The Cove (36 page)

“No, he didn’t. Listen to me …”

“I told you to shut the fuck up, goddamn it! Listen!” His eyes rolled ceiling-ward when he took a deep breath. His tanned cheeks were splotched with red. “I never got
anything
new in my life. Always handed down from
him
. Always shared with
him.
I stay here, help my old man, keep the family business
goin
’. I’m just good old Pete nobody gives a shit about, but he … he goes off to Iraq, shoots a couple desert rats, ’n he’s a
Christless
hero! Everyone wants to kiss his ass. And he goes and picks you up like you’re a
fuckin
’ nickel he found on the sidewalk.” He took another shuddering breath. “After I waited so goddamned long for you just to
notice
me … to
fuckin
’
look
at me!”

The cords in his neck were strained, and his eyes were bulging. The corners of his mouth were flecked with spittle.

Julia could only shake her head
no.
She was trembling with fear and exhaustion.

“I tried to stop him, y’know,” Pete went on. “I was
tryin
’ to make him think twice … especially since he could have any girl he wanted. But no, the Gunner, he always gets the girl. And now it looks like you two are crazy in love.”

He snatched a heavy glass lamp from the end table next to her father’s easy chair and tore the beige shade from it. Ripping the plug from the wall, he brandished it at her like it was a club.

“I can’t
stand
it,
goddamnit
! No more of this shit! I’m not losing out to my fucking brother anymore! So you know what I’m gonna do?”

Julia stared at him, wide-eyed, and shook her head. She couldn’t speak.

“I’m gonna mess you up so
fuckin
’ bad that Ben and nobody else will ever wanna look at you ever again!”

Julia’s face contorted with fear, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. It was foolish to run and try to get to a phone to call 911. She certainly couldn’t defend herself. Pete was too big and strong. And she was dreaming if she thought Ben would come charging in like the US cavalry and save her.

But — somehow — she found the courage to stand there and stare into Pete’s eyes, willing him to look at her … really
look
at her.

I’m a person too, Pete … I’m just like you … I’m hurting … Look at me, Pete … Look at me …

“I’m sorry, Pete,” she sobbed softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Trembling and breathing hard, Pete looked back at her for what seemed an eternity. Then the red slowly drained from his face. His hand was shaking as he placed the lamp back on the end table and stood there, looking guilty and confused. Without making a sound, he went to Julia and put his arms around her. She leaned forward, sobbing like a child into his shoulder while he awkwardly patted her back.

After a time, he kissed her forehead and lifted her blotchy, tear-stained face to his.

“Goodbye, Julia,” he said.

Without another word, he walked away, closing the front door behind him.

Julia jumped when she heard the door latch click. It sounded like a gunshot. Then she ran to the door, locked it, and pressed her back hard against it. She stayed like that until she heard his car start up and drive away.

Then and only then did she let the tears fall.

Night Cruise

T
he car’s taillights flickered and glowed like flame through a swirl of dust as Gillette pulled to a stop in the turnoff. He stopped the car right where Tom expected he would and killed the engine, but he didn’t get out. Apparently he was waiting for Tom to make the first move. Leaving his keys in the ignition, Tom opened his door and stepped out. The dust was still suspended in the motionless air as he started walking slowly over to the car.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the rear window, he resisted the urge to reassure himself by patting the revolver under his belt in the small of his back. Only now did he realize he should have gotten a suitcase or a gym bag or something to make his ploy look more convincing.

As he approached the car, his feet crunching on the gravel, he discerned by the dim dashboard lights two silhouettes in the front seat. Tom was sure the passenger was Zimmerman, riding shotgun for security. He smiled as he approached the driver’s side of the car. Bracing both hands on the roof, he leaned down. The tinted automatic window slid down like a polished piece of marble that reflected the night.

“
Evenin
’ to yah,” Tom said, touching his forefinger to his forehead as if saluting. Gillette was wearing a pair of Wayfarers that caught and held a dark, distorted reflection of the dashboard lights.

Sunglasses at night,
he thought.
He really does work hard to maintain his image.

“We can dispense with the pleasantries,” Gillette said, sounding more irritable than usual, which was saying a lot. He raised the shades, perching them on his forehead, and squinted up at Tom. “You got the shit?”

“We gotta talk price first,” Tom said in a low, measured voice. “Meaning no disrespect, Tony, but after last time, I can’t say’s I entirely trust you.”

“You got paid a fair chunk of change for something that wasn’t yours in the first place,” Gillette sounded peeved. Tom wondered if he and Zimmerman had had an argument about something. “You wanna report me to the cops? Go right ahead.”

