It reminded him of a time back in-country, when he and another dude walked into some picturesque bug-tussle that instantly covered them in everything from leeches to unknown entomological mutants. They hit like iron filings clinging to a bar magnet. Stuck to skin the way ice cubes stick to a wet sponge. Meshed to flesh the way maggots are drawn to freshly-spilled intestine. It had been a bloodsucker of a nightime ambush and now this word ripped out at him—Ambush!
He fanned micrognats as he moved toward the stand of willows, automatically thinking in terms of broken silhouettes and target opportunities. Moving into the terrain, thinking about possibilities.
He had a chance to save this big boy nine thousand bucks. All he had to do right now was get real stupid. Or be careless.
A man could put a sniper down in these woods a ways. A patient man who could wait under netting and camouflage until the boss wipes his forehead or adjusts his package just so and the shooter takes his first clean head shot.
Somebody very good. Put them up on that knoll over there, or deep in the darkening woods. Give ‘em a thou. You could still save eight.
The imagination was a terrible thing.
Jesus “Sandy” SanDiego was a very bad boy and he played on a tough court. But Meara discounted half of the stories. Sandy had an extremely unfortunate reputation. They said he liked to hurt people. He had been in Farmington once, and they let him out and not long afterward he was dealing in various things. There was talk of a dope burn that had gone sour. A torture death. A pair of corpses left incinerated down by the junction of two old county roads was said to have been Sandy's work.
But would he take a man off for guns he hadn't seen? Raymond slapped at a mosquito, mashing it against his neck and flicking off dead insect and blood. Damn. Another hungry devil bored into his scalp and he scratched at his head.
That night of the bad ambush the leeches had been the worst he'd ever known all the time he'd been overseas. Aggressive and as lethal as you can imagine.
Wisdom: the ultimate catheter nightmare is a hungry, hemophilic worm threading the eye of the penis, or a leech penetrating the puckered anal rosebud.
He felt his neck crawl and his hand was moving when a voice behind him said, “Yo,” and he almost let a burst of pee loose in his britches.
“Damn!"
“S'matter?” SanDiego, moving quietly out of the woods, something in his hand, coming from the direction of the river. Meara a perfect silhouette against the top of the pit.
“Damn, Sandy. I didn't hear you comin'."
“You ain't slowin’ down on me, are ya, chief?” The hand moved out of the shadows into Meara's face. It was a can of Bud Light. “Better have one of these."
“No thanks,” Meara said.
“Okay,” SanDiego said, shrugging. “Let's do the thing."
“Yeah.” Ray moved to the pickup and popped the tailgate latch. He reached in and slid the crate onto the gate. Even on the old piece of slick rug-runner it was all he could do to move it. “There you go.” The huge man tossed the can away from him absent-mindedly.
SanDiego looked around a little. Glanced down into the pit. Back towards the highway. Meara heard the one in the woods before he saw him and eased on around behind the truck, standing at the right side of the vehicle, the pickup between him and the willow trees, as Sandy examined the pieces.
The skinhead came out of the trees with a goofy look on his face, as if he'd just seen something he shouldn't, and kept moving toward the truck.
Meara tucked his hands under his arms and leaned forward against the truck bed, saying softly. “This boy with you?"
“Huh?” SanDiego looked up and then back to the goods. “Um."
“'Spose to be just you ‘n’ me, Sandy. That was what I understood."
“It is. You don't want you ‘n’ me to have to carry these clean across the bar pit, do ya, Ray?"
“No."
“Well, there you are."
“Where you parked, Sandy?"
“I'm over yonder.” He nodded in the direction of the farmland to the south of them.
“Oh.” That was another thing about him. He ran with some of these skinhead weirdos. This one was up beside the truck. Saying nothing. Just staring at the guns.
“Nine large,” the big man said, staring down into the unwrapped assault rifles.
“Right."
“Take a check?” The skinhead kid laughed, a braying mule noise. Meara smiled.
“Maybe another time."
SanDiego laughed mirthlessly and slowly slid his right hand into his hip pocket. Meara was conscious of the stillness. Even the gnats seemed to be holding their breath. He still had his hands tucked under his arms, but he wasn't leaning forward.
“Nine large,” he said, laying the envelope on the tailgate and looking at Meara. Raymond moved over and took the packet with his left hand, steadying it on the side of the truck and fanning it quickly. Ninety hundreds had a nice, thick heft to them.
“Count it, man."
“With you, Sandy? No need. I'll have some more stuff in a couple of weeks."
“Yeah?"
“Including a couple more of these babies with suppressors.” Ever the salesman.
Jesus SanDiego took hold of the crate and slid it to him as if it were a bushel of apples.
“Grab holt,” he said, and the skinhead took the other handle, the pair of them swinging the heavy crate off the truck and moving toward the river. Meara didn't even shut the tailgate, just came around and opened the door, got in, started the motor, and backed down is the direction from which he'd come, his envelope on the seat beside him.
A hard mothering deuce, he thought, wiping his hand on his Levis. He roared out onto the blacktop and cranked every window open, flailing at the swarm of bugs that had joined him in the cab of the pickup. He took a deep breath of the hot night air. Now he could think about the rest of that easy-spending money he hadn't made yet.
12
New Madrid Levee
Daniel had experienced it all during his hellish life, always on either the giving or taking side of pain. He'd been beaten, burnt, taunted, tortured, squashed, stomped, struck, steamrollered, jumped, jacklit, spat on, suffocated, sledgehammered, and damn near snuffed, but this was something else.
The enormous beast had come to believe that yes, though he could be hurt, he would always bounce back. Not so this time. The human battle cruiser had sunk.
The aftermath of something all-powerful, like an exostosis of impacted bone spur working its way out of the root of a rotten tooth, broken during amateur extraction, tried to make it to the surface of his battered awareness. No dice. He'd been freight-trained, he knew that now. His brain had quit on him.
It had to be the beating. It was the only thing in his experience that approached the level of his present condition, as best as he could assess it. It had convinced him that when it comes to mortality, one could forget size, heft, strength, muscle, resolve, grit, race, religion, or sex. When it came down to it everybody bled. Everybody cried.
The remembered pain of the beating warmed him with encouragement, as it was the first thing that came back with any degree of detail. He'd brought it on himself, coming back from the doctor's office, or on his way, fully jacketed, shackled, restrained, black boxed, cuffed, and locked to steel bars. He could vividly picture the guard.
“Lookee here,” Spanish had whispered near the biter, which was a kind of helmet and fencing-mask-type contraption, “the Goodyear blimp's back on its tether. You gonna get a taste now, you ugly mountain of shit.” He struck at the sore ankle but Chaingang managed to move just enough to deflect the worst of it. He said something and the guard froze. It had all been calculated, right down to the hour and minute, everything but the suffering.