In the Night of the Heat (35 page)

“Then they hit me with a bat, just below the left knee. While they kept the other guys under the gun, they smashed my leg, man. They broke it in four places. I'd never felt pain like that. I was howlin' at the moon. They brought out rope and threatened to string us up. Till the end, I thought that we'd end up swinging in those trees. But they tied us, and made us watch while they took turns with Bird. Not all of them—two were hurt, and three didn't have a taste for it. Four of those boys kept Bird screaming for an hour solid—one of 'em was from Mercy. All we could do was close our eyes so we wouldn't see her without her clothes.”

Chained as I was, I couldn't help empathizing. As for Bird, I couldn't imagine it.

“I passed out and woke up at my grandmama's house, on the swing on her porch. It was dawn 'fore I got to a hospital. I was only half-awake—I'd taken some good thumps on the head—but my friends had decided to tell Coach our car had crashed. Heat looks out for Heat. Emory, Don, and Randy didn't go back to California with the team. They stayed behind.

“Nobody was allowed to see Bird. Her aunt and family were with her, but she didn't want us to lay eyes on her. I wept like a baby every time I thought about what I'd seen. I know for a fact that woman has never been the same.
Never.
”

His voice shook at the lost memory of her.

“Don, Emory, and Randolph came by my hospital room right before dark, everybody tryin' to cheer me up. Said not to worry, I could play again, even though my leg was wrapped up like a mummy's. Without ball, I didn't have a life to go back to.”

The machinery outside grated against rocks, then stalled. I heard loud cursing.

Think think think think think think.

“I should have known: They kept sharing these glances back and forth. I was gonna take care of it myself, let them sit it out. Don always had big plans, even back then. I didn't want them dirtied up in it. Revenge works just fine cold. But they had their own ideas, and that night they headed out for Mercy. They figgered you find one, you find the rest. Don got his hands on a pistol, and he brought it with him.

“Don, Emory, and Randolph weren't the first to mistake the Kelly brothers. Five of 'em, all about a year apart. Well, the boy who'd attacked us in the woods was nineteen years old—Eric. But the boy Don, Emory, and Randolph snatched off the street was Lewis, who was seventeen. Lewis had nothing to do with what happened the night of that game, mind you. Probably didn't know anything 'bout it either. But Lewis is the one who took off running and got shot in the back by Don Hankins and his .32.”

My heart was beating a river. Senator Hankins had killed an innocent man in 1967! And by sharing that information with me, Rubens had given himself no choice but to kill me. He wasn't bluffing. He never had been.

“Hey, Bear!” a voice shouted from the doorway. The man in the mechanic's uniform stood there. “It's jammed, man. Blue don't know how to work that thing.”

“Then get a shovel,” Rubens said impatiently.

The mechanic cursed and walked away. I wondered if Rubens had brought the mechanic with him when he went to California to take care of Ebersole, or if he did the tampering himself.

Rubens went on: “Soon as I heard the news that Lewis Kelly had been found dead in the woods, I knew what had happened.” The name Kelly seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't pinpoint why. My head was clearer, but panic was setting in.

“I broke the bad news to Don, Em, and Randy. We prayed for forgiveness, holding hands. We swore we'd never tell a soul. There's still folks walking around Mercy who know what happened—which boys raped Bird, and which boys killed Lewis Kelly. It's what you call mutual silence. And I've never told nobody 'cept you.”

“Does Bird know?”

He looked at me without expression. “She's doin' OK. That's all I care about, all you need to know.” Our conversation was about to come to a loud, messy end.

“What about T.D. Jackson?” I said. There had to be another door, a place I could tap on a window, engage his interest, live a little while longer. The only thing that mattered was time. “If you're gonna kill me anyway, tell me what happened.”

Rubens only stood up, sighing. He picked up his rifle, hand on the trigger. “I've told enough stories tonight, son,” he said.

“Hankins fucked up and killed the wrong guy,” I said. “That's how it was, wasn't it? Ebersole started making trouble in Hollywood and Hankins told you to take care of it? And the same thing happened with T.D. Jackson? How exactly did you become Hankins's bitch?”

His hand blurred, and stars exploded behind my eyes. I tasted blood. When my eyes focused again, he was smiling at me. I was lucky: He could have simply pulled the trigger.

