The Tempest by A.J. Scudiere (story read aloud .txt) 📗

slightly worn tracks up to the spot. A shovel from the trunk made short work of the oil-soaked patch of ground, and churned the tire tracks, as well as a few other random pieces of earth, just for effect. Lee tossed the last branches onto the ground, satisfied.

He’d broken a sweat this time. But unless someone stood in the middle of it and knew exactly what they were looking for, they wouldn’t find his spot. Twenty minutes after he arrived, Lee started the engine for the second time. Pausing only long enough to slap peanut butter onto wheat bread and pass a thought for Bethany, he waited until the winding two lane road was empty before pulling up onto it, careful to go slowly and not leave tire tracks.

This time he knew where he was going . . . deeper into the Appalachians. He’d go back to where he’d first gone to ground, when only those with crime connections were after him. There was less population and more cover there than anywhere else in America. He’d last longer there, and so that’s where he headed.

He linked into I-75 heading north along with the slew of cars who had no idea he was in their midst. The ratty car was camouflaged on the road, too. Utterly unremarkable, no one looked twice at it, or at the man in the t-shirt and plain ball cap.

Five hours, some beef jerky, dried fruit, and a forgettable Big Mac later, he turned off 75. Smaller roads led him deep into the woods, the asphalt becoming broken under the wheels of his car. Poor pavement gave way to gravel and finally no surface at all.

It was only mid afternoon and he was in the middle of nowhere. But he knew exactly where he was. Not wanting to leave the car exposed, he cut branches that would be usable later, and draped them across the sagging roof. It was only partially obscured, but he didn’t want to have to do a full break-down if he had to exit quickly. He didn’t want to waste the work if someone was here, claiming their twenty acres and no mule.

He pulled the black gun from the side holster, not having noticed it for the whole trip. The metal and plastic were warm from his body heat and he’d carried it so much that it felt like an extension of him‒as though he could feel his fingers on the butt from inside the pistol. From the space between the seat and the emergency brake he pulled a silencer and fit it to the muzzle. He then opened his bag and pulled a second Heckler, fitting it with an illegal sixteen round clip, before grabbing a third clip and sliding it between his belt and the waistband on his pants.

Lee felt better with all the heat on him. Just in case.

He pushed aside memories of days where ‘just in case’ hadn’t been anything he worried about, and walked slowly to the cabin he had abandoned nine months ago. It looked empty enough from a distance. It had been here so long that the trees had grown right up to it and over the top, obscuring it from the air and most every side. He sat at the periphery, watching, until the sun went down.

He fetched himself a handful of pretzels when he went back to cover the car more thoroughly. He made another sandwich, this time with honey, and grabbed a small tin can of peaches and a plastic spoon. His cargo pants were full as he made the almost two mile trek to the cabin again. He sat the whole night outside, in various positions around the perimeter, and entered only just before dawn.

Someone had been here.

But from the dust, which he knew from his own experience was hard to replicate, it looked like the visitor had left at least a few months ago. He went through the house, beating anything that would take it‒old curtains, the mattress, a sofa that had been much newer and less plague infested the first time he’d arrived. A few mice and spiders scattered at his ministrations, and he locked himself into the back room and slept.

He waited three full days before he emerged and set up shop.

“Whatcha got Dunham? Blankenship?”

Owen wanted to snort, Blankenship didn’t have anything. He was like a pinkie toe: people told you it was there for balance, but did you believe them? Unfortunately, the whimsical thought about Blankenship was as far as his humor went. He liked Bean, his agent in charge, which was a good thing for him. Most days.

“We got crap. And we found out that half of what we thought we had was actually crap, too.”

“Uhhh.” Bean had a way of looking as wounded as you felt. He also looked like the kind of man you expected to pour himself a shot of whiskey or Pepto at any moment. The rounding gut and balding head made you wonder what he’d done to get promoted. But unlike Blankenship, Bean was good where he was. “Better tell me about it.”

“The grudge ninja’s short.” Blankenship offered.

Bean smiled like one would at a retarded child, and turned his attention back to Owen.

“It’s true. Cops left the body tacked to the wall this time-”

“Tacked to the wall?”

Owen fought the smile. “It was brilliant, sir.” He explained how the knives looked to be thrown to the appropriate points then the victim held in place while they were pounded through. “Into the wall studs, sir. So the body would stay up.”

“While the vic was alive?” Bean’s eyes were wide.

“Yeah. And given the puncture wounds, and the height discrepancy, the vic had maybe fifty pounds on the perp.”

“Son of a bitch.” Bean was the only person Owen knew who enunciated every word when he swore. “And?”

“Same as last. Punctures, likely with sais, and slices with kamas.” He slid photos across the desk. Bean had other agents to follow and hadn’t yet seen the