Way Down on the High Lonely (27 page)

“The boy is dead.”

“I don’t believe that.”

If Graham could have reached Neal he would have grabbed him and shook him. Instead he looked at him long and hard and said, “Son, the boy is dead. You have to face that. We didn’t get to him in time. Maybe there were things we did that we shouldn’t have, or things we didn’t do that we should have. I don’t know. But the boy is dead, Neal.”

“It’s nothing we did. It was me.”

“Who gives a shit?” Graham yelled. “Jesus, will you grow up? Cody McCall is dead, and we’re probably going to join him real soon. The only chance we have is to try to drag this out long enough for Levine to look up from his account books and realize he hasn’t heard from us in awhile and he’d better come looking. And when Ed comes, he’ll arrive with a bad attitude and an army. And I want to live long enough to see that. So drop the it’s-all-my-fault crybaby shit and start thinking about how you can make them torture you for as long as possible.”

You’re right, Dad. The only chance is to talk and drag it out. But you’re wrong about the boy, Graham. I just goddamn know that Cody is alive. And that should be reason enough to hang on.

The door opened and Randy came in carrying two sawhorses. Cal Strekker came in behind him. He had a sledgehammer.

“See, what we did with Harley,” Cal said, “was we laid him on his back on the floor, set one horse under his knees and the other under his ankles. Then we tied his ankles to the second sawhorse. That way Harley’s legs was stretched out nice and tight. Then I swung this hammer down and … whoo.”

Neal felt every nerve in his body jump out from his skin. It was Graham who had the balls to ask, “What did you have against Harley?”

“He wouldn’t give up his boy,” Cal answered. “That got the reverend questioning Harley’s commitment to the cause, which got the reverend praying, and old Yahweh must have told him that Harley was a race traitor. Carter came in here himself to ask Harley the questions. Harley confessed.”

“Before or after you broke his legs?” Graham asked.

Cal grinned. “Long time before that.”

Neal was trying to work up enough voice to ask about Cody, but Graham shut him off with a look and said, “But you kept at him anyway, didn’t you?”

“Yahweh said,” answered Cal. “Or Carter said Yahweh said, which amounted to the same thing. See, Harley had been bonded in blood, so Carter said he was the worse kind of traitor. Said the devil was in him and that we had to make the devil howl. And we did.”

Cal sat down on one of the sawhorses and told them all about it. He enjoyed telling the story, seeing the terror in their eyes, feeling them flinch and sicken, watching them as they came to the realization that the same things were going to happen to them.

So he told them how they’d left Harley chained in the bunker and gone out and got a billy goat and come back in and the reverend told Harley to have sex with Satan’s animal. And how Harley refused, so they brought the boy in, held a gun to his head, and asked Harley again, and this time Harley just couldn’t do it fast enough and Carter said that it proved he was in league with the devil. So they took the boy out, and then they wrapped a rope around the chain on Harley’s cuffs, and ran that through the pulley on the ceiling, and hoisted Harley up and took turns on him with a knotted rope till Harley passed out, so they left him hanging there and the cuffs rubbed his wrists raw and his hands got all swollen because there was no circulation.

Cal told them how they came back later that night and the first thing Harley croaked out of his throat was to ask about his boy, and Carter said that Yahweh would take care of the child and Harley started crying then, just blubbering—like to make you sick—and Carter told Harley to confess that ZOG had sent him and Harley did. They let him down then, cuffed him behind his back, and forced him on his knees, and Carter stuck a broom handle up him and then they left him there like that. And when they came back Harley was bleeding like you wouldn’t believe, and moaning, and Carter said he was talking to Satan but they needed to hear Satan howl. So they broke Harley’s fingers, then his arms. And that was when they did the trick with the sawhorses and the hammer and they thought he was going to die right there, and Randy here was such a pussy he said maybe they should just shoot him then. But Carter said that Satan would take him in his time and Carter went back to California. And Harley was a tough bird and just wouldn’t give up the ghost and he was groaning all the time and letting off such a stench, and that’s when they got to talking about how there really was more than one way to skin a cat. So Cal started taking a knife to him and peeling off big strips—you should have heard Satan howl then—but they didn’t get too far and Harley just finally died.

