Fatal

CHAPTER 34

Matt's first awareness was the smell of motor oil. His second was that he was alive and cold. He was in a large shed of some sort, lying in his sodden clothes on a bed of filthy rags. The walls were creosoted wood. The bare bulb dangling overhead was unlit, but thin, gray light filtered in through a foot-square, screen-covered window near the peak of the ceiling. Piled not far from him were covered plastic buckets of what looked like chemicals, and large, unmarked paper sacks of what might have been seeds or fertilizer. There were gardening tools in one corner of the coarse wood floor, several gas-powered weed whackers hanging on the wall, and a good-sized, partially dissected motor underneath them.

It wasn't until he tried to move that he realized his left wrist was handcuffed to a U-shaped pipe that seemed to have been built through the wall of the shed for precisely that purpose. He peered about again, trying to get a sense of who his captors might be. A pulsating pain encircled his head like a bandanna that had been knotted too tightly. His stomach, reacting to the odors and his dizziness, was sending acrid jets of bile into his throat. His watch

was gone, as was the pistol he had shoved into his pocket. The backs of his hands were scraped raw and coated with clotted blood. There was no traffic noise from outside, but twice over fifteen minutes or so, he heard a motorcycle rumble away — two different ones, he guessed, both Harleys. Bit by painful bit, memories of his devastating trip down the underground river crystallized.

"Help!" he cried out. "Hey, someone help me!"

He waited for a reply, then yelled again. Tentatively, the door across from him opened, and a slightly built woman in her twenties peeked in and put her finger to her lips. She had badly spiked purple hair, dense black eye shadow, and piercings through her nose, brows, and lower lip. Her black leather pants were frayed and dusty, as were her black T and leather vest.

"Quiet!" she whispered urgently. "They'll tend to you when they're ready."

"But I need to get — "

The woman had already pulled away and closed the door behind her. Matt waited a few minutes and then began hollering again. This time, when the woman reappeared, she had a child on her hip — a boy, two years old, filthy and frail, with a sallow complexion, thick greenish mucus draining from both nostrils, and a deep, nasty cough. She tossed Matt a tattered brown army blanket.

"Look, I told you to shut up," she said, still in a pressured whisper. "They ain't much likelihood they ain't gonna kill you. But yellin' like that an' disturbin' the children will take care a what little chance you got."

The woman moved to go, but this time hesitated when he spoke.

"Wait, please, I'm a doctor," he said quickly. "My name's Matt Rutledge. Dr. Matt Rutledge from Belinda. I don't know how I got here or even where I am, but I've got to get away and get some help. My friends are trapped in a mine cave-in and they're going to die."

"You ain't no doctor," she said. "They said you had a gun. Doctors don't carry guns."

"I can explain that. Look, your boy there has a bad sinus infection and probably a throat infection, too. I'll bet he isn't eating or sleeping well. He should be checked over by a doctor, and soon. He needs antibiotics."

"We don't go to no doctors."

"I can take care of him. I can get you the medicine he needs. What's your name?"

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"Becky," she said finally. "This here's Samuel. An' don't go callin' him Sam neither. His daddy gets mighty angry at that."

"Well, I'm a really good doctor, Becky, and I can get Samuel better. Just let me go and get some help for my friends. Then I'll be back to take care of him."

Indecision flickered across Becky's face but then just as swiftly vanished.

"I did that an' they'd never find all the pieces of me," she said. "You jes lay still an' keep quiet. If yer not a doctor, Bass'll kill you quicker'n you kin snap yer fingers. An' if you are, he'll most likely do you anyway. Now shut up!"

"But — "

This time the door slammed shut.

"Becky, please," Matt called out.

There was no response. He looked up at the small window, trying to get a sense of the time of day. How long had he been gone? His damp clothes and the freshly clotted blood suggested it hadn't been all that long, but he couldn't be certain. The handcuffs were police-department grade and put on way too tight to slip out of. He set his feet against the wall, grasped the copper pipe with both hands, and tried to pull it loose. The futile effort sent a fusillade exploding through his head. Frustrated, he sank back onto the oily rags and kicked the walls until his strength was gone. There had to be a way out. Waiting for Bass or whoever was supposed to kill him did not seem like his best chance.

