Cleats in Clay (20 page)

Chapter 18

 

B
LACKNESS
.
Throbbing.

Tuck woke up from the horrible blinding dream again. His right hand felt strangely numb, yet sent shooting pulses of pain up his arm every once in a while. The last few times he had tried to move his hand, he blacked out. He decided to be smart this time and
not
move his hand.
Be smart
, he yelled at himself.

The air felt so stale and stuffy as Tuck tried to take a deep breath. He felt totally restricted and tried to ignore the impression of being trapped in a coffin. He thought back to his situational training. Wasn’t that step one? No negative thoughts?
No
, he recalled.
Step one is breathe
.

Just breathe.
One slow breath as deep as you can.
Let the oxygen clear your mind and chase away the panic. Exhale.
Check.
Second slow breath.
Step two: physical evaluation. Catalogue all

pain and numb sources.

His right hand pulsed with obvious injury. He forced himself to ignore it and focus on everything else.
A cold numbness seeped into his right leg near his ankle.
With each breath, he felt a slight jag in the area of his left-front ribs. Not internal. Felt more on the surface, like skin or muscle damage.
Something on his forehead by his left eye felt sticky and wet, but there was no pain or numbness associated.
He focused, but nothing else surfaced.

Check.
Third slow breath.
Step three: evaluate environment.
He blinked just to make sure his eyes were open but still saw only

darkness. He was lying mostly on his back, angled a bit to the right side. He felt the closed-in pressure all around but sensed the space was more triangular.
Not a coffin
, he reassured himself.

Just breathe.

He tried to move his right foot but got no play. It seemed trapped by something.
He tried to move his left foot. He could raise it about an inch and a half and move it backward about two inches, but it was pretty much trapped as well.
He tried to move his left hand. It was resting on the right side of his stomach. He couldn’t move the elbow back or really move the hand away from him, but he could slide his hand up his body all the way to his chest. He slid his left hand back down, and near his thigh, he felt something beside him brush his fingertips. He pushed with his fingers slightly, rubbing moist, bare flesh that felt impossibly cold.
Just breathe.

It’s not my right hand. No
, he insisted, fighting the image of a cold amputated hand curled up next to his leg.
Breathe. Breathe. Deep breath.
He slid his left hand back up to his stomach.

One slow breath as deep as you can.
Let the oxygen clear your mind and chase away the panic. Exhale.
Step Three: evaluate environment.
He swiveled his head to the left and right and felt no resistance. He

slowly raised his head up, barely gaining half an inch before his forehead pushed into something very hard and solid. Something metallic.

Tuck inhaled deeply through his nose, smelling for any traces of gasoline or other chemicals. The air just smelled cold, wet, and stale with no dangerous odors.

He tried shifting his hips, but they wouldn’t move. He couldn’t think of anything else to try.
Check.

Next slow breath.
Step four: listen.
Tuck closed his eyes and tried to ignore everything but his ears. He could hear the slow drip-drip sounds of something. He listened closer. Actually, it seemed like three or four different drip sources.
He listened closer. He thought he heard some kind of shifting or shuffling noise. “Hey,” he tried to yell, but his voice barely escaped his parched throat in a whisper. “Hey!” he tried again with the same result.
He tried banging his left hand in front of him but couldn’t get enough leverage to make much more than a faint noise.
He listened. Only the plinking sounds of drips surrounded him.
Check.
Next slow breath.
Step five: search for tools to free yourself.
Tools. Radio,
Tuck instantly thought. The microphone piece of his personal radio rested on his right shoulder. He moved his left hand along his body again, but easy movement stopped at his chest. Digging into his uniform shirt with his fingers, he slowly managed to claw and inch-worm his hand up to his shoulder. He reached out for the mic but felt only the Velcro strap.
Shit.
The microphone must have been knocked loose. Now it lay somewhere under him or at his side.
“Fuckin’ shit,” he hissed aloud as he groped around his empty shoulder, hoping to maybe find a section of the coiled cord he could use to pull the mic out from under him. His fingers found nothing but Velcro and more shirt fabric.
Breathe. Just Breathe.
Tools. Cell phone.
Tuck felt his heart sink when he remembered.
Oh shit
. It was still at his apartment. He’d set it on the hall table when he grabbed his keys and did the quick mirror check as he rushed out this morning.
Fuck
. He’d forgotten to grab it again.
Fuckin’ fuck
.
Breathe. Breathe. Deep breath.
Tools. Maybe the handset is on the floor within reach.
He tried sliding his left hand down across his body toward the floor. At first he felt fabric; then he felt his right forearm. When he pushed on it somewhere near his right wrist, his arm responded with a squeal of pain. He tried shifting his left hand and nudging it around the arm as far as he could but only felt more of his arm.
Even if he could find any tools, it seemed unlikely he could use them.

Free yourself.
His only point of real mobility was his left foot. Tuck tried scooting his left knee up, then kicking downward forcefully. His foot encountered nothing, so the force rotated his body slightly, sending another squeal of pain from his right hand.
He moved his left foot back as far as possible, then kicked forward as hard as he could. With a grinding noise, the walls of his prison shifted, squeezing down more tightly around him. He tried to ignore the disgusting squishing sound he’d also heard.
Shit.
Tuck tried rotating his shoulders to free his left hand again.
Fuckin’ shit
. As his right arm moved, a screaming agony from his right hand blinded his vision with hot stars of light before blackness engulfed everything and he passed out again.

O
DIS
wouldn’t even look at Bobby as he forked at the casserole noodles, occasionally shoveling some of the food into his mouth to avoid Gertie yelling at him again. Gertie was too focused on Gina to really notice, though.

