Damascus Road (23 page)

I keyed the speaker button to turn it off and held the phone
to my ear as I walked away from Grace.

“Listen to me, motherfucker,” I growled. “You touch my son,
and I’ll feed you to the gators.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Tom said. “But there’s one
problem with that.”

I was at the paper box and bent to look in. It was
completely empty.

“You’re already going to have another funeral to attend.”

An explosion erupted behind me, and I saw the Hemicuda in
midair, flames pouring out through the windows. It was slowly tumbling through
the air, its frame twisted, the metal baking.

Grace’s scream pierced the air, and I spun to see two men
pulling her into a van. It had been a trap to get me away from the table, to
get me away from Grace so they could grab her. I recognized the men from the
cemetery the night before. I could only assume the third was driving the van.

“No! Stop!” I shouted, running for them. But it was too
late. They threw Grace into the van and slammed the doors before I could get
there. The tires squealed as they pulled out. I watched them drive away, then
realized I was still holding the phone.

“Tom?”

“Now you listen to me, Jimmy, because this is how it’s going
to go…”

“Hey!” I barked.

“What?”

“Say hi to Ellis for me,” I said. “Because we’re done
talking.”

“Jimmy—“

I slammed the phone into the sidewalk and watched it
shatter. I scanned the road looking for a ride. I stepped out into traffic,
ready to grab the first suitable thing to find my eye. For better or worse, it
came in the form of six bikers riding through town on their motorcycles. I
spotted one that looked like the best bet and ran for him. He didn’t know me,
and I had no beef with him, so I collared him hard and took him to the ground
without doing too much damage to him or his bike.

His friends tried to stop, to help, but I didn’t give a
damn. I grabbed the handlebars of the Harley Davidson Night Rod and threw
myself onboard. I let out the clutch, revved the throttle, and burned out down
the road. The bikers hurled insults at my back that I barely heard. I expected
them to follow, perhaps even give chase, but I wasn’t about to stop.

I leaned on the throttle hard and lowered my head,
streamlining my body. The bike propelled me forward at blinding speed. I passed
a car on the left, steered back to avoid the vehicle in the right hand lane. I
couldn’t see the van, not yet, and my only hope was to close the distance
before they got too far away or turned.

Up ahead, I caught sight of the maroon van. I was about to
miss a traffic light. My signal blazed red and even the New Orleans traffic had
come to a stop in my lane. I had no choice. I steered over onto the center line
and pressed on even harder, driving into cross traffic. The blare of horns made
my heart seize in my chest, but I pushed through. I heard the crunch of metal
in a fender bender, but it was behind me, and I was unscathed.

The van was turning and I found a bus that was heading in
the same direction. I followed their turn, but stayed behind cover. Their route
was circuitous, but it was a slow and dedicated surveillance detection route. I
switched cover vehicles again and again, staying so far back that I risked
losing them.

In the end, the gamble paid off. The van pulled into a
warehouse at the edge of town, and I recognized it as a place that Tom and I
had been to before. It was one of the chop shops that Louis had used when we
stole cars for him. I cut the engine on the bike and let it coast. I didn’t
need the attention, but I did need to see what I was up against.

The gate was electronic and controlled by a remote. The
place was essentially a junk yard with walls and aisles made of the bodies of
old and rusted out cars. It made the place a maze, easy to escape if you knew
where you were going and maddening if you did not. It was an auto cemetery.

I remembered the place well enough to remember that there
were out buildings. I wouldn’t be able to locate Grace or Bobby easily, but I
did know that Tom probably would not split his manpower to guard two people in
two locations when he could harden one holding facility and keep them there.

An approaching tow truck caught my attention. I laid the
bike down behind a bush and took cover next to it. I wished I had more time to
plan, but it was a luxury I simply did not have then.

The tow truck pulled to a stop at the gate, and the driver
pushed the button on the remote on his visor and it began to rumble open. I
looked at the man. He was young, fit from what I could tell. His face was
covered in a beard, and his left arm rested on the window of the truck. Across
his shoulder was a tattoo. It was an Army Ranger tab. Tom must have recruited
some of his army buddies to help him.

I broke from cover and ran in a low crouch until I got up
enough speed to pounce. I lunged through the open window, and before the man
could recoil in surprise, I wrapped my arm around his neck, cutting off his
air. He tried to yell but couldn’t manage. Instead he pummeled me with his
fists. I lowered my head and took the beating. To my dismay, he finally gave up
and resorted to hitting the horn. I squeezed harder, and he finally passed out.
I released him, and he slumped back into his seat, unconscious.

