The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) (21 page)

Feeling smug and relieved, Max said, “Okay then, lets go.”

They hopped in the truck and headed back to the house.

They walked through the front door and looked over several of the wall panels that had been placed on the floor and carefully refinished.  The man responsible for the beautiful work lay motionless on the floor underneath a ladder.

Max looked at Josh's stiff, still form. “How many days did he make it this time?”

Mike searched the ceiling in recollection, counting under his breath and then said, “I think he's been at it for four days without stop. That's a new record for him.”

Max stuck out his lower lip and nodded thoughtfully. He grunted, “hmmm,” and then walked over to Josh's still form. “Okay, you grab his legs, I've got his shoulders.” Mike looked pointedly at Max, then at his crutches. Max sighed. “Fine, I'll do it.” He picked up Josh's emaciated, featherweight body, carried him to a corner out of the way, and set him down gently on the floor.

Max stood up. “You know, I asked Doc if he had ever heard of anything that would make a person stiffen up like this, and the only thing he could come up with was rigor-mortis.”

Mike shrugged. “Well, he's still breathing, and I suppose it isn't any weirder than anything else in this death trap.”

Immediately after saying that, Mike took a large step to the side as a chunk of plaster fell from the roof and smacked the floor where he had been standing.

He shook his fist in the air triumphantly. “Ha! You missed, you miserable termite-ridden pile of rotten wood!” He took another step to the side, but nothing happened this time.

Max shook his head. “Mike, I don't think you should antagonize Belle like that.”

Mike snorted. “Sometimes you just have to let them know you're not afraid of them.” As he finished, another, larger, piece of plaster fell and shattered upon his work helmet.

Mike scowled at the ceiling again but didn't say anything this time. He headed for the tools they kept stashed in the music room. When he entered, he called out a good morning to Old Bone who was sitting in his accustomed place on the table, watching television. Old Bone clacked his teeth in acknowledgment and Mike headed to the back of the room. Watching this, Max shook his head. It was amazing the things you could get used to. He regarded Old Bone thoughtfully. The head definitely seemed to be regenerating. It was so slow that you wouldn't notice it unless you were looking, but a couple of weeks back, Old Bone hadn't had any muscles which could move his jaws. He shook off the thought as Mike called for his help.

While the two of them were busy laying down the rest of the new sub-flooring in the music room, Max said, “Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you. My forensic accountants are going to pull the plug on Tony today.”

Mike didn't look up, but he said, “I don't know Max, are you sure you want to do that? Seems unreasonably dangerous to me.”

Max put a few nails into the flooring with the nail gun. Phut! phut! phut! and he was done. He was a huge fan of the nail gun. It was incredibly fast, saved a lot of wear and tear on his fingers, and was pretty accident proof.

Max said, “I don't care. I don't want to work with anyone who thinks that investing in one of the world's biggest weapons dealers is a good idea—growth industry or not. Did I tell you that I looked up what Abaddon meant?”

“Nope,” grunted Mike, fitting the next sheet into place.

“It means 'the destroyer.’ It's one of the names of the Devil, for crying out loud.”

Mike grunted. “Sounds appropriate. What about Megabucks or Lux Lucy? Any idea what they do yet?”

“Well Megabucks isn't too bad. It's mainly a money lender. They offer those payday loans?”

Mike stopped and looked at Max with eyes raised in disbelief. “Not too bad? Jesus Max, get a clue! Those guys are sharks. They are the worst sort of predators. Their interest rates can be more than one hundred percent!”

“What? That's not possible Mike. They can't expect to get back that kind of return!”

“But they do, Max. They hide it by saying that the interest rates are like 10%, but that is per week. They’re scum! One of those moved into town a few years back. They’re just bad news.”

“Oh. Well. I guess I'll have to sell that stock as well.”

“It would be better if you could just shut them down.”

That was an intriguing thought. What if he could shut them down? He'd have to ask his gorilla accountants that were currently wrenching control from Tony.

“What about Lex Lucy?”

“It's Lex Lucidis, and I have no idea what they do yet. I've got a national detective agency collecting data for me on them. I'm sure it will be something unsavory as well.”

“Sounds like a good thing you're taking your money back from Tony. So what do you think he's going to do when you tell him he's fired?”