“I wasn't nobody's
bitch,
” Rubens said. “Didn't you just hear the story I told you? Don saved my ass after my leg got ruined. Sent me money. Helped me get work. Heat looks out for Heat. He flew me out from time to time when he thought my size would make somebody think twice.”

Outside, I heard someone turn on music, probably from the truck. This time, two men came into the barn. The taller, thinner one was holding a shovel. “There's all these rocks, Bear,” the thin man said. He didn't look at me.

Rubens stood up, beckoning his men. He held his gun by the barrel. I never let Bear's gun out of my sight. I had just run out of time.

“What happened at T.D. Jackson's house?” I called to Rubens.

The stubby one suddenly grabbed Bear's shotgun and jacked a cartridge into the chamber. The
CRACK
echoed everywhere. When he took aim at me, my skin tried to leap from my frame. At ten yards, his shotgun would take my head off. “Can I shut him the fuck up?” he said.

My mind went blank. I'd run out of words.

Rubens gave me a long look. I'm not sure what he saw in my face—maybe I looked like I finally understood the seriousness of my position—but he shook his head
no
.

“Let's get his bed ready first,” Rubens said, walking away. “This is
my
cross.”

He sounded so righteous and sad, he could have been about to bury a loved one.

I HAD ONLY ABOUT THIRTY SECONDS
to twist the handcuff links behind my back before Janiece appeared with a flashlight and a slow, deliberate walk. For the first time, I noticed that she was wearing heels. Tall ones. I was too mentally confused to remember if she'd been wearing heels all along. I didn't think so.

“Don't make me go run and tell Bear you're not sittin' still.” Janiece sat in Bear's chair and crossed her legs. I couldn't read her in the lantern's light. Was there compassion in her?

I panted. I felt as if I had half a cup of thin, greasy fluid sloshing around in my lungs.

“Janiece,” I said. “I'm Tennyson Hardwick. Ten, my friends call me. I'm just a guy from L.A. I have a daughter, like I told you. If I die, you're an accessory to murder. Do you know what that means?” I tugged hard against the wall, my brow knitted. The chain clanked loudly.

“
Hey,
cut that out!” she said, rising to her feet. “Do that again, an' I'm tellin' Bear.”

“An accessory means that you let it happen,” I said. “But if you
help me get away, the police won't touch you. Please—do you have the keys to these cuffs?”

Her grin chilled me. “I might. What if they're mine?” she said.

Who
was
this woman? I had to figure Janiece out fast, or she would be the last person I ever met. Janiece wasn't a cop, and I couldn't fathom that Rubens and Janiece were on a kidnap-and-murder spree in Mercy. Why did she have handcuffs? I suddenly thought about every horror movie I'd ever seen set in the country—with an entire family gone feral.

“Your uncle is about to get you sent to the electric chair,” I said.

She laughed an earthy laugh. In a crisis, the sound of laughter is sickening. “He calls all his girls his nieces,” she said casually. “Or else his angels. An' his crew is his godsons. We're family, but we're not blood.”

Janiece was more than a waitress at Pig'n-a-Poke, and the electric chair wasn't on her list of concerns in life. I had to find out who she
was,
and fast.

“What's a honey like you doing in a hole like Mercy?” I said.

My grin knocked her mask askew slightly—she was radiating something, and I couldn't quite place it. Janiece's lips curled. God help me, was that a smile? “I'm savin' up my money to go to Miami,” she said. “I got a cousin there. She said she's gonna get me in videos. Say it again, like you did before.”

“Say what?”

“‘The future looks bright.'”

I didn't remember saying it. My mouth fell open, then I managed to pull myself back together. “The future looks
bright
!” I said, as brightly as I would on TV.

She clapped her hands. “It is you!”

She had seen my damned commercial? Suddenly placed my face?
I didn't go to church
nearly
often enough. I started improvising, fast. “Girl, forget about Miami! Let me take you to Hollywood. Don't you want to be on TV like me? I'm
hooked up,
Janiece. You want to dance in videos? Be on TV? Shit, girl, you don't wanna be working out of a barbecue joint. My agent can introduce you to movie stars, singers, anybody you want. You get me my phone back, and I'll call him right now. Whatever you want, name it. Just let me go before Bear kills me!”

Her eyes were quiet, watchful, gave nothing.

“What's holding you back, Janiece? You don't think you're ready for Hollywood?” I said. “There's lots of girls out there, lined up around the corner. Afraid you won't measure up? How come Bear's got you waitin' on tables instead of working the room in those fuck-me pumps? Dancin' on that stage? How come he's not showing
you
off?”