“But it took what, Randy?” Cal asked. “Couple of weeks?”

“More like three, I think, start to finish.”

“Whatever,” Cal said. He got off the sawhorse, squatted in front of Neal, smiled, and said, “And guess what, Neal buddy? The reverend just finished praying about you. Guess what old Yahweh told him?”

Neal didn’t answer. He wanted to ask about Cody. He tried to. But he was afraid to move as much as a muscle, he was so close to crying, or throwing up, or worse.

Cal saw it, and the psychotic gleam in his eyes flared more brighdy, and he answered his own question. “He said you and the one-armed bandit here was both sent by ZOG. That you’re both in league with Satan. That we need to make you howl.”

Neal felt himself shaking. He tried to control it but he couldn’t. His right leg just started jumping all on its own and he felt as if his head were drowning, and tears were just about to overflow from his eyes when he heard Joe Graham’s blessed, blessed voice.

“When you pick out my goat,” Graham said, “make sure you get a pretty one.”

The door opened again and the Reverend C. Wesley Carter walked in.

Neal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Now it starts, he thought.

Cal turned to Graham and grinned. “You’re first, smart-ass.”

Graham knew that. It’s why he’d mouthed off.

Randy and Cal took the cuffs off Graham and stripped him. Then they laid him on his stomach across the sawhorses. They wrapped a heavy rope under his arms and tied it down. They did the same to his ankles so that Graham was stretched out across the sawhorses, his feet hanging off one side and his head off the other. They arranged it so that his face was a foot from Neal’s.

While they were doing this, Carter was tying knots into another rope, saying, “We have to find out who you are and why you’re here, and we have to find out quickly. I’m very puzzled that you helped us rob the armored car, and I’m concerned that the shipment of arms—in fact, our entire haven here—is in jeopardy.”

He finished with the rope, raised it over his head, and asked Graham, “Who sent you?”

Graham struggled for breath. His back already felt as if it might snap from the strain of holding his weight.

“Satan sent me,” he answered.

Neal made himself look at Graham as the rope came down on his back.

Graham sucked in some air. “Satan or Tom Landry, one of the two.”

The rope lashed down on his shoulders.

Two, three, four, five more times before Carter spoke again.

“Who sent you?”

“Harley McCall’s ex-wife. Alimony.”

The rope came down again.

Graham’s face was red with strain. Sweat dripped off his jaw. His back was already raw.

Neal tried to reach out and hold Graham’s head, but the chains were too short.

“You’re killing him!” Neal yelled.

“Shut up,” Graham snapped at him. Then he asked Carter, “Hey, what about my goat?”

Five, six, seven times Carter’s arm swung. Flecks of blood flew across the cell with each stroke.

Cal stepped around to the front of the sawhorses and lifted Graham’s chin.

“You got anything funny to say now, smart-ass?” he asked Graham.

Graham swung his head back and forth. Sweat poured from his face.

Neal kicked Cal in the back of the leg to get his attention. “I’ll kill you, you dirty bastard,” Neal said.

“You’re a hoot, Neal,” Cal answered.

You’re doing this for me, Dad, Neal thought. You’re buying time for me. You mouthed off to Cal to make him mad, to make him start with you instead of me.

Carter raised his arm to start again.

Neal shouted to Carter, “Hey, Rev! Is it true what I heard about Yahweh and little boys?”

Graham craned his neck and shook his head at Neal.

Neal ignored him. “For that matter, is it true what I heard about you and little boys?”

Carter dropped his arm and stared at Neal.

“Shut up, Neal,” Graham murmured.

“Yeah, Rev,” Neal said, forcing himself to smile, “I’m not sure I heard it right, because your wife’s mouth was full at the time, if you catch my drift, but I thought she said that you liked to—”

Carter stepped over Neal and raised the rope. “You piece of filth,” he said.

Come on, come on, do it. Start on me for a while.

“But your time will come,” Carter said. He turned back to Graham.

Sorry, Dad. I tried, I tried.

Graham lifted his real hand, smiled weakly, and slowly raised his middle finger at Neal.

“Did ZOG send you?” Carter asked.

“Zog who?” asked Graham.

Carter raised his arm and was about to bring the rope down again when the door opened and Bob Hansen walked in.

