Shorts - Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can't Put Down (14 page)

“Because you underestimated how cold you’d get. It happens all the time.” Gus noticed raindrops already collecting on his navy sweater, but its thick wool was a better insulator when wet than the fugitive’s cotton. “What’s your name?”

“Fred.”

It wasn’t his name. “What are you looking for up here, Fred?”

The fugitive didn’t answer. His shivering had lessened, but it wasn’t necessarily a good sign. He motioned with his gun,
still clenched in his half-frozen hand, and Gus started back along the trail.

The fog wasn’t going to lift. The wind wasn’t going to let up.

The rain wasn’t going to stop.

“Let’s get to where you want to go,” he said wearily.

They came to the spot where his brother and sister-in-law had died. He’d been a firefighter. She’d been a biology teacher. These days, weather reports were more accurate, but even so, people died on Cold Ridge.

“There’s a rock formation just past where your folks died. It looks like a toaster.”

The fugitive’s words were slightly slurred, but he continued. “Do you know it?”

“I do.”

Gus stared into the shifting fog and clouds. He could walk right past the toaster-shaped rock formation, and the fugitive would probably never know it. Then what? Shoot Gus in the back? Drop dead from the cold? But as he continued along the trail, his legs heavier now, the pack grinding into the small of his back, Gus knew he wouldn’t mislead his captor. He’d just take him where he wanted to go.

The wind was steady, at least fifty miles per hour with higher gusts. He had hiked up all forty-eight peaks in the White Mountains over four thousand feet, and he’d experienced hurricane-force winds. But nothing had prepared him for the jumble of emotions he felt at being here—on the ground where his brother and the woman he’d loved had died.

His brother had taken him up this same trail before Gus had left for basic training.

“Be safe, Gus. I’ll be here when you come home.”

He pushed back the memory and nodded to a rock outcropping just ahead, barely visible through the shifting gray. “There. That’s it. It looks just like a toaster.”

The fugitive stepped up next to Gus and pulled the coat’s hood over his head. It would help break the wind but otherwise wouldn’t do much good. His hair was wet.

He wasn’t shivering at all anymore.

“Pal,” Gus said, “listen to me. You need to get warm. Let me help you. You don’t want to die up here, do you?”

He waved the gun, still clenched tight in his right hand. “Behind the rocks. Go.”

Gus sighed and made his way off the trail, the wind going through his layers, the rain soaking his layers. He pushed through scrubby balsams clinging to the thin soil and climbed over a tumble of boulders to the granite formation. It jutted ten feet out of the ground below a rounded knoll.

The fugitive panted, stumbling on the boulders as he followed Gus behind the outcropping. They were out of the wind now, at least.

“I knew I’d make it back here,” the fugitive said.

Gus could hear the wind whipping through the valley, up onto the open ridge. He shivered. He preferred to keep moving.

But he followed the fugitive’s gaze to a mound of dirt and rock between the base of the rock formation and the knoll.

A shallow grave.

“Who’s buried there?” Gus asked.

“Smuggler. He tried to cheat the wrong man.”

“Meaning you.”

The fugitive didn’t answer, his eyes gleaming with excitement as, with a burst of fresh energy, he got onto his knees. The rain let up now, too, and he set the Smith & Wesson next to his right knee and started moving baseball-size rocks with his red, frozen hands.

“You’ve stopped shivering, but it’s not because you’re warm,” Gus said. “Your core temperature has dropped to the point that your body is focused just on keeping your vital organs working.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you? You’re slurring your words. As hypothermia worsens, you get more and more confused. Your mental state—”

“Shut up.” The fugitive glared up at Gus. “I’m digging for gold.”

Was
he digging for gold, or was he hallucinating? Despite his slurred speech, he sounded perfectly lucid. He continued to grab rocks and toss them aside, keeping his gun close by as he worked.

Gus stood back. He became aware of another presence up on the knoll in the wind and gray. His teeth were chattering now. His hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure if he could trust his senses. Was he so far gone with hypothermia himself that he was imagining things?

“My coat’s not enough. You’re wet,” he said. “I’ve rescued a lot of people off the ridge who were in better shape than you are now.”

The fugitive looked up at him. His eyes were still, focused, even as he struggled to speak. “You’re not the marshal.”

Gus shrugged. “Never said I was.”

He kicked the fugitive’s pile of wet rocks, creating a distraction, and a man swooped down from the knoll.

Nate.

He leveled a gun at the fugitive.

“Hands in the air. Now.”