“I don't know, and I don't care.” Phut! phut! phut!

“I still think you should be careful, Max. I've got a bad feeling that this guy's unsavory connections don't just end with the companies he invests in. He'll try to get back at you.”

Max waived his arms in annoyance. “I don't give a damn!” phut! phut! Two nails flew out of the gun in Max's hand and passed to either side of Mike's head, missing him by inches.

Simultaneously, Mike ducked and swore, and Max dropped the gun in fear. The gun landed on the floor. Phut! phut! Two more nails shot out towards Mike. One ricocheted off the steel toe of his boot, and the other one was driven halfway into its sole.

“Holy fuck, Max! Stop it! You could put someone's eye out that way!” He jumped out of the path of the business end of the nailer.

Aghast, Max held up his hands, “I'm sorry, Mikey! I didn't mean to do it! You told me it couldn't go off if it wasn't pressed against the surface of something.”

“It shouldn't!” said Mike in a frustrated and stressed voice. He lifted up his boot and tried to pull the nail out of the thick rubber sole of his boot. “Damn, that would have hurt if it hit.” He gave up trying to pull the nail out and stomped over to the gun. He picked it up and examined it, carefully not pointing it at himself. He pulled the trigger experimentally a couple times and when nothing happened he said, “Stupid house.”

Max looked up to the ceiling and yelled. “Belle! Stop it! If you hurt Mike or drive him off, I'm going to burn you down myself! I need him in one piece to fix you up!”

Mike looked at him in surprise. He said, “Do you really think that will work?”

Max looked a little sheepish. “It couldn't hurt, could it?”

Mike shook his head and went to look for some pliers to pull out the nail.

After a while, the two hit their stride again and made some progress before they stopped for lunch. They went to the main hall and sat in the sunshine coming in through the newly clean window.

Over a ham sandwich, Mike said, “So what are you going to do with it?”

“What?”

“Your money when you pull it out of these corporations?”

“I think I'm going to donate it to charity.”

“You could give it to me.”

“Don't be greedy, Mike. You’re already going to get paid millions. This is the last house you will ever have to fix up.”

“What charity?”

“I don't know,” said Max around a mouthful of ham. “I may have to set up a foundation to give it away.”

“Now that would be an interesting job.”

Max disagreed. There were so many people in need out there. He didn't think he could choose who the money was going to go to without feeling guilty about leaving someone else out.

After lunch, Mike told Max that he was going to take a nap.

Max grinned at him. “What's a matter Mike, she keep you up late?”

Mike looked at him with a grin. “A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but one thing I can say is, long live Dixie!”

Max laughed and went back to the music room. Mike and Josh had shown him how to put up the wooden panels that formed the basis for the walls and he started doing it. He used the nail gun, but was careful not to point it at anything breakable—like himself. phut! phut! phut! phut! He worked for about an hour and fell into “the zone.” He found it surprisingly pleasant to work with his hands and effective at tuning out the rest of the world. For the first time in a long time, he felt relaxed and almost content. He should have known better.

“Mr. Faust! Can I get a picture for your fans?” At the same time the shout came from the window, a bright flash went off. Max jerked back from the window and nearly fell over. In his hand, the nail gun went phut! phut! Max watched in horror as the reporter's head snapped back, then forward, and his torso fell into the room. The man's arms and body twitched for a moment and then he was still. A pool of blood started spreading on the floor under his head.

Max screamed and rushed to the man. Unsure what to do, he pulled the man the rest of the way inside the room and laid him down on the floor. In response to his scream, Mike came charging in, surprisingly followed by Old Josh.

Max turned the limp man over on his back. The two nails had hit the reporter squarely in the eyes, which were now crying tears of blood and eyeball juice. Max was suddenly and violently sick. He barely managed to turn around before his lunch came back out.

From the doorway, Josh summed it up perfectly. He said, “Oh, wow dude! That's harsh, man!”

In the next few minutes, Max proceeded to fall apart. He had just killed a man. He was going to jail, and he was never going to get out. He wondered if they still had hangings down south. He just stood there shaking, wondering what to do.

