The White Mountain (20 page)

Randall stepped over Walls
and crouched down to the floor, looking for the proper angle, as if Mein Kampf
had been vertical when it happened.  He said, “Hold still, shithead.  Grown ass
man like yourself, this won’t hurt too awful bad.”

Two quick pulls of the
trigger and a howling German later, Randall was satisfied with his solution.

Mein Kampf wasn’t going
anywhere and would, with any luck, die sooner rather than later, and inside the
story in Randall’s mind, Henry Walls had saved his life and died a hero.

***

Pushing the boundaries of the
speed limit, cruising well past it but within a range that wouldn’t get him
pulled over, Randall hurtled north on the interstate.  His old Ford pickup,
rusted and held together by spit and duct tape, rattled and banged along,
threatening to fall apart with every bump in the road.  He sped past cars and
rigs hauling god-knows-what to god-knows-where, watching the gathering storm
clouds in his rear view mirror that promised more rain and flooding.  He’d
joked with Jesse just last week that if the weather kept up, they’d have to
strap an outboard motor to the tailgate and float around town.  In his son’s
eyes, the prospect of floating down the streets of Smythville had seemed like
the most exciting thing in the world at the time.  Randall had even tossed a
couple of canoe paddles into the truck’s bed just to humor him, and now, they
bounced and vibrated from one side to the other.

He’d decided there would be
no stopping along the way to northern Virginia, but his aching bladder demanded
otherwise.

Eighty miles north of
Smythville, he pulled into a rest area, followed by a red, four-door Chevy
Cavalier that had been behind him since he’d driven up the entrance ramp
outside of town.  Although they were the only two vehicles parked, it didn’t
seem out of place at first.  Lots of people in Smythville travelled north to
the larger cities up the road.  For work, for better shopping, for a heartier
taste of culture, for any number of reasons.

The odd feeling of being
watched
from a distance didn’t set in until he walked out of the bathroom and noticed
that the driver remained behind the wheel with the engine running.

Randall shook off the
sensation, telling himself that he was being paranoid as he walked toward his
truck.  The guy,
if
it was a guy, had probably stopped to make a phone
call, nothing more.

He reached for the keys in
his pocket and glanced up in time to see the Cavalier’s window roll down a
couple of inches, followed by something protruding from the two-inch seam.  If
it hadn’t been for the angle of his sight line and the variance of color—black
metal against bright red, the barrel shiny in the sunlight—he never would’ve
noticed.

Intuition shoved him to the
side and behind a low brick wall as the bullet
pinged
off a nearby
lamppost. 

Geisha. 

Randall stayed low, crawling
a few feet ahead to a decorative, iron grating inlaid in the middle of the wall. 
Dirt, twigs, and leaves, all manner of windblown refuse, still wet from the
recent rain, clung to his clothes, his cheek, as he lay there, contemplating
his next move.  He peeked through, saw the car door open, and watched Geisha
drop out and crouch behind it, using it as cover.

Randall clenched his jaws,
figuring his best option was to wait him out.  Soon enough, another guy with a
screaming bladder would pull into the lot and Geisha would be forced to refrain
from open daylight murder.

Possibly.

But then what?  A high-speed
chase down the interstate, firing at tires, blowing out windows?  Attracting
attention?  He didn’t want that, and he was positive Geisha was smart enough to
know better.  Would it be a low-speed chase, each of them refusing to give
ground, to take the lead and become the vulnerable target?  Crawling along at
ten miles an hour, blocking traffic, drawing the ire of a pissed off trucker
that could switch over to the nearest police radio band and alert Smokey about
the two idiots back near mile marker eighty-one?

No.  Neither of them
acceptable scenarios.

The top of Geisha’s head
appeared in the window.  Randall ducked back out of sight, then shuffled around
so that nothing more than an eyeball would be visible from the corner of the
grating. 

Geisha looked left and right,
searching.

Bastard don’t know where I
am.  Don’t do me any good though.  Twenty yards from here to the truck, wide
open ground.  I’ll never make it.  Wait him out.  Just wait.  Somebody will
come in.

But no one did.  For a full
two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, by Randall’s count, not a single passing
car stopped, and it took that long for Geisha to make a move.  He pitched
himself upright, slammed the door closed, and ran toward the wall.

Randall froze, indecisive. 
Wait on him to come over the wall and attack?  Spring up and run for cover? 
What?  What were the options?

At the last possible second,
as Geisha took his final steps toward the low-lying barrier, Randall scrambled
to his feet, stepped up on the wall, and jumped, tackling Geisha mid-stride.

CHAPTER 19

Mary focused intently on the cars
ahead, trying not to think about the gun pointed at her ribcage.

Billy Barton,
Chuck the
Betrayer
, sat in the passenger seat.  Silent, only speaking when he needed
to give directions. 

Turn left here.  Take a
right at the next light.  Don’t even think about taking your hands off that
steering wheel.

Stop looking at him—he
can’t help you.

Traffic.  Always the traffic
in northern VA.  So much hustle and bustle of people simply trying to get from
one place to the next.  Crowding up the highways, suffocating the open space,
clogging the arteries of congested civilization.  In that moment, in such a
desperate situation, Mary felt vulnerable and defeated, yet again, because she
was completely trapped within dire circumstances while everyone around her went
about their business.  What were they all doing?  Where were they going? 
Thousands upon thousands of lives taking thousands and thousands of different
directions.  Each individual existing within their own separate reality, their
own universe.

The man in the blue Lexus,
maybe on his way to sell his third condo this week.

The young mother in the
minivan, green paint fading, with a smiling toddler in the back, maybe on her
way to daycare or the grocery store.

