The White Mountain (18 page)

He roared in pain and flopped
over, the table leg protruding from his body like an extra appendage.  He
grabbed it, panting and whimpering, panic spreading across his face.  “
Nein
. 
Nein!
” he screamed. 
No!  No!
 

Mein Kampf tried to sit up. 
It didn’t work.

Randall used the windowsill
to push himself to his feet.  Glass shards dug into his palms, but it didn’t
matter.  Everything else hurt too much to care.  He ached from heel to head,
right eye nearly swollen shut, lower back pulsating with continuous shots of
pain.  He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the tobacco hatchet from the
floor, then stood over Mein Kampf, tall and victorious.  He said, “This is some
funny shit, ain’t it?  The rise and fall of the Fourth Reich.  Bet you never
thought some hick from out in the boonies would get the better of you, huh?”

“
Helfen Sie mir
.”

“What?”

“
Helfen Sie mir
.”

“Speak English, damn it.”

“Help...me.”

“Help you?  You shitting me? 
You see this right here?” he asked, waving the hatchet.  “About the only help
you deserve is this damn thing right between your eyes.  Mercy killing.  But,
now that I think about it, you didn’t show Detective Walls any mercy, did you? 
I never did like that roly-poly bastard very much, but he was a good man and a
good daddy.  Now his kids’ll have to grow up without him—makes me think about
what
my
little boy would have to go through.  Know what I mean?  So
here’s what I’m thinking.  Why don’t you just lay right there and take your
time dying?  Don’t get in no hurry, because we want it to hurt real good, you
copy?”  Randall threw the hatchet down the hallway and into the living room. 

“
Ficke dich
.”

“Same to you, buddy.  Oh, one
more thing.  I need you to do something for me.  I don’t know how the three of
y’all managed to show up here within a day of each other, but I reckon that
means Geisha’s on his way, too.  If that scrawny little punk shows up here
before you croak, you tell him to put his feet up, because I won’t be gone too
long.”  Randall grabbed the table leg and wiggled it.  “Hurts, don’t it?”

Randall left him lying there,
walked out to the back porch, and found Walls lying face down, head propped up
on the single step.  He bent, pressed two fingers deep into the soft, pudgy
flesh of Walls’ neck, and found no pulse.  “Damn it, Henry.”  Randall shook his
head.

It was true—he’d never liked
Henry Walls.  Some grudges never die, no matter how hard you try to be the
bigger man and let it go.  Strong impressions formed at a young age tend to
stick around, like the way Randall ate his cheeseburger upside down, because
that’s the way his daddy did it.  Or the way he shook the milk jug as soon as
he pulled it out of the refrigerator, because that’s what Pappy did every
morning before breakfast.  Randall thought about all the times in high school that
Walls would walk by with his buddies, laughing as they shoved him into a row of
lockers, knocking his glasses off.  Calling him “Ichabod” and “Nerdling,” while
they slapped the textbooks out of his hands. 

Walls’ bullying, his threats
and near-constant intimidation throughout grade school were the incentives for
Randall’s transformation into the capable, self-reliant man he’d become.  So,
in a way, if you took a trip through the whole alphabet just to get from A to
B, Walls was responsible for Randall’s motivation to better himself, his
enlistment in the military, and the training that led to his participation in the
deadly game.  If it hadn’t been for the continuous teasing and harassment,
Randall might still be a beanpole struggling to swing an axe as he split
firewood.  He might’ve never left his after-school job of swapping out tires at
Wilson’s Auto Shop.  He might’ve remained a simple, scrawny geek that hid
inside a shell of self-doubt and anxiety.

A strange realization hit him
as he thought about how, without Walls, life would’ve taken a much, much less
interesting path.

