Damaged Goods (38 page)

And then Hannibal went blind.

A heavy revolver roared and the eye-scorching blast jarred Hannibal into action. He dived hard to his right, away from the couch, one hand already working into his pocket as two more shots were fired. He had no time to wonder why the lights had gone out. He just knew that survival depended on taking advantage of miracles when they came along.

Hannibal had a pretty good mental picture of where each of the players would go for cover. Listening to the rustling of bodies scrambling for safety between at least half a dozen more gunshots, Hannibal rolled to the wall beside the door, the last place he expected any of them to go. A gunshot on his right brought a scream of fear from Sheryl. Her pitiful sobbing came from somewhere near the middle of the room. Hannibal managed to free his pocketknife and begin work on the tape holding his wrists in place.

Someone was creeping along the wall to his right. Someone else was crawling behind the sofa. Then he heard a heavier thump at the base of the stairs. It had to be Rod. He was moving up the stairs. There was no way to know what kind of arsenal he might have there. Hannibal imagined Rod at the top of the stairs with a machine gun hosing down the room. He couldn't reach him without crossing the no man's land of the center of the room. But, could he get one of the others to bring Rod down?

His hands free, Hannibal eased up into a crouch. While adjusting his balance he bumped his head against the blinds.
The soft rattle shot fear down his spine. He snapped back to the floor, waiting for a bullet to find him. No one fired. Maybe the others were also focused on the stairs. And he had just bumped into the possible solution.

Focusing his attention on the denser darkness at the center of the room, Hannibal slowly raised his left hand, gripped the cord hanging behind it, and yanked hard.

With a loud whirr the blinds raced toward the ceiling. The pale blue moonlight revealed a frozen tableau of desperation faced with inevitability. Derek stood in the center of the floor straddling his weeping girlfriend. With his teeth clenched like Dirty Harry he held the big .44 Magnum thrust forward aiming at a space on the wall halfway between the two bodyguards. Before Derek could even decide whether to swing left or right, two automatics spoke at once. The Magnum revolver fired into the ceiling and Derek flew backward as if yanked by wires. Sheryl screamed again. The gunmen's eyes turned to Hannibal.

The stranger rose from behind his chair and walked calmly toward the door. When he was inches away from Hannibal he stopped and nodded once. Then his eyes went to the stairs. Rod must have already reached the second floor. The stranger looked again at Hannibal.

“Will we meet again?”

“No,” Hannibal said. “Other priorities.”

The stranger offered a half smile and then said, “Let's go” in a clear voice and opened the door. His men moved to follow him. Hannibal stood and bolted toward the stairs. Halfway across the room he bent long enough to scoop up the revolver Derek had dropped. With the muzzle pointed toward the ceiling he raced up the stairs, praying that he would meet Rod at the top. Instead, he found the hallway empty. It was the hall where Rod had kicked and beaten him. The second floor of this house held only ugly memories.

Moonlight showed him that the first room, where Mariah was beaten, was equally vacant.

The second bedroom, where Derek and Sheryl had played before the boy was blown away trying to defend his mentor, was unoccupied.

He entered the final bedroom, where Hannibal had been chained and forced to watch Missy being brutally sodomized. This empty room greeted him with a fresh breeze. The window stood open. Rod had not come upstairs for weaponry. He had deserted his junior partner. Hannibal followed.

When his feet hit the ground he rolled twice and came up gun first. Only then, gazing across the pistol's front sight, did he realize that he was on the hunt. Deep footprints in the turf and broken brush showed Rod's path back toward the street. Hannibal really had no choice but to follow. This had to end that night.

The street was again empty when Hannibal returned to it, but he could hear Rod's heavy tread moving away to his right. He heard sirens approaching from the opposite direction. Maybe Missy did call the police after all. But the Colombians had already made themselves scarce and Rod would disappear into the landscape if Hannibal lost track of him.