"Becky," he shouted. "Samuel is sick. Really sick. You know he is. He's not going to get better without medicine. That stuff draining out of his nose is serious. I can help him. He could get very ill. Please listen to me. People are going to die if I don't get some help. Don't leave me here like this."

"Bass, no!" he heard Becky cry.

An instant later the shed door burst open. The man stood there, filling the space. He was six-five, with shoulders that nearly spanned the doorjamb; heavily tattooed, tree-trunk arms; and a massive gut. His thick, shoulder-length auburn hair and full beard hadn't seen a scissors in months, if not years, and his vest, perhaps once the covering for an entire cow, was studded with chrome spikes. His narrow, feral eyes held not a bit of warmth.

"Who the fuck are you?" he said, taking a step into the shed. "And who do you work for?"

Behind him, Matt could see at least one other biker, as well as Becky, Samuel still riding on her hip. He pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm a doctor," Matt said, certain that he had better state his case quickly. "My friends and I were trapped in a mine explosion. I swam out in the river to get help."

"Bullshit."

"No, please, it's true. I'm from Belinda. I need to get to the Slocumb brothers' farm off 82. Do you know them? They can vouch for me."

"I don't know them. I don't know nothin' except that you were where you shouldn't have been with a gun in your pocket. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You DEA?"

"No, I'm a doctor from Belinda."

"I'm gonna find out, and I promise it ain't gonna be pleasant for you. Tell me who you work for and I'll see to it you don't suffer too much. Fuck with me, and I promise you'll be beggin' to die."

"What I told you is the truth," Matt pleaded stridently. "I swear it is."

Bass stepped forward, grabbed Matt's shirt in his massive fist, and lifted him onto his toes. Matt could smell the odor of marijuana wafting from his clothes.

"You have half an hour," Bass growled.

He whirled and left, slamming the door with a force that threatened to collapse the shed.

"I'm tellin' you, he really is a doctor," Matt heard Becky say. "Ask him to look at Rake."

"No!"

"Christ, Bass, he's your brother."

"Shut up! This guy's a fed and in a little while he's gonna be a dead fed. This ain't no fuckin' game we're playin' here. I want to know how in the hell he found us."

Drugs! Matt felt certain the bikers were either growing them, processing them, or more likely both. He again checked the single window. The overcast sky seemed brighter now. Time was running out — for him, for Nikki, and for the rest of those in the cavern. It was also running out for some children who were about to receive the so-called vaccination of a lifetime.

For a while, he lay in silence, assuring himself again that the handcuffs were unyielding, and trying to conjure up a way to expand on his primitive effort to exploit Becky, clearly a weak link in the chain. Twice a bike rumbled off. He couldn't tell for certain if either was one he had heard before. He imagined his own Harley and the indescribable sense of freedom and completeness he felt when riding the hills. Then, soundlessly, Becky eased open the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her. Samuel wasn't with her. Instead, she was carrying a dirty pillowcase, partially filled with something.

"You are a doctor, ain't you?"

"Just like I said. Becky, I — "

"Tell me which of these will help Samuel."

She dumped the contents of the sack onto the floor in front of him — dozens of bottles and vials of various pills and liquid meds, almost all of them legitimately labeled from one pharmacy or another.

"The guys 'mos always clean out the medicine cabinets a the houses they… um… visit," she whispered. "They all love Perks and Oxys, but a couple of 'em prefer codeine. The rest a the pills they jes keep around. Will any a these help Samuel?"

Matt fingered through the vials and picked out two different brands of amoxicillin, 250 milligrams — thirty capsules in all.

"This'll work," he said, pulling one of them apart. "Just take about half the powder from one of these capsules and mix it in his food three times a day. For the first dose, use a whole capsule's worth. Does Samuel have any allergies?"

"Any what?"

"Don't worry about it. Here, half a teaspoon of this liquid medicine will help his cough."

"Thank ya, Doctor," she said, gathering up the pills. "I'm sorry Bass don't believe you."

"Becky, you've got to help me get out of here."

"Oh, I cain't do thet."

"They're growing drugs here, aren't they. Is that what Bass is afraid I'll find out?"

