his head.

The ugly ex-cop was moving along the bank in the shadows midway between two lampposts. Big Ed inhaled through his gaping mouth, felt his chest and neck swell. The old guy paused,
his head level with the curb. He cocked his head, listening maybe, a hesitation long enough for Big Ed to close the distance. At the last moment, he seemed to sense the approaching presence and turned. Too late. Big Ed drove a fist between his shoulder blades. The force of the blow sent a stab of pain through Ed’s back and neck. The ex-cop dropped, groaning, and tried to crawl away. Big Ed hit him again, this time aiming for the kidney. Then Ed grasped him below the collar and tossed him up the bank. The old man flopped over, no heavier than a wet towel. Lift,
slam
, lift,
slam
. Each time the bastard’s body struck the bank, wind rushed out of him. Despite his own snarling agony, Big Ed wanted to laugh. Felt so damn good to whale on the mouthy fucker.

When the cop finally stopped wriggling around, Ed pawed though his clothes. Found .357 revolver, almost familiar in its heft. The gun surprised him, but also filled him with a crazy euphoria. A gun,
now
, after everything. Where the fucker found it between the Cadillac and this hilltop Ed had no idea. But it only added to the sudden power he felt. He tucked the gun into his belt and grabbed the old man’s collar again. He was gonna enjoy explaining to
Mister You-Don’t-Have-To-Do-This
the way the world really worked. Hiram Spaneker awaited his due. Ex-pork belly didn’t want to tell them where to look for the kid, the no-bodies rule was out the fucking door.

He dragged the old man up the bank and across the curb, digging for the larynx in his belt pouch, then each coat pocket. He felt the gun, felt Myra’s car keys. He stopped on the edge of the pavement, patting himself like a man trying to put out a fire. Across the summit drive he saw the statue, recognized the trio gathered in its shadow. His steely glee deflated. The electrolarynx was gone. George the Flea wasn’t.

November 19 - 4:49 pm

HARVEY SCOTT

1838 - 1910

PIONEER
EDITOR
PUBLISHER

MOLDER OF OPINION
IN OREGON
AND THE NATION

A
fter nightfall, Mount Tabor’s summit is lit by faux-antique lampposts at intervals along the encircling oval drive. Their fulvous glow casts oily shadows of the Douglas-firs across the asphalt to the central knoll. The wet pavement absorbs more light than it reflects.

At the southern tip of the oval, Harvey Scott stands atop his six-foot stone pedestal, his tarnished bronze effigy invisible in the darkness; the light from the nearest lampposts reveals only a
suggestion of the pedestal itself. I can make out the trio gathered next to the statue only because one of them holds a flashlight. The beam points at the ground, shining fitfully. One hunched figure sits on one of the concrete benches flanking the statue. The other two stand. Beyond the trio, the faint gleam of the flashlight is swallowed by the rain-drenched grass and trees.

I crouch on the embankment that drops down from the summit drive. Luellen is the only one I recognize: the figure on the bench. Head down, hands in her lap, I see her only in profile. Even at this distance I recognize the posture of a woman who’s lost hope. The old man in front of her holds the flashlight. Grandpa, I assume. Tall and thin, dressed in jeans and a heavy jacket, steel hair slicked back. He’s propped up on a crutch, resting all his weight on one leg. The other is bandaged at the thigh. The bullet in the kitchen wall. Through the watery light I can see in his malevolent expression that the world would be a better place if the bullet had gone through his forehead instead.

The third figure stands behind Grandpa. Six feet and easily three hundred pounds of meat and gristle, head shaved, long beard, body clad in leather—Big Ed is gaunt in comparison. Grandpa has brought himself a bodyguard. I can’t make out details, but I see a motorcycle club patch on his jacket. If he’s local, he’s most likely Free Souls. If the old man imported him, could be anything. Whatever his colors, I know trouble when I see it. I also know he won’t be relying on his substantial brawn. A gun hangs in his hand at his side, huge and nickel-plated, gleaming in the guttering light. Semi-auto, big slide. Jase could tell me manufacturer and model. I don’t need to know. The gun has heft to match the man holding it, capable of producing enough kinetic energy to blow me and Luellen both into next week.

