Unspeakable (3 page)

But he had to get out of here first.

Today his and Myron's names had appeared on the list, Tomorrow was the day. He had waited for it. Planned it. A few hours from now he would be a free man. If everything went his way. There was a lot that could go wrong. That's why his stomach was so nervous he could barely choke down the beanie-wienies and sauerkraut on the dinner tray.

But he ate the food anyway to keep from drawing the screws' attention and arousing their suspicion. "Myron, tonight before you go to sleep, you might try going over the plan in your mind."

A spoonful of sauerkraut disappeared into Myron's mouth. "What plan, Carl?"

"Jesus," Carl muttered. This was hopeless. How many times had they been over it? If the idiot fucked this up for him, he would kill him with his bare hands. Taking a deep sigh of resignat ion, he said, "Never mind, Myron. You just stick to me like a fly to shit tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay, Carl."

"When I tell you to do something, I want you to do it, okay?"

"Okay."

"No arguments, no discussion, just do it, okay?"

"Okay."

Go stick your dick in a meat grinder, Myron, okay? Okay, Carl.

On the verge of screaming with frustration, Carl reminded himself that this was the kind of blind obedience he wanted and needed. He was the top gun, the leader, the head honcho. He was the dashing, good-looking, shrewd ladies' man, strategist stud. In an operation like this, there couldn't be more than one boss. It needed mules, too.

So actually it was better that Myron was dumb and obedient to a fault. Because when Carl told him to do something—like, say, slit the bastard guard's throat—that's what Myron would do. Without shame or remorse, Myron had told Carl stories about his childhood. Young Myron Hutts had been one twisted fuck. He'd been a one-man extermination brigade in his town, ridding the community and outlying areas of pets and small animals before the authorities finally caught him and sent him away for psychiatric analysis. Members of his family had petitioned the state authorities until they finally released him from the head hospital. They lived—not for long, however—to regret it.

Myron had spoken matter-of-factly about their slaughter. "Grandma's head went plop, and her wig come right off. It fell into the gravy bowl."

Myron was particularly fond of telling that part because on occasion Grandma had used Myron's head as a wig form while she was putting curlers in it. The rest of the family always laughed hysterically upon seeing their tall, gawky Myron in Grandma's gray wig all wound up in pink sponge curlers.

His head had also been used as a punching bag when his old man got drunk and disorderly. One particularly bad drinking binge had resulted in Myron's retardation. His daddy had repeatedly slammed the head of his two-year-old son into the room radiator. It had been summer and the radiator was cold, but it had done its damage just the same.

From that day on, Myron was an easy target for verbal and physical potshots. He was made fun of at school, routinely abused by the bullies. But it was his family—Dad, Mom, sister, and Granny—who tortured and humiliated the boy for their amusement.

They didn't laugh the evening Myron came to the supper table with a hatchet and a shotgun. He'd made one hell of a mess of his family. A killing like that, it was a wonder he hadn't been deemed criminally insane and confined to a psychiatric hospital for analysis and healing. Most likely a fire-breathing prosecutor had argued that Myron was bright enough to go to the big house, and that if he were confined to a hospital rather than sentenced to a maximum-security prison, the state would be running the risk of some bleeding-heart shrink eventually declaring him "cured" and unleashing him on an unsuspecting public, And, in fact, he showed no compunction against killing, Bugs, animals, people—you name it. Carl had watched Myron torture small creatures for hours before killing them.

Oh, yes, Carl needed a Myron. A case could be made that he was taking advantage of Myron just as ruthlessly as had the bullies in his grade school. But, as with all twinges of conscience, Carl ignored this one.

Feeling a sudden rush of affection for the man who obviously idolized him, Carl leaned across the table and smiled at his confederate. "Have I told you the two things I'm gonna do when I get outta here, Myron?"

"Find some sweet Mexican pussy."

Carl laughed. "You remember that one, don't you, Myron?"

"Yeah, I remember that one." Myron smiled through a mouthful of beanie-wienies.

"That and what else?" Carl asked. "What else am I gonna do?" Myron pushed the food down his throat with a hard, noisy swallow. "Kill the motherfuckers who got you put in prison."

CHAPTER FOUR

J
ack Sawyer stepped down from the cab of his pickup. "Need some help there?" His footsteps crunched across the loose gravel of the driveway, sending up small clouds of dust that resettled on his scuffed snakeskin boots, boots handcrafted by a Mexican saddle maker more than a decade ago. The old guy had been fond of taking frequent tequila shots, so Jack's left boot was a fraction of an inch longer than the right. He'd never asked the cobbler to correct it. Instead, his foot had adjusted to the slight imperfection.

The boy to whom he had addressed the question seemed particularly interested in his boots as he watched Jack's approach with unconcealed curiosity, his tongue tucked securely in his cheek. Jack had no experience with children, but he estimated the boy to be about five years old. He nudged his mother's thigh to get her attention, but she brushed his hand aside while her head and shoulders remained beneath the hood of the car, where she was examining an engine that was obviously giving her trouble.

The boy started toward him. They met about halfway between Jack's pickup and the stalled car. The kid tilted his head back to look up at Jack and squinted against the bright noon sun. Jack said, "Hi."

"Did you know I have a book about dinosaurs?"

"No kidding?"

"A video, too."

"Hmm."

"Velociraptors are my favorite."

"You don't say? Mine too," Jack told him.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Cool. What about pterodactyls?"

"Pretty scary, those pterodactyls."

The boy gave him an approving grin, which revealed a space recently vacated by a front tooth. The new one had pushed through his gums to form a jagged little mountain range in the gap. He was a cute kid, dressed in shorts, and sneakers and a T-shirt bearing the likeness of a TV

cartoon character whom Jack recognized but couldn't name. The boy had rosy cheeks and a healthy sprinkling of freckles. A few strands of dark hair were sweat-stuck to his forehead.

