Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (16 page)

The trio didn’t know it, but the voices inside Doc’s head were making sense again. And he was listening. Closely.

* * *

“Laura, dahlin’,” Doc said. “Be a sweetheart, and bring me the box that’s in the front seat of my truck, please?”

Sliding off the stool, Laura said, “Um, alright. Sure.”

“You’re a daisy.” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a set of keys. He shook them, and they jingled a happy metallic song. “Bug-B-Gone.”

She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “What?”

“My current mode of transportation. Ford Ranger. The one with ‘Bug-B-Gone’ on the doors.”

“Oh, okay.” She started across the bar.

TJ said, “You an exterminator or something, there, Doc?”

Cracking himself up, Mallory screeched, “Who ya gonna call? Bug-Busters!”
 

Unamused, Tom blinked long droopy blinks at Mallory for several uncomfortably long seconds, before turning and answering Toby Jack. “You could say that, TJ.”

About to push through the front door, Laura said, “You lock your truck?”

“Can’t be too careful.” He dipped his chin at the door. “The box, dahlin’. With haste.”

She furrowed her brow at him, then disappeared through the doors.

“So whatcha gonna show us?” asked TJ.

“Patience young sniper, patience.”

TJ fished something from his shirt pocket. “You mind if we…?” He finished his question by nodding at a joint pinched delicately between his fingers.

Doc eyed it a moment, then decided against an anti-drug sermon, despite his vehement detestation of the vice. Besides, it would probably end up being the last joint they ever smoked if things went according to plan. So why not let them leave this world in a happier, albeit artificially altered mood?

He dipped his chin. “By all means.”

“Right on, Doc Dude,” Mallory said, big smile beneath his sunglasses.

TJ set down his shotgun and pulled out a Bic, started to light the marijuana cigarette, then said, “You know, man? You’re alright. That Alamo place would be hella cool if you ran it, ya know?”

The door squeaked open, and Laura slipped back inside, brown cardboard box hooked under one arm.

“That was quick,” TJ said, “We were just about to fire one up.” He held the twisted paper up so she could see. Enunciating clearly, he asked, “Care to partake of the herb, my lady?”

She crossed the room a little more quickly, handed the box to Doc along with his keys, then took the joint from TJ. After tucking it between her lips, Toby Jack lit it for her, and she pulled in a deep breath.

“So,” she said, sounding choked, “what’s in the box, Doc?”

Another giggle from Mallory. “What’s up, Doc?” He was snorting uncontrollably through his nose, like his lips were superglued shut. How Tom wished this were true. Then maybe Mallory wouldn’t scream when Doc pistol-whipped him to death for being an idiot.

Instead, Tom set the box on the bar top, then stood beside it, propping himself on one elbow. “This,” he said, pointing, “is one piece of a glorious puzzle. Metaphorically and literally.”

Laura handed off the joint to Mallory, who took it, drew in a breath, and asked, “Puzzle? What kind of puzzle?”

“Ah.” He held up a forefinger before he squared the box on the bar top, admiring it. “Perhaps a more suitable question would be: who is the puzzle
for
?”

Shrugging, Laura said, “Okay. I’ll bite. Who’s the puzzle for?”

Doc smiled, stepped away from the bar. “David Morris. And he currently resides at Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement.”

TJ raised a brow. “The beat-up dude?”

Tom nodded. And he could visualize the rusty gears grinding against one another inside the stoner’s head as something clicked. Swore he could actually smell it. Then, dismissed it as the smoke from his joint.

“You mean… the guy that got… the box with…”

Doc wanted the full effect, for them to put the pieces together themselves. It was painfully slow going, as pieces of another puzzle started dropping into place inside TJ’s head. His expression must have clued in the other two, because the same dull bulb of realization slowly lit their eyes through the haze hovering inside the bar.

“Holy motherfucking shit,” TJ said. “You
are
that Doc Holliday son of a bitch. You wasn’t fucking fooling.”

Mallory still seemed a tad lost, or maybe he was just trying to convince himself otherwise. “But you shot him, home skillet,” he said to TJ. “Blasted him, remember? Brains all against that tree.” He lifted his chin at Doc. “Can’t be the same dude. Ain’t no way.”

