“If I had, we sure wouldn’t be spending our day driving this loudmouth across Florida.”
George looked back at Ivan. “Sorry. Your intimidation tactic didn’t work.”
“A pity.”
“Intimidation is a big part of how I make my living, so let me give you some pointers. First of all--and this is a big one, Ivan, so write it down--when you’re trying to intimidate your opponent, the most important thing to remember is to not be locked in a cage in his van. If you fail to follow that rule, your chances at a successful intimidation attempt drop to just about nil. Did you write it down?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a writing utensil.”
“Well, then just try to remember it. Your ‘hell’ speech works much better when you’re not in a cage, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re a confident man, George. I admire that. I enjoy licking up blood that comes from a confident man.”
“That’s gross.”
Ivan nodded. “Yes, it is. Also irrelevant, since what I’m really going to do is set off this explosive device that’s strapped to my left leg.”
George felt a sudden flash of panic. He couldn’t help it. Then he immediately relaxed--the little creep was just messing with him. “Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Bateman captured you and caged you up without realizing that you had a bomb on your leg?”
“You’ve had me in the car for two hours without realizing it.”
George looked at Ivan’s leg. There didn’t seem to be a bulge, but...
“I call bullshit.”
“Or maybe Bateman knows about it. Maybe we just haven’t reached the designated detonation point yet.”
“Or perhaps you’re conversing out of your ass.”
“Aren’t you going to order me to pull up my pant leg?”
“Nope.”
“Not going to pull a gun on me?”
“I might pull a gun on you if you don’t shut up, but I’m not going to do it to make you pull up your pant leg.”
The female voice of the GPS announced that they had one mile left until their exit.
“Make you a deal. Buy me a burger and I won’t blow us all to smithereens. That’s a fair deal, right? A combo #1 and your scorched head doesn’t land three towns away.”
George turned back around in his seat. He had to admit that Ivan’s endless chatter was preferable to the sobbing and begging and screaming that he and Lou sometimes had to endure, and probably better than the whining that Ivan had subjected them to at the beginning of the drive, yet it was still pretty grating. And they had another three hours to go. He wished they had a tranquilizer dart.
They pulled off at the next exit. They could’ve gone up to Interstate 75 and then quickly found an easy-on, easy-off place to get gas, but whenever possible George and Lou preferred to fill up at mom-and-pop gas stations. Less chance of security cameras. And they liked to support small businesses.
“Welcome to Hachiholata,” said Lou, as they stopped at a red light.
The town, if you could even call it a town, was quite a bit smaller than George had expected--just a two-lane road lined by a few non-chain businesses. He didn’t even see a McDonalds, and traffic was almost non-existent.
“Looks like a peaceful place,” Lou noted. “I could retire here.”
“What? You hate Florida!”
“I mean I could retire in a place like this that wasn’t in Florida.”
“Well, we’ve got a long way to go before retirement. And when I do, it’s sure as hell not going to be--wow, look at that dog.”
George pointed out his side window. A dog--a collie, one of those Lassie dogs--was about a block away, running toward the van, barking furiously. A yellow leash dragged on the ground behind it, though George didn’t see any sign of the owner.
“He looks mad,” Lou noted.
The light was still red. The dog continued racing toward them, moving at an alarming pace, with the van clearly its target. “Make sure you don’t run him over when you go,” George said. “Jeez, he’s really not slowing down...”
The dog slammed into the side of the van. George’s heart gave a jolt and he let out a cry of surprise.
“What the hell?” Lou asked, sounding even more startled than George felt. “How do you hit a dog when you’re not even moving?”
The dog slammed into the side of the van again, still barking. George quickly adjusted the side-view mirror, and saw the dog throw its entire body into the van, face-first, over and over, leaving behind smears of blood. The van rocked a little with each blow.
“Fucker’s rabid!” George shouted. “Get us out of here!”
The light had already turned green, so Lou gunned the engine and they sped through the intersection. George spun around and saw the dog, broken and pitiful, limping after them.
“Holy shit!” said Lou. “Have you ever seen a dog do that before?”
“Never.” As a rule, George didn’t have sympathy for anything that attacked him, but he felt terrible for the poor beast. “Should we go back and put it out of its misery?”
Lou looked incredulous. “You mean run it over all the way?”
“No, I mean shoot it or something.”
“Yeah, let’s whip out some guns and shoot a rabid dog when we’ve got Ivan in the back. That won’t attract any attention. Real smart, George.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“I’m not sarcastic. I’m freaked out!”
George looked back at their prisoner. Ivan sat silently in his cage, his expression unreadable, almost serene. George considered telling him to shut up anyway, but didn’t.
“What do we do now?” Lou asked.
“Same thing we were going to do before. Get some gas and deliver the werewolf to Tampa. Let’s not lose our heads over a Cujo.”
“You’re right, you’re right.”
“I hope its owner is able to fix it up.”
Lou looked as if he wanted to make another sarcastic comment, then just shook his head. “There’s a gas station up there.”
They pulled into the gas station, Hachiholata Gas & Gulp, which had four pumps and a small convenience store. Their rule for the past nine years was that whoever drove, the other guy had to pump the gas, so George got out of the van. There were several dents in the side of the vehicle along with the blood. George wondered if Bateman would be pissed. He didn’t seem to care enough about his Porsche to keep it in pristine shape, so he probably wouldn’t get all upset over a few dents on a dumpy old van.
George swiped his untraceable credit card and began to pump the gas.
He picked up the gas station’s squeegee and dipped it into the cleaning fluid, which was gray and murky and probably hadn’t been changed in weeks. He wiped off the blood with the squeegee, rinsing twice before he was done, and finished off the task with a paper towel.
That was totally surreal. Maybe the dog knew they had a werewolf in captivity and was trying to pull off a rescue mission. A little shared-species courtesy.
Nah. Only a rabid dog would bash itself bloody like that. He hoped its owner found it in time to get it to the vet, although he didn’t think the dog had much of a chance even if it wasn’t diseased. At times like these, George wished he weren’t a criminal, so he could safely put a dog out of its misery without having to explain why he had an unregistered firearm.
Another car pulled into the gas station, a small blue one that George and Lou probably couldn’t have fit inside without ripping out the front seat. The driver, a hot young brunette in shorts and a tight t-shirt, got out of the car, gave George a friendly, not quite flirtatious smile, and began to pump her own gas.