“Do it,” Gus told the fugitive. “Don’t make him use deadly force.”

The fugitive raised his hands, and Gus grabbed the Smith & Wesson.

He thought he saw a flicker of fear in the fugitive’s eyes and shook his head. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said, handing the gun to his nephew. “The situation doesn’t call for deadly force. Not anymore.”

Two more men appeared behind the rock outcropping.
Antonia’s husband, a U.S. senator and former rescue helicopter pilot, and Carine’s husband, an airforce para-rescueman. They, too, were armed.

Then came Antonia, a physician, and Carine, a nature photographer who knew the White Mountains at least as well as Gus did. Maybe better.

He hadn’t imagined them.

“We weren’t going back down the mountain without you,” Nate said, his voice catching. “I wasn’t losing you before my baby boy gets to know you.”

Gus sank against the wet rock wall. “I’m worn-out,” he said, “and I’m cold.”

Nate nodded to the fugitive. “What did he want?”

“Gold.”

“And a dead marshal. You didn’t tell him he had the wrong guy?”

“You weren’t the right guy, either.”

A search-and-rescue team arrived with stretchers and made Gus get on one, but he climbed off after a hundred yards and walked the rest of the way down off the ridge.

It was dark and cold, the sky clear, when Gus and his nephew and nieces and their spouses and little ones gathered at the Cold Ridge lakeside home of a federal judge. Her name was Bernadette Peacham, and Gus had known her since kindergarten. She hardly spoke as he helped her get a pile of blankets from the shed and spread them out on a tarp laid on the wet ground in front of her big outdoor stone fireplace. A fire was roaring. There were marshmallows and hot cocoa.

Beanie, as Gus had called Bernadette for decades, dried off an old Adirondack chair. “You could have died up there,” she said as she plopped down. “If Nate hadn’t spotted your trail…I don’t want to think about it.”

“All’s well that ends well.”

The fugitive’s name was Frank Leonard. Two years ago, Nate had recognized him at a hardware store in the village of Cold Ridge. His mug shot was on the USMS Web site, and Nate had a good memory for faces. Leonard was wanted for failing to appear in court on a federal drug charge, and running in to Nate was especially bad timing for him—he’d just killed a fellow smuggler up on the ridge. They’d met there to divide the gold bars they’d received as payment for smuggling drugs and arms over the Canadian border.

Picking the toaster-looking rock formation near the spot where Nate’s parents had died had been Leonard’s idea. On the way down the ridge, restrained in his stretcher, he’d told Gus that even then he didn’t like marshals. “They’d been after me for weeks. They never let up. I thought it was funny, picking that spot.”

Funny.

He and his partner in smuggling argued, and Leonard killed him and buried him as best he could, then hiked back down the ridge to clean up loose ends. The gold bars were heavy and awkward, and he wanted to get his ducks in a row before he went back on the ridge, fetched the gold and disappeared, a rich man.

Only Nate had discovered him first.

When he escaped from prison two days ago, he headed straight to Cold Ridge, but he couldn’t remember how to get back to the spot where he’d buried his colleague and the gold.

And he wanted revenge against the marshal who’d recognized him. He couldn’t believe his luck when he spotted Gus on the trail and mistook him for Nate.

Bernadette picked up a long, sharp-ended stick as Gus settled into the chair next to her. For a while, he’d wondered if he’d ever get warm again. But he was downright hot now, the flames licking up in the black sky.

“Why did you go off on your own this morning?” Bernadette asked.

“I had something on my mind. Beanie, these guys…” He motioned toward Nate, Antonia, Carine, their spouses, their children. “They’re my world.”

“I know, Gus. You’ve been there for them all these years. It was good that they could be there for you today.”

“I’d have nailed that bastard one way or the other, but I was pretty cold. And that’s not what I’m talking about right now.” Gus turned to her, the flames flickering in her eyes. “Beanie, we’ve known each other a long time, you and I, and I haven’t had a romantic thought about you, ever.”

She gave a shocked little cough. “Thanks a lot.”

“Until lately. Now I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“So you went up that trail this morning to get me out of your mind?”

“No. To figure out how to ask you to marry me.”

“Ah.” She picked up a stick and stabbed a fat marshmallow onto the end of it. “You asked me to marry you when we were in the first grade. Remember?”

Actually, he didn’t. “What did you say?”

