A fresh wave of pain jumped through his shoulder, ricocheted through his neck and chest and settled somewhere in his gut. Everything hurt. But he figured if was going to be in pain, he might as well make it count. He crawled back over to the car and popped the trunk. Sure enough, the box of rum was still back there, but they’d taken his shotgun. And the ten thousand.
They hadn’t found the rest of his pills, though, taped to the underside of the front bumper. He decided to save them for later and put them in his pocket. He grabbed a fresh bottle of rum, fell into the back seat, and stretched out. He propped the bottle upside down against the back of the passenger seat so he wouldn’t have to move much, and nursed from the bottle until he fell asleep.
DAY THIRTY-FOUR
Frank woke up and found a lioness sticking her head in the window and sniffing down at the bottle of rum and his head. The lioness pulled back and Frank exhaled. Without thinking, tried to push himself up. Agony marched through his joints, and just then, the lioness stuck her head into the other window down by his feet. He hadn’t realized he’d left both of the windows down.
Frank forced himself to relax. If she sensed fear, heard his beating heart, her predator instincts would kick in and she would tear him apart in the back seat. He tried to slow his breathing down, willing his stomach to rise and settle slower, slower. And then he realized that he’d pissed on himself sometime in the night and hoped there wasn’t blood in the urine. The lioness would smell it. She inhaled, three times, deep, and looked at him, then pulled itself out of the window and disappeared.
Frank decided he needed a drink. And a change of clothes.
The extra suit was underneath the box of rum. He wasn’t concerned about wrinkles.
He left the jeans and the shirt in the trunk, but kept the bag of pills. He cracked open a fresh bottle, jammed a pill in his mouth, and drank. He figured it was smartest to just leave the car and walk. The sky was lightening quickly now and he could see the strangled branches of the oak trees. The stars were nearly gone. He stuck two more bottles into the suit pockets and walked slowly down to the dirt track, wincing in pain with each step.
* * * * *
He found Chuck’s pickup blocking the narrow bridge over the creek. By then, the rum had eased some of his pain, and he was able to creep quietly up to the cab. He heard Chuck’s snoring even before he looked inside. Chuck was sprawled out with a .30-30 and a half full bottle of tequila. Theo’s .405 Winchester was in the gun rack in the back window.
Sturm must have sent him out here to stand guard, either to make sure that Frank didn’t try and come back or to make sure anyone new coming into town had been invited. Maybe both. Frank’s first instinct was to simply keep going and leave Chuck snoring peacefully. Avoid trouble.
But then the voice in his head spoke up, and Frank listened carefully. He took another look at the inside of the cab. It was a mess. Empty beer cans covered the floor. Wrinkled and faded photos of some sickly woman fondling a horse’s penis had been taped to the roof. Stained, crumpled napkins and used paper plates covered the dashboard. The trash nearly covered the red leather sheath of Chuck’s hunting knife with a fixed six-inch blade.
He went around to the driver’s side, reached in, grabbed the knife, and tucked it into the small of his back. He watched Chuck a moment, watching the chest rise and fall with the sound of some small animal drowning in mud. Frank took another drink, a long one, and put the bottle on the hood. He was starting to feel the first tingle of speed as it spread through his system, simultaneously calming the pain and urging the muscles to look sharp. It made him impatient. He slammed the bottom of his fist against the horn.
Chuck jerked awake at the noise, dropping the bottle and clutching the rifle.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” Frank said.
“You ain’t…I don’t…what time is it?”
“It’s early.”
“Shit. Don’t tell Sturm.” Chuck rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Wait a minute—you’re supposed to be gone.” His eyes swept the cab. “You ain’t supposed to still be here.”
Frank offered Chuck his bottle of rum. “Yeah. But I got to hurting pretty bad, and decided to just rest a while, have a drink, you know? You boys didn’t exactly hold back when you were kicking the shit out of me.”
Chuck looked like he wanted to apologize and take the bottle, but he knew that Sturm would be pissed. He shook his head. “You gotta get the fuck out of here, man. Sturm finds us, no joke, he’s liable to kill both us.”
Frank nodded, took a drink. “Yeah. Might kill me, I suppose. But you? Why?”
But Chuck just shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Get outa here, okay? Don’t make me shoot you.”
“Now, Chuck. Think about it. Hell, I wanted to, I could’ve taken your rifle and shot you dead. Right?”
Chuck shrugged, reluctantly nodded, and tried to bite back a yawn.
Frank said, “Right. So relax. Shit, I can’t wait to be on my way. Just saw your truck here, and though you might like some medicine before I leave for good.”
That got Chuck’s attention. “What kind of medicine?”
Frank smiled, and it almost made it across his whole face. “Your medicine. You know. Frank’s Surprise.”
“Wait, you got some out here? What, were you taking it with you?”
“Sure. You never know.” The chemicals from the pill were seeping into Frank’s muscles, his joints, his mind. The sun hadn’t quite broken over the horizon just yet, but the lines of the truck, the stubble on Chucks’ cheeks and chin, the pattern of tires left in the dirt, all of it, it settled and shimmered into crystalline clarity. “Come on, I’ll show you what I got. Then I promise, I’m outa here.”
Frank left Chuck and walked to the back of the pickup. He unlocked the tailgate and slammed it down. Frank set his bottles on the tailgate and made a show of patting the suit, looking for the drugs. Chuck came out of the cab, wary, holding his rifle out. He joined Frank at the back of his truck.
Frank said, “Here we go,” and slapped the baggie of pills on the tailgate.
Chuck bent over. “Uh, that ain’t what you gave me before.”
“It isn’t? Shit.” Frank looked up, into the deep, dark, blue sky, suddenly alarmed. “Fuck is that?”
Chuck followed his gaze.
Frank stuck Chuck in the throat with his knife with his right hand and yanked the rifle away at the same time with his left. He stepped back and left the blade imbedded in Chuck’s neck.
Chuck grabbed his pickup for support, knife handle jutting out of his neck at a perfect ninety-degree angle. His mouth gaped open, as if he couldn’t believe Frank had just pulled something so sneaky. But then his expression changed, as if wasn’t surprised anymore, just worried. He tried to breathe and couldn’t. The skin that hung loose off his face grew red, then white, then blue. It was almost patriotic.
Chuck’s hands went to his neck, but he couldn’t find the handle, couldn’t coordinate his fingers to close at just the right time. Finally, he finally managed to grab the damn thing and jerk the knife out of his neck.
There was surprisingly little blood.
Chuck exhaled, a sweet, blissful sound, despite the neat, inch long wound, pale and so far bloodless, like a young woman’s prim lips, pressed tight together like she’d just seen something truly obscene, such as the pictures at the top of his cab, for the first time. He damn near smiled with relief. The promise of fresh, cool air was close enough to grab and simply inhale.
Frank was glad that Chuck felt better, but as Chuck relaxed enough to draw his first breath, Frank got out of the way. A great gush of blood erupted out of the wound, blowing open the thin edges.