"What's your name?"

"Jack. What's yours?"

"David."

"Pleased to meet you, David." He hitched his chin toward the car. "What seems to be the problem?"

The boy shrugged, pulling both shoulders up beneath his ears and extending his arms at his sides, palms up. "I dunno. My mom and me were going into town, but when we got in the car it went like this." He made a choking sound and gyrated like somebody with a terrible palsy. "Then it stopped and my mom can't start it again."

Jack nodded and started moving toward the car and the woman, who wasn't nearly as friendly as her son. Either that or she didn't welcome the interference of a stranger. Or she was scared of him and thought that maybe if she just ignored him he would go away. "Uh, ma'am? Can I be of help?"

The boy went to his mother, placed the heel of his hand on the outside of her thigh, and gave it several urgent pushes. This time she straightened up and turned toward him with exasperation. That's when she must've caught sight of Jack out of the corner of her eye, because she did a double take, then jumped like she'd been scalded.

"My mom's deaf," the boy informed him. "She didn't hear you coming. I think you scared her." Jack thought so too. Her eyes were bouncing around like twin Ping-Pong balls in a heated tournament, moving from him to his pickup and back again, trying to gauge whether or not he was dangerous.

The boy said, "When you sneak up on her she gets mad."

"I didn't know I was sneaking up on her." Jack extended one hand in apology. She reacted by flattening herself against the grill of the car and yanking the kid up against her.

"Mo-om." David stretched the protest into two syllables as he wiggled free. He signed and spoke at the same time. "Don't be scared. He's nice. His name's Jack. He—" She held her hand up in a silent command that he stop.

"Tell her I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"She can read your lips," the boy said, interrupting. "I'll try to sign what you say, but she's good at reading lips."

Looking directly at her, Jack overenunciated, "Can you understand me?" Her eyes narrowed a fraction. From irritation was Jack's guess. Although he couldn't imagine what he'd said to tick her off. Then he received a curt bob of her head that shook loose a hank of hair from a summertime topknot. It was the same dark color as the boy's, but the sun had found threads of copper in it.

"I didn't mean to startle you, ma'am. I'm here to see Mr. Corbett, but long as I'm here, I'd be happy to try and start your car for you."

The boy nudged her to get her attention. "Can he, Mom?"

She shook her head no.

Forlornly the boy said to Jack, "I don't think she's gonna let you."

"I don't mean any harm, ma'am," Jack said to her.

She continued to eye Jack warily as she signed for the boy to interpret. "She says thank you, but we'll call a garage."

"Yeah, you could do that, all right. But it might not be necessary." Jack motioned toward the car.

"It could be something real simple."

Her fingers moved furiously fast. Her lips formed words, too, although no sound came out. The gist of what she was saying was conveyed by her animated facial expressions, but Jack looked to David for interpretation.

"She says if it was something real simple, she could fix it herself. She says she's deaf, not—I missed that, Mom. What's that sign mean?" He tapped his first two fingers against the center of his forehead.

She spelled out the word alphabetically. David recited the letters as she signed them. "What's that spell, Jack?"

"Stupid," he said.

"Oh," David said. "It makes her mad for people to think she's dumb just 'cause she's deaf."

"No offense intended." Jack rubbed his chin, becoming a little irritated himself. "You want me to take a look at your busted car or not? Because if not, it's hotter than h- e-double-ell out here and I'd just as soon be trying to find some shade if there's any to be found." David's plump fingers were spelling out h- e-double-ell in the sign language alphabet. "Jack, what does that spell? Is it hell?"

Refraining to answer, Jack said, "How 'bout it, ma'am?"

David interpreted her reply. " Thank you, but Mr. Corbett will see to it."

"Is he around?"

"Some steers broke down a section of fence. That way." David pointed out the direction. "My grandpa's fixing it."

"Your grandpa?"

"Yeah."

"Where's your dad?"

"He died."

"Died?"

"Before I was borned."

Jack looked at the woman, who in turn shot her son a look that could kill, then got his attention and began to sign. "She says I'm talking too much."

"The offer is still good. How bad did you need to get to town?" Maybe his persistence finally wore her down, although she didn't look like a person who would capitulate easily. Maybe she'd decided he wasn't a threat after all. Or maybe the suggestion of finding some shade appealed to her. For whatever reason, she was on the brink of acquiescing when her eyes dropped to his waist.

Following his mother's gaze, David remarked, "It might be your knife that's scaring her."

"Oh. Is that all?" Jack unsnapped the leather scabbard. The woman stiffened. He eased the knife from the sheath and laid it on his palm. Crouching down in front of David, he gave the boy a closer look.

"An Indian brave made this, David. A Comanche warrior. Long time ago."

"Wow," the boy exclaimed in a reverent and hushed voice. He extended his hand to touch the weapon, but timidly withdrew it before making contact.

"It's okay. You can touch it."

"How come it's bumpy?"

"That's the way the Indians made their knives back then."

David ran his finger along the bluish, rippled blade. "Cool," he said in the same reverential tone. Slowly Jack came to his feet. Keeping his eyes on the woman's face, he replaced the knife in its scabbard. He then raised both hands in surrender.

She didn't take kindly to the mockery, but, giving him a retiring look, she stepped aside and signaled that it was okay if he looked at the engine.

He removed his straw cowboy hat and sunglasses, placed the sunglasses in the crown of his hat, and set it on the fender. Poking his head beneath the raised hood, he bent over the motor. A bead of sweat rolled off his forehead and splashed onto the hot casing, making a small sizzling sound as it evaporated.