“I told you to go soak your head.” She smiled and handed him her stick with the marshmallow. “You’re my hero, Gus. You always have been. It’s just taken us a few decades to figure out we belong together.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

Bernadette laughed, and Gus leaned forward and dipped the marshmallow in the flames. He was warm in front of the fire with his family and the woman he loved, and life was good.

Robert Ferrigno has a background that would give him instant credibility with the type of intelligent but questionable characters who populate his books. Armed with a degree in philosophy and a masters in creative writing, Robert left the academic trail to spend five years as a full-time gambler living in dangerous places with dangerous people. Then he became a journalist, but instead of sitting behind a desk typing, he landed a job that had him flying with the Blue Angels, test-driving Ferraris and learning about desert survival with gun enthusiasts. Now a bestselling thriller author, his experiences have clearly given Robert a unique perspective and an unforgettable voice.

“Can You Help Me Out Here?” showcases an ability to mix humor with suspense and a knack for creating villains that make us smile even as they send chills down our spine. No doubt Robert has met people like this somewhere in his travels. The rest of us will be happy to meet them through his words.

“H
ow much farther?” said Briggs.

The accountant tripped over a tree root, almost fell. Sweat rolled down his face, his hands duct-taped together behind his back. “Soon.”

Briggs grabbed the accountant by the hair and gave his head a shake. “
How
soon?” He jammed the barrel of the .357 Magnum against the man’s nasal septum. “You may like tramping around in the great outdoors, but me, I just want to shoot you and get into some air-conditioning.”

“I…I appreciate your discomfort,” said the accountant, blood trickling from his nose, “but Junior wants my ledger detailing his financial transactions for the last eight years, so…” He dripped blood onto his gray suit, a soft, pale man with calm eyes. “So you better treat me nice, and keep your part of the bargain.”

“Nice?” Briggs glowered at him, a beefy, middle-aged thug in a red tracksuit. “Maybe I fuck nice and just start blowing off body parts until you come up with it?”

“That would be a mistake on your part.” The accountant held
his head high. “I have a…refined and delicate nature. I’m already experiencing heart palpitations from your rough treatment. You torture me…you could send me into shock. I might die before I give up the journal.” He sniffed back blood. “What do you think Junior will do to you then?”

“You didn’t tell me…” Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes hovering around him with the revolver. “You didn’t tell me we were going to be slogging through a swamp.”

“That’s where I hid it,” said the accountant. “And it’s not a swamp. It’s a wetlands.”

“Swamp, wetlands, who cares? It smells like an old outhouse,” said the other killer, Sean, a tall beach-bum with bad acne and a Save the Salmon, Eat More Pussy T-shirt. “What matters, mister, is that we’re going to keep our part of the bargain. You lead us to the journal, you get a double-tap to the back of the head, no muss, no fuss.”

“I abhor pain,” said the accountant.

“Trust me,” said Sean, “you won’t feel a thing.”

The accountant glanced at Briggs, then back at Sean. “Do I have your word on that?”

Sean gave him a thumbs-up. “Scout’s honor.”

“That’s not the goddamned Scout’s sign.” Briggs raised the index and middle finger of his right hand in a V. “
This
is Scout’s honor, dumb-ass.”

“That’s the peace sign,” said Sean, “and don’t call me dumb-ass.”

“It’s the peace sign
and
the sign for Scout’s honor,” said the accountant.

“What’s this then?” said Sean, giving the thumbs-up.

“Keep walking,” Briggs ordered the accountant, “and stay out of the poison ivy.”

The accountant started back down the narrow path, brush on all sides, trees overhanging the trail.

“Fine,” said Sean, hurrying to catch up to them, “
don’t
answer me.”

Five minutes later, the accountant turned to Briggs. “Are you saving your money?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Briggs.

“A simple interrogatory,” said the accountant, his yellow necktie crusted with blood. “I wanted to know if you saved a portion of your money or lived paycheck to paycheck.”

Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes darting around him. “I do okay.”

“I could give you some suggestions,” said the accountant. “Something that would allow you to defer taxes and put your money to work for you—”

“Taxes?” Briggs laughed.

“You don’t pay taxes?” said the accountant.

Sean shook his head. “Me, neither.”

“Big mistake,” said the accountant. “You don’t want to fool with the IRS.”

“How much farther?” demanded Briggs.

“I kind of like the idea of my money working for me,” Sean said quietly. “Like having a maid. Or a slave.” He made a motion like he was cracking a whip.

“Good for you, Sean.” The accountant tried to scratch his nose with his shoulder. “Now you’re thinking. I can give you some tips—”

“You think this is a fucking
seminar?
” said Briggs. “Move!”

