Hellbox

26

PETE BALFOUR

Rosnikov had his order ready right on schedule. The Russian could get you just about anything you wanted in the way of ordinance, legal or illegal, and other stuff, too, such as a couple of clean license plates with current stickers for an ’06 Dodge pickup. Didn’t take him long, neither. Must’ve had a regular armory somewhere in the Stockton area, in addition to this old storage warehouse on the waterfront where he did business. Mob ties, too, probably, but who the hell cared about that?

Only problem was what the bugger charged. Arm and a leg for everything, and no haggling or the deal was off. Balfour had to fork over almost half his cash to get everything he’d asked for.

Place made him nervous while the deal was going down. Rosnikov, big and scowly, his two bodyguards or enforcers or whatever they were, standing there looking nasty with handguns bulging in their clothes. They’d told him to drive inside and then they’d shut the doors behind him; his pickup with the loaded camper shell was sitting right there in plain sight. What if Rosnikov got it into his head that he was carrying more cash than he’d showed, decided to double-cross him, knock him off? Wouldn’t be anything he could do about it, one against three packing heat. They’d get the other $3,500, the truck, and his firepower. But that wouldn’t be all they’d get. Big surprise when they saw what else he had in there.

Nothing like that happened. Hell, Rosnikov was a professional, wasn’t he? Balfour hadn’t had any trouble with the Russian when he bought the Bushmaster and the Sterling, he didn’t have any trouble this time. Paid his money, Rosnikov counted it and handed over the package, nobody said a word until he was ready to leave. He asked if he could switch the plates on the pickup before he drove out, Rosnikov said okay, and even took the old ones off his hands.

Balfour was still a little shaky when the two bodyguards opened the doors and let him drive on out. What he needed were a couple shots of Jack to steady his nerves, but he didn’t dare take even one. Had to be cold sober the rest of today. Tomorrow and the next couple of days, too. His plans, his life, depended on it.

When he was back on the road again, he was even more careful than he’d been on the drive down. Not one mile over the speed limit, safe lane changes and only when necessary. Those two detectives in Six Pines might be after him right now, but the law wouldn’t be. Suspicious, yeah, the woman’s husband would see to that, but they couldn’t prove nothing against him. Not yet, they couldn’t. He didn’t have no cause to worry unless he got stopped for some stupid traffic violation and that wasn’t gonna happen. Still, he’d sweated all the way down from Asshole Valley, and he’d sweat some on the way back, even with the new plates.

The woman hadn’t made a sound since he’d put her in there. Dead by now, for all he knew. While he was still up in the county, he’d thought about taking a detour into wilderness country and dumping her. Too risky, he’d decided, riskier than keeping her with him. Woods were crawling with fishermen and campers and sightseeing tourists this time of year. Somebody saw him do it or find her later, he’d never get to Stockton, much less make the return drive to Asshole Valley. Never get his revenge. That was all that mattered in the short run, paying Verriker and the rest of them back for what they’d done to him. Worry about the rest of it later, the long drive out of California and on up to Idaho. First things first.

But he had to think about something while he drove, so he thought about Idaho. He’d never been there, but that didn’t matter. Lot of wilderness area in the north part of the state, he knew that. Go in deep enough and there’d be a remote spot for an experienced woodsman like himself to fort up. That Unabomber guy, Kaczynski, he didn’t know Montana, didn’t have any survival skills, when he went there and built himself a cabin and lived for, what, twenty years with nobody the wiser. FBI never would’ve caught him if his brother hadn’t turned him in.

Nobody was gonna catch Pete Balfour once he built his own cabin way the hell out in the middle of nowhere and settled in. And if by some fluke they did track him down, well, he wouldn’t just give up like Kaczynski had, he’d use his ordinance to take down as many as he could before they finished him.

Be kind of lonesome, living up there in the Idaho backcountry. No TV, no Internet, none of the things he’d done for R amp;R most of his life. He’d get used to it, though. Wouldn’t even miss his old life after a while. Never had needed people anyway, never would after what those bastards in Asshole Valley had done to him. Get along just fine by himself, hunting, fishing, trapping.

