Diversion 2 - Collusion (17 page)

The earth shook. Lucky awoke in the middle of an earthquake. He bit back a moan when his leg jarred. A pounding head competed with the pulsating bite of his injuries.

No, not earthquake. Truck. I’m inside the truck.
Cold metal kissed his cheek, and every jolt and bump vibrated through his body as the vehicle chugged slowly up an incline. They weren’t on blacktop, and based on the screeching of what had to be tree limbs scraping the top and side of the truck, they were in the woods somewhere.

The guy at the mill had planned to “Drop you off somewhere it’ll take you a while to get back from.” Well, at least they didn’t seem hell-bent to put a bullet in him. Lucky could work with that.

Full dark created zero visibility, and he listened for hints he might not be alone. After a while of fruitless listening, he coughed, revealing his wakefulness. No one told him to be still, or whatever the hell might have been on their minds.

Nursing the headache from hell, he pushed aside cartons and inched toward the back of the truck. Too bad they held cancer drugs and not pain relievers. What he wouldn’t give for a couple of ibuprofen right now. He ran his fingers gently over a lump on his head. His fingers didn’t come away sticky. He’d count that as a little victory—his hard head against a good hard whack. Of course, folks accused him of being hard-headed on a regular basis.

The way he figured, he could try to escape, or wait to find out where the truck took him. Something prodded his hip and he reached into his waistband, grasping one of the vials he’d taken from the mill. Damn. He still had it.

The truck slowed, gears grinding. The incline grew steeper. They must be in the mountains now. He’d spotted the distant peaks from the mill, and he might still be within two hours of where he’d last called Walter. Or he might be in Bumfuck, Egypt by now. He reached for his pendant, to find it not there. Either he’d dropped it or the assholes took it. Didn’t matter, though. More than likely he’d lost signal a long time ago.

He rose up on one knee, probing around the door. The metal panel wouldn’t budge. Locked. Lucky sank to the floor, waiting for the inevitable.

Had the man back at the mill recovered? He didn’t bring to mind any twobit criminal of Lucky’s acquaintance, and Annie sounded more like a housewife than a felon. Of course, criminals came in all sizes, shapes and colors, from white collar banker types to bad B-movie villains. While in prison Lucky had met the sweetest young man, always smiling, always happy, yet he’d chopped his wife up and tossed pieces out the window along I-26 on his way to work one morning. You couldn’t tell about some folks.

If Lucky’s captors were after money only, and woul d do anything to get it, they wouldn’t have qualms about pulling the trigger when they’d had the chance, would they?

Trying to solve the mystery of the soccer parent drug traffickers took too much energy. Where was Bo now? Did he make it back to Atlanta? Did he know Lucky was gone? Did he care?

Lucky lay back down, cradling his pounding head on one arm. How he’d love to be home, lying in bed. He imagined the smooth slide of skin against skin, Bo’s breathy little moans when Lucky worked the toy inside of him. So much he didn’t know about the man, so much more to discover.

What would it be like to have Bo in his bed every night, wake up to hot coffee and freshly cooked breakfast every morning? His empty stomach rumbled. How he’d love some grilled portabellas right now, or even an omelet with lots of cheese. It wasn’t the food or the coffee he really wanted, but the caring. The way Bo did things for him without expecting anything in return. And that damned dimple whenever the man smiled. Lord, The Dimple. Even in agony, Lucky smiled.

A hot cup of coffee would be nice. And maybe a warm bath followed by a massage. Whatever, he just wanted Bo. Bo, to dole out ibuprofen and tuck him into bed. Now to get out of this mess and get the hell back to the man. He’d worry about whether or not Bo wanted him to come back later. One thing at a time.

The bumping and grinding slowed to a halt. Two doors slammed. “You get him out,” Annie said. “Here’s as good a place as any.”

Lucky suddenly saw the sense in Bo’s “protection” birthd ay present. The weight and row of spines along the dragon’s back would make the heavy as lead ornament one hell of a weapon. Pow! Right between the eyes!

A scrape and a click and the door popped open. A flashlight’s beam swept through the trailer. Lucky scrunched his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness. A hand latched onto his injured leg. Holy fuck! Blazing agony shot up Lucky’s leg. He roared.

“Easy now,” Annie scolded. “We don’t want him hurt, just lost for a few days.” Her voice grew closer. Through the flashlight’s glare, and black-around-the-edges vision, Lucky caught a glimpse of a blonde head peeking through the door.