"I gotta go now."

"Becky, I swear I won't tell anyone. I just want to help get my friends out of that mine. Please, he's going to kill me."

"I know. I sure wish he wasn't."

"Who's Rake?" Matt asked suddenly.

"How did you — ? Ah, you heered me talkin' ta Bass."

"What's wrong with Rake?"

"He's… sick. Some kinda cancer or somethin' in his back, they said. He kin barely walk, an' he cain't ride his bike at all."

"Show me on you, Becky. Show me where Rake's cancer is."

Becky hesitated, then turned and pointed to her lower back.

"I gotta go now. Thanks for helpin' Samuel."

"Becky, get Bass," Matt said desperately. "Tell him I'm ready to talk. I'm ready to tell him everything."

"You ain't a doctor?"

"I am. Now, please, get him."

"I'm sorry," he heard her say as the door closed.

Matt sensed the woman hurrying away. He should have been harder on her. If she didn't agree to help him, he should have threatened to tell Bass that she had. Stupid. Frustrated, he whipped his manacled hand up with such force that a slice of skin peeled back from his wrist. He barely noticed the pain.

"Bass, I'll talk," he called out, certain his voice hadn't carried past the walls. "Let's make a deal. Come on."

Nothing.

Ten minutes passed, maybe more, before the door opened again. Two bikers, both in black, but neither needing to dress tough in order to look tough, strode in and pulled him roughly to his feet. One of the men — shaved head; broad, flat nose; tattooed neck — unlocked the handcuff on the pipe and secured it to his own wrist.

Thank God, Matt thought. But then, as they led him outside, another, far more ominous thought came to mind. The bikers were making no attempt to conceal their compound from him. In all likelihood, no matter what he did or said, he was a dead man. Scattered in the dense woods, well hidden from above, were ten wooden structures of various sizes. The largest, looking something like an Indian longhouse, had smoke curling from two chimneys. Above the chimneys a broad metal roof, suspended from the trees, diffused the smoke, which carried a distinctive, chemical odor. Opium, Matt guessed. No way they were going to let him go having seen this.

The two men led him across a dirt and pine needle courtyard to a modestly sized rough-hewn house with a small, low front porch. Bass was inside, standing by a bed in what might have once been a living room. Lying on his side on the bed, knees drawn up, was a man so like Bass in appearance that Matt guessed they were twins. A husky woman, her face deeply pocked from burnt-out acne, sat in a wooden rocker in one corner of the room, breast-feeding an unkempt infant who looked as if it might be battling the same germ as Samuel. Rake, pale and sweating, was obviously ill and in pain.

"This here's my brother, Rake," Bass said as the bald one unlocked Matt's manacle. "He's been sick for a couple a weeks with like a cancer on his back. If you're really a doctor, fix him up. If you ain't, I'm gonna put yer eyes out, for starters."

"You're going to kill me anyway," Matt said.

The moment he spoke the words, he knew they were a mistake. Moving like a cobra strike, Bass snatched him by the shirt again, this time lifting his toes clear of the floor.

"Don't fuck with me," he rasped. "And don't fuck with my brother neither."

"Okay, okay. Put me down."

Praying his instincts about Rake's problem were correct, Matt walked around the bed and drew down the sheet. It was as he'd suspected, a gigantic abscess of a congenital remnant, known as a pilonidal cyst, located directly over the tailbone just above the crack between Rake's enormous buttocks. Partially obscuring the abscess, which was six inches from top to bottom and almost certainly down to bone, was a large, geometric tattoo that looked like something drawn with a Spirograph.

"I can fix this," Matt said.

"Ain't no one can fix cancer," one of the bikers said.

"Shut up," Bass snapped.

"This isn't cancer," Matt replied. "It's infection. I need to open it up and wash the pus out. You have anything like a bathtub here? I mean one with hot water. It's got to be big enough for him to fit into."

"Tub's back there," Bass said. "We kin get plenty a hot water from… we got it."

"And soap, like the kind you wash dishes with."

Bass looked over at the nursing mother, who nodded.

"We got that," he said.

"And some rags, a lot of them — the cleaner the better."