Hannibal pushed the big revolver into his belt and started an easy jog in Rod's direction. Within half a block he had eased the throttle up to a respectable cross country pace and was closing on his quarry. Residences flew past him to be replaced by a growing number of businesses. His lungs burned as he dragged air deeper and deeper into them. His ribs ached from Rod's earlier kicks. His whole body ached from the miscellaneous traumas it took when Hannibal's beloved White Tornado speared into the ground and the car collapsed around him to keep him and his passenger alive. It didn't matter how far Rod ran. Hannibal would catch him and see to it that he never damaged another woman.

Devoid of traffic, Pacific Avenue was just another wide street. What mattered to Hannibal was that when he crossed it he was close enough to Rod to see that he was dragging. The man was strong, but he was no runner.

Atlantic Avenue was dark except for the security lights that every store and shop had shining over its door. A minute later they were racing across the boardwalk and down the wooden stairs to the cool sand. Did Rod intend to swim to safety? No, he turned right just short of the waterline and pushed himself onward.

They ran in wet sand now, the salt smell so strong it wrinkled Hannibal's nose. They passed folding chairs and the periodic lifeguard platforms, but on this night there was no one on or even near the beach but the two of them. They were running south, passing single digit streets on the other side of the boardwalk. Their numbers, he knew, were dropping quickly. He couldn't see the end ahead, but he knew it was there, just past Second Street. He was panting aloud now, watching his towering shadow chasing Rod's across the sand, which was smoothed by the receding tide. He was close enough to hear Rod's labored breathing now. His legs were beginning to burn. Would he be able to bring Rod down if he caught up to him?

The silliness of that question suddenly struck him. He slowed to a jog and drew the long .44 from his belt. He held the weapon in both hands, thrust forward like a divining rod that was unerringly drawn toward evil.

With the lyrics to “Stagger Lee” running through his head, Hannibal shouted, “That's far enough, Rod. Come on back here and we go talk to the police. Keep running and I blow off a leg.”

Rod slowed, then stopped but did not turn. His huge frame rose and fell in the effort to breathe. He was still dressed for a party. Barefoot, in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, he seemed to belong on the beach. His head was down, turning first left, then right the way people sometimes do when they're trying to figure something out.

“Can't be,” Rod said to the tidal breeze. “This is my time.”

“Has to be,” Hannibal said. “You can't just keep shitting on people forever. Eventually that shit blows back to land on you.”

“Bullshit. Fate sent that asshole pharmacist to my cell for a reason. I didn't listen to his crap, pump him for info, and shoot that air bubble into him for nothing.”

“Air bubble,” Hannibal said under his breath. “A home made heart attack.”

Rod turned ninety degrees to face the ocean. Moonlight danced seductively on the waves. Despite the splashing surf Hannibal heard the telltale click of a revolver hammer being drawn back. So this was it, Hannibal thought. The final clash between Rod's vision and Hannibal's, between Rod's destiny and his karma.

“It don't have to be this way,” Hannibal called.

“Yeah it does.”

Rod raised his right fist toward Hannibal but it was weary, sluggish, and too slow to matter. Hannibal had time to aim for Rod's right thigh and gently squeeze the .44 Magnum's trigger.

Click!

Hannibal's mouth opened an inch. The hammer had fallen on an empty cylinder. Derek had fired it dry in the house and Hannibal had not taken the time to check. He had been in too much of a hurry to catch up to Rod.
What a stupid reason to die
, he thought.

Rod took a step toward Hannibal with his right foot and stood still, his back to the ocean, his right arm projected straight forward. A small automatic filled his right fist. His back was to the moon, casting his face in shadow except for his hateful eyes. They burned through the darkness. Hannibal saw his death in them.

“Didn't I tell you? I can't be stopped.”

Hannibal braced for the blast of gunfire but the next sound he heard was even more frightening. It was an unearthly sound, like the attack roar of some extraterrestrial predator. The sound seemed to freeze Rod for a full second. At first Hannibal thought it was made by a hairless black pit bull racing across the beach from inland. Just before it reached Rod, Hannibal realized that it was Sarge screaming his rage
and charging Rod like the world's most vicious lineman intent on sacking a hated quarterback.

The impact seemed to shake the entire beach. Sarge's bulk lifted Rod off his feet, and jarred his gun free of his hand. It flew into the sea, just as the two men did. Hannibal inched forward, watching the wild splashing.