“Broke my leg.” Lucky moaned, pouring on the drama to win sympathy points.
“Oh.” She turned to someone hidden in shadow. “Be careful with his leg.”
The hand latched onto his good ankle, pulling him out of the trailer and setting him upright. He hissed through clenched teeth when his foot hit the ground.
“Look, I’m sorry about this.” Annie shoved a bottle of water at him. “This is all I have. This section of trail is closed down so no hikers will find you. With any luck, you’d make it to the main road in a day or two, if you were able to walk. Ted might shoot me for this, but is there anyone we can call? No way in hell are you going far with a broken leg, and I’m not leaving you out here to die.”
He immediately thought of Bo and reconsidered. “Have someone call the SNB office. They’ll take care of it.”
“No.” The man holding Lucky spoke up for the first time. “They’ll trace us. If we’re gonna call, it’s gotta be a private number, someone they won’t be watching.”
“In that case…” He gave them Bo’s personal cell phone number, telling them Bo was a friend. “What about the cop? The one who came with me.”
“Ted took him somewhere else,” Annie replied, retreating into the darkness with her accomplice. Two slams left Lucky all alone in the dark.
He stood in the middle of a rutted dirt road, watching the headlights fade as the truck backed down the track. Eventually the engine roar faded, and he rested against a tree trunk, with only the chirping crickets and mournful whippoorwills for company. A hooting owl added its voice on occasion. He checked his waistband, shifting the vial to his pocket for safekeeping. Did he dare to hopethey’d actually call Bo?
After a while the darkness faded, his eyes adjusting to moonlight. Overhead a million stars twinkled, and he breathed in crisp mountain air. Even in late spring, this high up the night grew cool. Lucky rubbed his arms, wishing for a jacket. Reaching for a darker shape among the shadows, he grasped onto an overhanging branch, using handy limbs to drag himself along. He banged himself against a few trees along the way, tripped over roots and thick underbrush, but step by painful step, he staggered down the road.

Traces of pink edged the horizon, and Lucky sat beneath a tree, watching the sunrise. When was the last time he’d been up this early, with nothing to do other than watch the stars fade and the darkness overhead lighten to blue?

He recalled lying on the hill overlooking the family farm, talking to his sister, sharing his dreams. Once, all he’d wanted from the future amounted to watching the world go by through the windshield of an eighteen-wheeler. Did he even have dreams anymore? For ten years he’d focused solely on completing his sentence and getting his life back, first in prison, and then as one of Walter Smith’s experiments in gaining inside knowledge of drug trafficking from an actual trafficker. Last year Walter had handed Lucky a second chance on a silver platter. What did he intend to do with it?

Bo’s face appeared in his mind. How did a man get to be Bo’s age, going through all the shit he’d gone through, and still manage to be a nice guy?

Compared to an abusive father, losing friends in Afghanistan, and fighting against a prescription pill habit, Lucky’s problems seemed light. And yet Lucky was the inconsiderate asshole, and Bo was all, “Can I get you anything?”

The pieces fell together about Bo’s compulsive neatness. For a kid growing up with no stability, maybe he’d learned to control the things he could, like ensuring he never had to hunt for anything, or like Lucky did too often, give up hunting and simply buy more. But wait, Bo grew up poor, too, barely having enough to eat. His obsessions began to make sense.

Bo needed structure and stability and Lucky didn’t have the foggiest clue how to be what the man needed.
Has he asked you to change?
his inner voice asked. “No,” Lucky replied. “But he will. It’s only a matter of time, once he gets tired of my mouth.”
Arms folded around his knee, wishing he could fold them around Bo, Lucky finally dozed.

He awoke stiff and sore, the sun shining brightly overhead. Stretching out kinked muscles, he took a mental inventory of his hurts. Beat up, scraped up, covered in dried bat shit, he’d probably sunk to a new alltime low, or as his landlady might say, “Another wild night.”

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he grumbled, making his unsteady way to his feet. His ankle throbbed, now swollen to twice its normal size. He limped around the area, finding a forked branch lying on the ground. Damn. Too short. Another proved too long. His third choice wasn’t perfect but close enough. Tucking the forked portion under his armpit, he experimented with his makeshift crutch. One step, two steps. He wouldn’t win any marathons, but it beat the hell out of sitting still.

