John Lutz - Bloodfire

He rushed to her and dug his fingernails into the damp rope that was looped and knotted tightly around her wrists. He managed to loosen a knot. Another.

“Listen!” he was saying to her. “Listen. We gotta get outa here! Can you understand me?”

He thought she nodded, but he couldn’t be sure. He kept working on the knots with painful, stiffening fingers.

Didn’t hear anyone approach.

“I’ll take over, Carver,” someone said.

He knew the voice.

Roberto Gomez.

Carver gripped his cane and turned, staring up at Gomez and Hirsh. Gomez was wearing khaki pants, a black or green pullover shirt, and rubber boots that laced tight around his tucked-in pants legs. Hirsh had on his dark, vested suit, and what looked like a pair of hip boots. The golden arc of his watch chain gleamed across his stomach paunch. Gomez was holding an Uzi like the one on the ground beside B.J.’s body. Hirsh was gripping a long dark revolver.

Hirsh said, “Toss the rifle out into the clearing and move away, Carver.”

Carver hadn’t realized the rifle he’d taken from Junior’s dead hands was lying next to his extended bad leg. He picked it up by the stock and slung it over near B.J.’s corpse. Then he stood up slowly and limped across the soggy ground toward Gomez and Hirsh.

Hirsh said, “Far enough.”

Carver stopped and stood still, centering his weight on the cane.

Gomez walked over and stood near Beth, who’d loosened the rope enough to slip her hands free. She sat rubbing her wrists, not looking up at Gomez.

He bent down and grabbed a handful of her hair, then yanked her head back so she had to look at him. After muttering something to her in Spanish, he spat in her face.

She bowed her head again and sat quietly, trembling.

Gomez bent down and picked up the loose end of the rope, He looked over at Hirsh and said, “This alligator idea couldn’t be improved upon, eh?”

Hirsh said, “Doubt it. But what about the construction site?”

Gomez said to Carver, “He means a place where the highway department’s gonna pour concrete tomorrow for a new section of road. Gonna be your grave, Carver, yours and Beth’s. You two are gonna have a long, flat tombstone with a yellow line on it.”

Hirsh said, “I don’t think he cares for that idea, Mr. Gomez.”

“Does it fucking matter?”

Hirsh looked over at Carver with his sad eyes. “Nope, don’t matter a gnat’s ass.”

“We can do them here,” Gomez said, “then stuff ’em in the trunk and drive ’em to the construction site. We got plastic in the trunk, don’t we?”

“Always,” Hirsh said.

“Then the ’gator gets a snack and we’ll bury the leftovers.” Gomez smiled at Carver. “What about it, my man? You think of a better way for a bitch like this to leave life?”

“If you can’t think of one,” Carver said, “why’d you stop it from happening? Why didn’t you sit back and watch?”

Gomez narrowed his eyes at Carver and looked confused. He glanced at B.J., then turned to face Carver. “Hold on. You didn’t shoot these swamp turkeys?”

Hirsh said, “Jesus!”

The big ’gator was back, at the edge of the clearing, standing amazingly tall on its long legs so it could see above the saw grass, baring its sharp teeth. It hissed. It didn’t like to have its meal interrupted.

Hirsh couldn’t help staring at the alligator. His mouth was hanging open as if he were imitating it.

Carver brought his cane down hard across Hirsch’s wrist. The revolver dropped to the ground. Hirsh instinctively grabbed at the probably broken wrist and Carver crossed the cane over his neck. Heard and felt cartilage give.

Hirsh was down on his back, clutching his crushed larynx and thrashing his legs, gasping and choking and dying.

Beth screamed, “Carver!”

Carver saw Gomez swinging the barrel of the Uzi in his direction. He dived for Hirsh’s revolver but couldn’t find it. Hirsh must have fallen on it. Gomez was advancing on him now, the Uzi leveled, his eyes darting back and forth between the gagging and thrashing Hirsh, and Carver.

The huge ’gator hissed again. Gomez whipped his head around in the direction of the sound.

Carver had his chance. He flung his cane at Gomez and prepared to rush at him. The cane whispered as it cut the air.

Gomez must have sensed something. Or maybe heard the cane pinwheeling toward him.

He ducked.

The cane merely brushed his shoulder and dropped behind him.

He smiled at Carver. “Time for you to join the fucking swamp turkeys, my man.”

Both of them heard the shot and paused. Glanced around.

Then Gomez realized he’d been hit. He grabbed at his chest. Tried to raise the Uzi but dropped it. He said, “Goddammit!” and sat down hard, then fell back and lay still.

Beth was standing up, holding on to the tree with both hands for balance. Staring beyond Carver.

Carver turned to see what she was looking at.

There was a rhythmic splashing sound.

Someone walking.

McGregor emerged from the swamp, cradling a hunting rifle and grinning.

The big alligator saw him and slithered on its lizard legs back into the blackness of nightmares. Surrendering the moonlit clearing to a more ferocious predator.

McGregor covered ground in long, loose strides to within ten feet of Roberto Gomez. He carefully aimed the rifle. This time the shot was deafening. Gomez’s body jerked as the bullet slammed into it. Things stirred in the dark swamp, alarmed by the shot, then were quiet. Gomez’s outflung right arm twitched, but it had to be nerve reaction in an organism shutting itself down. He’d probably been dead when McGregor shot him the second time.

Carver looked at Beth, who was staring at McGregor almost the way she’d looked at the big alligator. McGregor glanced over at her. He was still grinning.

Carver said, “Meet McGregor.”

She nodded stupidly, almost as if it were a social introduction to someone who awed and frightened her. McGregor affected some people that way. So did spiders.

His grin became a leer as his eyes traveled up and down Beth’s nude form. He said, “So that’s what it was all about, huh? Root of all evil, after money.”

Carver lurched to where his cane lay, picked it up, and hobbled over to where Beth was leaning against the tree. He put his arm around her. Hugged her to him. Her body was rigid, unyielding. Then her breath trailed out of her and she sagged against him.

But only for a few seconds. Then her body shifted and she was standing tall on her own. She was unashamed of her nakedness, seemingly unaware of it, a dark Eve in a darker Eden. She glared at McGregor as if he were the serpent.

He said, “You oughta thank me for saving your life, dumb cunt.”

Carver said, “He shot the Brainard brothers. Roberto and Hirsh assumed I had. I assumed they’d done it.”

“Me all along,” McGregor said proudly. He pointed with the rifle at Hirsh’s now motionless form. “That asshole dead?”

“He’s dead,” Carver said. He remembered the sound of crushed cartilage and Hirsh’s gasping for air that couldn’t reach his lungs. He didn’t want to look at Hirsh’s face.

McGregor glanced again at Hirsh, then at Carver. “You know some tricks, for a gimpy ex-cop with a lotta delusions.”

Carver’s mind kept chewing on something. “How’d you come to be here?” he asked. “How’d you find us?”

McGregor said, “How’d I find you? Shit! I knew where you were the day you left. Followed you to the Beame house and had the phone tapped. First time Elizabeth here called Melanie about her son, I was listening. Traced the call to this godforsaken place. I been staying at your motel, fuckhead. Watching the two of you.”