John bent down and pulled. Felix felt it cut into his fingers, but he refused to let go. He swung his head upward, fast. His scalp rammed into John’s chin, snapping the larger man’s head backward.
John jerked up to his full height, did a half-turn, then fell like a redwood, banging his forehead into the asphalt when he hit the road, his knife clattering beside him.
The pain hit Felix all at once. His neck. His head. His fingers.
Oh, Christ, my fingers.
He held them up but couldn’t see much in the dark except for blood. Then he reverted back to self-preservation and scurried over to the knife. He was able to pick it up, albeit painfully, and then slowly approached John.
The giant’s eyes were closed. Felix heard a low, rumbling sound, and he realized John was snoring.
Is he faking it?
Felix placed a foot on the hunter’s shoulder, shoved him from his side onto his back. In the high beams, he could make out the growing knot on John’s forehead.
Felix could also make out the injuries to his hands. It looked like he’d stuck them in a blender.
Seeing the cuts made them hurt even more. Felix hurried to the car, threw the knife in the back seat, tucked the 9mm into his waistband, and then dug the first aid kit out of the rear compartment where he kept his car jack and toolbox. He slathered his hands with a full tube of Neosporin, then began to wind them with gauze. Halfway into wrapping his right hand he had to stop and redo it, leaving his index finger free so he could still shoot the gun if needed.
Then Felix yanked out his toolbox, searching through it until he found the handcuffs. An impulse purchase he’d made at the same time he’d bought the gun, on the off-chance he might run into whoever had done Maria harm.
He stuck the keys in his front pocket and rolled the big man onto his belly—a difficult task with someone so heavy. The cuffs just barely fit around his thick wrists. Then Felix managed, with even more difficulty, to pull his cell phone out of his pocket.
Felix used his index finger to dial 9 and 1. Then he paused.
John hadn’t said Maria was dead.
What if she was still alive?
And what if John could take him to her?
“It’s a police matter,” Felix said aloud.
But what if the cops couldn’t get John to talk? What if they weren’t persuasive enough?
Felix stared at the snoring giant.
The man who knows what happened to Maria. The man who sliced up my face and fingers. The man who almost cut off my head.
Felix hit the end call button and tucked the phone away.
I’ll get him to talk.
Felix walked over to John and gave him a hard kick in the ribs to make sure he was still out. The hunter didn’t so much as flinch. Then Felix collapsed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror to look at his injuries.
It was ugly.
His shirt was soaked to the skin with blood. His head looked like he’d dunked it in the stuff, and his hair was plastered to his scalp. Not quite as bad as Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie, but damn close.
Felix mopped away the blood with a stack of paper napkins acquired during his last trip to McDonald’s, paying special attention to wiping off his eyes, where the blood stung like chlorine.
His chin seemed to be the more serious injury; gentle manipulation revealed the jaw bone in the slit. Stitches were needed, but Felix could barely hold the gun, much less a suture. Luckily, in his toolbox was a tube of cyanoacrylate. Superglue. Felix pinched the ends of the wound together and ran a seam of glue across it. The gel set immediately, knitting the edges, forming a tough scab.
The scalp was more complicated, both hard to see and reach. Not worrying about the mess he was making of his hair, Felix alternated between a napkin compress and dabs of glue until the bleeding got under control.
Now what to do about John?
The Cozynook Motel was the best bet. Even though it was full occupancy, each of the rooms had a back patio, facing the woods. Felix could pull the truck around, load John into the room without anyone seeing.
And what about Cameron?
Felix buried the thought. Maria’s brother would either go along with this or he wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t tell anyone. Not after what Felix had done for him.
All that was left to do was figure out how to load John into Felix’s truck. He walked over and grabbed the man’s leg, attempting to drag him.
No good. John had to weigh three hundred pounds. Felix was strong, and he maintained his exercise regimen even during his obsession with finding Maria. But unless he had a ramp and a dolly, or a block and tackle, there was no way he could get John into the flatbed.
That left one alternative. John had to get in himself.
Felix knelt next to the big man’s head, a gun in one hand, a vial of ammonium carbonate from the first aid kit in the other. He held the smelling salts under John’s nostrils until the man’s eyes popped open and he twisted away from the fumes.
“Momma?” he moaned.
“I’m not your momma, asshole.”
John blinked, then sucked in his lower lip. The fear displayed on his round, hairless face made him look like an overgrown child.
“Am I bleedin’? Sweet Jezus, am I cut anywheres?”
Something caught Felix’s attention. Up on the crest of the hill, on the road leading up the mountain.
Headlights.
Someone was coming. Fast.
“Get up. You’re coming with me.”
“My head hurts. Is my head cut?”
Felix’s gaze flitted back to the approaching car. Thirty seconds until it arrived. Maybe less.
“You’re not bleeding.”
“You sure?”
Felix brought the gun up. “You have five seconds to get to your feet, or you will be bleeding. I’ll blow your fucking knee off.”
“Don’t! Aw gawd, please don’t...”
“Get up.”
John tried to get his legs under him, but he was too big and heavy.
The car zoomed within a few hundred yards of them.
Felix shoved the gun in his waistband and winced as he pulled on John’s armpit, helping the man get to his knees.
“Into the back of the truck. Move your ass.”
The car almost upon them now. In just a few seconds they would be in the driver’s headlights. Felix rushed back to his truck and killed his own headlights and the interior light, and then hurried back to John, who was standing in the middle of the road with his mouth open, looking terrified.
“In the fucking truck!” Felix jammed the gun into the hunter’s ribs, prodding him toward the back end. He pulled down the tailgate door, climbing onto the flatbed with John.
“Stay down! Don’t fucking move!”
Felix held his breath. John shook next to him.
The giant was sobbing.
The headlights approached. Felix could make out the shape of the car. A sedan. Square headlights. Something on the roof of it.
A hunting rack?
No. Sirens.
It’s a police car.
And it’s slowing down.
Felix tightened his grip on the Beretta, wondering what he would do if it stopped. He could tell the truth, say he was trying to dial 911 but couldn’t get a cell phone signal.
But then the cops would have John. What if they couldn’t make him talk? Where would that leave Maria?