Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

Anonymous rendezvous were not something Ben very much liked, but in his line of work he got a lot of weird calls from people too scared to give their identity away. Experience had proved that it was usually worth chasing them up, even it was just part of the process of elimination.

He checked his watch. A couple of hours to get there. He swung round and headed southwest, away from the neat white colonial houses and emerald lawns and the cool shade of the tree-lined streets. He stopped at a roadside diner and drank four cups of the best coffee he’d ever tasted outside Italy. Then he checked the time again, got back in the car and drove at a steady sixty towards his RV.

Music was thumping through the barroom walls as Ben stepped out of the Chrysler and walked up to the door. He swung it open and the noise of the country rock beat hit him, along with the heat and the smell of smoke, beer and a hundred tightly-packed bodies. He cast his eye around the place. There was a rebel flag hanging over the bar, below a couple of crossed sabres. Waitresses in high heels, tiny denim shorts and cut-off T-shirts were weaving between the tables. On a low stage there were electric guitars, a bass, a sprawling drum kit and a mountain of speakers and amplifiers set up and waiting for the band to come on.

Ben pushed through the crowd and headed the way the voice on the phone had told him to. A door between a pinball machine and a payphone led him up a dark flight of creaky wooden stairs. He walked along a dingy corridor. The music was pumping up from below, vibrations pulsing under his feet. It would probably get about twice as loud when the band started to play. He came to a door, and knocked.

A woman’s voice called from inside. ‘Come in.’

He opened the door and stepped inside the room. It was some kind of office, but it looked as though it had been abandoned quite a while ago. There was a desk and a plain wooden chair, an empty bookcase and a tall withered plant in a dried-out pot in the corner.

The woman was alone in the room, standing by the desk. She was small and wiry, not much more than five-two, about thirty years old. Her hair was curly and long, dyed blond. She wore high-heeled boots, tight jeans and a suede jacket; a heavy-looking leather shoulder bag on a strap.

‘I spoke to a man on the phone,’ Ben said to her.

‘You spoke to Skid,’ she answered tersely.

‘Where is he?’ He took a step closer to her.

‘Stay right where you are, mister. I’m the one asking the questions here.’ Her hand dipped quickly into her bag and came out clutching a huge revolver. She clasped it tightly, pointing at his chest from across the room. Its weight made the tendons stand out on her wrist.

‘OK, you have my attention,’ Ben said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘What makes you think I work for anyone?’

‘If you’re one of Cleaver’s boys, you ain’t getting out of here alive.’ She sounded like she meant it.

‘I don’t know who Cleaver is.’

‘Sure.’ She frowned. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Not around here,’ he said. ‘Look, I need to talk to Steve. Skid. Whatever the hell you want to call him. It’s urgent.’

She raised the gun. ‘Easy.’

He eyed the pistol. It was a massive single-action revolver, large calibre, stainless steel. The kind of weapon hunters used to shoot grizzly bears in Alaska. He could see the noses of the fat hollowpoint bullets nestling in the mouths of the chambers. The muzzle diameter was half an inch across. Not a pistol for a woman of her build. She was having trouble keeping the long barrel level. If she let off a round, the recoil would snap her wrist like a piece of celery.

‘That’s not yours, is it?’ he said. ‘My guess is that belongs to Skid.’

She grimaced. ‘Makes no difference whose it is. I can still blow the hell out of you. And I will. So keep your distance, and your hands where I can see them.’

‘He should have taught you how to use it before he sent you out here as his guard dog,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not cocked. It won’t fire.’

She glanced down at the gun, keeping a mistrustful eye on him.

‘Try pulling the trigger,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing will happen. See the hammer there? You need to wrap your thumb around that, and ease it back.’

She did as he said.

‘All the way back, till it clicks,’ he told her.

The action made a smooth metallic clunk-clunk in the silence of the room. The big five-shot cylinder rotated and locked.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now you can rest easy. You can shoot me if you need to. But before you do, let me prove to you that I’m not one of Cleaver’s boys. Whoever Cleaver is. Now, I’m going to move my hand to my jacket and peel it back. Don’t worry, I’m not armed. I’m going to show you my passport.’ He slid it out and tossed it on the desk. ‘Freshly stamped by US Immigration, just today. My name’s Ben Hope. Benedict on the passport.’

She reached out, picked it up and studied it. The gun wavered and he could easily have taken it from her. He just smiled. She glanced up at him, then back at the passport.

‘Now do you believe me?’

She let the gun down to her side. Her face softened, a look of relief in her eyes. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’

‘Then maybe you should decock that revolver now.’

‘Oh. Right.’ She wrapped her left thumb around the hammer, squeezed the trigger and let the hammer down slowly.

‘You haven’t told me your name,’ he said.

‘Molly.’

‘It’s good to meet you, Molly.’

‘So what are you doing in Georgia, Mr Hope?’

‘You can call me Ben. I came from Europe to find Zoë Bradbury.’

‘You don’t look the kind who would hang around that little tramp.’

‘She’s in trouble.’

Molly snorted. ‘She is trouble.’

‘And Skid’s in trouble too,’ Ben said. ‘Or I wouldn’t have been looking down the barrel of that hand cannon

just now.’

‘I’m sorry. I had to be careful.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Hiding from Cleaver.’

‘Will you take me to him?’ Ben said.

Molly drove him through the night, southwards along the coastal highway towards Jacksonville. Gentle specks of rain on the windscreen became a drumming thunder and the road ahead was slick and glossy. They sat in silence for the first few miles, the wipers beating time.

‘Boy, I could use a drink,’ she said suddenly. ‘My hands are still shaking.’ She glanced at him sideways and smiled for the first time. ‘I’ve never pointed a gun at anyone before.’

‘You did fine.’ He reached into his jacket and offered her his flask. ‘It’ll calm your nerves.’

She sipped. ‘That’s good. What is it?’

‘Laphroaig single malt Scotch, ten years old.’

‘Nice.’ She took another sip, smacked her lips and then handed the flask back to him. ‘See that glove compartment? Can you get me a smoke?’

He opened it. ‘Havanas?’ he said, surprised.

‘My daddy used to smoke them. I got the taste. Have one yourself.’

The little Coronation Punch cigars were sealed in silver aluminium tubes. Ben opened two of them, lit them up with his Zippo and passed one to her.

She took a long draw on hers and let out a cloud of smoke. ‘So, Mr Hope. I mean Ben. Just who are you?’

‘Just someone who wants to help.’

‘You seem to know an awful lot about guns. For an English guy. I thought they were banned over there.’

‘I’m not really English,’ he said. ‘I’m half Irish.’

‘Which half?’

‘The good half.’

She laughed. ‘That figures. Every English guy I ever met was an uptight sonofabitch.’