Ruthless (13 page)

The toughest part is getting my right hand over there to work on it. I use the counter again as a platform to put my elbow on, so my hand can get to my left shoulder. The hardest thing is pouring the hydrogen peroxide onto it without wasting too much.

When I'm done with my shoulder, I'm feeling pretty exhausted. My fingers still tremble. The game of make-believe hides the pain on the surface, but this whole thing must be getting to me, because why else would my hands be shaking like this?

My feet are next. I should check on Wolfman, but I'm getting
an idea of making myself shoes out of gauze and tape. Yes, I'll clean and bandage my feet first, then check on Wolfman. It's a relief to make this decision, and I sit down, leaning up against the still-­running toilet. It's time for some deep breathing before checking out the soles of my feet.

They don't look too bad at first. But this is because they're black with dirt. I get up, soak a washcloth, and sit back down. With precision I soak and scrub and lift up flaps of skin and put them back down again. It's much harder to keep the game of make-believe going, looking at these feet. After a while, my jaw starts to hurt I'm grinding my teeth so hard. Soak, scrub, delicately lift, scrub, soak, and set back down again. This is what I do over and over again on all the holes in my feet. I'm sweating bullets, and my heart is beating way too hard. Even though my feet aren't really as clean as I'd like, I don't want to pass out and so I call it a day.

I empty the hydrogen peroxide onto my feet, pat them dry with a clean towel, and use every drop of the antibacterial cream. The gauze is light and clean, and actually feels good. It keeps all the flaps where they're supposed to be. Then I take the tape and get to work. I can wrap a horse's leg with the best of them, and my game of make-believe springs back to life. I use all the tape in the kit, and by the time I'm finished, I'm pleased with the job I've done.

Standing up is painful, but it's definitely better. I go to the walk-in closet. There are no women's clothes, but I put a giant white T-shirt on under my camo jacket. It fits like a dress. It's nice to be clothed, but it'd be even nicer to have shoes. But that's just not going to happen. Time to get creative.

I find some knee-high athletic socks, and I put on several pairs. They're ridiculously too big for me, so I take the laces off some hiking boots and tie them around my feet and ankles, almost like Roman sandals. With luck, the laces will keep the socks in place.

Getting to my feet is a revelation. They're painful, to be sure, but this is doable. This is going to allow me to function. A surge of hope rings through me. With my wounds taken care of and the Tylenol spreading through my body, I'm almost ready. There's one last thing I want to do before Operation Bring Jerry T. Balls to ­Justice begins.

Fourteen Months Ago

HE HAS NEVER BEEN MUCH
of a drinker, but today he bought a case of Busch and he's going through it. The TV is on, but he doesn't see it. The only thing playing is a cut of video on repeat in his brain. His last day of work. Being pulled aside. Knowing right then it isn't good, feeling the lead weights drop into his belly, getting heavier and heavier the farther away they walk.

Once they were completely out of earshot, the boss man stopped.

“I'm going to have to let you go, Ted.”

Those words still don't feel real. The boss man went on to say what superior work he had done, how he appreciated his effort and energy, how he would give him a recommendation.

He had already known at that point—he'd really known as soon as he was pulled aside—but he decided to ask why.

“Well, I'm sorry to say this,” the boss man said, “but my daughter just doesn't feel comfortable around you.”

Of course, he'd wanted to tell the boss man that only a coward, only a pathetic, henpecked man would let his teenage daughter dictate his business decisions. But there were two things to consider. Firstly, he knew from experience that a pathetic man was never going to change. Secondly, evidence came in many forms.

His mind wasn't made up, but sometimes things have to be done. It was easy, too, the way the mind could slip back into old habits of thought. It was nice. Like slipping into a hot tub. There was no denying he was good at this work. It was unsavory work, to be sure, but he was good at it. For the last two weeks, he'd let himself slip into the warm, frothy waters of fantasy more and more often.

The thing was, there was Susan and the baby.

So he would keep himself to fantasy only. He would stay sober. But there was nothing wrong with thinking about it.

Today he's decided that there is nothing wrong with getting drunk and thinking about it. Getting drunk first helped warm the waters. It's been a long, long time since he's allowed himself such an indulgence. It feels good. It feels almost as good as a full-blown brain pop.

He is so deep into his own head he doesn't hear her until her keys hit the kitchen counter. Jumping up from the La-Z-Boy, he trips getting to his feet and manages to kick a crushed can of beer across the carpet and onto the linoleum, where it skitters to a halt at her feet.

The first thing he notices are the cans. How had he managed to drink so much? He has no recollection of drinking that much, but the cans litter the floor like confetti.

The second thing he notices is her expression. Her face has gone wrong again, but wrong in a different way. There is hardness there. He's
never seen hardness in her, but it's there now, as unmistakable as it is enraging. There's something else in her too. Sorrow. Maybe weakness.

