Dead South (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order) (10 page)

29

Day Seven

August 9, 1952

Friday Afternoon

It took ten minuetes for Wilde to figure out what Blondie’s problem was, ten infinitely-long minutes. The cure was to wrench down a loose connection at the starter, but by the time he figured it out and stomped on the gas, Jori-Rey had already been gone forever.

Around the bend, she didn’t appear in sight.

Worse, she didn’t appear up the road, which was fairly straight with a good half-mile visibility.

Wilde pushed the pedal to the floor.

The magnamoss responded.

A mile clicked off, then two.

Jori-Rey couldn’t have walked this far.

Wilde’s chest tightened.

The woman had to be in the coupe, that was the only explanation. She wouldn’t have hitched a ride. She’d been making a point by stomping off but she wouldn’t have gone so far as to abandon him.

She must have been taken; Wilde could picture it, a beautiful Indian woman appearing up ahead through the windshield, so wonderfully alone out here in the middle of nowhere, a shapely swaying sundress, a tasty little morsel to gobble up and throw away.

Ten minutes, that’s how much of a lead the coupe had.

Wilde gripped the wheel with both hands and powered Blondie to the edge of losing control, backing off only when the tires squealed or when the ass end started to swing out, and even then hardly at all.

A mile later the road forked.

Wilde skidded to a fishtailing stop, deciding.

Left, that was the way south, the way to Mexico.

Right, that was the wrong way.

Pick one!

Pick one!

Pick one!

He swung to the right, hoping that Jori-Rey had mentioned El Paso or Mexico, hoping that whoever took her knew Wilde would eventually come after him.

A mile passed, then another.

The terrain was high-altitude prairie, framed with mesas in the distance where thunderheads were building.

Then something happened.

A black sedan was pulled over at the side of the road up ahead. Wilde didn’t let up on the gas until he was right on it, where he slammed on the brakes and fishtailed to a stop.

He got out, gun in hand and shouted, “Jori-Rey!”

No on responded.

No one was in the vehicle.

“Jori-Rey!”

No one answered.

He held his breath and listened, turning his head, pointing his ears in every direction. Then he heard something out in the thick prairie brush, something not natural, more like the low baritone of a voice than a bird or act of nature.

He ran that way.

What he saw he couldn’t believe.

Jori-Rey was staked out spread eagle on the ground, struggling against ropes and trying to make all the noise she could through a gag. Her dress was pulled up but her panties were still on. Her legs and chest and arms were drenched in sweat. Her eyes were wild. Her lips were bloody.

She was alone.

Suddenly Wilde’s peripheral vision picked up a movement.

He spun to find three men silently charging.

The closest was right on him.

A knife swung at his face.

Wilde twisted far enough to avoid the steel but so fast and awkward that the movement slapped him to the ground. His spine landed on a rock and a violent jolt shot up his back and into his brain.

The man lunged.

Wilde jerked the barrel up and pulled the trigger.

Bam!

Bam!

The man landed on him, lifted his arm to stab the knife down and then collapsed with a limp thud. Wilde grabbed his arm but there was no strength left in it.

The man didn’t move.

He was weight.

Wilde shot his eyes up to get the location of the other two men. Four steps away a man threw a rock at his face with every muscle of his body. It hit the other man in the side of his head, crushing his skull and splattering spray into Wilde’s face.

He shot.

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

Another rock came, landing in the dirt not more than a few inches from Wilde’s face. He frantically twisted out from under the body.

When he got to his feet, the other two men were running into the terrain. Their speed was fast. Their bodies were strong.

Wilde pointed the gun at the back of the closest one.

His finger hesitated.

He lowered his aim and shot at the man’s legs.

Bam!

The bullet landed to the right, exploding the dirt.

The men kept running.

Six bullets, that how many he’d shot.

None were left.

He had more but there were back in Blondie at the other end of the universe.

He cut Jori-Rey loose and pulled her up.

The other two men, who had disappeared into the thickness of the boulders and brush, were suddenly back in sight fifty yards away, not running but coming directly at them with a purposeful stride.

Jori-Rey kicked the dead man in the face.

Wilde pulled her away and said, “We got to go!”

They ran.

Ten steps later Wilde slowed just enough to turn and see if the men were giving chase.

They were.

30

Day Seven

August 9, 1952

Friday Night

Friday night after dark the lights of a town appeared in the far distance up the road, shimmering in and out of focus as the road rose and fell. Every bone and muscle and molecule in Wilde’s body was beaten to a pulp from the endless hours behind the wheel. Blondie was running on fumes.

Beer, food, a shower and mattress; it was all fast approaching.

They were deep in the guts of New Mexico.

Jori-Rey was asleep in the passenger seat, her head tilted and rocking with the motion of the road.

The black sedan was a memory at this point but one that Wilde kept close. Luckily, he and Jori-Rey had been able to get back to Blondie in time to reload, which brought the two men to a last-second halt. Wilde shot two of the sedan’s tires to oblivion as he squealed away. One guy threw a rock that caught Blondie in the trunk. Wilde almost went back to give the asshole a little tit for tat, and even slowed down, but then thought better of it.

