Jeff Gunhus: Night Chill

“Maxi-million, what’s the score my friend?”

Max raised his beer and said, “Max Dahl three. Jack Tremont zero. Dahl wins.”

“No fair. You always win this game,” Jack said with a smile as he ordered a beer.

“I see it doesn’t keep you from playing. Besides,” Max eased back from the bar and rubbed his bulging stomach, “I have a weight handicap to make up for.”

Jack played along. He knew the serious talk would come later. For a while at least, Max wanted to pretend all was right with the world. Jack understood the need and was happy to oblige. “Drinking beer is where that thing came from. You should take better care of yourself. Can they bar you from practicing law in Maryland if you get too fat?” Jack said, nodding toward his friend’s gut.

Max called out to Jim Butcher who was standing at the cash register at the other end of the bar, “Dammit Jim, I thought I told you not to let my wife in here anymore.” Butcher looked up like he was ready to take a swing at whoever had the bad taste to yell at him in his own bar. Seeing that it was Max, he grunted and waved him off like he was swatting away a mosquito. “I think his sense of humor was in that arm he lost,” Max mumbled.

Jack held his hands up. “All right. All right. I’ll back off.”

“Good, let’s shoot some pool.”

“Which table? Left or right?”

Max dusted off his beer. “You pick. I’ll kick your ass either way.”

Huckley hadn’t expected the storm to be this bad. The wipers were barely able to keep up with the rain that battered the windshield. He checked his watch. He was still making good time. The Boss didn’t expect him for a few more hours. He decided to play it safe and took the next exit off the highway into a rest area.

The place was deserted. Still, he chose a parking spot far away from the restrooms in case another car pulled of the highway to wait out the storm. It seemed unlikely that anyone who entered the parking lot would walk by his car, but he wanted to be careful. That was always his weakness, the thing the Boss had been working with him on, being careful. He was used to taking risks, living on the adrenaline rush of playing right on the edge. But the Boss was right. There was too much at stake now. They were so close to their goal.

Tree branches thrashed in the gusting wind, as if angry giants shook the trees by their trunks. The air was filled with early autumn leaves and small limbs that had been torn off and sent spinning. Sheet lightning turned the world into pulsating bursts of photographic negative, black trees set against searing white light. Even before each flash of lightning dimmed, thunder blasted the atmosphere and shook the ground from its force.

Huckley reached in the back seat and grabbed his umbrella. Sticking it out of the door first, he opened it up over him and stood outside the car. He moved around to the trunk, fumbled the keys but finally inserted the right one into the lock.

“Aww, what have you done to yourself,” Huckley moaned when he saw his prize. Blood and mucous ran from her nose down over her mouth and spread out over her neck and chest. Seeing him, the girl started to kick at her bindings. More blood snorted out of her nose from the effort.

“Shhhh, now. Shhhh,” Huckley said. “You’re not going anywhere, so just stop that.”

The girl stopped kicking and stared at him. Huckley reached toward her with one long finger extended. Her eyes tracked his hand as it moved toward her face. A low whimper came from deep in her throat. Anticipating his touch, she closed her eyes. Huckley scraped a fingernail across her cheek, digging in hard when it came up against the duct tape that stretched across the girl’s mouth. He pressed the tape between his thumb and forefinger and tugged. The girl’s cheek lifted with each pull but the tape held in place. He smiled, happy with the result.

Huckley leaned in toward the girl until his face was inches from hers. He sniffed, taking in saltiness of her sweat, the sweetness of her blood. She smelled of fear. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to see the images in her mind, savoring the horrific scenarios she conjured for her death. He lingered in her mind, relishing the acts of rape and creative violations of her body the girl imagined. Huckley laughed. She wasn’t even close.

Huckley slammed the trunk shut and contented himself by listening to the girl struggle inside. This wasn’t his favorite part of the process but he certainly didn’t mind it. He wondered if he would ever get tired of it like some of the others had. God, he hoped not. Even if the Boss figured out the Source, Huckley knew he’d never give it up. For him, death was the only thing that really mattered.

Max slid his beer down the side rail to get a better shot at the eight ball sitting next to the corner pocket on the opposite side of the table. “Get out your money, hot shot,” he said through the cigarette clenched in his mouth. In a smooth motion he tapped the cue ball just enough to send it on a slow roll. The shot would have been off on most tables, but Max was on his home turf and the ball made a slow arc to the right as it rolled, ending in a gentle kiss on the eight ball and dropping it in for the win.

“I knew we should have played the left table,” Jack laughed, throwing a wadded up five-dollar bill on the table.

“Who are you kidding? You’ve had one beer to my four and you still couldn’t beat me. You’re a disgrace.”

They walked over to a booth and sat. Max lit a new cigarette. “So what’s bothering you, sport? You’re not quite right with yourself tonight.”

Jack leaned back and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t mentioned Albert James. Max didn’t need anything else on his mind right now. But Jack couldn’t shake the churning that’d been in the cold pit of his stomach since his run in. He heard Albert James in his head still. They’re gonna get lil’ Sarah, I know it. I jus’ know it . The warning about Sarah spooked him, but it was even more of a reason not to mention it to Max. It hit a little too close to home. So he made up an excuse. “Yeah, I know. I’m driving myself crazy with this writing thing.”

“I thought that was what you wanted to do. I mean, all that Father-of-the-Year bullshit comes first, but I thought writing was your thing.”

Jack smiled. He wasn’t fooled by Max’s bravado. His friend was crazy about his own kids and would do anything for them. That was the problem. The reason Piper’s had become his second home.

“Let’s just say it’s harder than I thought it’d be.”

“When do I get to read something? Is it any good?”

“I’m not quitting my day job, that’s for sure. I’m still doing some consulting.”

“Yeah,” he blew out a stream of smoke, “like you need the money.”

Jack smiled. Max was always giving him a tough time about money even though Max was one of the wealthiest men in the area. Jack lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “Hey, have you heard anything new?”

Max looked down at his pint of beer rather than make eye contact. He slid his glass side-to-side in the small puddle of condensation that had collected on the table. “Yeah, we heard back from the specialist.”

Jack didn’t need to wait for his friend to compose himself. Max’s body language told him the story. The specialist had been the end of the road, the last Court of Appeals. Jack reached out and grabbed his friend’s forearm. “I’m sorry Max.” He left his hand there for a few moments before pulling it back. “Is there a next step? Something else they can do?”

Max shook his head. “Nothing except wait for a donor. But they said…well, there’s this list.” He took a long pull from his beer and cleared his throat. “They said it didn’t look good. Not to get our hopes up, you know.”