Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

“Put that thing away, Tommy,” Schillinger ordered, “before you get lucky and shoot yourself.”

Schillinger looked like a Sam Spade detective out of Hammett novel with his shin-length Burberry trench coat.

“This your idea of a joke, Marty?” Pelton said, now looking at his partner.

I held my breath and considered Pelton’s and Schillinger’s attitude toward each other a good sign. No conveyance of even the most minimal courtesies between them. Antagonistic allies at best.

“I don’t joke,” Schillinger spat. “You should know that by now.”

“Let’s just get back in the car and go,” Pelton said, now stepping toward the Taurus.

It was then that I shined the barrel-mounted flashlight on the three men.

Schillinger and Pelton brought their hands up to their foreheads in a mock salute to shield their eyes. Tommy Walsh pivoted on the balls of his feet, aiming the barrel of his piece at the source of the light.

“Lose the cannon, Tommy!” I shouted.

All three looked up at me, squinting their eyes as if straining to see me.

“Lose it now!”

But Tommy wouldn’t listen. He just planted a solid bead on me with his weapon as I spread my legs and anchored my weight against the roof. I pulled open the chamber on the Remington 1187 and, purely for effect, released it again. No other sound in the world carries more weight than the sound of a twelve-gauge semiautomatic when it’s locked and loaded. The metal against metal sound echoed and bounced off the south face of Old Iron Top, as if, somehow, the old hilltop were alive and well and on my side.

“Do it, Tommy,” Pelton said with an even, businesslike voice.

“Yeah, dummy,” Schillinger said, “lose the toy.”

Tommy turned and gave Pelton and Schillinger a disgusted, sour look. He tossed the piece a few feet away, onto the lawn. “I told you he was gonna try and shoot us,” he said. “Just like he blew that drug addict Moscowitz away.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Pelton said.

“Moscowitz wear a wool overcoat?” I said.

“Yeah,” Schillinger broke in. “The drug addict wears a wool overcoat. Cold, all the time, the freak.”

“Old Tommy here is not so dumb after all,” I said.

Tommy let out a laugh.

“Told you, douche bag.”

Schillinger bobbed his head.

“Keep laughing, fat ass,” he said. “Pretty soon you’re gonna be road-kill, too.”

“Both of you, stop it,” Pelton shouted while remaining perfectly still, hands up. “Let’s hear what he’s got to say.”

“Move closer to the cabin,” I said, feeling the sharp sting of the splintered wood shakes piercing my black jeans, needling the skin on my stomach, chest, and thighs.

No one moved.

“Closer to the cabin,” I said again. “Move away from the car.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” Pelton said.

“Tony told us no cops, no guns,” Schillinger added.

I braced myself and let off a round that shattered the windshield on Pelton’s Ford Taurus.

“Move!”

The explosion bounced off the south wall of Old Iron Top and echoed into the empty valley across from the east-west road.

“Move now!”

The three men made for the woodpile under the carport, in the direction of the door. It was all I wanted.

“Open the side door and walk inside,” I yelled, shifting my weight back down off the roof, maneuvering my legs onto the sill of the open bedroom window. “And lock it behind you.”

“You’re digging yourself into one hell of a giant chasm, Keeper,” came the sound of Pelton’s voice. “In my estimation, you’re about to put the proverbial screws to yourself.”

I slid back into the bedroom and ran toward the front of the cabin, shotgun barrel poised ahead of me. “Stand right where you are, gentlemen,” I said, loud enough for Cassandra to hear me through the floorboards.

The three men stood only a foot or two in front of the closed door, within perfect range of the video probe. “Now,” I said with a smiling face, “I hope you guys are movie fans.”

DRY-MOUTHED, HANDS WRAPPED tightly around the smooth wood stock of the Remington 1187, I aimed the barrel at the chests of men I had once considered fraternal brothers. I shined the barrel-mounted flashlight in their eyes, kept them in constant view, especially Tommy. No telling his capabilities in the name of loyalty, allegiance to duty, and good old-fashioned recklessness.

I sidestepped to the bookshelf, keeping the shotgun steady, and reaching under the lampshade, I hit the switch.

“You’re a wanted fugitive,” Schillinger said, his long arms dangling against his loose-fitting Burberry trench coat. “I should warn you, in case you’re planning something stupid.”

“Something more stupid than this?” Pelton said. “I thought we had a nice peaceful exchange set up?”

I could only hope that Cassandra was getting all this on tape under the floorboards of the cabin.

“Look, Marty,” I said, feeling the weight of the shotgun on my left arm, feeling the tightness of the leather glove on the trigger finger of my right hand, “I’m entirely aware of your partnership with Pelton. So stop the good-cop-bad-cop routine before my finger gets itchy.”

“You’re in a position,” Schillinger smirked.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” I said, “but you know how it is when you don’t have control of your own future.”

“I do now,” Schillinger said.

“We kept our part of the bargain, Keeper,” Pelton said, arms out stiff by his side, fingers moving in and out of fist position. “Now give us the film and I’ll see about getting you cleared of this thing.”

If I squeezed the trigger of the twelve-gauge just a fraction of an inch, one round alone of the eight-shot magnum loads would have been enough to take off all three faces. Someone might live through the experience, but what would have been the point of carrying on without a face?

I picked up the remote control for the television and VCR with my left hand, all the time holding the shotgun in my right. I turned on the machines and began to roll the porn flick.

“Now, gentlemen,” I said, “watch carefully. What you see may change my life for the better.”

There were a few seconds of static on the screen. But through the blur, I could make out Wash’s face and the scar on his neck as he sat on the edge of a bed inside a room at the Coco’s Motor Inn. Cassandra was down on her knees. All I could make out of her was her naked back, the garter belt wrapped tightly around her waist. But when she leaned into Wash-between his legs-you could clearly make out the heart-shaped tattoo on her neck, just above her left shoulder.

From where I stood by the bookcase, I could see the sweat break out on Pelton’s forehead. I could almost hear the anger flush into Schillinger’s face. As for the ever-silent Tommy, I could see his eyes moving from the screen to me, then back to the screen. I knew this: He was looking for the perfect opportunity to jump me. But I also knew this: I had to keep all three in one spot long enough for Cassandra to get a shot of them, long enough for them to admit to setting me up.

On the screen, Pelton scrunched the muscles of his red face. He was close to something, I could tell. I recalled the feeling. You could see his lips move but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. Cassandra moved her face out of the way when he finally did come to it. She turned to the camera, opened her eyes wide, disgusted and terrified. When Pelton was through, she held her face down. In a word, she looked defeated.

Then Schillinger came into the picture.

At first all I could make out of him were his skinny legs. But then I could see all of him when he bent over, grabbed Cassandra by the hair, and pulled her onto the bed. I couldn’t hear the words he said, but I could plainly hear Cassandra crying out in pain when Schillinger yanked hard on her thick brown hair.