Cut to the Quick (41 page)

“There’s so much about that scheme that’s a bad idea.”

“Sitting around in gasoline and firing guns while dodging bullets from a maniac with an assault rifle is a good idea?”

“Okay, how are we going to light it?”

“You were a Boy Scout. Can’t you rub two sticks together or something?”

“It’s not that easy and you know it. Plus, we don’t want fire anywhere near this truck.”

She opened the glove compartment and rummaged around, pulling out candy wrappers and fast-food restaurant napkins. She flung a wrapped condom at him.

He glared when it bounced off his arm.

“Aha.” She held up a plastic lighter. “Vice and their vices.”

“I don’t know about this, Nan.”

“If you have a better idea, speak up. The way I see it, if we don’t flush him out, we have two choices. We can storm his position and one or both of us could get shot, or we can wait for something to happen. Two choices and both stink.”

“Take over. Give me the bottle.”

They changed positions.

She aimed at a spot and fired a couple of rounds, sending rock shooting into the air at the exact location where she was aiming. She was pleased with herself.

He dropped to the ground and crawled beneath the truck.

After awhile, he resurfaced, holding up the root beer bottle now full of gasoline. “So, Martha Stewart, what are we going to use for a wick? Tear off strips from our clothes?”

“That would work. I know … get my purse behind the seat.”

He found it and held it out for her.

“I’m covering him. Open it.”

“I don’t want to look through your purse.”

“Just open it. Get a tampon out of the plastic case.”

“Tampon?”

“It’ll make a perfect wick.”

“Tampon,” he repeated.

“They won’t hurt you, tough guy.”

He plunged his hand in. “There’s nothing in here that’s going to stick or cut me, is there?” It was a joke. That was the question cops asked whenever they searched someone’s pockets or belongings.

He found the pink plastic container. He popped it open, took out a tampon, and picked at the slippery plastic wrapper.

She sighed. “Grab an edge and tear it open. Then take it out of the applicator.”

He took the tampon from its wrapper and held it up. “How do you women
do
this?”

“Just take it out.”

“When you think you’ve done everything.
Voilà
.” He dangled the cotton cylinder by the attached string. “Here goes nothing.” He sat on the floor of the truck and went about finishing the incendiary device.

She squeezed off several rounds. “Try it again, Jenkins. Make my day.” She heard fabric tearing and looked to see Kissick hacking a length of fabric from the hem of his pants with his Swiss Army knife.

After a few minutes, he said, “Okay … here’s how
this works. I put the cap back on the bottle. That way, gas won’t spill when I throw it. I’ve soaked the wick in gasoline and I’m tying it around the bottleneck.” He held it up. “Done.”

She noticed that he refused to say “tampon.” She didn’t give him grief about it. “Looks great.”

He raised himself to see through the cracked windshield. “It’s gotta hit one of those rocks by Jenkins, and it’s gotta break. It’s gotta stay lit.” He silently examined the scene. “That’s pretty far to throw.”

“Can you do it?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t tried to throw that far in a long time. I’ll run away from the truck in that direction. You’ve gotta cover me, but good.”

“I will.” When she crooked her neck to look over her shoulder, she saw him working his jaw.

“This could be very messed up, Nan. The thing could blow up in my hands. He could shoot me. I could drop the lighter. All this gasoline …”

She hiked a shoulder. “You’re right. Let’s hold off. Somebody’s bound to come looking for us soon. We could move to a position away from the truck.” She looked around at the flat open terrain. The only other good cover was many yards away.

“A lot of hours of daylight left and we don’t have much water.”

“There’s that …”

“Screw it,” he said. “I didn’t take this job to sit and wait. Worse case it falls short. Ready, Sundance?”

She flicked the end of her nose with her index finger.

“That was a different movie.”

“I know.” She grinned. “Go for it, Butch.”

“On my three.”

She again took aim.

“One … two … three.”

As Kissick ran, Jenkins began firing. Vining returned fire, forcing him back. She watched as the lit Molotov cocktail flew in a fast straight line right at the boulders. It exploded on impact, igniting the surrounding dry brush.

Jenkins took off, limping as he ran, the fire helping shield him.

“Shit.” Vining ran, looking back at Kissick, who was also on the move. When he saw her, he pointed indicating that he was heading around the other side.