“I can smell it,” she cries. It's the sound of a wounded animal.

For a second he doesn't know what she's talking about, but then he realizes it's the beer. She can smell the beer. There is accusation in that cry, the accusation that he is making her suffer. But he is already suffering, more than she will ever know. Rage sparks down the length of his nerves like a string of Black Cat firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

He watches as her sadness is overtaken by anger. She shakes her head; her mouth becomes a hard line of disapproval. Then she gives almost a laugh of relief. “Well, at least now I know for sure I made the right choice.”

“Choice?” Confusion keeps the rage at bay.

“I need you to move out. I can't have this, Jerry. I can't have this!” She is close to screaming.

He's proud of himself for keeping control as he says, “You can't tell me to move out. I am the head of this family.” He is giving her the facts, the way a man should.

“There is no family.”

Something inside him snaps, but in a different way than he's ever felt before. This isn't rage. This is something else. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, there is no family. I told you it wasn't good news. It wasn't good news, but you wouldn't listen. With you losing your job, bringing a baby into the world just wasn't something I could do. And you've been weird, Jerry. Ever since you lost your job, something has been wrong.” She swallows, calms herself. “And now I need you to move out.”

The something inside him deepens, sinks down to his heart, to his spine.

She has betrayed him. He had no idea betrayal could be this powerful, this overwhelming. But it is taking him down, like a poison that breaks down every cell in the body simultaneously. He is disintegrating before his own eyes. The worst of it might be how she has betrayed herself. She is a good woman. He knows she is a good woman, a kind, sweet, loyal, obedient woman. Why would she do something so against her own nature? Why would she destroy their family? Destroy him?

Watching him dissolve before her, the woman softens.

“Jerry, I still love you. I will always love you. But I can't be with a man who would bring this into the house.” She points at the beer, as though it might jump up and attack her. “I have to protect my sobriety.”
In a still softer voice she adds, “You were the one who taught me that.”

The heartbreak has put him into stasis. He can't move. He can't talk.

“I hope you protect your own sobriety, if you haven't ruined it already.” She walks forward, as if to touch him, but he manages to raise a hand. She stops. “Please, Jerry, I can tell this is hitting you hard. Please don't ruin years of staying clean because of this. Will you promise me you'll stay sober?”

Dumbly he nods.

“Thank you.”

He's willing to make that promise, because what he has to do right now has nothing to do with staying clean. She has destroyed him, their child, herself. This is out of his hands. This is something else altogether.

Five days without any real sleep. The look of terror in her eyes right before it happened is worse than the tape of the boss man firing him. It's all he
can see. The clock clicks to noon, but he doesn't get up out of bed. He's not being lazy; he stays there because this is the best place to think. The man regrets the promise he made. There is one person to blame for all of this, and she must be dealt with. Only a promise to a dead woman stands in the way.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IT'S MY LAST CHECK ON
the Wolfman before we head for the town. Peeking around the corner, I see he hasn't moved an inch.

Good. I have time to think.

I want to load this gun up with bullets before we leave. That was something too complicated to achieve while Wolfman was walking around free, a rifle in his hands. My plan is to keep the gun stuck into his back and have him lead me to the truck. Then I'll tie him up inside the truck and drive down to the town. A tricky plan to execute, but my feeling is, if I fire the gun right next to him, it'll scare him enough he'll comply. That's the first reason for bullets. The second being the ability to kill him if I need to.

The gun safe is an unholy mess. The owner of this place must just dump all his hunting equipment down without even a second
thought. The bullets in the door shelves are slightly more organized than those in the body of the safe, but not by much. As I scan the boxes, my disappointment grows. There's nothing here but giant hunting rifle bullets, so big they look like mini missiles. The Colt Python is a .357, and as far as I can tell, there's no ammunition for it in this safe.

I really want those bullets. I really, really, really want them. I'm not sure I can pull off my plan without them. More out of anger than anything else, I shove some gun cases and other crap around at the bottom of the safe. Out rolls one little bullet, one little round for my gun.

Getting on my knees, I dig for more bullets. In the process I find a puffy trucker-style camo hat and put it on. It sits high enough it won't touch my head, but hopefully it'll protect that laceration. After searching the safe from top to bottom, I wind up with three bullets for my gun. That's it. Just three bullets.

While I load up my three rounds, it occurs to me it'll still be important to keep him turned away. The blindfold will have to go if he's going to lead me to the truck, but it won't do for him to see how few bullets I have. Maybe I should stick with my plan of firing one off. At least I can keep the zip ties on his wrists. That's helpful.

Bullets loaded, back on my feet, I hear a sound from the kitchen. So far the only sound I've heard is the running toilet, and hearing something from the other room turns my insides into molten lava. I tell myself it's not a big deal, just him shifting around, but I go ahead and clasp my gun in both hands, ready to aim and fire if I need to.