I heard voices then. Tom’s men were alerted. I ran back for
the bike and kick-started the engine. I drove it around behind the tow truck.
The truck seemed to be missing its muffler, but it hardly covered the low
rumble of the Harley.

The two men came out through the gate. They split up, each
going to a separate side of the cab.

“What happened here, Nix?” one of them growled.

“Nothing good, Jonas,” Nix answered, looking around.

I gunned the engine and released the brake. The tires spun,
and I came tearing around the corner of the truck, aimed right for the one I
knew to be Nix. He held a pistol in his hand, black and deadly. He tried to
raise it in a combat shooting stance, but I was on him too fast. I crashed into
him head-on with the bike and sent him sprawling backwards into the fence. His
head snapped back and he dropped without a sound.

Turning the bike, I heard cracks of gunfire. Jonas was
aiming for me, but having to shoot through the cab which fouled his shot. I
poured on speed and made a tight arc, faster than he could track me as I came
around the truck on the motorcycle.

When I was almost on him, I seized the front brake hard and
stood the bike on its front tire, using the momentum of the turn to bring the
back end of the bike around, sizzling through the air. I hit Jonas with the
back tire, sending him crashing into the hood of the tow truck before falling
to the ground.

I abandoned the bike and pulled the driver from the truck. I
let him fall to the ground beside Jonas. I took his place in the seat and drove
through the open door into the junk yard.

I cruised low and slow through the maze of car and truck
hulks. The best I could hope for was to force Tom’s hand and get him to come
out with Grace and Bobby.

A man was leading Grace into the main building. There were
four other structures and a handful of cars looked to be for personal use, not
scrap. There was a Chevelle, a Dodge Charger, a vintage Porsche and a Mustang.

I’d learned a lot in my time since that day in the car with
Chris Beck. But one thing that hadn’t changed in me was my inherent inclination
to flush out trouble.

I gunned the truck and headed for the first of the
structures. It was a tool shed. I clipped it with the front bumper of the
truck, and the panels of the building gave way, collapsing the building. I spun
the wheel and headed back into the yard.

“Come on out, Tom!” I yelled.

The man leading Grace was shocked to see me, so Grace took
the opportunity to elbow him hard in the face. She managed to break his nose
and escape. She came running toward the truck, so I pressed the gas and closed
the distance.

The man raised the gun, but seemed unsure whether he should
shoot her or not. I made the decision for him by cutting between them and
clipping him with my side mirror. He spun and fell into the dirt. I backed up
and let Grace get in.

“Hiya,” I said.

“Hiya back,” she replied. “Our son’s in there.”

I was driving in a circle to get a better view of the complex.

“Did he tell you that?” I asked.

“He did indeed.”

“Good.”

I floored the gas and we lurched forward, aiming directly
for the front end of the Mustang.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing?” Grace screamed.

I hammered the tow truck into the vintage Mustang, crushing
the front end. Glass shattered and metal crumpled and we kept on driving. The
Mustang rolled backward into a utility building, punching in the front side and
rolling out the back.

“Cool,” I said.

“You have a plan beyond that?” Grace asked.

“It’s kind of however the Spirit moves me,” I replied.

“You’re incorrigible,” she sighed in disgust.

“I’ve told people you say that,” I replied.

I smiled at her, and she smiled back just before we crashed
into the vintage Porsche. I felt a little bad about crushing one of the fine
vestiges of automobiles from Deutschland. The car went airborne and tumbled end
over end into the garage area.

I screamed out the window in a battle cry, accelerating past
the front of the building to gain speed before taking another go at the cars.

The front door was flung open and we turned to see who it
was. I envisioned the worst. Tom. A gun. Bobby. A muzzle flash. The inevitable
aftermath. Tears. Screaming.

But that wasn’t what happened. Bobby came running out of the
house.

“Go! Go!” he was screaming. “He’s going to—“

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I steered the truck
toward him and slid to a stop with the truck between him and the house.

“Get down!” I yelled. I pulled Grace down with me on the
seat.

The building billowed out with the force of the explosion.
The blast blew windows out of their frames. The front door came loose from the
frame and cartwheeled toward the truck. It hit the ground in front of my door
and bounced off the cab in a glancing blow. Debris rained down on us. Flaming
pieces of roofing and wood siding fell from the heavens.

