Max Collins - The last quarry

I took the steps three at a time and sprinted across to where I could see the Geo, transformed into a twisted mass of steel abstraction decorated with lashing tongues of flame and billowing smoky hands that turned to black fists opening to gray fingers.

Gun ready but with nothing and no one to shoot at, I dropped to my knees as if to pray. But I was not in a prayerful mood-my eyes were ignoring the smoke and taking in various sad, sick sights, from burnt-edged scraps of Janet’s brown suede coat to jagged sections of smoldering human flesh.

Not far from where I knelt, half a female arm lay, fingers twitching, just a little, not burnt at all, not even the stump, as if cut off rudely at the elbow and discarded, flung to the asphalt, which was dotted with the red rain of blood. A little ways away, a shoeless foot had landed on its sole, like the person it belonged to had stepped away, leaving it behind.

Mostly, however, the lot was littered with charred chunks of meat, as if the explosion had been in a butcher’s shop, not rigged here in this lot to blow sky-high when the key of the little Geo had been turned.

A sane man might have gone mad.

I went coldly sane, getting to my feet, ignoring the civilians starting to approach the fiery scene, a chorus of Oh my Gods and Oh my Lords making a frantic premature funeral out of the ungainly pyre. But I was in no mood for ceremony and just turned away and headed for my rental Ford, which wasn’t in the lot, parked instead over on the next side street.

In a weird way, the carnage of it made it easier for me to snap into the necessary gear-this was no clean kill, out of my more recent life, but a flashback to Vietnam, where I’d seen any number of friends blown to kibble thanks to land mines and mortar shells. Where you learned to react by retreating inside yourself, but not inviting the emotions in.

So I was in combat mode when I went looking for him.

Homewood had only seven motels, three of them major chains (Holiday Inn, Comfort Inn, Econo Lodge) which was where normally I would have started; but I had a hunch he would be staying close to my digs, since he was obviously keeping an eye on me.

That’s why I began where I was staying, at the Homewood Motor Court. I even parked in my own space by my own door, and on foot prowled the line of cabins, looking over the parked vehicles, studying license plates, peering in windows to take in anything showing in front and back seats.

Not many cars were in the spaces, as the motel catered to salesman and other mid-range business people, who were off with their cars pursuing their livelihoods. And when I made his ride, I was relieved to see it parked in the last space belonging to the last cabin at the far end, with no vehicles parked in the nearest four spaces.

That was good.

And the car hadn’t been hard to make-on the passenger seat of a Jeep rental were fanned-out magazines, Soldier of Fortune, Black Belt and several body building rags.

Seeing those had made me smile. Not much of a smile I grant you, a bitter little slash; but a smile. The magazines not only said who this car belonged to, it indicated a guy reading on the job, bored by surveillance work. Usually reading indicates intelligence.

Not this time.

Through the crack of the window, between the wood frame and the drawn blinds, I could see him, hurriedly packing his duffel bag, which was emblazoned with a Marine Corps insignia. The sweats had been replaced by a short-sleeved pale yellow shirt and dark brown slacks and shades-of-brown running shoes. He might have been the president of the Young Republicans on a campus somewhere.

When I went to his door, the nine millimeter was in my left hand, in front of me, so that anyone passing by wouldn’t see it.

Not that anyone was passing by. The Homewood Motor Court on this Monday morning was deader than the driver of the Geo. I knew housekeeping didn’t come on for another hour. Plenty of time.

The day, I noticed, was crisp and almost cold, the threat of rain making the sky dark. Days like this were surprisingly common in Vietnam, even if muggy hot ones were the norm, in the jungle.

I knocked with my free hand.

The door opened, allowing the room’s inhabitant a suspicious look over the night latch, and I was tempted to replay what I’d done to Louis, just shoot the prick in the eye and be done with it…

…but instead I shouldered through, popping the night latch, shoving the door shut behind me with my right hand, and pointing the nine at him with the other.

DeWayne, stunned by the intrusion, belatedly raised the glock he’d had sense enough to take with him answering the door, and with my free hand, I batted it out of his grasp, like a mean sibling slapping a rattle out of a baby’s pink fingers.

The gun landed on the nearby bed and bounced off onto the carpeted floor with a clunk, out of view, and reach.

DeWayne’s room was larger than mine, a businessman’s mini-suite with a meeting area. The framed paintings were abstractions, as if gore had been spattered around in here already.

My reluctant host-a little taller than me, and about as heavy, but overly muscular in a steroid-ish way-just stood there agape, his stubbly blond gyrene haircut seeming to stand on end. His light blue eyes-disturbingly long-lashed pretty eyes, really, feminine in the midst of all that otherwise rugged-jaw masculinity-had the same startled expression they’d worn when I slipped in beside DeWayne in his car outside the Log Cabin, a few months ago.

Right before he thanked me for not killing him and I locked him in his trunk-remember?

I shoved my nine millimeter in my waistband. But that didn’t seem to make DeWayne feel any better- in fact, he seemed unnerved, perhaps because I appeared so calm.

And I was in fact calm, entirely matter-of-fact and unemotional. Which he should have been thankful for. If I hadn’t slipped into my battle zone, he’d have been dead now.

I asked, in a purely conversational tone, “What the fuck was that about back there, DeWayne?”

DeWayne blinked.

I raised my eyebrows. “The car, DeWayne? The one you rigged that blew up this morning? Oh, but maybe you didn’t hang around to watch.”

His mouth twitched, like it couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown or scream.

“In which case,” I continued affably, “you’ll be pleased to know it did go off and blow Janet Wright’s car to hell and gone-driver and all.”

His expression tightened into defensiveness. “Well, somebody had to do it! After you’ve been farting around for days!”

“…How long have you been watching me, DeWayne?”

He shook his head. “I told you-I followed Mr. Green’s slutty little princess here. She wasn’t supposed to be part of the mix, you know.”

My hands were on my hips. “But, then, neither were you, DeWayne. Was that the plan? Let me do the job, then get rid of the loose end?”

“No! Hell, no! I told you-”

My eyes slitted. “I told you, last night. This is my job.”

DeWayne risked getting in my face, just a little: “Which included fucking her, I suppose? Where is that in your job description, old man? You ain’t exactly a stealth missile.”

I drew in a breath, let it out. “Car bomb,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Car bomb. Yeah. That’ll play as an accident.”

My remark took the boldness out of him, replacing it with chagrin. “Yeah, well…things were…out of control. I made a…a pre-emptive strike. But you don’t need to worry.”

My eyebrows went up again. “I don’t?”

He smirked humorlessly. “No-you’ll get your money.”

“…Well, isn’t that thoughtful. And then there’s all the credit-I’ll get that, too.” Finally I frowned at him. “Jesus, DeWayne-I’ve been seen all over town with that woman!”