Tom leaned down and, placing one hand on the side panel of the car door, twisted to the right so he presented a narrower target if ole’
Zim
started shooting. In the darkness, though, it didn’t look like Zimmerman. Tom bent down to try to see who it was.

“Who’s your new girlfriend?” Tom asked, nodding at the man, who sat there silently. His face was turned away slightly, and his features were indistinct in the darkness. His head was a black silhouette against the view out the side window.

“None of your goddamned business,” the man said with a gravely snarl that sounded put on to disguise his voice.

“Where’s your buddy Zimmerman … the
Zimster
…
Zimmerrama
?” Tom said, laughing foolishly at his attempt at humor.

Gillette glanced at his partner and then rolled his head around so he was looking straight at Tom.

“You can cut the comedy routine any time you want,” he said. “You got some shit to sell me or not?”

“’Course I do,” Tom said, but even as the words left his mouth, a tingling cold tightness filled his gut.

This is it …
showtime
,
he thought, shivering as a rush of adrenalin filled his chest. He wondered if he really had the
cojones
to draw a gun on these guys and shoot both of them in cold blood. His beef was with Gillette, so this other guy — whoever the fuck he was — was nothing more than collateral damage.

It was unavoidable.

“It’s in my car,” he said. “You wanna come have a look-see?”

“Get it and bring it here,” Gillette said without moving a muscle to get out of the car.

Something set off an alarm in Tom’s head. At that exact instant, he was sure
he
was the one being set up. He glanced over his shoulder quickly to see if anyone was watching them. He was suddenly positive that Zimmerman was lurking somewhere in the dark woods with a rifle and scope, waiting to take his shot.

Tom reacted without thinking.

Reaching behind his back, he grabbed for the revolver. His right hand clasped the curved handle, and he yanked it free with a snap. Sucking in his breath, he swung the gun around and pointed it at Gillette. Without even thinking, he squeezed the trigger three times. The gun kicked in his hand as the barrel flared with yellow flame, but he never heard or registered the sound of any of the shots.

The first slug caught Gillette in the side of the head, an inch or two in front of his left ear. His head snapped back and to the side. The other two shots missed entirely. One of the bullets ricocheted off the dashboard and punched through the windshield, leaving behind a fist-sized hole with white spider-web cracks. The other took out the CD player.

Tom dropped to one knee so he’d have a clear shot at Gillette’s passenger, but in the sudden confusion, the mystery man snapped the car door open and was on the ground on the other side of the car. Tom got off one more shot, but he knew he missed when it ricocheted off something metal. Realizing he had to save his ammo, he dropped to the ground and pressed his back against the side of the car.

His heart was pounding, fast and hard as he considered what to do next. Panting heavily, he stared at his car parked by the side of the road less than fifty feet away. It might as well have been on the moon. That mystery man would gun him down the instant he made a dash for it.

“
Yo
! Can we call a truce here?” Tom shouted. His breath was burning his throat like he’d swallowed jet fuel.

There was no reply … only the steady chirring of insects in the grass and the croaking of frogs in the nearby swamp. No wind stirred the leaves overhead.

Tom’s shoulders throbbed with tension as he crouched beside the car with no idea from which direction the danger would come.

Gillette’s gotta be dead,
he thought with equal measures of joy and amazement.

He knew at least one bullet had hit him.

And that’s all he’d been looking for. He had wanted Gillette to pay for cheating him out of that hundred thousand dollars, so as far as he was concerned, he was good.

“Hey!” he called out. “I mean it. I got no beef with you.” His voice echoed oddly in the night, sounding flat and empty.

Still no answer.

His best option, he knew, was to make a dash for his car and count on darkness and confusion to give him the break he needed. He’d been smart to position the car where it was. All he had to do now was get to it.

He licked his lips, tasting the tang of salt and wondering if it was sweat or tears. The palm of the hand holding the gun ached with a bone-deep throb. By his count, he’d shot four times. That meant he had only two shots left. He wasn’t about to jump up and, in a blaze of glory, make a brave dash to the car, running zigzags to avoid the return fire he was sure would come his way.

“I mean it, buddy!” Tom shouted, cupping one hand to his mouth like a megaphone. “We can both walk out of here intact. It’s your choice.”

The only reply was the sound of a gun going off and an instantaneous dull
thunk
sound as a bullet hit the car door inches from his head. Tom dropped to the ground and then, not really thinking it through, leaped to his feet and started to run.

Wind whistled shrilly in his ears, and his heart was thudding so loudly it blocked out every other sound except for a distant, muffled
thump
…
thump … thump
.