Waiting for them to surface, Hannibal had time to consider how long he and Rod had stood on the beach. Sarge must have freed himself pretty quickly and followed them,. He would have cut a block or two farther south, anticipating where they might end up. Hannibal imagined Sarge pushing on, his heart close to bursting, since he was so more built for speed than Rod was. But Rod and Hannibal had faced off just long enough for Sarge to catch up and save Hannibal's life.

Both men were underwater for long seconds, churning the waves like a washing machine agitator. Then Sarge flew backward, propelled by one of Rod's legs. Soon both men regained their feet in knee-deep water. They began to trade punches like a pair of heavyweights in the last round when points no longer mattered and only a knockout would have any meaning. They were about the same size and shape, with the same huge fists, deep chests and massive shoulders.

That was where the similarity ended. Rod fought with the arrogance of a man who had never been beaten and didn't believe he could. He was the bully who knew he just had to wait for the other boy to lose faith and crumble. Sarge's fists were driven by righteous rage. He slammed Rod's face and body not like a boy fighting a bully, but a man working to kill a rat that had brought disease into his home.

Rod landed several solid punches, but Sarge hardly seemed to notice. The pivotal moment came when Rod launched a right cross with his entire body behind it and Sarge somehow managed to block the punch with a forearm. Then Sarge drove his own right fist into Rod's solar plexus. Rod's legs turned to rubber and he dropped to his knees. Sarge opened his fists to wrap his fingers around Rod's throat and drove him back into the water.

Rod was invisible but Hannibal knew Sarge was straddling him. Hannibal couldn't see Sarge's arms much below his elbows either, but he knew they were holding Rod's head underwater. Sarge was panting like a man approaching orgasm. Rod's hands slapped at Sarge's arms, but the blows were weak, like those of a kitten with no claws.

Hannibal knew it couldn't end this way, but it took him the better part of a minute to force his body to obey the commands his mind was screaming. Then he took five long strides across the beach and dived forward. He hit Sarge's body hard enough to knock him off Rod. He landed on his back in the shallow water with Sarge on top of him, also facing upward. Sarge clambered to his knees, fighting the wet sand beneath him, but Hannibal whipped an arm around his neck and pulled hard. Sarge teetered backward. Hannibal could feel his friend's exhaustion after what had to have been the fight of his life.

“Come on, old friend,” Hannibal said. “End of round one.” Ignoring the fire in his own leg muscles, Hannibal dragged Sarge backward, up onto the beach. Both men were breathing hard and deeply, wiping salt water out of their eyes. Barely ten feet away, Rod got to his hands and knees. Choking coughs racked his body and he spit the water he had swallowed down into the ocean five or six inches from his face.

Keeping his eyes on Rod, Sarge said, “Fucking water's cold, man.”

“Yeah,” Hannibal said, grinning as he sat up on the sand, watching water run out of his shoes.

Sarge's voice became soft. “I had him, man. I could have…”

“I know,” Hannibal said, slapping a hand on one of Sarge's shoulders. “But he ain't worth it, brother, and you're not a killer.”

“Sure I am.” Sarge turned to Hannibal, pride and sorrow mixed in his eyes. “That's what the Corps taught me.”

“This ain't a war,” Hannibal said. “And believe me, you don't want to turn that corner.”

“Listen to your friend.”

The new voice was a cold, harsh half-whisper. Hannibal looked up to find a man standing on the beach just past Rod. The newcomer seemed calm and relaxed, and his automatic was focused on Hannibal's face.

The moon was almost gone now. Only the stars and the distant lights some businesses left on for safety offered any illumination. This made the newcomer difficult to see, except for the movement where the breeze coming in from the ocean flapped his black suit jacket. He was a white man of medium build and average height. His hair and eyes looked black, but in the moonlight either could have been brown or even red.

One thing disturbed Hannibal, something that was plain to see. The man's face held no expression at all. It may as well have been a mask for all it revealed of the man's emotions.

“Okay, want to tell us who you are?” Hannibal asked.

“Not really.”