He swallowed down a few mouthfuls of water and tucked the bottle into his shirt. This far out in the wild he didn’t even hear traffic sounds. Lucky set off to find civilization, following the way the truck had brought him in.

The sun beat down, sweat poured down his back, and he winced at a horrible wind-borne stench. He sniffed, and sniffed again closer to his armpit. Oh. It was him. A shower, a tall glass of sweet tea, two ibuprofen, something unhealthy to eat, and a nice long nap—in that order. Not much to ask, right? No wait. First he wanted Bo.

How long would it take for someone to find him? Had Annie called Bo yet? Had the search begun? His stomach grumbled and complained, hunger battling nausea for dominance. Shortly after noon he turned up the water bottle, catching the few last remaining drops on his tongue.

On and on he plodded, his improvised crutch chafing his armpit. The sweet song of flowing water started softly, and he tracked the sound, the melody growing stronger with each step. Silver flashed in the bright sunlight, in a gorge at the bottom of the ridge. Ah-ha! There! Through the trees! Lucky stumbled downhill, finally resorting to sliding down on his ass after he fell the third time and tumbled several yards, snapping his crutch in two. If anyone searched for him, they had to have heard the screams when he hit his leg against a tree.

He sat at the base of a waterfall, sucking in a deep breath before removing his shoe. He’d have to recommend a change of uniform. His black dress shoes might be considered professional, but for field work they sucked. They hurt like all hell coming off his swollen foot, too. Lessons from long ago Boy Scout training guided him to a spot where the water rushed over the rocks to drink.

One inch at time, he lowered his battered leg into the water, purple and green mingling with pink and white. Holy fuck! That was cold! The mountain-fed stream chilled his swollen ankle, and the pain momentarily faded somewhat. He stuck his head under the fall’s spray, gulping in sweet mouthfuls and shivering at the frigid drips.

A rock wobbled beneath him, and the world turned upside down. Grasping helplessly at lichen-slickened rocks, he lost the fight with gravity and plunged into a deep pool.
Oh dear God in heaven!
He came up sputtering and gasping.
Brrr!

He maneuvered himself onto the bank to keep from being swept downstream, and set about cleaning up the best he could with only a handful of sand for soap and his golf shirt for a washcloth. No telling what’d happened to his hat. Bloody scrapes marred both forearms, he’d definitely bruised his wrist and a few other areas. A goose egg stood out against his scalp, tender to the touch. The ankle didn’t work and electricity shot through his leg when Lucky gently rotated his foot. He screamed, dropping his throbbing limb into the icy current.

Teeth gritted together, he rode out the agony.
Holy fuck! Holy fuck!
Slowly the stabbing pain ebbed to steady pulsing. Dried blood and bat shit floated downstream, leaving Lucky cleaner but still miserable.
He crawled over to a flat rock, to let heat seep through his wet pants to his chilled body. He tossed his shirt over a nearby bush to dry. Gradually he relaxed, lulled by birds chirping overhead and wishing, not that he was home, but that he’d taken Bo up on the offer to go hiking together. Right now he’d give anything to see the man.
Insistent buzzing grew louder. Eyes closed, Lucky swatted at his ears to drive back mosquitoes.
Wait a damn minute. Those weren’t mosquitoes! They were four-wheelers.

Lucky struggled upright. “Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms above his head. “Hey!”
The fourwheelers’ humming drowned him out, and the drivers didn’t even slow down on the ridge above his head. He scrambled on hands and knees up the hill, forgetting his shoes and shirt until halfway up. Winded and strength nearly gone, no way in hell was he turning around.
Another four-wheeler passed by, with him too far away to get the driver’s attention. At least they appeared to be searching for him, since Annie mentioned this section of the forest closed. Where was he anyway? Caesar’s Head State Park? That’s where he’d have laid his money on a bet.
He’d left his watch on a rock by the stream, but estimated two hours passed before he managed to claw his way back up to the road. He collapsed on the dirt track, heaving in and out. Was there another way out of here? Surely those four-wheelers had to pass back by again. Fate couldn’t be cruel enough to tease him.
Lucky nodded off, wondering if he’d ever lay eyes on his lover again. The picnic he’d refused to attend, all the times he’d shied away from Bo’s apartment, every missed opportunity condemned him. In that moment, he’d gladly stroll into the office hand-inhand, just to see the man one more time.