Janiece didn't answer right away. Had I hit a nerve? I couldn't keep myself from glancing at the doorway. I expected to see Wallace Rubens and his shotgun at any moment, but my mouth babbled on: “I'll put in a call and say ‘Janiece is hot as hell, and she saved my life when I had no one else to turn to.' Girl, you'll go to the
best
parties.”

“What kinda parties?”

I had her. My heart thundered. “M.C. Glazer,” I said. “Just to name one.”

Janiece's lips parted; I could see it even in the semidarkness. Celebrity is magical anywhere, but the magic apparently carried special weight in a backwater like Mercy. I couldn't blame her: M.C. Glazer was an international superstar, after all.

“Get the fuck out!”
she practically screamed. I winced when she raised her voice.

“
Shhhhh
…. Janiece, please let me go. Let me take you with me. How far are we from the road? Let's both get the fuck out of Mercy.”

Me and Janiece against the world.

“Were you at Glaze's party?” Janiece said, twirling her hair on her finger.

I wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, I brought my voice down lower, almost out of Janiece's earshot. As I spoke, I saw her craning her ear closer. “His CD release party for
Plugged
was
sick.
Usher was there. Prince. Cameron Diaz. Diddy. He had it at Club Magique in Hollywood, and those girls were getting paid. Wish you coulda been there. Glaze would go
crazy
for you. Girl, you'd get rich.”

Especially if you were fifteen years younger,
I thought grimly. I had rescued Chela from M.C. Glazer's house, and his tastes were decidedly younger than Janiece.

“Tell him what my specialty is,” Janiece said. We were living in two different conversations. In hers, there was no particular hurry. In hers, it was entertaining to pretend there was a chance in hell she might let me go, just for the sheer animal fun of giving me just enough hope to take it back again.

“What?”

She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming.

“You asked why I'm waitin' tables? I'm a specialty, that's why. I get calls to go all the way to Tallahassee. Jacksonville, even. I got
fans.
I don't have to work the floor at Pig'n-a-Poke.”

“Hey, no offense—”

“I'm a mistress,” she said, drawing the words out. “Mistress Janiece. You know—S&M? Bondage? That's why I got handcuffs. I've got all kinds of chains. I get paid to tie men up.”

Was the S&M thing more than professional? Was she turned on by pain, or death? By the sight of me chained to the wall? Janiece
stood just out of my reach, and I couldn't see her face beyond the flashlight beam. If I was going to survive, I needed to climb into her fantasy with her.

“What happens now?” I said. “Give me a little taste to tell Glaze about.”

I kept the assured smile on my face, although smiling was the last thing on my mind. Janiece stepped closer, shining her flashlight in my eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Oh, I get it…” she said. “You're about to get your head blown off by a double barrel, and now you want Janiece to blow the other head? You got balls, Telephone Man.”

Two more steps brought her well within my reach, practically between my legs. I felt a twisted excitement radiating down from her. She was aroused.

One by one, Janiece stepped out of her black heels. Smiling, she raised her right foot and ran her toes across my upper thigh, toward my crotch. Her breathing was heavy.

“You want me?” she said.

“'Course I want you, girl,” I said, lathering my voice with desire. “Just let me go…”

“If you want me,
prove
it,” she said. Her toes wiggled across my zipper. The pressure was firm, but I might as well have been numb below the waist.

Her expression soured. She looked like a child denied her candy. “If you want me, then how come you ain't ready for me?”

Shit shit shit shit.

“Wait,” I said, my voice urgent, and I closed my eyes.

To this day, I still wonder how I did it. I know I tried to remember the meditation from a yoga class I'd taken with Alice, which she always claimed was her Fountain of Youth. I tried to concentrate on my own heartbeat, which wasn't hard; my heart was shaking my chest.
I tried to forget everything in the room and the armed men outside. And the dog. I focused on imagining a burning white light six inches beneath my navel. The second chakra, Alice had called it. The pathway to the sex drive. I saw April's nakedness in my shower, before she went away.

Janiece's big toe plunged deep between my legs, nudged my testicles, and journeyed back up across my fly. I felt a weak glow, getting stronger, as she stroked me with her foot.

“What are you gonna do for me, girl?” I said to April's vision. “Tell me.”

“I'll show you,” she said.