No, they’d never catch him because wasn’t nobody could turn him in. As far as anybody knew, he’d’ve dropped right off the face of the earth. All he had to do was finish his business in Asshole Valley, then make it up to Northern Idaho without nobody being the wiser, and he’d be home free.

It was full dark when he reached the valley. He’d made sure it would be by taking a roundabout route and stopping twice on the way, once for gas, once for a Big Mac and fries. Pulling into places with lights and people didn’t make him edgy. He wasn’t worried, wasn’t sweating anymore. Sure, he’d had his share of bad luck up to now, crap happening to spoil his plans, but that was all behind him. Everything from now on was going to go down without a hitch-he was sure of it. Nobody even looked at him once, much less twice, in the service station or the golden arches drive-through. And neither of the highway patrol cops that passed him on the roads glanced in his direction.

He wouldn’t be recognized in the Six Pines area, neither. Not with the camper shell and clean plates on the pickup, and a cap he hardly ever wore except when he was hunting, pulled down low on his forehead. Just another tourist.

But once he got there, he’d have to be careful-real careful. Use the back roads, make sure nobody spotted him going in. Wouldn’t take long to do what needed to be done, but if somebody saw him…

No, the hell with that. Wasn’t nobody gonna see him. Dark tonight, drifting clouds hiding the moon. And it’d be late enough that there wouldn’t be many people out driving around. He’d be all right. Just had to do what they were always saying you should-think positive. Yeah, think positive.

Wasn’t nothing gonna screw up his plans this time.

Nothing did.

Less than thirty minutes, in and out.

Hellbox, baby. Hellbox!

On his way to Eagle Rock Lake, he passed a sheriff’s department cruiser. He tensed a little, but the deputy driving didn’t pay any attention to him, didn’t brake or slow down. Nothing to worry about. Keep cool, keep thinking positive.

He thought positive about Verriker and the palms of his hands itched. He drove chewing on his hate, his blood singing with it.

Damn, though, he could still smell, still feel the woman.

He hadn’t noticed the smell too much on the round-trip to Stockton, but now it seemed strong, like a gas filtering through the camper walls into the cab. He rolled down the window to let the night breeze in, but that didn’t seem to help much. Lucky nobody’d noticed it at the gas station or the McDonald’s drive-through. He’d have to stop somewhere tomorrow and buy something to fumigate the shell. Couldn’t drive all the way to Idaho with that stink in his nose and throat.

The steering wheel felt gummy. So did his hands. He wiped one down his pant leg, then the other, but it didn’t help any. Residue. And underneath the stickiness, a kind of residue from the woman, too, that he couldn’t wipe off. Crazy notion, but there it was.

Hadn’t had that feeling any of the other times he’d picked her up, carried her, but when he’d hauled her out tonight, he’d felt that residue come off her like flakes of dried skin, and his gorge had lifted right up into his throat. Had to put her down fast to keep from puking. Why? Because she was dead? Hadn’t been a sound out of her, and he couldn’t hear breathing or feel any heartbeat. Yeah, she must’ve died sometime on the round-trip to Stockton.

But why should that bother him? She’d of been dead tomorrow, anyway. And he’d handled dozens of dead animals, field-dressed deer and small game, without turning a hair. Carrying a dead woman shouldn’t be any different. But somehow, it was. Her smell, the weight of her limp body on his hands and against his chest, a flash image of the way she’d looked alive… it all gave him the creeps.

It was as if her residue had gotten inside his head, too, and was working on him like some kind of drug, trying to make him think he should be sorry for what he’d done to her. He’d killed Verriker’s wife and tonight he’d kill Verriker. Tomorrow there’d be plenty more blood on his hands. None of that made him feel sorry. So why should a woman he didn’t even know be twisting up his insides?

He couldn’t figure it out. She wasn’t nothing to him. And she’d tried to put his eyes out with those tacks. Another of his enemies. Got in his way, gave him nothing but trouble, would’ve killed him if she could… an enemy the same as Verriker and the rest. You had every right to take revenge on your enemies, no matter who they were. Sure you did. Soldiers didn’t have no qualms about killing, he didn’t have none, either.

