Darkest Thoughts Page 13

  Because there isn’t some black ops agency tracking those people down!

  I flick off the light, throw on my pants and my old shirt. I’m pulling on my shoes as I return to keep a watch on the parking lot.

  They’re gone. I breathe a sigh of relief, but swallow again when I see the truck rock. They’re inside. Why the hell didn’t the driver lock it? Stupid question. I was the one who left it open.

  I grab the room keycard. I could use the fire escape but it will be alarmed. The receptionist looks up as I walk out. I realize that I’m wearing the same shirt I left LA in.

  Too late to do anything about it.

  I pull up a tuneless whistle, slapping my feet on the wet concrete as I walk towards the truck. Trying to scare them off. The tail door rattles down as I approach. The front of the truck is bathed in light but the rear is in shade. I slide along the vehicle. No whistling now. No slapping. Either they’re gone or they’re still inside.

  Rain starts to fall. Light drizzle works down my neck collar. I’m halfway along the side when the truck moves again. Enough to suggest that at least one of them is still inside. Basic training one-o-one would be to riddle the truck with bullets and then go in.

  Get real.

  I scan the bush behind the truck for any sign of movement. Nothing. I back off, circle round to the other side and then back to the front.

  Dropping to my knees I crawl under the truck – aiming for the rear. A large puddle has formed in a dip halfway down. I have no choice but to crawl through it. My pants soak up the water, followed by my boxers, my shirt, my shoes and my socks. I grab at my belt, tightening it a notch to stop the water-heavy pants from paying a visit to my ankles. I grind out the next few feet, keeping my eyes fixed on the gap between the truck rear and the ground. A wet sponge belly-flopping forward.

  I stop short of the tailgate.

  Time to wait.

  Raindrops bounce a few inches in front of my nose. The night is warm but the rain is cool. Heat starts to seep from me. It’s uncomfortable but hardly life-threatening. The truck vibrates as a scrape echoes down through the drive-shaft above my head.

  The latch is being turned.

  I tense, hearing the roller lift a few inches. There’s still no movement from the bushes. The door winds up and a leg drops over the edge. The heel swings back. I roll to the side to avoid being kicked. A second leg appears. One of the thieves drops to the parking lot. A third leg appears. They must have bedded down in the back when they heard me coming.

  The fourth leg drops into sight.

  ‘What in the grease bucket is this?’ The accent is heavy southern.

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ but lumps of wood.’ Another deep south drawl.

  ‘Worth anythin’?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘There’s enough of it to fill ma ma’s barn.’

  ‘Let’s dump it all in the pickup and go. We can figure for it later.’

  ‘Go get the wheels.’

  I watch one of them walk off. The other lifts his leg to jump back in the truck. I wait until he’s inside and I slide out from underneath.

  Standing up slowly I find the man in the truck with his back to me. I check that the other one is out of sight. I reach in, grab the thief’s jacket and pull. He catapults from the rear, flying over my shoulder. I turn to jump on him but find empty air. Something slams into the side of my head. My head lights up and he’s on top of me.

  He drops his knee onto my chest as I hit the ground and lets me have some good news with his right fist. I roll my head with the blow. The second punch is already incoming. Boxer-quick. I snap my head to the right and he grazes my chin. A third blow. I whip my head back and to the side. The strike misses. He uses the ground as a punch bag. He howls, pulling his hand back. I push up and dislodge him from my chest. As I try to roll free I lash out with my foot and, more by luck than design, I catch him high on the hip. He screams.

  I roll onto my front, raise my backside in the air and I’m hit from behind with a kick that dead-legs me on the thigh.

  Shit but he’s real quick.

  He follows up with another kick. I think he has just separated two of my ribs. My breath vanishes. I’m back on the floor. I feel his weight as he drops from a height, driving his knee into my side. I try to spin away but he catches me on the back of the head with the side of his fist.

  The rev of an engine suggests his friend is back. A flash of headlights illuminates the ground as another blow slams my head off the parking lot black. Another hit and sparks fly across my vision. My hearing dulls. My ribs are throbbing. I’m losing the battle to stay conscious.