He looked worried and excited at the same time.

“The truck is here,” he said. “The arms have arrived.”

Carter dropped his arm. “We have to move quickly. These two can wait and tremble in the fear of Yahweh’s wrath.”

He dropped the rope and paced to the door. Carlisle and Strekker followed him.

“Untie him!” Neal yelled. “For God’s sake, at least cover him up!”

Strekker turned around. “I’ll be back,” he said and shut the door behind him.

Graham craned his neck up. His face was pale with pain. His hair was matted with sweat, and blood was dripping off his back.

“We’re winning,” he rasped.

Cal stepped out into the compound and saw a rented moving van parked outside. The truck was bright yellow with black stenciled letters that read
TROJAN TRUCKING
on the side.

“People think I’m carrying rubbers,” the driver said as he hopped down from the cab, “but actually I went to USC.”

That’s kind of funny, Cal thought. But neither Carter nor Hansen laughed, so he put on a scowl and gave the driver the cold eye.

The driver rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “It’s a little colder here than it was in LA,” he complained. He looked at the compound and asked, “You guys expecting company?”

“Would you be Mr. Mackinnon?” Carter asked him.

“I wouldn’t be if I had a choice, but I don’t, so I am.”

“I’m Reverend Carter, this is Bob Hansen.”

“Nice to put a face to the voice.”

“I’m surprised you came alone,” Carter said.

“I can take care of myself,” Mackinnon answered.

Cal heard this as both a comment and a threat.

The Mackinnon guy looked around at all of the boys and smiled. He sure enough looked like he could take care of himself. He had a body like a bear, and anyone looking hard could see the form of a large pistol holstered at his belt.

Hansen asked, “What have you brought us?”

“I’ve brought you enough stuff to send a whole battalion of kikes and niggers back to their maker,” Mackinnon said. “But unfortunately, I can’t give it away.”

“The money is in the safe,” Hansen said.

Mackinnon smiled. “That’s good enough for me. After all, we’re all on the same team, right?”

Cal stepped forward. “I want to take a close look at this stuff before we pay,” he said, trying to stare Mackinnon down.

Mackinnon didn’t stare down easily. “And who are you?” he asked.

Hansen stepped in. “This is Cal Strekker. He has ranger training. He’s our tactical instructor.”

“Well, Cal,” Mackinnon said, “I’m looking out here at all this flat ground and those hills back there and I’m thinking about what you’re going to need to defend your perimeter. I brought some mines that can be tripped off by contact
or
blown by switches from your watch-towers. I brought some rocket launchers same as the Afghanis have been using to shoot down Soviet helicopters. You’re familiar with them, I’m sure. Carry them right on your shoulder, pull the trigger, and whoosh. I brought five crates of M-16s, and they have the bugs worked out of them by now—they don’t jam the way they used to during the southeast Asian war games. I even brought a .50 caliber air-cooled machine gun you can set right in that bunker over there and chop up any assault coming across that flat.
And
I even brought you some mortars, because that’s going to be a problem for you if your enemy has any mortars of his own sitting back in those hills. He could turn this into another Dien Bien Phu unless you have some arty of your own to dig him out.”

Cal was impressed but didn’t want to show it. He said, “Well, we plan on doing more than just defending ourselves.”

“Of course you do,” Mackinnon replied, “so I also have two very nice sniper rifles—Swiss—some infrared scopes, and three superb .22 automatic pistols.”

“We ain’t plinkin’ cans here, mister,” Cal said.

“Of course, it takes a real professional to use one, but a well-placed .22 in the brain will get the job done quickly, neatly, and quietly.”

“Silencers?” Cal asked.

Mackinnon spread his arms wide and said, “But of course.”

Cal grumped a little more then said, “Sounds okay, Mr. Hansen, but I think we better test a few of these things before we turn any money over.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mackinnon answered. “I’ll need to show you how some of this stuff works, anyway.”

He stepped around to the back of the truck and started to lift the door. Cal followed him and looked inside at the crates. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and held it out to Mackinnon.

“No thanks,” Mackinnon said. “I’m trying to quit.” He hopped into the truck and said, “Cal, you want to send some of your men over here to unload this stuff?”