Bobby looked over at Gina. Beneath the roughly pulled-back hair and streaked makeup, she had the appearance of a nicely fading beauty queen. Under normal circumstances, the woman probably looked stunning.

“Gina,” Gertie reassured her, “we still don’t know anything. Tuck and Hawk are just missing, that’s all.”
Hawk’s wife just nodded as she picked at the food on her own plate. Looking up, Gina glanced over at Bobby, only truly noticing him for the first time. “Yer that athlete guy,” she said, motioning toward him with her fork. “I heard somebody famous was in town.”
“I guess that’s me,” Bobby replied with his public smile.
“The baseball guy,” she continued as if not hearing Bobby’s acknowledgement. “The fa—gay one.” Gina’s face quickly collapsed as her shoulders slumped. “Hawk. He had wanted to meet you,” she groaned as her eyes watered.
Gertie jumped up and patted her shoulder. “No. No tears. Hawk
will
. We’ll make sure he meets Bobby. Won’t we?” she said, looking over for confirmation.
“Of course. I’d be happy to meet Hawk,” Bobby agreed.
As Gina pulled herself together, the phone rang. Gertie glanced over at Odis, who seemed oblivious. “I’ll get it,” she said before hurrying away.
At this point, Bobby didn’t care if it was good news or not. He just wanted this sickening waiting to be over one way or another. He felt Heim stir at his feet. He slipped her a piece of his buttermilk biscuit since Gertie wasn’t there to see. Heim sat up and put her head on his thigh, quietly agreeing to accept more.
Gertie returned all animated. “Gina,” she nearly sang, “they found Hawk.”
“Is he…?”
“Sounds like he’s fine.” Gertie rushed over and patted Gina’s shoulders. “They’re just takin’ him over to Doc Murphy’s office, not even goin’ to the hospital. Part of the floor collapsed and he fell into the crawl space under some junk.”
Odis deflated completely. “Then it’s….”
Gertie glared at him across the table. “We don’t know that. Don’t

even say it.” She turned back to Gina. “Now, finish yer plate and we’ll get over to the doc’s office in a bit.”
Wiping at her eyes, Gina sat up straighter and actually tasted the casserole. “This is good,” she told Gertie a minute later.
Bobby glanced over at Odis. The little man looked like he was ready to curl up into a ball in the corner. Part of Bobby thought that might be a good idea and wanted to do the same.

T
UCK
’
S
mind lingered in a foggy daze. He wondered how long he’d been

here, but he’d lost all sense of time. It could be less than an hour or several days; he had no way to tell. He didn’t feel hungry, though, so it probably hadn’t been too long. Unless his injuries were dulling his appetite.
No, quit thinkin’ about shit like that. Just breathe.

His mind turned to worry about Odis and Bobby. It felt kind of strange to think of them. In all his years on the force, he never had anyone else to be concerned over. Well, Vic had been around, but Tuck had never been apprehensive about Vic’s feelings when dealing with bad situations. This reaction with Bobby and Odis was new and different.

Tuck wasn’t sure which man concerned him more. Bobby, he thought, would be the stronger of the two, but that poor guy had been through so much shit recently, this would just be like more aggravation on top of it. Tuck hated that he was putting Bobby through this again.

On the other hand, Odis was so sensitive. Chances were he’d completely fall apart, but he also had that streak of optimism. He would bounce back much quicker in the long run. Bobby would have to be strong enough to carry them both through initially.

Stop it!
Tuck yelled at himself.
It’s prob’ly only been an hour. The guys prob’ly haven’t even heard there’s a situation yet. They’re fine
, he told himself. He closed his eyes and breathed.

Some kind of sound pulled Tuck to alertness. He listened and heard more shuffling scrapes. “Hey,” he yelled, his voice echoing in desperation around him. He tried moving his left hand again to knock or make some kind of noise, but it was wedged tightly against his chest now.

The sounds stopped.

“Hey,” he yelled out again, forcing his voice to be as loud as he could.
“Over here!” a muffled voice called from above somewhere. Thrashes of movement crashed terribly loud in his ears. Tuck squinted when an intense light hit his face. Something shifted on his right hand, and a torturous throb blinded him with hot stars again before he passed out.

J
OHN
was just walking into the B and B when the phone rang again. “I got it,” he yelled out as he turned in the hallway and went into the office.

Bobby glanced over at the despondent figure of Odis, who wasn’t even pretending to eat anymore. Odis just stared out at the opposite wall like a catatonic patient. Bobby hoped it wasn’t bad news—he didn’t know if Odis could handle any more.

Moments later, John came into the dining room with a hard-edged serenity plastered on his face. “They identified the bodies. It’s Willy Thurson and Carl Travie.” John looked around the table. “Hey, Gina, guys,” he greeted each with a nod.

Gertie got up. “I’ll grab ya a plate,” she told John as she went to the kitchen.

“Thanks, hon.” John took the chair next to Odis, looking him over. “How you boys holdin’ up?”
Bobby just shrugged. Odis didn’t seem capable of even that much effort.
Gertie returned and handed John a plate before sitting next to Gina again. She wrapped her arm around Gina’s shoulder in a comforting hug. “We’re heading out to Doc’s in a minute. That’s where they took Hawk,” she added, not sure how informed John was.
“What about Tuck?” John asked while loading up his plate. He noticed Odis flinch slightly at the mention of the name.
Gertie shook her head with a furtive glance at Odis. “No word.”
The phone rang again.