Half Past Midnight (6 page)

Yeah,
I thought,
time sure flies when you’re having fun.

It took another ten minutes of sneaking around to convince myself that no one lurked in the trees on my side of the road. Unfortunately, I also confirmed that there had been an ambush. Both vans and all of the bodies were riddled with holes, and I saw enough broken glass to tell me how the attack had probably gone.

An initial barrage of Molotov cocktails inundated the convoy, panicking the drivers and their passengers. They abandoned their vehicles, only to be cut down by snipers in the trees. The end result lay before me. Six bodies and four gutted vehicles.

I checked my watch. Nearly half of my time had passed, and I still had to search the other side. If it proved safe, I needed to drag the bodies out of sight. I hesitated for a moment more.

I finally prodded myself into action. I sprinted from the trees to the side of the overturned pickup. Then I waited, listening for a response.

Nothing. So far, so good. I ran for the trees on the far side of the road and crouched next to a large pine. The trees were quiet, and the only sound I heard was the pounding of my heart. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

I began the search, picking my way as quietly as possible through the trees, uphill to the motorcycle. I had nearly finished my inspection, keeping close track of the time, when I heard a faint buzzing coming from the thick underbrush about twenty yards ahead. Not quite a buzz, though, different somehow, but familiar.

I listened intently, willing my heart and breath to silence so that I might identify the tantalizing sound. I finally realized that, while I sat there frozen in place by a noise in the brush, my time was steadily ticking away. I couldn’t afford to wait around for the source of the disturbance ahead to jump up and identify itself. So I stepped out from behind the tree to investigate. As I did so, two things happened simultaneously.

The first thing was relatively insignificant. Something in my head clicked, and I finally recognized the buzzing as the faint sound of a carrier wave over an open radio channel. As soon as I realized that, I froze. That sound indicated that someone was watching the road, which in turn indicated that the road was unsafe for travel.

Even as this ran through my head, and I prepared to carefully work my way around and up to the motorcycle, something much more critical occurred. I heard the sharp “snick-chak” of a semi-automatic handgun being cocked behind me.

“All right, buddy, you’ve got two choices here,” the voice behind me gloated. “You can either raise your hands and come with me real quiet-like, or you can make a run for it. Who knows? You might even make it.” He paused. “Well, what’s it gonna be?”

I could tell he was too far away for me to try for his gun and, even if he were closer, I didn’t know whether it was at the level of my head or back. Since I wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal, I surrendered. I raised my hands, glancing at my watch as I did so. Six twenty-nine, just over ten minutes left.

“Smart move,” the voice said. “Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and unsling that machete.”

Chancing a glance behind me to see where he was exactly, I did as he told me.

“Face front!” he yelled. “Did I tell you to turn around? Huh? You do what I tell you, only what I tell you, and only when I tell you to do it. Got it?”

When I failed to reply, he practically screamed, “Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“You can call me ’sir,’ asshole.”

I toyed with the idea of doing just that, but restrained myself. He might overreact if I called him “Sir Asshole,” and I really didn’t need a hole in my back. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy!” he sneered. “Now, why don’t you pull that pig sticker out of your belt and drop it, too. And move real slow… I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

I slowly removed the Bowie and tossed it on the ground next to the machete.

“Okay, now stay real still.” I heard him shuffling toward me. He picked up my knife and machete then edged around, keeping about ten feet between us until he reached the bushes in front of me. The first thing I noticed was his clothing: hunter’s camouflage coveralls. He was about thirty-five, hard years, from the look of the lines on his face. Most importantly, he pointed a large-caliber handgun at my chest.

I had a sudden, intense desire to urinate, but managed to suppress it.

He reached into the bushes and pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Larry? It’s Frank.”

I heard a slight British accent in the reply, “Yes Frank, what is it?”

“Larry, I found someone sneaking around in the woods down here.”

“So what’s the problem?” The voice sounded bored. “Kill him and get it over with.”

The need to urinate returned instantly, more powerful than before. It took a conscious effort to hold back.

“Naw, listen, Larry. He was snoopin’ around. Kept looking at his watch. I think he’s working with someone else.”