Laura took two steps back, a wavering finger aimed unsteadily at the box. “There’s a fucking hand in there, ain’t there? Ain’t there? Or some other… body part… fucking foot or some shit, right? Somebody’s ear?
Their head?
” Her voice cracked, tears priming themselves.

Doc only stared, neither confirming nor denying their guesses. His hands had moved to his guns.

“You gonna chop us up, too? Huh? That what you get off on, huh? You sick fuck.” TJ looked around, realized he’d laid his shotgun down on a table near the bar, and would never reach it in time.

Finally, Doc spoke. “Now TJ. What an ugly thing to say to me. I’m no butcher. I do not frolic about the countryside, hacking folks into little bitty pieces. Why, I find your accusation disrespectful and simply untrue.”

Finding her voice again, Laura said, “Then… what’s in the box?”

“I’m afraid that’s for David’s eyes only.”

“Are you him?” TJ asked bluntly. “The guy who chopped off that chick’s hand?”

Tom pinched the brim of his hat, dipped his chin.
 

“Holy shit. Alright, dude.” He held his palms to Tom. Sweat glistened on his forehead, seemingly all at once. “Well, we enjoyed hanging with you and shit, but we gotta hit the road, ya know?” He tossed his head toward the exit, cuing the other two to start inching their way toward the door.

“Oh, I wish I could reciprocate the sentiment, and it is indeed time to hit the road.” He patted the box. “We have a delivery to make, you see.” He smiled, then smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger.

“Alright, man. Good luck with that.”

The trio started hurriedly toward the door.

The ripping of metal against leather. Then a deafening gunshot.

They stopped abruptly, sneakers squeaking and scuffing against the floor. The trio dropped immediately to a crouch, hands up or on top of their heads. Pieces of ceiling tile rained to the floor.

Raising his voice, Doc said, “Perhaps I did not make myself clear.
We
are going to make a delivery. Now.”

“Listen… Doc… dude. Whatever you got going on with those assholes at the Alamo place… hey, we feel ya, man. Hate those fuckers just as much as you. But they ain’t gonna wanna see us again.”

With a heavy tremble in her voice, Laura added, “Plus, getting in’ll be a bitch, man. All those deadies around the fence?”

“You three
are
going to deliver David’s package.”

Mallory, still crouching and holding his hands up as if under arrest, gave it the old college try despite never having attended a day in his life. “Look, dude. Mad props to you and shit. Seriously. You’re obviously Mr. Bad Ass and all that, dude. Total respect. We get it. But we just ain’t mailman material, ya know? Those UPS guys? They’re studs, man. But that ain’t us. And we sure as shit ain’t no good at deadie killing.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, young man. Seems your friend there just told me a hoot of a story about gunning down Doc Holliday from two-hundred-plus yards out with one shot.”

“It… it was two.”

Doc just stared at him, more lazy blinks.

Almost whispering, Mallory said, “Two shots. Downed him with two shots. Dude. Doc. Mr. Holliday. Sir.”

“See?” Doc said sharply, causing all in the room to flinch. “One of you has a talent, after all.” He started pacing, tapping his chin, eyes studying the trio. “You three
are
going to deliver David’s package. You’re going to walk right up to that fence, and you’re going to wait for him. All three of you. Even if it means you stand there all day and night.”

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Laura said, “Dude, did you not hear us? Those deadies, they’re surrounding the place. There’s no fucking way we can just waltz up to the goddamned fence and stand there.”

“Oh, there is a way,” Doc said. “There is
always
a way.”
 

David was standing in the middle of the small room, hands hooked on his hips, head rocked back. His uncovered eye roved the tiled ceiling. “You know the layout of this place, right, Gabe?”

“I do.”

Pointing up near one corner, David said, “Could go through there, crawl a little ways, then drop into one of the vacant rooms. Come back for you…” He looked at the Janitor for approval.

The old man shook his head, sidled up to David. “Pardon my pessimism, Dave, but can’t see either of us climbing up there, what with your bum wing, and my brittle old bones.”
 

David raised his wrapped right wrist, twisting it, then sighed.

“Besides,” the Janitor continued, “I’ve got a much easier way.”

Eyeing the corner tile again, David said dismissively, “And what way would that be?”

The Janitor reached into his jumpsuit pocket, retrieving a key. “I’ll just unlock the door.”

David pulled his gaze from the ceiling, stared at the key pinched between Gabriel’s fingers. A twinge of distrust touched his core, followed by a dusting of hope. “You have a key?”