In character, her voice was sultry. My anatomy did its part to be free, and Janiece's grin widened, appreciative. Her foot pressed against the growing firmness. I braced, expecting her to dig her heel in hard.

“You're a big boy, huh?” she said.

“See for yourself.”

“Call me
Mistress,
bitch,” she said. Her foot's pressure grew.

All right, Mistress Bitch. “How far to the road, Mistress? Is this the barn off Route 66?”

She slapped my cheek, hard. My face burned with a flash. She was practiced at hitting. My erection stopped growing.

“You talk when I tell you,” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said between gritted teeth.

Janiece knelt in front of me, staring me down with a gleam in her eyes. She slid her hand across my fly, massaging. Janiece yanked my jeans open. When she slid her hand beneath the denim, the zipper unfurled. Her fingers knew what they were doing.

I hissed between my teeth as her fingertips glided. All the while, I expected pain.

“Give me the keys, Mistress?” I said to those impenetrable eyes.
I could smell her arousal, so I caressed her with my gaze. Begged her, just the way she liked it. “Please?”

“Can't do that,” she whispered, out of character. Her gentle thumb rubbed circles across my sensitive ridges. “But I'm gonna send you out right—give you something worth dying for.”

No key was coming; I was just a prop in her fantasy. So much for the easy way out.

Sorry, Janiece.
As she leaned over to bring her face closer to my crotch, my right knee caught her under the chin. As she jolted up, I head-butted her directly between the eyes, and she dropped like a sack of rocks.

“Don't flatter yourself, darlin'.” Don't get me wrong: A woman's mouth is one of nature's greater creations. But no blow job is worth dying for.

I looked over my shoulder down at the chain. It was thicker steel than the cuffs. No help there.
What,
then…?

The wall. The barn's wood was ancient and worm-eaten.
The weak link.
I braced my left leg and smashed back into the wood with my right heel. The shock ran up my right leg to my twisting hips, then down into my planted left heel, then I switched to the other side, mule-kicking right next to where the bolt fastened into the wall. And again, right-left, back, and forth. With every kick, the barn wall shook, and the cuffs tore at my wrists. I felt something give—the wood, not my wrists, thank God. I shifted angles and set my heel against the wall next to the bolt, and pulled or pushed with damned near every muscle in my body. My shoulders screamed.

Either my bones and tendons were going to give, or that damned wall. I stifled a yell as the wood splintered, but clamped my mouth shut as I fell forward, landing on my shoulder. I was free!

I heard voices outside, dimly. Getting closer. I tried to get to my feet, and the first time I landed on my face, falling nearly headfirst
into Bear's chair. A hurricane roared between my ears, and I gasped to breathe. My body felt unfamiliar and new.

GET UP GET UP GET UP.

I tried to stand more carefully, this time with a wider stance. There were five or six pounds of extra weight tugging on my handcuffs from the large metal ring swinging behind me from the broken wall, but I adjusted, staggering to stand up.

Bobbing flashlight beams approached the barn door. I heard barking.

I didn't have time to grab Janiece's flashlight, or hunt for my cell phone or the handcuff keys. The barn's wall planks were like missing teeth, and I ran toward the first open space.

The space
wasn't
open, just dark. I ran nearly headfirst into solid wood, and I was on the floor again. I felt dazed. My name was slipping away from me again.

Barking, someplace close.

I got up somehow. With my shoulder, I broke through a cracking plank. I banged my head, but I was beyond noticing. The old wood gave, and I stumbled through.

I was outside. I saw trees.

It was dark. I heard barking.

I ran for my life toward the night.

 

I was shoelace deep in the swampy woods, and I was about to get caught. Even while I ran with all my might, I knew I couldn't get away.

Think think think think think.

Running was hard enough without having to think, too. With no
flashlight to light my way, and my arms chained behind me, it was a challenge to stay upright. My feet sloshed in soggy ground that sometimes dipped until it was covered by a foot of murky water, making each shoe weigh half a ton. I tripped over the things I couldn't see, bumping my knees and stumbling off-balance. Every step was a triumph. The air felt as thin as if I were climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro again. Still, in the dark I might have been able to evade the men until daylight.

But I couldn't escape the dog. His bark was getting closer. Fast.

I've had more than a few fights with men, but I'd never faced off with a beast. A dog changed everything. No cheap psychology, no bargaining, no bullshit. Just teeth, and my fly was hanging open. If I wasn't very careful, I was about to get mauled. And then shot.