The sedan’s tires could be repaired by now.

He had no idea who the men were.

He had no idea what their relation was to the man who forced Wilde to kill him.

They could seek revenge.

They could be coming after him; no,
them.

They’d had a good look at Blondie. She was a lot of things but she wasn’t the kind of girl who could hide very well.

A mile clicked off.

The town got closer.

Then something happened.

Blondie sputtered, as if momentarily choking on a chicken bone, then came back to normal.

Wilde hardened his eyes.

Don’t do it.

They were still a ways out, five miles at least.

His gaze fell to the gas gauge, yet again, for the hundredth time this hour. It was limp, hanging way below the E. It had been down in that territory in the past but never this far.

He patted the dash and took some weight off the pedal.

Come on, just a little more.

Blondie kept rolling.

Every inch was a gift.

They were three miles out now, within walking distance if it came to it.

Another mile clicked off and then another.

Blondie sputtered, re-caught her breath, went a hundred yards and then died a final death. Wilde let her roll in neutral as far as she would go and pulled off the road. At the last second a rattlesnake slithered frantically away from the headlights, bringing its body directly in front of a tire. Wilde jerked the wheel but it was too late. Blondie rolled over it with hardly any reaction.

They were a mile from town.

With the road noise gone, the silence was suddenly absolute.

Jori-Rey brought her head up and said, “Wow, look at all the stars.”

Wilde pointed his face up.

There were millions of them, so bright that they actually cast a yellow patina over the terrain even without the help of a moon.

“We’re going to have to walk,” he said.

Jori-Rey stretched.

“Fine with me. I could use it.”

Wilde stepped out, wedged the gun into his belt, grabbed the briefcase from the back seat, said “Watch for snakes,” and headed for the lights down the middle of the road with Jori-Rey at his side.

“So what’s the plan?”

“The plan is to hope this cow-town is big enough to have a motel,” he said.

“No, I mean when we get to El Paso.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I haven’t changed my mind, Wilde,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

She slapped his ass.

“Am I too much for you?”

He slapped her back.

“Yes but you’re worth it.”

The Scorpion’s Tail Motel was one of those L-shaped one-story jobs with pull-in parking in front of the rooms. A sign flicked red bulbs on and off—
cancy, cancy cancy.

The siding was adobe.

The doors were green paint in the second stage of peeling.

The exposed timbers were dark and weathered.

It was probably in good shape back in the day, maybe even plush. Now it was a bag of fleas, no need to bring your own. Out of ten rooms or so, only one had a vehicle in front.

In the office they found a young Mexican girl, no more than sixteen, reading a magazine and listening to the radio, visibly startled when the door opened and someone walked in.

“Is you dad or mom here?” Wilde said.

“They’re in the back, sleeping.”

“So you’re in charge?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Vida.”

“Vida, that’s pretty.” Wilde leaned on the counter. “Tell me something, Vida. How’d this place get its name?”

“Why, don’t you like it?”

“Actually, I do—Scorpion’s Tail. It’s not your average motel name, so I was just curious.”

She hesitated, deciding, and then said, “We don’t usually tell strangers, but the place used to be called the Last Chance Motel, on account of how far it is to the next town. Then one night a couple of years ago, a man got killed by a scorpion while he was sleeping in his room. A week later my dad changed the name.”

“Interesting,” Wilde said. “What room was he in?”

“The last one, 112.”

Wilde pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to her. “That’s not for the room,” he said. “That’s for you.”

She held it, hesitant, as if it might bite.

“Why?”

“Because someone might come around tonight or in the morning looking for someone who might look like me and my lady-friend here. If they do, what are you going to say?”

“I’ll tell them the truth,” she said. “I never seen anyone like that.”

Wilde smiled.

“That’s what I was hoping. We’ll take the scorpion room, 112, if it’s available.”

Jori-Rey nudged him.

“We will?”

“Yes.”

“That’s six dollars,” Vida said. “Should I take it out of the twenty?”

Wilde gave her a ten.

“No, take it out of this and keep the change.”

The girl focused on him.

“Who are you two?”

“We’re just a couple of ghosts,” Wilde said. “We were never here. I’m going to park my car in the back, out of sight, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. Good luck to you.”

31

Day Seven

August 9, 1952

Friday Night

Leaving Jori-Rey alone in the scorpion room with the briefcase, the gun, a kiss on the lips and her promise that she wouldn’t venture out, Wilde got a can of gas from the station down the street and hoofed it back to Blondie.

She’d been ravaged.

All four tires were flat, the cause not visible but undoubtedly slit.

The hood was open.

Wires were cut.

He tried the starter and got no response.

The trunk had been pried open.

Jori-Rey’s suitcase was on the ground. Her clothes were scattered in all directions.

Who did it?

The black sedan guys?

Teens?

Some lowlife driving by and stopping for an opportunity?

Wilde poured the contents of the can into the gas tank, then put the ragtop up, closed the hood and got the trunk lid down and held in position with a rock.

At least she’d be watertight.

He tried the ignition again, just for grins, and got nothing but absolute silence. The wires would need to be replaced or spliced.