Bobby stood beside the truck and shook debris from his
clothes.

“What is wrong with this family?” Bobby said.

“Where’s Tom?” I asked.

“He took off out the back door,” he replied.

“Grace, get him out of here,” I said. “I’m going after Tom.”

“Let’s just go, Jim!” she pleaded.

Perhaps she was right, but I didn’t have peace about it.
Every time I let Tom slip through my fingers, he came back harder than before.
He wasn’t going to stop.

“I have to finish this,” I shouted.

I took off running around the wreckage, shielding my face
from the fire burning inside. I crashed through the woods completely unaware of
where I was going. I could have stumbled into the mangrove and the swamps for
all I knew.

I burst from the woods and found Tom getting into a black
1965 Lincoln Continental. He had one of the suicide doors open to get behind
the wheel when he heard me coming. He spun and raised a Heckler & Koch USP
autoloader and fired at me. I heard the bullet pop as it missed my head by
inches. I lowered my shoulder and crushed him between the door and the body of
the car. His arm broke from the crush injury.

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” he howled.

I hammered his ribs and heard them snap.

“I’ll kill ya, Jimmy! I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!”

Tom lifted the pistol, murder in his eyes. I grabbed the
barrel of the gun and twisted it backwards, snapping his finger in the trigger
guard. He howled in pain. I broke his nose with the butt of the pistol. He
slumped back against the car. His knees buckled, and I let him fall.

I looked at him then, collapsed at my feet. The USP pistol
was in my hand, and it felt so right. Contoured to fit perfectly in my grip.
The weight of the gun felt solid and deadly. I aimed the pistol at Tommy’s head
and caressed the trigger.

It would have been so easy. Pull the trigger. Finish him.
Keep my family safe. Was I that kind of man? Could I kill without remorse? I
didn’t know. Maybe I was. I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t a secret agent man. I was
just his brother. And I wasn’t about to put a bullet in Tommy’s head.

I lowered the hammer on the pistol and set the safety. I
picked up Tommy and slung him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I began
walking and planning my story for when I called the cops. It was going to be
one hell of a tale.

Rush Hour

I STEPPED THROUGH THE DOORS OF THE
PRISON and followed all of the procedures required of visitors. I allowed
myself to be searched with the metal detector. My knife was left behind that
day. The only thing on me was the Bible in the back pocket of my blue jeans.

When the time came, the guard waved me forward, and I
stepped up and sat at the glass. A moment later, the door on the prisoner side
opened, and a guard brought in the men in the orange jumpsuits.

Tom saw me right away and made a show of rolling his eyes.
His left arm was in a sling, and his nose was going to heal somewhat less than
straight. He sat and picked up the telephone receiver. I did the same from my
side.

“Jim, are you going to do this every week?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “Every week.”

“You know nothing’s going to change,” he said.

I smiled at that.

“You know that night you crashed into me, I told my friend
the exact same thing,” I said. “Now I’m on this side of the glass and you’re on
that side.”

“Do you honestly think these visits are going to change
anything?” Tom asked. “I got to Ellis. I nearly got to you.”

“Tom, I’m not your enemy here. You are.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

“Everything that’s happened along the way, man…people make
bad choices. But it’s up to you to decide how you’re going to react to it.
Ellis may have done some bad things. I may have made some horrible choices that
ruined my marriage and fucked with your life, and I’m sorry for that. But
you…you have free will, brother. You’re the one who decided to try to kill us.”

“And you seriously think God is going to judge me for that?”
Tom laughed. “I have no doubt that God hates me, Jim.”

“That’s why I keep coming back, man,” I said.

“Why do you care?” Tom muttered.

“Because I am my brother’s keeper,” I said. “See you next
week, Tommy.”

I stood and walked out. I heard Tom punch the bulletproof
glass behind me, but didn’t stop to look back.

Outside of the prison, Bobby was leaning against his car. It
was a red Mustang Mach I. It was far from perfect, but we’d been working on it
together. I planned to stick around and see it finally come together.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“About the way you would expect,” I said. “You should pray
for your Uncle Tom.”

“I’ll pray for him,” Bobby agreed.

Grace was in the back seat of the car.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Fine,” she smiled. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I feel better that he’s in there,” she said, making a face.

“Honestly, I do, too,” I said.

I looked back toward the prison. On top of the barbed wire
gate sat the black crow. I watched him and smiled. He regarded me with my
family and, with nothing to add, took flight. I watched him go.