At least Danny isn’t here, nor Big Ed’s tweaker girlfriend. I can only pray the little fellow ran downhill rather than up, got clear of
Myra and found his way into one of the many yards backing up to the park. With him out of the picture, I can focus on helping Luellen—which means focusing on the mountain of meat. Unlike Eager, I don’t see myself charging the hilltop, gun blazing. The ace in the hole. But if I can get the drop on them, maybe I can end this thing without having to fire a shot.

Yeah, right. A boy can dream, I suppose, but in the black hole I call a mind a little voice tells me not to fool myself. I’m gonna have to shoot the big fucker.

Eager’s .357 is heavier than the Baby Glock I carried when I was still working. I’d be worried about how the difference might influence my aim if I’d ever been a decent shot to begin with. My only chance is to get close enough it won’t matter. Not a sure bet, but the falling rain should cover the sound of my footsteps and the darkness may hide me until I get close. The flashlight, even flickering, works in my favor. Their night vision has to be for shit. The best approach, I decide, is to work my way to the right below the drive and come up from the east. From that approach, the biker will have his back to me and the statue’s base will shield Luellen should the world skid out from beneath my feet.

Jesus. When did I become a man who could shoot another without a second thought?

Desire for Ruby Jane suddenly threads through me, tendrils of need entwining tendrils of doubt. I picture my cell phone shattered on the deck, try to imagine what she’s doing as I stand here contemplating murder. All three Uncommon Cup locations are closed by now. She might be working in one of the offices, making the schedule for next week or closing out the day’s books. I’m not sure what time it is. Maybe she’s home already in her converted warehouse apartment behind the shop on Sandy. There’s a bathtub in the middle of the living room, legacy of a time when the space was split into smaller studios. She enjoys soaking in the tub after
a long day, loud music rattling the rafters. If she’s not in the tub, maybe she’s shooting baskets in the hoop at one end of the high-beamed room, or sitting on one of her big soft couches reading. I wonder if she’s tried to call me, or if she’s rethinking the things she said to me earlier. I want to be there with her. I want to talk to her about all that’s happened. I want to ask her what she would do in my shoes.

I know what she would say. Protect Danny, help Luellen.

Even if it means putting a bullet in a man’s back?

I close my eyes, picture myself among the fish. Ruby Jane is watching me; I’m a flash of silver and coral. A comforting illusion, a soothing delusion. It changes nothing. I’ve seen too much already between Big Ed and Myra, between Mitch and Eager to hesitate now. I have no real idea what’s going on. The words of a lovesick teenaged boy only confuse a situation already a muddle. All I know is I’m here, now. Whatever is going down feels like something I need to stop. I can apologize to Susan later, beg Ruby Jane to understand how narrow the way seems through the darkness. Assuming I live through the next few minutes.

I stick the gun in my jacket pocket and move through the long grass on the slope below the summit. Luellen and Grandpa are talking, but I’m too far away to hear. I scoot lower down the slope to avoid the circle of light from the lamppost at the southern tip of the summit oval. For a moment the statue and the trio are out of sight. I move maybe a dozen paces then stop, alerted by an unfamiliar sound, a sucking pop behind me. Despite its urban setting, Mount Tabor harbors all manner of wildlife. Juncos, sparrows, hawks, and owls. Squirrels, raccoons, and opossums. Feral cats, stray dogs. Even the occasional coyote. Anything could be moving in the dark. I turn, but see nothing the darkness under the trees. Wait the length of a dozen heartbeats. Nothing. I’m wound tight, my every nerve on full alert.

It’s not good enough.

Something hard slams between my shoulder blades, pitching me forward into the grass. Another blow strikes the soft spot below my floating ribs as I swallow mud and choke. Then I feel myself yanked off the ground by my collar. Arms flailing, I try to gain purchase on the slick hillside. My assailant slams me back into the ground, once, twice. Then he drops me and I slump into the mud, too little breath left in my lungs to even groan.