Smiling, squinting his eye at David, Gabriel nodded.

“It fits the lock? You sure?”

A nod. “Master key. To most of the locks, anyway. Fits this one. I helped install the ones in this hall, so ain’t no doubt it works.”

“Then why…?” Shaking his head and waving off the thought, David started toward the door. “Never mind. Let’s get the hell outta here so we can—”

The Janitor held a palm to David, bowing his head. “Now hold your horses, Dave.”

Fighting an almost instant surge of anxiety and anger, David said, “Hold my horses? For what? Luz has lost it, Gabe. I don’t even think she’s a real doctor, to tell ya the truth. She had a hell of a time stitching up my face, and Randy had to tell her what to do and what to look for when she was treating me. We need to get outta here before she comes back. No telling what she’s liable to do.”

“I agree, Dave. She’s unstable, and confused about things. Ain’t arguing that point. But before we go strolling down the hall with bull’s-eyes on our backs, you and me need to be on the same page about some things. Where we’re headed, what we’re doing. And what we
believe
.”

David narrowed his eye at Gabriel. “What we… believe?”

The Janitor’s lips thinned, and he gave a deliberate nod.

“I’ll tell ya what I believe, Gabe,” David started. “I believe that Luz is—”

“No, Dave. I ain’t talking about Luz. Or Roy, for that matter. I’m talking about
you
.”

Huffing, David said, “Gabe, can’t this wait? Sort this out when we get outta here? Get somewhere safe, first? What if Luz comes back and finds us still in here?”

“What if she comes back and finds us gone?”

Crossing his arms, David averted his eyes from the Janitor’s piercing gaze. He sighed heavily again, then said, “Okay, so what do you want to know?”

“Sit down, Dave.”

“I’ll stand.”

Gabriel motioned to the cot. “Please…”

David eyed him curiously, suspiciously, then crossed to the cot. Before sitting, he said, “Gabe, please. I’m begging you here. Can’t we talk about this after?”

“This is important, Dave. If me and you are gonna make a go of this, I have to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

The Janitor dipped his chin at the cot, urging David to sit. Finally, David acquiesced.
 

“Thanks.”

David just stared up at him, feeling like a child about to be punished for an egregious misdeed.

“Dave, you and I jawed a bit the first day you got here. I told you a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you. Just what I’ve been told, and what I’ve discerned for myself. Now, I’m good. I can read people like a billboard with bodacious print. But I want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Hear what? What do you want to know, Gabe?” He started to press to his feet, but the Janitor flashed his palm like a stop sign. “I really feel like we’re wasting—”

“Dave. Please.”

“Okay, Gabe. Fine. Let’s talk. What do you want to talk about, huh?” His impatience brimmed, gushing from deep within like a rotted water main. And right along with it spewed a rising resentment, mixing and mingling into a muddy mess. Gabe was supposed to be an ally, a friend. Self-preservation, that fight-or-flight feeling, was smashing David’s sternum hard. He liked Gabe, trusted him. But he would not let the old man demolish their opportunity—
his
opportunity—at escape. At his chance to make things right.

And he would not allow anyone—Janitor included—jeopardize Bryan’s life or Jessica’s.
 

“I’ll try to make this quick, Dave.”

You’d better, old man.
“Shoot,” David said. He hinged forward, elbows on his knees, ready to get the interrogation over and done with.
 

“Tell me about your wife, Dave.”

“My wife?”

Gabriel nodded. “Yep. Your wife. Natalee.”

David didn’t recall ever telling Gabriel Natalee’s name, but assumed that Jess or Randy must have mentioned it to him at one time or another. He shrugged, then lied. “Not much to tell.”

“I think there is.”

“Gabe, really, what does my wife have to do with this?”

“Same thing Scotty has to do with this.”

David simply stared at the Janitor for a few precious seconds, trying to jump ahead, figure out what the old man was driving at so he could play the game and they could get the hell out of the bear cave before mother bear came back. Get somewhere safe, or at least safer. How he wished Gabriel would just postpone their little interview. Or skip it altogether.
 

He forced the gears to spin. He knew Scotty. Well, knew
of
him. Never met the guy in real life—only in real
death
. And only for a very small amount of time, as he ended Scotty’s existence in this world with a well-aimed bullet to the brain.