“Ah, to hell with it.” 
Randall patted him on the back.  “Thanks, I guess.”  He hooked his hands under
Henry’s armpits, lifted, and dragged him inside, depositing him on the kitchen
floor, face up.  Lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.  Randall used his thumb
and forefinger to close the lids, said a quick, silent prayer, then added, “If
I make it out of this alive, I’ll do right by your kids.  I’ll tell ‘em you
died a hero.”

Randall walked to the far
side of the kitchen and grabbed his Jim Beam and a shot glass out of the liquor
cabinet.  He reconsidered the shot glass, then drank three long gulps straight
from the bottle, amazed at how much could happen in twenty-four hours.

“Total FUBAR.”  Three dead
men in his house, one dying, and Mary about to join them if he didn’t hurry.

CHAPTER 17

Mary sprung out of her chair
and almost fell over—her bad leg had gone numb and stiff from sitting for far
too long.  Panicked, she asked, “What the hell, Chuck?”  She hobbled away from
him, backing up as fast as she could toward the big bay window. 

Chuck holstered his weapon
and strolled over to Herb, looking smug, looking satisfied.  He knelt, checking
out the body, as Mary bumped into the cushioned bench behind her knees.  She’d
gone as far as she could go.

Chuck stood and said, “Good
work, Mary.  Without you, I never would’ve gotten through the front door.”

“What?”  Mary struggled to
understand.  Why had Herb called him
Billy
, and why did that name sound
familiar?  They obviously knew each other—the look of recognition on Herb’s
face had revealed as much, before he took two bullets to the chest.

“Herb and I have been at odds
lately, so to speak.”

“No shit!  You shot him!”

“Family riff.  Deeper things
going on than you could understand.”

“He called you Billy.”

“That he did.  Billy Barton.”

Mary remembered their
conversation in the car, remembered Chuck saying,
He’s a cousin to the
family on the mother’s side.  Former Ranger that got back to the States around
the same time.

“You’re the cousin?” she
asked.

He grabbed a muffin from the
table and took a bite, moaning around the mouthful while Mary waited.  “Wow.  I
knew Hans could work some magic, but
damn
.  Did you try one of these?”

Mary crept to her right.  She
knew she had nowhere to go, but it felt right to be moving, to at least attempt
to create more distance between she and Chuck. 

Not Chuck.  Not anymore. 
Billy.

She bumped up against a set
of white shelves and heard the jostling of picture frames and flowerpots.  The
air in the breakfast nook, once warm and comforting as she’d talked to Herb,
had cloyed, almost suffocating her like breathing through a pillow.  “You’re
the cousin?” she repeated.

“That I am.  Cousin Billy. 
And beyond that, you’re looking for somebody, right?”  He pulled out his gun,
aimed at her from his hip.

Dumbfounded by the revelation
and at once afraid for her life, Mary held up her hands, cane in one, palm
facing out with the other.  “Oh, Jesus...
you’re
Ares?”

That’s why he wouldn’t let
me have a gun
, she
thought. 

“I know how much you love
this answer, but...more or less.”

“What does that mean?”

“The original Ares died in
1976.  Three of us have taken on his...legend.  Kept it alive.  So, yes, I’m one
third of the great and mighty Ares,” he said with a grand, waving gesture.  He
took a step toward her.

“There are
three
of
you?”  Mary inched to her left.  Moving, with nowhere to go, back across the
bay window, thinking if she were visible from the street, maybe he wouldn’t
shoot.

“The Magic Eight-Ball says,
it
is decidedly so
.” 

“Who’re the others?”

“We used to be two.  Myself
and poor Herbie here, but we’re getting old, you see.  Had to take on a
partner.  As far as who it is?  You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“But you’re—you’re...”

“Old?”

“No, you’re with the CIA.”

Billy laughed, moved a chair
out of his way, coming forward, stalking her.  “Not quite.  Not at all,
actually.”

“Randall...he said...”

“Randall didn’t know either. 
Trust me.  You think Randall’s a good liar?  You ever heard that you can’t kid
a kidder?  Bullshit.  He was just as clueless as you.”

