The Abduction (48 page)

John touched his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck, and it was at that moment, he would realize later, that Little Johnny Brice finally found his manhood on a mountain in Idaho. His mind and body calmed. All fear left him. He was no longer afraid: not of failing, not of the bullies, not of dying. There was manly in his genes, and he had found it, or it had found him.

John raised his arms, holding the gun with both hands like Ben had showed him, then stepped in front of the window and fired. The glass shattered. John pulled the trigger as fast as he could until everything went dark.

Jacko felt a bullet impact his shoulder. Next thing he knew, Brice leg-whipped him at the ankles, knocking his feet out from under him. Jacko hit the wood floor hard. Before he could react, Brice kicked him in the mouth, bringing blood. But Jacko always liked the taste of his own blood.

Still, he didn’t remember Brice being this good.

But he wasn’t good enough. Jacko rolled with the kick and come up quickly, the Bowie in his hand.

Damn, this brought back some good memories!

He moved toward Brice, excited at the thought of disemboweling the unarmed traitor he had cornered. He glanced over at the major. His eyes were alive and he was smiling.

This is my destiny!

When he looked back at Brice, he saw the major’s bedpan flying through the air at his face. And Jacko thought,
Fuck, hope to hell Junior emptied it!
He hadn’t. Jacko blocked the bedpan with his arms—urine and shit splattered on the floor and on him—only to realize too late that it was a fake, that Brice’s boot was coming at him hard and he couldn’t block it. The heel of the boot caught Jacko right in the center of his chest and drove his two hundred sixty-five pounds back hard against the opposite cabin wall.
Shit!
Jacko was surprised at the severity of the pain that suddenly grabbed at his chest. He had been kicked and punched in the chest many times and had never experienced such pain.
Shit!
He figured it would go away, but it didn’t. Instead it got worse and shot down his left arm; his right hand released the knife and grabbed at his chest.
Shit!
And at that moment he understood: he was having a goddamned heart attack!
What a time to have a fucking heart attack!
And he realized the truth: Ben Brice wasn’t his destiny; he was Ben Brice’s destiny.

He dropped to his knees, sucking hard for air. He looked up at Brice and wanted to say
fuck you
, but he didn’t have the breath to get the words out. He took one last glance at the major; his eyes were wide, not believing what he was seeing. Jacko’s head felt light and he was suddenly dizzy. The light dimmed. For the first time in his life, Jacko didn’t have any strength, not even enough to hold himself up. He fell face down onto the wood floor. His eyes made out a boot just inches away. And he heard Ben Brice’s voice.

“Who says old soldiers never die?”

And his last thought before all life drained out of him on the floor in a cabin in northern Idaho and Captain Jack Odell Smith from Henryetta, Oklahoma, met his Maker was:

Oh, that’s real fucking funny.

Outside, John struggled to get up. He winced. He felt like someone had hit him in the head with a frying pan. He rolled over to get to his feet and—
Cripes!—
came face to face with another man lying beside him, his vacant eyes wide open. John was struck by the pure ugliness of the man’s face—and the ax embedded in his head.

“You okay?”

John looked up to see Agent O’Brien.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Where’s the colonel?”

“Inside …
shit!
”

John pushed himself up and stumbled into the cabin and into the bedroom; Agent O’Brien was right behind him. The big man was lying face down on the floor. Ben was bent over him, hands on his knees.

“Ben, you okay?”

Ben straightened up slowly, like it hurt.

“Yeah. You boys hurt?”

“No,” John said. He gestured at the bed. “Who’s that?”

“Major Charles Woodrow Walker,” Ben said.

“I thought he was dead.”

“He will be.”

Ben turned to Agent O’Brien: “How many did you get?”

“Two.”

Ben nodded. “It’s just Junior now.”

“Blond guy?”

“Yeah.”

“He took off in a white truck,” Agent O’Brien said. “I put four rounds in it, guess I missed him.”

“He said we’ll never find her.”

“You go after him,” O’Brien said. “I’ll look for your girl.”

Ben put the old pickup in neutral and he and John rode it down the mountain to the Land Rover parked on the side of the road to town. Ben knew where they would find Junior. A white truck, minus the back window—Agent O’Brien hadn’t missed by much—was parked in front of the Boundary County Courthouse between the sheriff’s cruiser and a black Lexus SUV with new paper plates.

They ran up the front steps into the courthouse and down the corridor to the sheriff’s office. The receptionist took one look at them—the black overalls, the face paint, and the blood—and picked up the phone. Sheriff Johnson appeared before she had hung up.

“Colonel, you okay?”

Ben nodded and wiped blood from his face. “Where’s Junior?”

“In a cell. He confessed.”

“Did he say what he did with Gracie?”

The sheriff shook his head. “He’s done lawyered up. Wants immunity.”

The sheriff motioned for them to follow and led them through a door. Behind the door were four cells. Three were empty. In the fourth, Junior sat on a bunk; his right hand was bandaged. A fat man in a sweat suit who looked as if he had just gotten out of bed sat in a chair next to Junior, a briefcase in his lap. He looked up at Ben and said, “Who the hell are you, Rambo?”

The sheriff unlocked the cell door. The fat man said, “My client will disclose the girl’s location for complete immunity.”

“Norman, only the D.A. can grant immunity from prosecution, you know that. And he won’t be back till tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll deal tomorrow,” Norman the lawyer said, slamming his briefcase shut. He stood. To Junior: “Keep your mouth shut and you’ll walk out a free man tomorrow.”

Norman turned to leave, but Ben blocked the cell door.

“My granddaughter’s on that mountain. She’ll die before tomorrow.”

Norman shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“Not much of a job.”

“Pays good.” Norman smiled. “Sorry about your girl, but she’s not my concern.”