Even with his injured leg, Jenkins reached the low hill and was again out of sight.

She, however, was in the open. The boulders Jenkins had hidden behind were inaccessible because of the spreading fire. She kept running, cursing herself. Molotov cocktail … Stupid Rambo cops with harebrained ideas. Jenkins had gotten away anyway. She reached the hill and decided to head for the top. With their luck, she figured she’d find more hills on the other side in which Jenkins could hide for good. She jogged as far as she could until it got too steep and she had to crawl. She didn’t see Jenkins or Kissick.

Holding her gun in her right hand, she crept up the hill, mindful of where she was stepping and putting her other hand. Her tennis shoes slid on the loose rocks. Lizards scurried for cover. She snagged the tail of one and it went running away without it. If only people were so versatile, she thought.

“Nan, above!”

It was Kissick, somewhere off to her left.

She instinctively threw herself to the side as Jenkins, atop the ridge, fired at her. She started tumbling down the slope, losing her gun on the hillside, rolling over rocks, dry brush, and shrubs. Finally, she slid to a stop with her head pointed downhill. Twigs and thorns were
stuck in her hair and clothes. Her palms and exposed skin were scratched. Dirt was in her eye. She was disoriented.

Blinking the grit from her eyes, she quickly looked around. A rocky outcrop was several yards away. It was the closest place for her to seek cover.

She saw Jenkins above her on the hillside, climbing to his knees with difficulty. His left arm dangled. He was using his rifle as a cane to help himself up. Kissick must have shot him. She didn’t see Kissick.

Her legs still above her head, she started to pull them toward her as she reached for her backup Walther in her ankle holster. Before she could grab it, Jenkins had raised the AK-47 with his good arm.

Did she see movement across the crest of the hill? She didn’t take the time to find out. She kicked off and again began toppling down, going head over heels. She heard a blast from Jenkins’s gun and didn’t know whether she’d been shot. The world was spinning as she rolled out of control. She finally stopped when she hit the rocky outcrop, knocking the air from her.

Something hit her, crushing her body against the rocks.

It was Jenkins. His hair, stiff with hair spray, was in her face. Mixed with the odor of dirt, blood, and gun smoke was sweet perfume.

Repulsed, she tried to get out from under him. For a split second, she didn’t know if he was alive. Then he let out an inhuman gasp. She squirmed, struggling to free the leg that was entangled in the strap of his AK-47. She grappled with her ankle holster and managed to pull out her Walther.

Flinging out his good arm, he grabbed the Walther’s muzzle. He broke her grip on the gun and took it from her. She heard gunfire from the hillside above. Jenkins
returned fire with the Walther. The distraction was sufficient for her to break free.

She scampered to the opposite side of the outcrop. The stacked boulders created a shady cave. It was tall enough for her to stand in. She assessed her physical condition. She was battered and bruised, but nothing serious. She would ache like hell tomorrow, but for now she was okay.

She heard the gun battle continuing on the other side. From the sounds, she surmised that Kissick had moved down the hill, closer, as Jenkins’s tumble would have put him out of range of Kissick’s gun. Jenkins was again firing the assault rifle.

She picked up rocks, the only weapons she could find.

The truck was straight ahead at the bottom of the hill across a clearing. She could try to make a run for it and the shotgun inside. A fearsome image flashed in her mind of Jenkins shooting her in the back and her dying here in the desert.

Suddenly, everything went quiet.

She listened. The silence spoke volumes. She quickly moved away from the shade beneath the boulders. Creeping around the outcrop, she saw Kissick peek up from behind jagged rocks about ten yards away, where he’d taken cover. It wasn’t a large enough barrier to protect him.

Jenkins was rising onto one knee, dragging himself from the crevice in which he’d been wedged. His white pants were blood-soaked. Blood stained his shirt. A thick lock of sticky blond hair flopped over one side of his head. Using the outcrop as support, he climbed to his feet.

Vining gaped at her Walther stuck beneath his belt.

Kissick could have easily shot Jenkins now. Vining wondered if he was out of ammunition. She looked at
the hillside and saw him on his belly, crawling toward a ravine a few yards away that would provide more substantial cover from Jenkins’s bullets.

Jenkins fired, kicking up dirt near Kissick. Too near.