Mary circled around the
table.

Billy circled with her.

She said, “So how does he
know you?”

“You think Ares has survived
this long without checking out the competition first?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.  Why
would you?”  Billy paused behind the table.  “Is this the part in the movie
where the super-villain reveals all his evil plans to James Bond and then Bond
turns the tables on him?  You ever wonder why they do that?  Why don’t they
just drop him in the shark tank and get it over with?”

“Never thought about it, but
my guess would be power.”

“Power?  I suppose.  But you
want to know the crazy thing about it?  Power is like a skydiver testing his
limits.  You gotta know when to pull the ripcord.  Otherwise, you leave a big,
bloody dent in the ground.”

“You’ve got the gun.  Do you
know when to pull the trigger?”  Mary could feel the open kitchen behind her. 
She eased away from the table, hoping to reach the knife rack.  It wouldn’t be
much against his handgun, but at least she could have some semblance of
protection.

“Stop right there,” Billy
said, sensing her intention.  “It won’t do you any good.”

Mary halted, her hip bumping
against something.  Herb’s body, limp and lifeless in the chair, arms dangling
down at his sides.  She nodded toward him, said, “If he’s a third of Ares—his
legend, whatever, why’d you kill him?”

“Questions, questions.” 
Billy checked his watch.  “Looks like we have some time.  I always enjoyed
finding out what the villain was up to anyhow and I do like you, Mary, I do, so
I guess it won’t hurt to tell you why you’re in this mess.  I’ll give you that
much,” he said, then pulled out the nearest chair and sat, patting the table,
beckoning Mary to sit with him. 

“I think I’ll stand.”  She
knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun him, nor a bullet, but she felt safer being
mobile.  “Time for what?”

“Before we meet with the
third part of our little trifecta.  Anyway,
him
,” he said, pointing at
Herb, “he was family, and I hate it came to this, but he was also about to do
something disastrous.”

“Meaning?”  When Billy
reached for another muffin, Mary took the opportunity to glance quickly around
the room, looking for any sort of object, within arm’s reach, that she could
use as a weapon.

There was nothing.  She was
marooned on a deserted island of helplessness, without a hint of hope for
rescue.

“Meaning...Herbie got soft in
his old age.  Weak.  Guilty, like he said.  He was close to telling the press
everything, and that’s why I sent you in here, just to see if he’d go through
with it.  If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been somebody else.  The whole
world was about to find out what Uncle Jackson has been funding all these
years.”

“The contest?”

“That would be it.”  Billy
tore a piece of muffin away, popped it in his mouth.  “He said his conscience
couldn’t bear it—all the killing, all the blood on his family’s hands.  Said it
wasn’t right anymore, and hadn’t ever been, even though what we’ve been doing
was his idea in the first place.”

“His idea?”

“Killing the original Ares,
assuming his identity, and then eliminating all the winners so we could take
the prize money.  Sometimes I’d kill them, sometimes he would, sometimes our—sometimes
our
friend
would.”

Mary look down at Herb, had
trouble imagining that the warm-hearted man she’d met was a murderer. 

And his friend?  Does he
mean Hans?  That sweet little guy with pink shoes?

“It was all too easy,
honestly.  When the last one was left, we’d get the handler—like that guy we
have now, Erhard—Enigma—whatever you want to call him.  We’d get him to set up
this fake rendezvous with the winner, off the guy in some dark alley, and then
the handler would report back that the game was over.  Money goes into the bank
and we move on to the next one.  Uncle Jackson had practically disowned Herbie,
but the one thing he did hand over was control of the game.  We’d find the
contestants, let the handler run the show, and then steal our own prize in the
end.  Foolproof way to rack up a few million dollars every couple of years. 
But, like I told you this morning, nothing is ever foolproof, because this
time, Herbie told us that he was done, and he’d sent word to Enigma to postpone
the contest because he was going to the press.”