  A door slams. ‘Corey, what the hell?’

  The attack stops. Corey stands up. ‘He jumped me.’

  ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘Nope.’ Corey bends down. The blows start again.

  I curl up to minimize the target. It is all I can do.

  Corey gets bored, jumps off me, stands up and lands a kick in my stomach. ‘What should we do with ‘im?’

  His friend strolls over. Casual. ‘Get the duct tape outta the pickup.’

  Another kick from Corey as he leaves.

  One too many. My head explodes. Above my neck, below the centre of my head, a small bomb goes off as the kernel cracks. A grenade spreads shrapnel. I cry out. The pain comes in waves. Deep, deep pain that caves in my vision, my thinking. I’m flicking in and out of the dark. I pull up as tight as I can. Corey’s friend looks down at me but with little more than mild interest. I’m battling to stay here.

  Corey returns with a roll of tape. ‘He’s seen us. Maybe we should take care of him a bit more permanent. Make it look like an accident though. You know – like Carl.’

  ‘Over some bits of carved wood?’ Corey’s friend says.

  ‘He’s seen us,’ says Corey.

  ‘True.’

  Not good.

  I place a virtual hand in my skull and try to get a hold of the chaos. Amidst the pain I have a single thought. If I really am that catalyst who can set off people – mano a mano – why isn’t it happening now? When I need it. Why aren’t the attackers tearing lumps out of each other? Iraq, the plane, the agency, the bus – why not now? Screaming hot metal is flowing through my head.

  Corey bends down to tape me.

  I shout over the noise in my skull. My voice is loud in the parking lot. ‘Now. Why not now?’

  Corey stops at the outburst. He stands up, rocking his head from side to side. His friend looks at him. ‘Whatcha waiting on?’

  Corey rolls his head back and forth for a few more seconds before stopping, his skull at an angle. His eyes are narrowing. Slits against an invisible wind. Then they snap open. His head straightens, a twist around the horizontal, and settles side-on to me.

  ‘Get on with it!’ Corey’s friend senses something is off kilter.

  Corey turns on his heel, dropping the tape on the ground. It bounces twice, before rolling under the truck, coming to rest on the same spot I had been lying in not five minutes ago. It tips on its side. Corey’s friend watches it vanish from view, trying to figure what’s going on.

  Corey takes a step towards him, pivots: left foot planted, right foot trailing. He crouches, only a few inches, priming the spring. His shoulders recoil and his head goes down. He swings on his hip, his trailing foot lifting from the ground, the supporting knee bent, hip leaning out, keeping the centre of balance, working his muscles to build momentum, keeping the movement smooth. The trailing foot overtakes his body, rising as it does so, turned inwards, knee still bent. His eyes are fixed on his friend. The right hand swings out to counterbalance the flying leg. His hand is less than a foot from the ground. Bending at his stomach, his flying leg unfurling, he drives forward, gut muscles pulling tight, foot now extended, supporting knee springing straight.

  His foot connects with his friend’s face. Heel to chin. A powerful blow. Practiced. This is no amateur attempt. His friend’s head bounces back as far as his neck will allow. N
o time for surprise in his eyes. They are blank. He starts to go down, his feet flying from under him. His arm flies out. A reflex action but he’s close to the rear of the truck. Too close. His hand misses the edge of the loading strip and he keeps falling.

  Corey is still spinning. Unwinding the attack. Using the kick to make a three-sixty. Before he can complete the circle there’s a sickening smack as his friend’s head meets the metal edge of the truck. His body tries to keep going – gravity pulling it to the ground. His head is a brake.

  Corey watches as his friend’s head bounces hard – the light gone from his eyes, his body a rag doll’s as it tumbles onto the wet asphalt. Corey settles from the roundhouse kick and has to squat to stop the forward motion.

  ‘Nick.’ Single word. Quiet. From the back of Corey’s throat.

  Nick’s head lolls to one side, his tongue pushes between his lips. A single drop of blood squeezes through the space created by his tongue – evacuated by his last breath.