Another look, another nod, this time in the direction of the kitchen. One of the bikers went in there and returned quickly with a small armload of rags. He set them where Matt indicated at the foot of the bed.

"Okay, I need a knife — a sharp one."

In an instant, all three bikers had produced blades from nearly invisible sheaths, the smallest of which was half a foot or better.

"Pick one an' don't do nothin' stupid," Bass warned.

Matt chose the smallest knife and hefted it in his hand, examining the point at the same time.

"Finally, I need some hot, soapy water," he said. "Half a pail."

Bass grunted something, and in a minute, the bald biker had left, returned, and set a bucket half filled with sudsy water at Matt's feet.

"Tell him this is going to hurt like hell," Matt said. "A little while after I'm done, much of the pain he's been having should go away."

"You hear that?"

"Tell him to do whatever the fuck he has to," Rake groaned.

Given what awaited within Rake's infected pilonidal cyst, there was no sense in bothering to sterilize the knife or his skin. Matt wrapped a cloth around the blade and held it in place about an inch from the tip.

"Okay, Rake. Ready… and… now!"

He thrust the knife straight in and pulled it straight down through the tattoo, almost two inches. Rake hissed through clenched teeth, but made no other sound. Bloody, foul-smelling pus, under tremendous pressure, spewed from the wound. Much of it hit the cloth surrounding the blade. Some of it actually spattered Matt.

"Soon as he can move, get him into the tub of hot, soapy water," Matt ordered, cleaning the wound out as best he could and rinsing his hands in the bucket of water. "It might sting, but it'll help a lot. Does anybody here have any antibiotics? Now that the infection is open, they might help."

"You're a shitty liar," Bass said. "Becky already told me what you did with Samuel."

Obviously anticipating the need, he tossed over the pillowcase of purloined medications, and Matt selected out the most powerful of them.

"Two of these four times today," he said, wondering if being caught in this particular lie was a minus or a plus, "then one four times a day. He really should be seen at a hospital, but even if you don't take him, this cavity should heal from the inside over two weeks, three tops. Send someone to a store for ten or twelve bottles of peroxide and some gauze bandages. You can wash out the hole with the peroxide and then pack it with the gauze." He glanced down at his unprotected hands and added, "Get a few boxes of rubber gloves, too."

He hesitated, carefully choosing the words to make a sort of deal with Bass. Before he could speak, though, without a word of thanks or warning, Bass motioned with a jerk of his head, and Matt was unceremoniously pulled, almost dragged, from the house and returned to the shed.

"Wait a minute," he complained as Shaved Head locked his cuff back onto the copper pipe. "Wait one fucking minute. I just saved that man's life. No questions asked. Listen, I need to get out of here. My friends are going to die if I don't. Tell Bass I won't ever say anything to anyone about having been here. I promise." The bikers were already headed out. "Stop! This isn't fair! I saved your friend's life!" He was railing at the inside of the closed door. "Goddamn it."

Matt kicked the wall and made yet another fruitless attempt to pull the pipe free. No chance. He was as good as dead. If they let him live, it would only be to care for the cavity he had created in Rake's back.

"You bastards!" he yelled. "Ungrateful bastards!"

He slumped down onto his bed of oily rags, pulled the blanket over him, and closed his eyes. Nikki and the others had virtually no chance now, either. For a time he thought about slow suffocation. Breathing gets more difficult, you feel sleepy, you lay down and close your eyes, you don't wake up. There were certainly worse ways to die, probably including whatever the bikers had in store for him.

Time passed. He might have actually dozed off when the door flew open again. Bass stood there as he had initially, all but blocking out the scene behind him. But this time there was a difference. This time his left hand was behind his back and his massive right paw, dangling loosely at his side, had a gun nestled in it.

"Shit. Bass, don't do this," Matt begged in a half whisper. "I won't tell anyone about you. I promise."

"You better mean that," Bass growled. "It's a good thing fer you yer such a crummy liar."

He bent down and skimmed Matt's pistol across the floor to where he lay. Matt hadn't fully absorbed the significance of the gesture when the key to the handcuffs followed along with a pair of dry jeans and a work shirt. Without another word, Bass turned and left the shack.

Standing in his stead, taking up considerably less space, was Frank Slocumb.