Stepping around the corner, I see an empty chair. One beat, two beats, three beats, as I look for the right chair, the one with Wolfman in it, because I must be looking in the wrong direction, and then it hits like a fist.
The chair is empty.

Footsteps pull my gaze over to the basement stairs. He's already on his way down, but he pivots as I approach. He's not just up and running, his arms are free too. I thought zip ties were unbreakable, but somehow he has broken them. It feels like an injustice, and my rage returns once more.

We lock eyes. Raising my weapon, I yell, “Freeze!” like I'm a cop. He ignores me and keeps going.

He's headed for his rifle in the broom closet.

I can't let him get that rifle. I can't.

Slipping forward on my new sock-shoes, I've got to catch him before he gets that rifle. Halfway down the stairs I've got a view of the broom closet, and I was right. He's going for his gun. He's almost there. I can't let him get it.

I squeeze the trigger, expecting serious kickback, but the gun doesn't fight me at all. My little bullet doesn't hit Wolfman, but it hits the closet. Wood splinters in the moonlight. Maybe it struck his hand, too, as he was reaching out, because he snatches his arm back and changes course. He's now going for the outside door.

Only two bullets left.

I keep running down the stairs. I want to get right up next to him, shove the gun in his face, regain control. But there's no control here, there's nothing but panic in the dark.

At the bottom of the stairs now, turning to face him, I plan
to yell “Freeze!” again, because that's what I want. I want him to stop. I want him to be immobile again. Before the word flies out of my mouth, something smooth, hard, and impossibly heavy careens into my face. It thuds, bounceless, to the floor. It's the eight ball from the pool table. He's managed to throw the eight ball straight into my cheekbone.

I'm seeing stars, trying to get a bead on him, but the eight ball has done its work. Before I can pull myself together, he's kicked the doorstop out and run away. No, not run away. He's never going to run away. If I could believe that, I could let him go his way and I'd go my own. But he's not going his way. He's getting to high ground. He's either going to come back through the front door, or he's going to stake out the house until I come out, or he's going to set the damn place on fire. He's never going to stop, and that's why I can't stop. That's why I run after him into the night.

My sock-shoes help me, and I'm not too far behind him. This is good. Maybe he's not quite as fast as I thought he was. ­Wolfman glances back, sees I'm giving chase. He speeds up, then veers toward a ravine. The ridgelines are no place for the hunted, as I know only too well.

He's trying to disappear into the forest and that's no good. He can vanish in a way that's almost supernatural. The whole time he followed me to the mountain mansion I heard him only once. In the woods he's so much better than me. No good, no good, no good.

As I race after him, I make a plan for my second bullet. That first shot I was trying to keep him from getting his gun. That was
my overriding thought, to stop him from getting the rifle. Now I want to stop him, period. I just want this to stop. It's not about death or murder or killing. None of those words are in me. The only word I have is
stop
. I need this to stop. And the way to stop it is to put a bullet in his head.

We're down in the ravine, and his hiking boots are helping him. He's getting a bigger and bigger lead, which scares me because I need to be picky about the shot I take. I want to give myself the best chance at success, but pretty soon there's not going to be any shot to take at all.

I decide that when he hits the bottom of the ravine, that's when I'm going to stop, aim, and fire.

Everything's moving so fast. Leaves and branches fly by. My brain is full of what I've got to do, only a tiny portion of it is taking anything in. Up ahead the valley floor approaches. Time to get ready. Time to stop him.

A likely looking flat rock, a platform to stand on, presents itself, and I take the opportunity. Grasping my gun, I wait. One, two, and I'm not even to three and there he is, appearing out of some shrubs and heading up the opposite side of the ridge. He's too far away, but it's now or never and time to hope I get lucky. Getting a bead, remembering to breathe out in one long, slow breath until my hands are solid and strong, I squeeze the trigger.

I don't get lucky.

My little bullet pings against some rocks, sounding like a BB from an air rifle.

He plunges into the brush, and the only thing I can think is
to keep following him. Up the hillside, my sock-shoes start to take on dirt and damp; they're hindering me now. Once on top, I can't see him, and it takes far too long before I hear him. He's off to the right, which makes sense. I'm pretty sure that's toward the Logan house, which must be in the same general direction as Wolfman's truck.

I'm after him in a flash, but there's a deep burn of dread in my throat, a fear in my heart that's ahead of my brain. This isn't working. He's outdistancing me. But not knowing what else to do, I stick with the plan.

After a few minutes I pause to listen. It takes even longer than last time before I hear him. Correcting course, then along the ridgeline I go, trying to stay on top of the hills, not wanting to sink down into the valleys. Down there you can't hear. I need to hear him to trail him. A few minutes more, another pause. Defeat is slipping into me now. But quitting isn't something I'm good at, so I keep on and keep on and keep on, until I'm standing alone in a dead-silent forest with muddy socks on my feet.

Dawn is on its way in.

I miss the moon.

And I don't know what to do.