Blood Sports (33 page)

“It’s Neil,” Paulie said. “Single shot to the back of the head.”

“Damn,” Tom said, shivering.

“Sharing didn’t seem to be one of Leo’s strong points,” Paulie said. “And half sounds way better than a third.”

“Let’s go,” Tom said.

“Check for a phone first,” Paulie said. “Food. Weapons. Where the fuck are we anyway?”

Paulie picked up Mel and they went back to the master bedroom and turned on the security monitors. The blue truck and the black Land Rover were gone. It was still daylight, but the sun was slipping down the sky to the mountains. Early evening. The logging road was empty, as were the front and back yards. Tom pointed to the road.

“Firebug drove us in from this direction,” he said.

“Me and Mel are going to the kitchen to hunt for weapons and food,” Paulie said. “Pat Neil down for keys, his piece, a cell phone, anything. Take his clothes and his shoes.”

“Gotcha,” Tom said.

When they left the room, Tom pulled the sheet off. Neil was face down, his left hand rigid near his ear. Tom’s skin prickled. He didn’t want to touch the body. But he didn’t want to look any more squeamish than he had to in front of Paulie.

“Sorry, Neil,” he said.

The hole in the back of Neil’s head was tidy, but his face was a crater of mashed flesh and bone. The shirt was splattered but
salvageable. The pants were too big and the belt didn’t have a small enough loop. The sneakers were too small. Paulie could use them. He’d use the socks. Neil had a holster, but it was empty, as were his pockets. A white shadow around his wrist showed where his watch had been. He’d been picked clean. He made a quick recon of the house – no one was home.

“Anything?” Paulie said as walked into the kitchen. She had tied her hair back in a high ponytail.

“Nada,” Tom said, holding up the pants. He plopped the sneakers on the butcher’s block beside Mel who was gnawing on a hunk of cheese. Paulie’s face was greasy from the fried chicken she was scarfing. She held up a wing. He shook his head.

“Still queasy,” he said.

“You should eat,” she said.

“Here,” he said, pushing the sneakers toward her, “they’re too small.”

Paulie threw one on the floor and jammed her foot in. Tom picked up the bread knife from the counter and poked a hole in the belt. He threaded the metal tongue through and tested the pants. They stayed up, but the pants sagged and the hems hid his feet. The pants were woollen which was fine while they were in an air-conditioned bunker but once they got outside, they were going to be in the middle of a heat wave. He sawed off the pants around his knees before he tucked the bread knife in his belt. He caught Paulie grinning at him.

“Don’t say anything,” Tom said.

Paulie filled two white plastic grocery bags with their food, Mel’s diapers and wipes. Tom went outside and stood on the porch,
dazed. She stood beside him, taking deep breaths. She shielded her eyes as she surveyed the area.

“I think you’re right,” Paulie said. “We should go that way. Look how thick that smog is.”

The sun dipped closer to the trees. They might not make it very far before nightfall, but by unspoken agreement, neither of them wanted to stay anywhere near the house.

They limped up the first hill. Mel had a death grip on Paulie, so Tom slung the grocery bags over his wrists. The giddy, heady sensation of being free of the house gave way to the realization that they were lost and far from being home free. The adrenalin that had been sustaining him seeped away as they walked slower, the pains of the last few days catching up with them.

Tom thought he was sweating, until Paulie made a face. He looked down. A red circle soaked his shirt over the nipple and smaller spots dotted his torso.

“The mosquitoes are going to love me,” Tom said.

“Are you okay?” Paulie said.

“I’m fine,” Tom said.

“Do you want to use the sneakers?”

“I said I’m fine.”

Mel wanted to walk. Paulie let her down and finger-walked her a few steps. Mel found the ditch at the side of the road interesting and strained toward it. Paulie steered her back on the road. Tom walked along the smoother tire treads. The road wobbled. He blinked sweat from his eyes. He wanted to flop down like Mel and hold his hands up for Paulie to carry him.

As the sun dipped closer to the trees, their shadows stretched behind them. Tom stopped, recognizing the clearing that Firebug had first brought him to. The tire tracks from the truck were still visible in the dirt and there was a trail of flattened grass and bent bushes where Firebug had lugged the equipment back and forth.