Mike was also shaken but less so than Max. He was pretty sure the guy was dead, but he had the presence of mind to check the reporter for a pulse and had found a confirming stillness in the man's still-warm wrists.

When Max came up for air, he looked at Mike. “We've got to call the police.”

Josh was surprisingly lucid when he piped up. “No way, dude! Never bring in The Man. He'll bring nothing but grief and trouble and take your stash!”

Max snapped at Josh, “Oh, great advice, dude. What would you suggest we do with the body?”

Josh swayed in place for a moment, reached in his pocket and dry swallowed some sort of pill. Only then, he said, “Hey man, just leave it to the Josh-meister. I'll take care of it for you.”

Both of the sober men in the room looked at him skeptically, and Mike said, “What are you going to do? Smoke him?”

Josh appeared to consider this seriously for a moment and then shook his head. “No man, I don't think that’d work. No, I got a better idea. You dudes make like popcorn and get out of here. Let Old Josh handle it.”

It appeared that even in his current state, through the layers of chemical padding, Josh could sense the skepticism radiating toward him. “Seriously, dudes! I've done this hundreds of times, man! I know what I'm doin' here. Now, go on and get popping! Go make a scene in town for a, ya know, uh, plausibleness and stuff.”

“No freaking way we're doing that!” yelled Max.

Mike looked at him and shrugged. “Look Max, the guy's dead, nothing we do is going to bring him back, right?” Max nodded reluctantly. “It was an accident, right?” Another miserable nod. “Do you really want to explain to Sheriff Scary how you managed to,” Mike crooked his fingers in air quotes. “'Accidentally' shoot him dead center in each eye with a gun that won't fire without you taking extra steps?” Max put his head down and shook it. “And do you want to spend any time getting rid of a dead body?” Max sighed and shook his head again. Mike looked to Josh. “You need to tell us what your plan is.” He wagged his finger when Josh took a breath to object. “And I don't care about plausibility and stuff. What is your big plan?”

Josh stood swaying for a moment. “Well, you don't want to bury it in the backyard because I'm sure the Man has dogs and anyhow, bodies in Mississippi have a tendency to float to the surface, ya know? I could cut it up and find some crocs, but I think there aren't a lot of gators round here. I think the best thing would be to dig out the nails and then take him out deep into one of the swamps, tie him down with rocks and dump him. It'd be easier than cutting him up and less cleaning too. The little fishy and crawdaddy dudes'll eat all the soft bits, and The Man won't be able to tell that he got shot in the eyes ya know? By the time they find him, he'll look like that dude from that horror movie, you know, and they won't be... a... won't be... uh, hey, could you tell me what I was just talking about? The film just broke, if ya know what I mean.”

Mike and Max were just looking at Josh in astonishment. Mike said, “The body?”

“Oh yeah! I think the swamp is the only way to be sure, man.”

“There is no way in hell we are going to let you drive anything. If we leave, how are you going to get him to a swamp with no car?” asked Max in morbid fascination.

Josh's face squinched as his pickled neurons tried to process Max's remark. He brightened and then said, “No problem, dude, I don't like those newfing... newfernal... infang... don't like 'em. Never did... I miss Mr. Nickers...” Josh's face fell. He looked ready to cry when he said, “Had to eat him trying to get out o'California in oh-five...”

This sort of rambling was not uncommon with Josh. At least this time his detour was in English, so when Josh trailed off, Max prompted, “How are you going to get this body to a swamp?”

Josh sniffed, then came back from where-ever he had gone. “Dude, I'll just carry him.”

Mike said, “Josh, you can barely carry yourself!”

Josh just headed over to the body. He leaned down, stuck his fingers in the ruins of the man's eyes, pulled out the two nails, stuck them in his pocket, and threw the corpse over his shoulder with a grunt. “This ain't nothing. I once worked in a diamond mine for about fifty years, ya know? Before all them machines made it easy. That takes some real muscle fer shur, ya know?” He thought about it a second and said, “Dang, that sucked.”

This was, hands down, the longest conversation either of them had had with Josh since they had met him, even if it was a bit twisted. It left them both bemused. Mike met Max's eyes, shrugged, and held his hands up. “Hey, why not? It's not like he'll remember anything that happened if they catch him with the body.”