Yeah, I heard him.
I was half a block away, crossing the highway, backtracking toward my car and I could still hear him. Only what I heard now was the sound of him beating her. I heard her screaming above the traffic noise, begging him to stop. I was closer to the bar than I was to them but I still heard his yelling and her screaming over the muted roar of the band inside. I doubled back to check on her, but the noise had stopped. I crept up to the room, peeked through the broken door.
“What did you see?”
“Two stoners having makeup sex.”
“Women,” Callie said. “Can’t live with ‘em—”
“What about you?” I said, “Your first time with a john.”
“I might be splitting hairs here, but I wasn’t an authentic hooker.”
The drill bit finally burst through the wall. I reversed the direction and retracted the drill, leaving a quarter-inch hole. I cupped my hands around the opening and shouted, “Alison!” Then I put my ear up to it and heard a muted response that sounded like someone saying the letter “M” over and over.
“Yeah,” I said to Callie.
“Yeah, what?”
“You might be splitting hairs when you say you weren’t an authentic hooker.”
“Kiss my ass,” she said.
“I’d be delighted to. And while we’re on the subject…”
“Of my ass?”
“Of johns. You ever have any issues with violence?”
“One time a sweet old gentleman enjoyed my company for about four minutes before smacking me in the back of the head with brass knuckles, knocking me out, and robbing me.”
“See, that’s the problem with civilians. They’re emotional, unpredictable, and they come at you from all the wrong angles. By the way, Alison’s alive. She’s got her mouth taped up.”
“Well that’s good news. How long till we’re in?”
“Let’s put it this way. Have you had dinner yet?”
“I don’t eat much.”
“Good thing.”
I started drilling the second hole.
Chapter 55
When the drill started smoking, I stopped a few minutes to let it cool. Callie took the opportunity to say, “The first time you put your life in danger.”
“What about it?”
“How old were you?”
I thought a minute.
“Ten.”
“Early bloomer,” she said.
I’d just finished fourth grade. Summer break, my grandfather took me on a camping trip in the Colorado foothills. We spent the second night in a little cabin in a roadside campground, and the next morning I got up early and went for a hike. I’d probably gone two miles when I realized all the pines started looking alike. I stopped and made a slow, complete turn, searching for a trail. But there was none. I wasn’t exactly afraid, but I wasn’t exactly fearless either. I closed my eyes and took a step in the direction I assumed would take me back to the campground. No, that step was slightly higher. I took a step in the opposite direction. Slightly lower. Funny how sometimes you can figure things out with your eyes closed that you’d never know by looking.
The drill had cooled off enough to continue my assault on the wall. I went at it with gusto. While I worked, I thought about that morning, thirty years ago, when I was lost in the Colorado foothills.
It took twice as long to get back that morning, and my route wasn’t a direct one, so I wound up approaching the campsite from the opposite way I’d started. There was a fenced-in corral I hadn’t seen the night before, and a couple of flea-bitten horses picking at the sparse grass. A good sized kid, maybe thirteen, with strawberry hair and freckles—saw me coming out of the woods. He pointed to the fence and giggled the laugh all childhood bullies have in common. He was older and bigger than me and I wanted to avoid confrontation. I was also dying of thirst and wanted to let my grandfather know I was safe. Nevertheless, I allowed my eyes to follow the direction the big kid was pointing.
There was something moving on top of a fence post. I walked over for a closer look and saw that the little bastard had stuck a box turtle on top of the fence post. He’d centered it in such a way that the bottom of the turtle’s shell was perched on the post but its head, feet and tail dangled in the air on all sides. The turtle’s feet moved furiously in a futile effort to make contact with something solid. It was apparent the kid intended the turtle to die this way, either from thirst, exhaustion, or maybe he expected it to boil to death as the day wore on. The kid didn’t care, he thought it was hilarious. He kept grinning and pointed to the line of fence posts behind me, where I saw a dozen more turtles lined up as motionless as any group of sports trophies.
Callie said, “What did you do?”
That morning in Colorado after the big, strawberry blondhaired kid showed me his turtle graveyard, I took the silver dollar out of my pocket, the one I’d carried all these years, and flipped it in the air. It flew maybe twenty feet high before starting its descent. When the turtle killer looked up to catch my coin I punched him on the side of the head, exploding my fist into his jaw the way my grandfather had taught me, turning into the punch, putting everything I had into it. The bully and the silver dollar hit the ground at the same time. I rescued the live turtle, picked the dead ones off their perches, and left the big, strawberry-haired kid laying there, his legs twitching like a turtle on a fence post.
“Did he die?” Callie asked.
“From a skinny ten-year-old’s punch? No way. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard the rocks whizzing past my ears. The son-of-a-bitch tried to kill me!”
“What did you do?”
“Ran like hell!”
Callie laughed.
“You put your life on the line for a turtle.”
I laughed. “I guess.”
“I think it’s noble.”
“Uh huh.”
“Donovan Creed, Ninja Turtle.”
The drill burst through the wall, leaving a second hole, about an inch from the first one. From the bag I got a hammer and chisel and started banging away. The chisel made short work of the area between the holes, and left an opening I could have gotten two fingers through.
I put my mouth to the new opening and said, “Alison, this is Donovan Creed. I know they told you I was dead, but I’m very much alive and I’m going to get you out of there. I’ve got a friend with me. Her name is Callie Carpenter, and she’s going to rescue you.”
“MMM…MMMM” Alison said.
“Save your strength,” I said through the opening.
Callie said, “How much longer?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops.”
“How’s that possible?”
“The wall is weakening,” I said.
I got the concrete saw and started cutting a vertical line from the center of the hole. When I’d made a two-foot cut I turned to Callie and said, “See? We’re practically in.”