  My headache vanishes as the blue world takes hold. My night vision is acute – bringing everything into perspective with a flash of stage lights going up. Corey is still rocking from the kick as Nick’s left foot twitches. The final act of a man with no future.

  The roar of the traffic from the highway fades. A gentle twist of the volume dial and it’s background noise. The pickup is kicking out exhaust. Dirt black/blue – suggesting the engine was due for a service in the late ’80s. The driver’s door is open – the interior light a cobalt wash. High above, a silver blue bullet glides by with a wink of wing lights.

  Corey has stopped rocking. His shoulders have slumped. His body giving way to the recognition of what he has just done. He lets go at the knees, dropping to the ground – reaching for his friend.

  Cold, unmoving eyes tell him the truth of his actions but still he reaches, unsure what else to do. He touches Nick’s neck, looking for a pulse because that’s what they do in Law and Order. Then the wrist because he’s seen it on The Wire. Now he’s at a loss.

  I watch him fall to his backside. I realize that the man on the ground is dead because of me. Not by my hand. But by my mind.

  The blue is becoming a bruise then a blood clot, then dark.

  And now I need to act again. To take control. To figure out what to do. I want to run but I can’t leave. The chain would kick in. Police, death, interviews, the driver and then I would appear – courtesy of the receptionist.

  I stand up and place a hand on Corey’s shoulder. He doesn’t react. I bend down. He turns his head towards me. His eyes are vacant, uncomprehending. I point to the truck and he gets up. I grab his shoulder, indicating towards his freshly dead friend. ‘In the truck.’

  Somehow I know he’ll obey. No questions.

  He sighs. A sound out of place. He sighs again and reaches down to grab his friend by the arms. I check that no one is watching before grabbing Nick’s feet. Three steps and he’s in the back of the pickup.

  I step back. ‘As far as you can. Just drive.’

  Corey nods at my words, gets in and, with the speed of a snail on dope, drives from the parking lot.

  I return to the truck to pull down the door. I check the lip of the loading strip. A small clot of hair and blood lies near one end. I wipe it with the arm of my shirt and head back to the hotel.

  The receptionist is missing. For that I’m grateful.

  Once back in the room I take off the shirt and scrub it until my hands hurt. I do the same for the pants and fall on the bed.

  An hour before my alarm call I’m still awake.

  Chapter 22

  The phone rings. I knock it from the cradle and let the automated voice talk to the carpet. My eyes can’t have been shut for more than ten minutes.

  I try to sit up. Pain enters my life as the kicking from last night stacks up a range of options for my brain to focus on. Top of the charts is my jaw. Not broken, I don’t think. But sore from the punches. A shower doesn’t help and putting on damp clothes doesn’t improve the situation.

  As I exit the hotel I decide to make sure that we’re police-free – that the pickup driver hasn’t been picked up.

  Turning away from the truck – just in case someone is looking – I start to circle the building. A grass vista of neatly-mown yard rolls in front of me. I pass ground floor bedroom windows. If anyone is looking out, I’ll be a bit of a surprise.

  Reaching the far end of the hotel I stop, pushing my head round the corner. The truck is sitting quietly. There’s no swarm of police around it. No CSI team. No SUVs. No suits. Of course they could be hiding, waiting for me. But taking me in my room would have been a far more sensible option than waiting until I was in the open. You can’t run when your hotel room has only one exit.

  I make my way back round the hotel again – just in case – approaching the truck from the other side. I check for any blood and hair I may have missed on the lip of the loading strip. It’s clean. I examine the ground where Corey’s head lay. Clean. Another quick look round and I yank up the roller door. As I climb to the back to settle into my box, I roll the night’s events over in my head.

  The implications are massive. Charlie was right: I’m not only a freak, I’m a dangerous freak.

  Last night I wanted it to happen. Wanted the grinding head pain to appear. Willed it to happen. Screamed for it to happen. And it did. Wasn’t that the way it went down? Wasn’t that the way it all rolled out in front of me? My own red carpet to a new world. A bad world. An incomprehensible world – because these things don’t happen. Can’t happen. People don’t reach out through thin air and turn others into killing machines. They just don’t.