“Got bullets?” Jenkins shouted, laughing as he released a burst from his rifle.

He was leaning heavily against the rocks, and Vining could tell he was weak.

She threw a rock at him, hitting him in the back of the head. As he turned, she ducked back behind the outcrop.

“Did you forget about me, asshole?” she taunted.

“I’ve got nothing but time, baby. And all the bullets.”

When she saw Jenkins’s shadow approach, she threw a rock as hard as she could into the shady spot at the base of the boulders and kept running.

By the time Jenkins had rounded the outcrop, she was tearing across the desert toward the truck. He took aim. His arm was wobbly, but he was focused on her and nothing else. If his mind had been clearer, he might have wondered what she was up to. He might have heard what she had heard coming from the shade beneath the rocks.

She threw herself onto the ground. He fired at the same time and missed.

Cursing, he again started lumbering toward her, but paused for a second as another presence made itself known.

Riled by the rock Vining had thrown, the nest of Western diamondbacks clattered their rattles fearsomely.

Living in the desert, Jenkins was familiar with that sound. He limped as fast as he could, dragging his wounded leg. He wasn’t fast enough.

A coiled rattlesnake struck, burying its fangs in his
calf. He yelled and jerked away, giving another snake access to his buttocks.

Vining guardedly rose from the ground, at first keeping low, then lured to her feet by the gruesome scene. She gaped in horror, having to look away before again drawing back. As much as she despised Jenkins, two glances at his demise were more than enough. She dashed for the truck and the shotgun there.

As Jenkins flailed, he stepped fully into the nest. Snake after snake struck. Still holding the rifle, his finger was clamped on to the trigger as if by instinct. Bursts of bullets went into the air as he spun, trying to break free from the serpents’ kisses. The snakes held fast as he twisted in agony. Their elliptical pupils beneath their scaly hoods were cold and empty, with no sign of triumph or fury. Only their jaws demonstrated their determination, holding tight as venom flowed through needle-sharp fangs. Their triangular heads pointed at him like arrows.

Jenkins lost his balance and fell backward into the nest. The snakes swarmed him. Their rattles sounded as if the gates of hell had opened. Jenkins screamed, his body writhing and twitching. He tore at his clothes as if by shedding them he could be free of the snakes. His arms and hands were heavy with vipers, but still he ripped open his shirt, revealing a pink eyelet brassiere. His carefully depilated torso was already growing discolored from snakebites. He tore at the bra, breaking the front clasp. Beneath, near his heart, was a flowery tattoo, the edges a lacy doily. It was inscribed “Diva.”

Shotgun in hand, Vining returned to witness Jenkins’s final moments, standing a safe distance away from both the rattlers and the brutality.

Kissick joined her, his clothes torn and dirty. He shook his head. “Lord have mercy.”

They heard a helicopter and began waving their arms
when it came into view. The copter flew closer, swooping down. Kissick gave it a thumbs-up.

In the distance, vehicles approached across the desert.

“Finally,” he said. He turned to leave but she didn’t budge.

“Nan, what’s wrong?”

“He’s got my Walther. It’s my favorite gun. It saved my life once.” She reluctantly turned away.

He held out his palm. “Good job, Corporal.”

“Back atcha.”

They held each other’s hands for longer than just a handshake. She felt like kissing him, but didn’t make a move.

He did.

She tasted dirt, sweat, and a hint of Boston Baked Beans candy.

THIRTY-NINE

O
n his
way to his Salton Sea showdown with Jack Jenkins, Bowie Crowley had called Dena Hale to assure her that he and Mark Scoville were fine. He asked that she wait a couple of hours before having the police fetch Scoville so he could conclude his business with Jenkins without interruption. The police found Scoville tied to a dinette chair in Crowley’s living room, just like Crowley had left him. Scoville started bleating for his attorney as soon as an officer pulled the rectangle of duct tape from his mouth.

The police confiscated the bloody hood ornament as evidence in the bludgeoning murder of Lloyd McBroom, an enforcer for a couple of local bookies and loan sharks. McBroom’s corpse had been discovered by a homeless man Dumpster-diving for recyclables in the alley behind the liquor store. The thug had died in the shadow of a Marquis billboard that bore a sexy ad for a premium vodka brand.