He scooped up Jori-Rey’s stuff back into the suitcase, tucked it under his arm and started the walk back to town. A hundred yards into it, headlights came from behind, bouncing as if from a stiff suspension, more like a truck than a car. Wilde’s first thought was to stick his thumb out but the less people who saw him the better.

The headlights paused briefly at Blondie and then kept moving.

When they came to Wilde, they drifted to a stop.

The vehicle was a ragged pickup, dented and worn, basically dark, blue maybe, with a white front fender. Something under the body rattled, most likely a U-joint.

The passenger window was down.

A strong arm hung out.

A white T was rolled up at the sleeve with a pack of cigarettes inside.

A weathered face came into view.

It belonged to an Indian, with black braided hair cascading out from under a black cowboy hat. A patina of whiskey radiated. A scratchy radio played from the dash, something hillbilly.

“If you want a ride go ahead and hop in the back.”

Wilde hesitated, said “Thanks,” and then put a foot on the rear tire and swung up into the bed.

The vehicle took off.

Wilde’s mind raced.

The original plan had been to try to stay alive until the morning and take off at the first blink of dawn. That was history. It was doubtful a town this small and this far from civilization had tires that fit, not to mention the wiring issue.

They could be stuck here for days.

The Scorpion’s Tail came up on the right. The light was on in Jori-Rey’s room. Everything looked normal. Wilde resisted the urge to pound on the cab and instead let the vehicle continue. Three blocks later it came to a stop in front of a bar.

The door was propped open.

Bodies came into view; both men and women, most wearing cowboy hats.

Even from here the noise was already loud and drunk, befitting a Friday night.

Wilde hopped out but left the suitcase in the bed.

The passenger, already out, was a good size; strong, too, he’d be hard to put down in a fight. The driver was his equal. Wilde shook their hands and said, “Let me buy you guys a drink.”

Hillbilly music spilled out of a jukebox.

No one paid any attention to it.

It was just noise, barely audible in all the other noise.

They ended up near the back, leaning against the wall with brown bottles in hands, watching the cowgirls play pool. One walked over to Wilde and said, “You got winners, and that will be me.”

Fifteen minutes later Wilde walked out with two beers in his gut, a lost game of pool to his credit, and the keys to the truck in hand. Back at The Scorpion’s Tail he told Jori-Rey what happened; how Blondie got trashed, how he bought the Indian’s truck and how they were going to arrange to get Blondie towed tomorrow to a place called Honest Ed’s Garage & Repair.

“There’s an honest guy in every town,” he said. “Here it’s Ed.”

Jori-Rey pulled the window coverings to the side far enough to get a glimpse of the truck.

“Will that thing make it?”

“We’re going to find out.” He set a book of matches on fire, lit two cigarettes from the flames and handed one to Jori-Rey. “I’m going to take a quick shower then we’ll go hunt down some food. After that, I’m going to hunt down you, so be warned.”

“Be warned yourself.”

He headed for the bathroom, got the spray up to temperature, mashed the butt out on the sink halfway done to save the rest for later, and stepped inside.

Nothing had ever felt so good.

Well, that wasn’t true, but close.

When he stepped out ten minutes later, Jori-Rey wasn’t there; the briefcase was and the gun was but she wasn’t. Wilde opened the door to find the pickup gone.

She must have made a food run.

Half his brain raged fire that she was playing so reckless.

The other half anticipated the food.

He was closing the door when his peripheral vision picked up a motion across the street. He went inside without looking directly at it, turned off the lights and then pulled the curtain to the side.

Across the way was a parked car.

The black silhouettes of two men were inside.

One cupped a cigarette in his hand as if hiding the fire. The glow lit his face every time he took a drag.

Five minutes later headlights lit the window coverings with a strong force and then went black. Jori-Rey stepped out of the truck and headed for the door. In her hand was a brown paper bag. Wilde let her in and as he did the headlights on the vehicle across the way came to life and squealed away.

Jori-Rey saw the look on Wilde’s face, checked out the taillights as they disappeared down the street and said, “Company?”

“Maybe.”

“Who?”

“It’s not the black sedan. The lawyer said someone might try to intercept the briefcase. I thought he was lying as an excuse to give me the assignment, but maybe he wasn’t.”

Inside the bag were tacos, enchiladas and two cans of RC.

They dug in, with the radio on, and Wilde checking the street every other second.

The mysterious headlights didn’t reappear.

Jori-Rey grabbed a towel from the bathroom and put it over the lamp, dimming the room but not killing the light completely.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead her body broke into a dance, almost as if possessed, incredibly free and erotic. Her arms were up. Her feet were bare. Her lips were open.

“I love this song,” she said.

“So I see.”

She let the music take her, control her, transfix her, slowly unbuttoning her blouse the while, then slipping it off and tossing it to Wilde.

Then her shorts were gone; then her bra.

She was down to her panties.

Her body was perfect.

Every movement shot a new jolt of electricity into Wilde’s blood.

He watched for as long as he could.

Then he went to her, hard, a predator pouncing with attack, lifting her up and drawing her tight, pulling her legs open, pinning her back against the wall and not letting her loose, not an inch, not until every pore of his being had his evil little fill.