Then why was he bugged about the woman?

He put his head out the window, took some deep breaths. Told himself to quit thinking about her, she was dead, it was over and done with. But the smell and the residue wouldn’t let him. His palms still itched, but now it was as much because of her as the thought of killing Verriker.

He wished he could stop somewhere, wash his hands, change his clothes. But there wasn’t time. Later, after he was done with Verriker and out of the county. He’d have to park at a rest stop or campground somewhere and get a few hours’ sleep-he was already dog-tired from the hours of road time he’d put in today, no way he could make it all the way to Northern Idaho or even out of California without some rest. He’d clean up the camper and himself then. Wash the woman out of his head at the same time.

The turnoff for the lake was just up ahead. He put on his turn signal even though there were no other cars on the road. Keep playing it safe, obeying the law, no matter where he was. One more survival skill.

The pickup rattled and bounced through the ruts until he passed the long limestone shelf. Lights on in the Ramsey cabin. Verriker was there and still up, but did he have company again tonight? If the Ramseys were holed up with him, they’d get theirs first thing. But it’d be a whole lot easier if Verriker was alone.

Balfour passed the place where he’d parked the last time, drove on past the cabin, slow. Grinned, his lips flattening against his teeth, when he saw that the only set of wheels down there was Verriker’s van. All by himself tonight. Perfect. Now he could take his time, make Verriker sweat and beg before he blew him away.

The road jogged up ahead. On the far side, he found a place to turn around, rolled back past the Ramsey cabin to the hidden parking spot among the trees. He slid the Charter. 38 into his pocket, locked the truck, and made his way along the verge of the empty road. Slower going tonight-he couldn’t see as clear with the clouds keeping the moon covered up. But he could see the cabin lights all right through the trees.

He went all the way to the driveway this time, down along its edge. No need to go skulking around in the trees tonight. No need to look for an unlocked door or window. Just walk up, walk right inside if the lock was off. And if it wasn’t, knock on the door-Verriker wouldn’t have no reason not to open up for him. Wouldn’t be afraid of him until he was looking down the barrel of the. 38.

The closer Balfour got to the door, the softer he walked. Excitement made his heart hammer, sharpened his senses-the same as when he had a buck in his sights, ready for the kill. Only better, much better, because shooting a deer wasn’t personal, and this was as personal as it got.

He had the revolver tight in his hand when he reached the door. He listened, didn’t hear anything inside, reached out real quiet to test the latch. Locked. He let go of it, sucked in a breath, and rapped on the door panel. Not too heavy, not too loud.

Nothing for several seconds. The. 38 felt big in his hand. Enormous. His palm was itching again, his mouth dry, his thoughts full of blood.

Come on, Verriker, come on!

Footsteps then, slow. “Who is it?”

He almost said, “The mayor.” It was right there on the tip of his tongue. He bit it back, said his name instead.

“What do you want, Balfour?”

“I got something to tell you. Real important, Ned. Can I come in?”

A little more silence. Thinking it over. Open the fucking door!

Verriker opened it. The bolt lock snapped, light spilled out through a three-inch slit between the door and the jamb. Balfour shoved inward with his free hand, moving forward at the same time, bringing the. 38 up. Saw Verriker backing away fast to one side, snapped at him, “Stay where you are!” as he bulled ahead into the room.

Movement at the edge of his vision.

Warning flash… too late.

Something slammed down on his forearm with enough force to paralyze his fingers, break his grip on the gun.

From the other side, something hit him across the side of the neck, took his breath away, and dropped him to his knees.

He tried to get up, but his legs and arms wouldn’t work. Another blow sent him sprawling onto his back. He lay there dazed, staring up through a haze of pain. Two faces swam into focus above him, faces he recognized No!

Panicked disbelief surged through him. He tried to scuttle backward away from the hands that reached down for him, but all he could do was flop and jerk like a deer with a busted spine.

Verriker dead, Idaho… never happen now. Screwed again. Why couldn’t nothing ever turn out the way he planned it, why did the shit always have to happen to him?