  But I did. And, just when I needed it. Stressed to high heaven. When I was stressed…and there’s the rub. Is that when it happens? Stress?

  Iraq. I was on the ground. A blank to the planet. Both times in Iraq. First and second time. So that’s that. It’s not stress. We’re back in the good old world of coincidence. None of this is explainable in the everyday world. So what in the hell is the blue world? Where does that fit into the new life that I am coursing through?

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Graham getting into the cab. The engine fires and we are back on the road to Tampa.

  I wonder what has happened to Corey. Maybe he’s still on the road. On a mission to nowhere. But if he is – why? If this is all coincidence then why would he get in his pickup, dead friend in the back, and drive off?

  The heat in the truck is already building. I clamber from the box, lying down at the back of the truck. The motion suggests that my driver is in a hurry. He sees his destination and wants to be there today. No more layovers.

  Hours begin to sew together like long tough strips. Each one stretching to join to the next but never far enough. Always a little further to go than would make sense. Time as a rubber band. Snapping together when I drift off to sleep. Moving forward in leaps and fits. Awake, a minute is an hour.

  My mind turns to getting off the truck. I have no intention of finishing the journey with Graham in Tampa. Charlie’s house in Hudson is worth checking out. It’s either that or a few nights in a hotel before my cash runs out.

  I’m hoping the driver sees US 19 as an option. Traffic lights will make it easy to jump off. If he chooses the freeway I’m in for a long trek back from Tampa.

  A few more hours crawl away before we leave the endless drone of the freeway and start to ride out a start/stop motion. I twist onto my front to grab the release handle for the door. My ribs bitch but I ignore them. I hope there’s no door alarm in the cab. If there is I need to be ready to run.

  I pull the handle up, releasing it from the catch. I let the roller take hold and push up, keeping my weight behind the action in case the door springs wide. The road is vanishing into the distance – unwinding beneath me.

  The six-lane highway is bordered with a succession of stores and businesses. Through the buildings on the right I can see the sun starting its journey into the Gulf of Mexico.<
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  We hit a set of lights. I lean out for a better view. There’s a road sign but from this angle I can’t read it. I wonder why Graham has left the freeway. Are we in Tampa already? I do some mental math but reckon we are still a good few hours away.

  I’m caught napping when we hang a left and I let go of the door. It hangs for a second, then slams down. I grab the handle again and lift it. Once more air rushes in but this time it’s slower. We’re off the main road; in a backwater estate. The houses are typical Florida for the less well-off – all board and peeling paint. Streets creep past. There’s no indication as to the area we’re driving through.

  The truck slows at the next four-way stop and crosses it at a crawl. Brakes are hit. We stop. I jump back, climb over the boxes and dive into my hiding place.

  A few seconds pass then I hear the door fly up, followed by the noise of a box being scraped across the truck floor. Graham grunts as the box drops to the ground. The door stays open.

  I wait before sticking my head up. Hold or go? It’s an age-old problem in the field. Hold or go? I go. If I’m caught now I’ll need to bullshit my way out.

  Dropping to the ground there’s little sign of life. The area shows lots of wear and tear. Pickups and ten-year-old SUVs out-number cars three to one. Every third house has a flag waving on the front yard. We are deep in Schlitz and Old Milwaukee land.

  My driver is staggering up the driveway of a house that has had some out-of-the ordinary TLC applied to it. The paint is fresh, grass covers the front yard, mowed into neat lines. The small fence that borders the lawn is white and unbroken. An oasis in a Homes and Gardens desert.

  The front door opens. I duck out of sight.

  There’s chatter but nothing I can make sense of. Laughter and the door closes. I jump back into the truck – waiting for Graham to return – but ten minutes later and I’m still on my own.

  I get out again, wondering at the man’s attention to security. Not only does he not lock the truck door but he also feels it’s OK to leave the thing open in an area where even the packing boxes could be used to turn a buck. I almost feel a duty to stay, to play guard to his goods.