“She is mine,” Ben said. Then he punched Norman the lawyer in his mouth. Norman went down like a sack of potatoes.

From the floor: “I’ll sue! Sheriff, I want to press assault charges! You witnessed it!”

“You fell and hit your face on the floor.”

“
What?
”

“You heard me, Norman. Now get your butt outta my jail.”

Norman scrambled up and stormed out. “You haven’t heard the last of this!”

After the door shut behind Norman, the sheriff turned to Ben. “I hate lawyers. Had a cousin once, become a lawyer. Whole family disowned him.”

“Let him go,” Ben said.

The sheriff recoiled. “
What?
Colonel, why the hell would I let him go, he’s done confessed and—”

It hit him. The sheriff eyed Ben curiously; he smiled slightly. He nodded slowly.

“All right, Colonel. Sometimes the rules just don’t work.”

Junior glanced from the sheriff to Ben and back, his eyes suddenly wide. “The hell you mean, you can’t let me go! I confessed! I’m guilty! I kidnapped her!”

The sheriff turned his hands up. “Junior, there’s no girl so I got no evidence to hold you. Son, you got constitutional rights. This is America.”

The sheriff grabbed Junior and yanked him out of the cell. He then pushed Junior through the office and out the front door. They stood on the steps of the courthouse.

“Good luck, Colonel. But you better move fast, FBI’s coming. Fella over at the airstrip called, said the director himself is flying in.”

Junior was silent on the trip back up the mountain. When they arrived, Agent O’Brien ran up to the vehicle.

“I couldn’t find her. She’s not in any of the cabins or the vehicles. I searched a fifty-meter perimeter—nothing.”

Ben pulled Junior from the vehicle. “Where’s she at?”

“Fuck you,” Junior said.

Ben punched Junior in the face. He fell to the ground. Ben yanked Junior up and felt a sharp pain in his gut.

“Junior, I don’t have time to play games. If you want to live, tell me where she is.”

“You kill me, you ain’t never gonna find her.”

“Listen to me, son, you’re not tough enough to handle what I’m gonna do to you. Now where is she?”

Junior said nothing. Ben grabbed Junior’s right arm and twisted it back until Junior fell face down on the ground. Ben put a knee in his back, then ripped the bandage from Junior’s right hand and held the hand out flat on the ground, thumb and two fingers spread.

“John, hand me that hatchet.”

John walked over to a small woodpile and picked up the hatchet. He returned and handed it to Ben. Junior’s eyes were wide, looking at the hatchet and then at his hand.

“You can’t do this! I got rights! This is America!”

“Junior, you lost your rights when you took Gracie.”

Ben swung the hatchet down hard. John turned away. Junior screamed.

When Junior opened his eyes, the hatchet was buried in the ground barely an inch from his right hand. He still had a thumb and two fingers. The first thought that entered his mind was he couldn’t afford to lose another finger because then he’d have to masturbate with his left hand.

“I won’t miss next time, Junior.”

Way Junior figured, he’d probably do two to five in a federal penitentiary for weapons violations. No way they could tie him to the murders of that judge or those prosecutors or FBI agents. Or even McCoy
. Shit, if they did, he could blame it all on the major!
Of course, a kidnapping conviction might get him another two to five, but he never touched her and he saved her from Bubba, that should count for something. Sure, sleazy Norman the lawyer could do something with that: brother reunites with long lost sister, show the jury pictures of her room, she’ll testify that he fixed her hot baths and breakfasts, and, best of all, Elizabeth Austin will have to testify. Sleazy Norman the lawyer will crucify the bitch, ruin her career, her family, her life. And besides, time the trial’s over, Junior might have himself a movie deal. Maybe Tom Cruise would play him.

“She’s out back.”

John followed Junior and Ben around to the back of the cabin. Junior abruptly stopped at a woodpile.

“There,” he said.

Junior was pointing at the woodpile. John didn’t understand, but Ben put his shoulder to the wood and pushed the pile over. He dropped to the ground and frantically threw the remaining logs aside. A small air vent was sticking up out of the ground.

Ben looked up. “You
buried
her?”

Junior shrugged. “She needed some discipline.”

John’s entire body began trembling but not with fear. A lifetime of bullies and beatings, of not fighting back, of shame and sorrow, of not being much of a man—all the humiliation and pain came rushing back and washed over John like a tidal wave. His face felt hot. Junior was looking at him with that bemused smile so familiar to John Brice.

“Hell, you ain’t even her daddy,” he said.

John’s eyes fell. He had always thought Gracie had gotten her blonde hair and blue eyes from Ben. But she couldn’t have; John had been adopted. So she had gotten her hair and eyes from … and John suddenly understood everything. It all came together: Elizabeth, her disappearance ten years ago, her sudden change of heart toward him when she returned, the quick marriage, the move to Dallas, Gracie’s birth eight months later. He knew the truth now. But it didn’t matter. The only truth that mattered was Gracie down there. He raised his eyes to Junior.

“I’ve loved her since the day she was born and I’ll love her till the day I die. That makes me her daddy.”

“Yeah? We’ll see about that when she learns the truth at my trial.”

But John’s 190-IQ mind was way ahead of poor Junior.

“There’s not gonna be a trial, Junior.”

John put the .45 to Junior’s head and shot him dead.

“I didn’t see that,” Agent O’Brien said.

John wiped Junior’s blood from his face, then dropped the gun, fell to his knees, and joined Ben, digging with his hands. They hit metal in minutes.

Gracie was buried in a U.S. Army munitions container. A hole had been cut in the top and the air vent inserted. They brushed the remaining dirt off the top. They released the latches and opened the lid. Gracie lay still and straight inside; her eyes were closed and her arms lay across her chest. Her face was dirty. John reached down and touched her face gently. A tear rolled off his cheek and fell onto her face.