Wonderful. How long had Frank been watching me?

Pause. Then, “All right, bring him in.”

“On my way.” Frank sneered. “Okay, prick, hands on your head.”

When I had done so, he continued, “Now, we’re going on up the hill a little ways,” he pointed east, “and if I see your hands leave your head just once, I’m gonna put a hole in ya. Got it?”

“Yes… sir.”

“Good, you remembered! I’m impressed. Now move.”

We moved out onto the road and about two-thirds of the way up the hill. There, we turned onto a small dirt road hidden from the highway by some recently planted saplings. It wound through the woods for about half a mile, ending in a small clearing dominated by a little country cabin. In front, a group of four men stood waiting, all but the largest armed with both rifles and sidearms. The exception was a huge Asian—Bruce Lee on steroids.

Frank stopped me about ten yards away. “Wait here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay real still.”

He walked over to one of the armed men and held a whispered conference for a few minutes. Then the one Frank had been speaking to stepped forward. Incredibly, he actually stuck out his hand. “Good evening. My name is Larry Troutman.”

Real smooth customer. “I’d be happy to shake hands, Larry, but your man Frank has informed me that lowering my hands could be detrimental to my health.”

He clucked his tongue in apparent dismay. “Frank, don’t be so antisocial. Of course you can lower your hands, Mr.…?”

“Dawcett.”

“Mr. Dawcett. Fine. I can see that you’re going to be most cooperative, aren’t you?”

I guessed his smile was supposed to be reassuring. Unfortunately, it only brought to mind the “Inverse Law of Enemies,” the one that said the more civilly an enemy treated you initially, the nastier his ultimate plans.

I could already tell I was in for an extremely rough time. Nevertheless, I shook his hand. “I’ll cooperate as much as I can, of course.” I could play games, too.

His smile broadened. “Fine, fine. Now, would you be so kind as to hand me your wallet. Frank, what is that you’re carrying?”

Frank handed Larry my machete and Bowie as I pulled out my wallet. Larry tossed the machete aside, but examined the knife intently, turning it over and over. “Very nice. Custom made. This must have cost you quite a bit—” He stopped mid-sentence, noticing the maker’s logo on the blade.

“You made this?”

I shrugged.

“Quite impressive. A man of talent. I presume you have a sheath for it.” I unclipped it from my belt and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Dawcett.” He stuck the sheathed blade through his belt and opened my wallet to my driver’s license.

“Mr. Dawcett… may I call you Leeland?” He went on before I could respond. “I see you’re from Houston, Leeland. That seems a long way to travel on foot.” He looked at me pointedly. “Where is your car?”

I’d learned as a kid that the best way to lie was to tell the truth, withholding as little as possible. “I was riding a motorcycle, but some jerk in a Rabbit ran me off the road about ten miles back. I’ve been on foot ever since.”

“In a Rabbit, you say? Was it green, by any chance?”

I nodded. “You know him?”

Almost wistfully, he sighed. “We recently offered him our hospitality, but he declined our invitation. Frank, how long ago did he leave us?”

“’Bout an hour ago.”

Larry was sharp. He caught my blunder before I even realized I had made one. “You traveled ten miles in an hour on foot? Somehow, I find that difficult to believe.”

Motioning to the other three men, he sighed. “I believe Mr. Dawcett is being less than honest with us. Michael, Edgar, please restrain him.”

As they grabbed my arms, the one on my left that I assumed was Michael, yelped. “Hey! He’s packin’ somethin’ up his sleeve.”

Larry whipped out his pistol and aimed it directly at my right eye. “Why, Leeland, I’m very disappointed. And we were getting along so well. Carrying concealed weapons into a friend’s home is very bad manners. It indicates a certain amount of distrust, and that’s certainly no way to start a relationship.”

He shook his head, clicking his tongue in apparent disappointment. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remove your jacket, Mr. Dawcett.”

When I hesitated, he thumbed back the hammer of his revolver. “Please.”

“Well, since you ask so nicely.” Two minutes later, they had me stripped to my underwear, my clothes in one pile, my toys in another. Larry uncocked his revolver as he knelt and examined them.