“Is that how you got this place?” Sean said to the accountant. “Making your money work for you?”

“Absolutely,” said the accountant. “I’ve got forty-five acres here, owned free and clear. Practically surrounded by national forest. I enjoy privacy…up until now.”

“We should listen to this guy before we pop him, Briggs,” said Sean. “Maybe take some notes.”

Briggs slapped a mosquito that had landed on his cheek, his face flushed and as red as the tracksuit now.

The accountant stopped.

“This it?” said Briggs. “Are we there?”

“Can you help me out here?” said the accountant. “I…I have to urinate.”

“You’re only going to have to hold it for a little while more,” said Briggs.

“I
have
been holding it,” said the accountant.

“What do you expect us to do about it?” said Briggs.

“I expect you to cut my hands loose,” said the accountant.

“I got nothing to cut the tape with and not sure I would if I could,” said Briggs. “We might not be able to find you if you take off running—this is your home turf.”

“I have no intention, Mr. Briggs, of wetting my pants,” said the accountant.

“If it puts your mind at ease, sir,” said Sean, “you’re going to piss yourself anyway when I give you the double-tap. It’s a natural reaction…loss of control, you know? A real mess, too. I seen it plenty times.”

“Yes, Sean, but I’ll be
dead
then, so it won’t matter to me,” said the accountant. “Now, being presently alive, it
does
matter.”

“Oh.” Sean nodded. “I get it.”

The accountant wiggled his fingers behind his back. “Do you mind?”

Sean bent over the accountant’s hands, tearing at the tape, while the accountant shifted from one foot to the other.

“Please hurry, Sean,” said the accountant.

“Tapes all tangled up,” said Sean. “I…I can’t do it.”

“Told you, dumb-ass,” said Briggs. “That’s why I use that kind of tape, ’cause you can’t get it off.”

“Then one of you is going to have to unzip my trousers and hold my penis while I urinate,” said the accountant.

Both Sean and Briggs burst out laughing.

“I’m quite serious, gentlemen,” said the accountant.

“Pal, if you want someone to hold your joint, you’re out of luck,” said Briggs, still laughing. “Now, I had a partner ten years ago…
he
might have accommodated you.”

“If you force me to wet myself, Mr. Briggs, I can promise you with absolute certainty, that I will not lead you to the ledger, no matter what you do to me,” said the accountant.

Briggs punched the accountant in the side of the head, knocked him onto the ground. “You sure about that?” He kicked the man in the chest, then grabbed the accountant’s bound hands, jerked him to his feet, bones popping. “You
sure?
”

The accountant didn’t say a word.

Briggs lifted the accountant’s hands higher and higher, the man bent forward, silent, tears rolling from his eyes onto the dirt. Still silent. Briggs finally released him, out of breath.

“Damn, Briggs,” said Sean. “I believe him.”

“Yeah,” panted Briggs. “So do I.” He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “So grab his joint and help him take a piss.”

“Me?”
said Sean.

Briggs shrugged. “I cleaned up after the two software geeks. They must have had the combo platter at El Jaliscos but you never heard me complain. While you were ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ over their fancy laptops, I was mopping out the car.”

“I’m not doing it,” said Sean.

“You were the one who forgot the handcuffs,” said Briggs. “That’s why I had to use the tape.”

“I don’t care,” said Sean.”

“Gentlemen,” said the accountant.
“Decide.”

“Did I share on the last job?” said Briggs. “I didn’t have to, but I did.” He glanced at the accountant. “Last job we found…I
found a half-kilo of smack in Mr. Unlucky’s dresser. I didn’t have to share it with you, but I did.”

“The smack was stepped on, and we probably should have turned it over to Junior anyway,” said Sean.

“Gentlemen?”

Sean stared at Briggs.

“You know it’s fair,” said Briggs.

Sean jabbed a finger at the accountant. “I ain’t touching it with my bare hands.” He walked around until he found a tree with wide leaves, tore a couple off and strode back to the accountant. “Don’t say a fucking word.” He unzipped the accountant’s trousers, fumbled out the man’s penis holding the leaf around it, then pointed it into the brush. “Hurry up.”

The accountant closed his eyes.

“Come on,” said Sean, giving the accountant’s penis a slight shake.

“I’m trying,” said the accountant.

“You’re the one who had to go so bad,” said Sean.

“Oh,
Sean,
” drawled Briggs, “I cain’t quit you.”

