“ I see you!”
A bullet slammed into a tree six inches from his head. Rick turned into the woods with renewed energy.
After two minutes of desperate flight with brush and branch whipping against his bare skin, he stopped to listen. The man didn’t appear to be following, and if what the man had said about Vietnam was true, it didn’t make any sense, because he was leaving a trail a blind man could follow.
“ I still see you.”
Rick was moving before the two quick shots were fired. He didn’t know where they landed and he didn’t turn to look. He just moved, tearing through the growth.
Another minute of full-bore flight and he stopped to rest again, grabbing a few deep breaths, then he started breaking trail. The son-of-a-bitch was going to have to be in excellent shape to keep up with him.
And as he ran, he thought, three shots fired, three shots left. Maybe two could play the game. Maybe he could get the man to use all his ammunition. New hope coursed through him as he pushed on through the woods. He was lost, but not down, and not out. He heard a car pass by and he knew the road was up ahead. He continued on, struggling through the pines, until he was on the pavement, about a quarter mile below his house.
Without stopping to rest, he started up the road. In a few minutes he would be home. He could take the Montero and drive to town, where he figured he could buy a shotgun at the sporting goods store and enough shells to finish the job. Three minutes to the car, five minutes to town, five minutes to buy the gun, five minutes back. Eighteen minutes and he would be ready to do battle again.
He was halfway home when he heard the big man’s booming laughter and a bullet slammed into his already sliced shoulder, knocking him down. He rolled and pushed himself up, fighting the pain, and made like a jack rabbit, sprinting toward home.
As he came into the driveway, he heard another shot and a distant part of his mind said, One bullet left, only one bullet left.
He reached the Montero, grabbed onto the door latch, pulled the driver’s door open. He fumbled in his pockets for the keys, found them, bent over the steering wheel, and with a hand steadier than it had a right to be, inserted the key into the ignition, but before he could crank it over a bullet flew through the front passenger’s window, slicing into his right shoulder, lancing along his back to his left, leaving a foot and a half graze along his back before it smashed out the driver’s window and lodge into the front porch.
And a lightning thought flashed through the haze. He had another gun. He reached into the bag Judy had given him and withdrew her thirty-eight. Then he opened the driver’s door and fell like a dead man onto the driveway, clutching the gun to his chest.
He lay, playing possum, for a half-minute that seemed like half a lifetime, before he heard the sound of the Ragged Man’s hard shoes scraping against the pavement. He waited until he felt the big man’s shadow cover his body.
“ Fuck you!” He rolled onto his back as he fired the pistol into the man’s right thigh.
The big man screamed and fell back, landing on his ass.
Rick forced himself up and staggered over to the man who had done so much killing.
“ I should kill you now, but I’m more afraid of you dead than alive.” Rick saw the quizzical look on the man’s face. “You don’t understand, do you?”
The man didn’t answer.
“ My plan is to take you out to sea, about a mile or so, and to toss you in while you’re still breathing. By the time you die, I’ll be long gone and you’ll be all alone. All alone with nobody around, nobody to possess. You’ll die a final death and then you’ll be nothing but shark bait.”
The man’s eyes lit up.
Rick lowered the pistol and blew off the man’s left knee cap.
The Ragged Man rolled on the ground, screaming in pain until Rick brought the butt of the pistol down on his head, knocking him out.
He checked his pulse and, satisfied the man was still alive, dragged him to the rear of the Montero. Breathing heavily, he opened the back and put up the back seat. Then calling on all of his reserves, he picked up the Ragged Man like a sack of stones and stuffed him into the back, closing the door on him with no more regard than he’d have for dead fish.
Then he drove down the hill toward the pier.
J.P. heard the car start and felt a lump build in his throat. Was Rick dead or was he leaving without him? No matter which, it wasn’t fair. He had been through too much to die naked in a bathtub.
He looked at the clock, 9:50. He had two hours and ten minutes to figure a way out of the mess he was in and he had to do it himself, all by himself, because he was alone, all alone.
He tried twisting his wrists against the rope to no avail. The Ragged Man had tied it too tight. With all his might he struggled to pull his right hand loose, but only succeeded in further bruising his already bruised and cut hands.
Then he tried stretching to see if he could reach the radio. It was a no go. He was still an easy foot shy. In frustration, he raised his bound legs and brought them down in the tub, splashing water, and he splashed again and again and again, sending the red tinged water splattering through out the bathroom. Tired, he dropped his legs and his right foot hit something in the tub.
The soap.
If he could get the soap he could use it to slicken up his hands, and maybe then he could slide them through the ropes.
He used his feet to drag the soap up to where he could stretch and reach it with his hands. Then he raised his hands out of the water and started spreading the soap around. On his hands, on his wrists and on the rope. He rubbed until he had a good lather and then, clenching his teeth against the pain, forced his right thumb under the palm of his hand, till it was pushed firmly against the little finger, and he slowly and firmly pulled.
He felt the rope pulling and scraping against him and it hurt like someone was scraping hot chunks of glass across his skin, but he kept up the pressure and he felt his hand start to slide loose. He pulled harder, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, biting down on it till he tasted blood. His effort paid off. His hand slid through.
He jerked the free hand to his mouth, ripped off the tape and spit blood. He took a deep breath, spit more blood. He untied his other hand. He untied his feet. Then he tried to untie the noose that held his neck back against the hot and cold water faucets and couldn’t.
He struggled with his hands behind his head, against the knot, but it wouldn’t give. Either it was too tight or it was the kind of knot that couldn’t be untied, like the kind he used to get in his shoelaces. When he got that kind of knot the only way to undo it was with a scissors.
He needed a rest.
He looked at the clock.
It was 10:15.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rick Gordon turned the Montero off Mountain Sea and onto the pier, ignoring the No Vehicles on the Pier sign.
He hit the horn and kept it blaring for the length of the pier, scattering tourists and locals from his path. When he got to the boat, Captain Stewart and Judy Donovan were waiting. He jumped out of the car, causing the waiting couple to jump back at his bloody appearance.
“ My God,” Judy gasped, “what happened to you?”
“ I’ve been shot.”
“ We need to get you to a doctor!”
“ Later. First we have to dump some human garbage out at sea.”
“ No. We have to get you to a doctor!” Wolfe Stewart echoed Judy.
“ We have a much more important thing to take care of.” Rick went to the back of the Montero, opened the rear door.
“ Is he alive?” Wolfe asked.
“ Not for long, we’re going to dump him at sea and leave him for the sharks.”
“ No, we’re not!” Wolfe Stewart said. “We’re not taking the law into our hands. We’ll call the sheriff,”