The police officer in the
cruiser to her left, sipping his coffee, eyes on the stoplight above, oblivious
to the fact that she was imprisoned, held hostage, just a few feet away. 

Mary angled her head, stared
at him, willing him to look in her direction.  Telepathically begging him,
Help
me.

Whether by chance or
coincidence, it worked.  Briefly.  He turned his head and they made eye
contact.  He smiled, gave a curt
Ma’am
nod, and returned his attention
to the stoplight before she could send another mental message, feeling the
opportunity evaporate and her desperation solidify.

Billy goosed her in the ribs
with the gun barrel.  “I said stop looking at him.  What do you think he can do,
anyway?  With my connections, I got no problem pulling the trigger, and it’d
all be under the rug before your funeral.  Keep cool and you’ll make it. 
You’ll get home.”

Lies.  Damned lies.  Mary
seethed, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.  She hated this, hated
waiting to die.  No matter what he promised, she knew she wouldn’t be allowed
to live.  She knew far too little, but had seen too much, regardless of what it
meant or what was really happening.  She wasn’t walking away at the end of it
all, physically or metaphorically.  Limp or no limp.

She was merely the courier to
her own execution.

If she’d been weaker, if
she’d allowed herself to give up all hope of vengeance or escape, she would’ve
done something to hasten the process.  Punched Billy in the face, rolled down
the window to scream for help.  Something, anything, to get it over with.

But no.  Moments before he’d
gotten the upper hand, back at Herb’s house, she’d finally made up her mind to
let go, to move forward with her life and leave the past in the past, and in
that fleeting moment, she’d experienced something that she hadn’t felt in
years.

Relief.

And as faint, foreign, and ephemeral
as the sensation was, she didn’t want to loosen her grip on the possibilities
just yet.  She had a life she could look forward to, a nephew to spoil, and
maybe even a family of her own.  All seen now under a fresh, new outlook.

I can do this
, she thought. 
He’ll slip up.

“Where we going?” she asked.

“Somewhere secluded.  Our
third party has certain…restrictions…on their mobility.  Don’t worry about it. 
You drive, I’ll guide.”

And that was the end of the
conversation.  Mary did as she was told, but not without keeping a watchful eye
on him, waiting for an opportunity.  Waiting for him to linger over the scenery
too long, or a moment when he might be distracted with the seatbelt, anything
that might give her the split second she needed to swing a backhand and rip the
gun from his hand.

Come on.  Give me
something.  Just look over at the mirror.  Make sure the cop’s not following
us.  One second.  That’s all I need.  One tiny second and you’re mine.

It didn’t happen.  Billy was
stoic.  Resolute.  Staring straight ahead, arm locked in a tight ninety-degree
angle, finger on the trigger.  Never swaying from his rapt attention.

Mary cursed him, chewed on
her bottom lip until it became raw, almost bleeding.

They navigated through the
waters of endless bottlenecks and congestion until the traffic lightened and
she could change lanes without firing a warning shot across the bow of another
vehicle.  Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, out away from all the
stoplights and honking horns, he ordered her to take the next exit, then guided
her through a series of streets that finally led to an industrial park.

It seemed abandoned.  Row
upon row of empty office buildings lined the streets.  Their signs remained
(Bluebird Computing – Beauregard Heating and Light – SHARKBETA) but inside the
windows, lights were off.  Parking lots were empty.  Squat, brown brick
complexes that a contractor with the lowest bid could practically regurgitate
overnight.  Inside would be a monotone-colored workspace filled with drab, dull
cubicles and matching carpet.  Motivational posters that someone forgot to
remove.  Indications of expensive rent, failed businesses, and a slogging
economy.

“Damn shame,” Billy said. 
“Ten years ago, you couldn’t find an empty spot in this place.  Used to be, out
here, the rent was cheap because it was so far away from everything.  Some big
shot developer swooped in, bought every single piece of property, thinking he
could jack up the rent and make some quick money.  When real estate took a
nosedive, all these businesses were able to move out, get back closer to the
action for a cheaper price.  Left the dumbass flat empty on twenty acres of
cardboard cutouts, too stupid or stubborn to realize that all he had to do was
lower his rent and he’d have been fine.  Guy wound up blowing his brains out,
right there,” he said, pointing toward the front entrance of yet another empty
building.  “They never got the bloodstains out of the concrete.  Anyway, Uncle
Jackson stepped in and bought the whole thing for pennies on the dollar.  Now
he’s just biding his time until everything gets back to where it was.  Not that
you give a shit, of course.”

“I don’t,” Mary spat.  “You bring
me all the way out here just to give me a history lesson?”

“No, I told you, the third
Ares wants to meet you.”

“Why, so
he
can put
the bullet in my head?”

“Not necessarily.  Not if you
play along.  Curiosity more than anything.  You were discussed, at length, and
a suggestion came up.  Hold on—pull over right here.  Park.  Easy now, don’t
move, don’t get any ideas.”

Mary parked, and cut off the
engine.  They sat in front of yet another carbon-copy office building with a
blue sign out front, white lettering that read
Whitestone Controls
. 
“What now?” she asked, jutting her chin toward the building.  “Is that where
I’m dying, in there?”

“There’s a fifty-fifty
chance, to be honest, but I gotta tell you, Mary, I like you, and I don’t want
to see that happen.”

She had no response.  At
least one that wouldn’t get her shot right there in the car.

Instead, she shrugged.

“Truly, I hope you make it. 
All depends on you…and whether or not Randall stays alive.”

“Me?”

“While you were in talking to
Herb, I made a call.  This particular round of the game is a wash, but there’s
no reason we can’t still have a little fun with it.”

“What do you mean,
fun
?”