And then something smacked him on the right shoulder, throwing him off balance as if the mystery man had reached out of the darkness, grabbed him by the arm, and viciously tugged him around.

For a few more steps, there was no pain, but then his skin felt as though the biggest damned hornet in the world had stung his right arm. His hand went numb, and by the time he slammed into the side of his car, he had forgotten that he was still holding onto his gun.

He remembered he’d left the car keys in the ignition. That was good. His only thought now was to get into the car and drive the hell away. The wound couldn’t be all that bad. Before he had a chance to run around to the other side of the car, placing the bulk of it between him and the shooter, there was a loud pop, and searing pain ripped into his left leg just above the knee. Tom’s first thought was that he’d banged his leg against the bumper, but with the next step, when he put his full weight onto his leg, his knee folded on him, and he went down.

He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He thought crazily how he hadn’t heard the gun go off, and that was supposed to mean it was the shot that killed him, but then another shot exploded in the night. A split-second later, a bullet whizzed through the air. It sounded like an enraged hornet, buzzing overhead as it clipped leaves from the trees behind him.

The side of Tom’s face was pressed into the dirt. Sweat and tears streaked his skin. Blood was leaking out of him, soaking into the dirt. He was breathing so heavily his lungs felt like they were ripping into shreds.

Had he been shot in the chest, too, and he simply didn’t realize it yet?

Am I
dying
?

He prayed that the shooter would see he was down and come forward to finish him off quickly … before any more pain set in. He was more afraid of suffering than dying.

Christ, I fucked up
, he thought as his eyelids fluttered. With every breath he took, the night hissed as it rose and fell around him like a surging tide. His vision was getting hazier by the second, but he could see, far across the dirt road, a dark figure moving toward him in a slow, watery blur.

It grew steadily larger until it took up more than half of his sight.

Tom was lying on his right hand, and now he dimly realized that something hard and cold was pressing into his side. When his hand twitched, he finally realized he was still clinging to his gun.

From my cold, dead hand,
he thought.

He rolled over and dragged his arm forward. Raising the gun, he wasn’t conscious of aiming it at the black figure that swelled in front of him. It was so big, how could he miss? He narrowed his eyes in pain the instant before he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening. The night lit up with a blaze of light that looked like the gates of Heaven —
or the fires of Hell
— opening to receive him.

Somehow, the dark shape miraculously vanished. Gone. Like an illusion.

Tom stared at the indistinct line of trees on the horizon. They rose up against the night sky like a doily edge. Above them was a glittering array of stars that looked like flecks of powdered crystal.

Tom heaved a sigh that blended into a moan as he dropped his head to the ground again. The hard-packed dirt felt much softer now. It was as if he were lying on an air cushion that was floating on the ocean, bobbing gently on the swells … up and down … up and down. His strength was swiftly ebbing away … seeping from him as the rapid, thunderous pulse in his head got steadily louder.

And louder until …

There was another sound … a sound that blended into his awareness so gradually he had no idea when it had started or where it was coming from or even when he had first noticed it. It rose and fell … rose and fell in a wild, warbling wail, and then flashing blue and red lights that, at first, Tom thought were strokes of lightning, filled the night.

But the lights were too regular to be lightning, and as they grew steadily brighter with each passing second, the warbling sound came closer and closer until it split the night like a silver wedge.

Tom heard what sounded like a fleet of vehicles pulling to a stop close by. Engines roared. Sirens wailed. The harsh glare of headlights focused on him, pinning him to the dirt.

The sirens gradually cut off, fading with a whoop, and then car doors opened and slammed shut and rapid footsteps approached. A swirling mass of dark figures converged on Tom, surrounding him like demons, come to drag him to Hell. He was so far gone he allowed them to manhandle him as several people leaned over him and checked his wounds. The cacophony of voices was like a whirlwind all around him. It was all but impossible to make out what anyone was saying, but by concentrating, he made some sense of them.

“… doesn’t look life-threatening …”

“… lost a lot of blood …”

“… knee is blown to shit …”

Then someone — Tom had no idea who — mentioned the name “Lincoln.”

Lost in pain and confusion, and unable to resist as his body was dragged like a slab of beef onto a stretcher, his first crazy thought was that for some reason someone was talking about Abraham Lincoln and making a connection between him shooting Gillette and Lincoln’s assassination.

But then he remembered … Jerry Lincoln, the new DEA agent who had asked him to inform on local drug dealers. As he drifted down into darkness, he heard more voices, sounding further and further away as they carried him toward what he thought — what he
hoped
— was an ambulance.

“ … told him this was a bad idea …”