“Quite an interesting arsenal you have here. Karate?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t going to try to explain the differences in various martial arts just now.

“Frank, come here. Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

Frank went over and squatted next to Larry. “Like what?”

“Like this!” Larry backhanded Frank with the barrel of his pistol. Frank dropped to the ground, stunned and bleeding. “What the hell were you thinking? First, you let that runt in the Volkswagen get away, and now this? Don’t you have any brains at all? God knows, I don’t expect genius-level brain work from you, but an occasional glimmering of intelligence would truly be appreciated.

“Let me spell it out for you, Frank. Bringing someone in here—in front of me! —bringing someone into my home without searching him first is stupid! He could have had an Uzi under that jacket for all you knew.”

Magically, the barrel of Larry’s revolver rested against Frank’s temple. “Perhaps there’s just no hope for you. I don’t think you will ever learn. Perhaps I should put an end to your miserable little existence.”

He cocked back the hammer again. “What do you say, Frank?”

Frank’s eyes widened until I thought they were in danger of rolling out of their sockets. “S-sorry… I’m sorry, Larry! I screwed up, I know. It won’t happen again, I swear!… Oh God, oh God, oh God! Please, please, Larry!”

He was getting hysterical. Larry drew the moment out for a few more seconds, then stood and holstered his pistol. “See that it doesn’t. Now stop your sniveling and go get cleaned up.”

Frank scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the cabin. Larry turned his attention back to me, once again the urbane sophisticate. “Now, Mr. Dawcett, I would like some answers. What were you doing sneaking around in the woods here?”

I hesitated a moment. How should I go about this? He would undoubtedly kill me without a qualm as soon as my answers displeased him. And, I didn’t think he would be terribly pleased to learn I had lied. But I couldn’t tell him about Debra and the kids until I was fairly certain they were safely out of his reach. I had to draw him out and string him along. Then, just maybe, they’d get careless enough for me to risk attempting escape. “Okay, but it’s sort of a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” he replied. “Han,” naming the last, and by far the largest, man of the group. “Please get my camp stool and some rope.”

Han trotted back to the cabin. “Interesting fellow, Han. A true warrior monk—or so he says. My family sponsored his sister when she immigrated, and now he seems to think he’s indebted to me. Quite handy to have around. Never questions orders, so long as they don’t go against his beliefs.”

Han reappeared with the requested items. Larry seated himself on the little folding stool and watched as Han stepped up to me holding a short length of nylon rope.

“That really won’t be necessary.” Once my hands were tied, my chances of escape would be minimal.

“Possibly, Leeland. Possibly. But you’ve already proven yourself to be less than honest and,” he indicated the pile of weapons they had confiscated, “there is considerable evidence that you could be dangerous at close quarters. You’ll understand if we tend to be a bit cautious with you.”

Resigned, I held my hands out toward Han.

“No, no, you misunderstand.” Larry shook his head. “Behind your back, please.”

“But, Larry,” I quipped, “I thought we were going to be pals.”

For the first time, Larry frowned. “I’m afraid I have my doubts. Please, Mr. Dawcett, I dislike having to repeat myself. Turn around!”

Han didn’t give me another chance to hesitate, but spun me quickly around and secured my hands as Michael and Edgar stood by to make sure I didn’t resist. He wheeled me back to face Larry once again. Michael and Edgar resumed their grips on my arms as Larry stood and walked up to me, still playing the country gentleman. “Now, Leeland, I believe you were about to tell us a story.”

“Sure.” I paused. “By the way, do you happen to have the correct time?”

Larry’s smile vanished, then inverted. “Frank mentioned you were keeping close track of the time. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to like this little story of yours.” He glared a moment longer before finally glancing down at his watch. “Six fifty-five.”

I grinned. Debra and the kids were gone by now, even if she’d waited longer than the six forty deadline, and I imagined she would have, hoping that I was just running a little late. Fifteen minutes was long enough, though, that she would know something had happened. She wouldn’t like it, but she had agreed to take the kids to safety. Now I could concentrate on getting myself free.