“That ain’t funny.” Sean looked at the accountant. “I’m going to be hearing that for the next week.”

The accountant sighed. “I…I can’t do it. It’s just…I can’t.”

“Fine.” Sean stuffed the accountant’s penis back into his trousers, didn’t even bother zipping him up, the leaf sticking out of his fly. “Just take us to the damn ledger so I can blow your brains out and forget this ever happened.”

“I’m sorry,” said the accountant. “It’s not easy, you know.”

Sean wiped his hand on his pants.

“If it helps,” said the accountant, “we’re almost there.”

“About time.” Briggs looked down at the patches of standing water all around them. “Getting really muddy.”

“Lot of rain lately,” said the accountant, walking ahead, the ground sucking at his shoes. “It’s really beautiful here after a
storm, all kinds of flowers popping up.” He walked slightly off the trail, splashed through a puddle. “See that tree up ahead?” He pointed with his chin. “The one with the split trunk? The journal’s in a waterproof container under a large flat rock—”

Briggs pushed him aside, stalked across a mossy clearing toward the tree, right through the water. He was in past his ankles trying to high-step free before he stopped and looked back. By then it was too late. He was up to his knees and sinking fast.

“Don’t move!” said the accountant.

“Get me out of here!” shouted Briggs.

Sean pointed a pistol at the accountant. “You did this.”

“There’s underground springs all over this part of the woods,” the accountant said to Sean, ignoring the pistol. “Nobody knows where they’ll pop up next.”

“Hey!” called Briggs, the muddy slurry almost to his waist now.

“Quit struggling, Briggs, you’ll only sink faster,” said the accountant, stepping slowly into the clearing. “Stay calm.”

“How about we trade places and
you
stay calm, mother-fucker?” said Briggs, perfectly still now.

“Sean, go find a long tree branch,” the accountant said gently.
“Hurry.”

Sean crashed into the underbrush.

“I’m…I’m still sinking,” said Briggs, a cloud of mosquitoes floating around his head.

The accountant watched him stuck there, the late-afternoon light seeping through the trees.

Sean rushed back, dragging a long, dry branch. “Is this okay?”

“Perfect,” said the accountant. “Hold it out in front of you…but be careful where you step.”

“I’m scared,” said Sean.

“Fucking
do
it, Sean!” cried Briggs.

Sean edged carefully into the clearing, one foot in front of the
other, testing the ground under the water to make sure it was solid. He waved the dry branch at Briggs.

“You’ll have to get closer,” said the accountant.

Sean took another few steps, started to sink, the watery muck level with his high-tops. He reached out with the branch.

Briggs lunged for the branch, missed it by at least three feet. His movements drove him deeper into the slurry, chest-high now. “Closer!”

“It’s okay, Sean,” said the accountant. “Just a little farther. Lean forward with the branch.”

Sean hesitated, took another step toward Briggs, bent over, the branch extended as far as he could.

The accountant put his foot against Sean’s ass, and
pushed.
Sent him sprawling.

Sean screamed, facedown, spitting out muck as he fought to get out, but only got sucked in deeper and deeper. He grasped at the tree branch. It snapped.

The accountant watched them struggle. Sean weeping, frantic, mud in his mouth, sinking fast. Briggs moved slowly, trying to work his way toward the edge of the clearing.

“There really is a natural spring under there,” said the accountant, hands still taped behind his back. “Been that way since I was a boy.
Deep,
too. No matter what you throw in, it just gets swallowed up. I tossed a neighbor’s new bicycle down there one time. Shiny red Schwinn with streamers on the handlebars and a chrome fenders. Never did like that kid.”

Briggs reached for a tuft of grass, but it came apart in his hands. He tilted back, the slurry past his chest now.

Sean made a final choking sound, and slipped under the surface.

“If you can hold your breath long enough, Briggs, maybe you can find that bike on the bottom,” said the accountant. “See if you can ring the bell.”

Briggs reached down, fumbled for something, the movement
pushing him deeper. His head was under the surface when his hand broke free, just his hand, holding the .357. He blindly got off three shots with the revolver before his hand disappeared along with the rest of him.

One of the shots had been close enough that the accountant heard it zing past his ear, but he hadn’t flinched. Just smiled. You take your chances…

He stepped back from the quicksand, deftly slipped his bound hands under his feet and in front of him. He worked at the duct tape with his teeth. Took him ten minutes. The clearing was still by then.

The accountant rubbed his wrists, bringing back the circulation. He adjusted his necktie, then pulled out his cell and called Junior.