“What is it?” Paulie said.

“Nothing,” Tom said.

Tom’s teeth chattered. His skin goose-pimpled even though he was sweating. His ankles had disappeared. Tom bent over and poked the skin of his feet. His finger left a dent mark. His thighs felt scalded. Birds sang as the sky went milky blue. Tom wondered how much time that meant before they were in darkness.

“It’s going to get really dark in an hour or two,” Paulie said. “We should get moving.”

Tom pulled at his shirt. Blood had glued it to his skin.

“God,” Paulie said. “They’re getting worse. I didn’t think they could get worse.”

The burns had bruised deep purple like ink splatters on his torso. They were crusted with puss. He couldn’t remember breaking his ribs, but they cramped when he took deep breaths or bent too far. His nipple had puffed up and split so it looked like a drooling, fat lip.

“Paulie,” Tom said. “Firebug and Leo could be looking for us right now. If you don’t leave, we’re all up shit creek.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“It hurts to breathe,” Tom said. “It hurts to blink. I’m not going to make it to the highway.”

“We need to get you to a hospital. Two seizures the day before. Three this morning. Tom –”

“Go. Get help. You’ll move faster without me.”

“No, we don’t split up.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Paulie’s attention shifted to something behind Tom. He turned, and saw a dust cloud billowing along the logging road. Very faintly, they could hear an engine.

“It’s coming this way,” Paulie said.

“Here,” Tom said, handing the bread knife to Paulie. “Take Mel and hide. I’ll stand behind this tree. If they look friendly, I’ll flag them down. If not, I’ll stay hidden and when they’re gone, you run like hell to the highway.”

Tom stayed behind the tree. A black van driving slowly down a logging road with its lights off couldn’t be good. He remembered the black van that had been in the parking lot of Lucky Lou’s. As it cruised closer, the engine dominated the darkening forest, drowning out the birdsong Tom hadn’t been aware of until it was gone. The noise of the engine and the forest’s darkness must have frightened Mel, because at that moment, she began to wail.

The driver cut the engine a few feet from Tom. Mel’s crying became muffled but was too loud to miss. All the van’s doors opened. The driver was young, tall and weedy, dressed in shorts and a blue T-shirt. The man who exited from the passenger’s side was bald, older, and chunky, his gut straining the seams of his muscle shirt. Jeremy Rieger stepped out of the side door, his grey sweatsuit glowing against the dark trees. They drew their weapons as if on a signal. The two men kept going toward Mel’s crying, but Jer stayed by the van.

“Nice night for a walk,” Jer said.

Mel’s crying suddenly stopped, and Tom could hear Paulie whispering a song to her. He knew that when they reached Paulie and
Mel, that would be the end. He couldn’t make himself move.

“How old is Mel, Tom?” Jer said. “Almost a year?”

Tom strained to hear what was happening. He could hear the men making their way further back.

Mel started to cry again as Paulie carried her toward the road. Tom stepped away from the tree, and Jer turned, flicking the safety off his gun.

“So close,” Jer said. “But no cigar.”

The back of the van had the coppery tang of fresh blood. The window was open and the radio was off. As Tom’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see two metal dog cages glittering. Firebug was still alive, hands cuffed behind his back, gag stretching his mouth open. He hit the cage with his feet. Leo lay in the second dog cage, unnaturally still. He had a dark hole in the middle of his forehead.

“All in all,” Jer said. “You did pretty good. You lasted longer than Firebug. Big fucking mouth on that backstabbing whiner.” Jeremy made his voice high and squeaky. “You ripped me off, Rieger! You’re going to pay! Dumb fuck. It’s the fucking stock market, not a gas station.”

Tom turned to study his cousin. Jer grinned. The door of the van squealed open, and the light showed him Paulie and Mel in the passenger’s seat.

“We should turn him in,” Tom said.

“That’s loser talk,” Jer said.

Tom became aware of his breathing, how shallow his breaths were getting, how it felt like he was breathing through a straw.

“I’ve met a lot of big talkers,” Jer said, “who piss their pants and cry when things get bad. But you, Tom. You got everybody fooled. I know you. I know what you can do. You’re a stone-cold killer.”

“I can’t,” Tom said.