“You were there? Good. That’s good to know,” Bob said. “It’ll prevent any remorse from stopping me doing whatever’s necessary to get what I need.”
Jonah studied him through lizard eyes, his lids low, his mouth a cruel line. “You’re bluffing. Samaritan types—do-good assholes like you—they’ve got lines they don’t cross. You think we don’t know that?”
“Possibly,” Bob said. He rose and walked behind Jonah again, clapping him on both shoulders like a comrade. “But the question is where that line starts and ends. Is it, for example, north of the point required to prevent me causing you pain? Let’s find out!”
Bob grabbed Jonah’s head by the back of his hair, slamming the ex-jock’s face into the edge of the table in one smooth motion, his nasal bone snapping audibly.
“Eahhh!’ Jonah moaned, trying to raise his arms to his face, blood streaming over his lips and chin.
“Now we can do that…” Bob slammed his face into the table once more, “…again.” Slam! “And again.” Slam! “And again…” Slam!
On the fourth strike, Jonah remained slumped forward, his movement minimal, concussion dazing him.
Bob waited thirty seconds for him to rouse.
“Wah?” Jonah mumbled incoherently.
“Yeah, it’s not sophisticated. But when the person on the receiving end is an amoral coward, just good ol’-fashioned pain can be a heck of a motivator,” Bob said. He walked across the room and opened a pair of cabinet doors, finding the drinking glasses.
He filled one with water, then walked back over to the table and tossed it into Jonah’s face, the sudden cold rousing him.
“What…what happ—” He caught himself midsentence on seeing Bob. “Oh. Yeah.”
“And that wasn’t even the warmup,” Bob said. “That was just because I really, really, really don’t like you. Now, you might want to consider helping me. Because you can’t breathe through that shattered nose, and if I get impatient, I might just stick a wet sock in your mouth, see how much you dislike the sensation of suffocating. And you can’t take many more shots. You look… well… you’re not going to be dating any time soon.”
“Man… Can’t…”
“Or,” Bob said, “I could grab that butcher knife you keep in the second drawer and see how many small cuts I can make to your exposed flesh in under five minutes. Then, I’ll grab that very old, very rancid bottle of vinegar you have in your fridge—have you even cleaned this place since your mom died? No biggie. A thousand small cuts doused in vinegar have an interesting effect on a man. It’s a field torture, so it’s pretty darn poor at prompting accuracy. Because the pain is so excruciating, a man will say just about anything to make it stop. Tricks the nervous system, you see, makes it feel almost like your own skin is attacking you, burning you. But if that’s what it takes…”
Jonah managed to straighten up in the chair. “You’re… you’re a sick fuck…”
“No, Jonah!” Bob said, approaching the other man again, sitting on the edge of the table just a foot away. “I’m a disappointed fuck, the kind who worries that his other half doesn’t really care about his feelings. And that makes me want to lash out.”
He swung the roundhouse right from low to high, feeling his knuckles crash into Jonah’s orbital bone, under his left eye. Something cracked.
Bob shook his hand gently. “Damn. Think that was you, though, not me. I’ve broken fingers so many times hitting people that I’m not supposed to really use either hand as a fist. But like I said, I really don’t like you. You bring something out in me, Jonah, a dark side I don’t really like to revisit. And that just makes me madder. So instead of wasting more time, I’m going get the carving knife and some vinegar. And if you’re lucky, and scream loudly enough to impress me, then maybe I’ll take a break, cut off a few toes and feed them to you.”
Even beyond the physical damage, Bob could see Jonah’s expression shift, blood draining from his face. “You’re crazy, man.”
“It’s been suggested,” Bob said. “But I’m trying to be nicer, Jonah. For one, I’m really trying not to kill people. It’s been nearly a year, and while I can’t in good conscience say I’ve gotten through without causing anyone’s death, I can say I didn’t pull the trigger.”
“Pulled… the trigger?” Jonah’s eyes widened, the realization finally settling in that he’d met a bigger dog.
“Now… what you have to ask yourself is whether you want to meet the old me, or if, maybe, the version of me you’ve met so far is just crazy enough to respect and want to help. And when you’re done, I’ll cut you loose and let you run. But if I see you again in Bakersfield, I will kill you in a fashion so horrible, it’ll make you famous. They’ll talk for years about how someone could do that to another human being. So… what do you say, Jonah? You got an address for me on the Kopec brothers? Or do we go another few rounds, see just how bad this can get for you?”
34
Vern Kopec sat in the wood lawn chair and stretched the long rubber tubing, pulling the slingshot’s pocket back as far as he could take it. He had one eye closed as he sighted the trembling, emaciated mutt, fifteen feet away by the old barn.
He let fly, the jagged rock moving so rapidly it embedded in the creature’s hind quarters, the puppy yelping, scurrying toward the barn doors, then turning in panic when it realized they were closed.
“Heh heh. Stupid dog,” Vern groused. “Couldn’t fight none. Can’t run none, neither.”
His brother sidled up to him, arms crossed. Tommy looked down at his twin, born three minutes earlier but somehow always the younger one in everyone’s eyes because of his simple ways. “You having fun, there? Think maybe you could concentrate on keeping lookout?”
Vern reached down beside the chair and retrieved his beer. He took a sip, his face puckering at the warm sourness. “Shee-it! He ain’t coming here, brother. No way, no how.”
He drained it, then threw the bottle at the dog. It missed, but shattered against the barn, the terrified animal running in the other direction, towards the field beside their property.
“He’ll be back. He’s a chickenshit, but he still likes food,” Vern said. “Can’t believe we paid money for him.”
“He looked a good’un when he was little,” Tommy said. “Thought he was half pit bull. Turned out to be Terry’s shar-pei what done the deed with a golden retriever.”
“I should kill it,” Vern said, “save us some feed money. Then get our money back.”
“Maybe so, but we got other priorities right now,” Tommy said.
Vern scowled. “You ever going to stop telling me what’s what?”
“When you don’t need my help no more, maybe,” Tommy said. “Just… do me a real solid and pick up that long gun there, pay attention to the back road and rear of the property.”
Vern sighed and reached down on the chair’s other side to retrieve the old Remington Nylon 76 lever-action rifle, setting it across his knees. “Fine,” he muttered. “You going to sit out here for any stretch? Or do me and Terry get the shit duty?”
Terry was a mile away, on the other side of the property, watching the road in.
His brother took in a sharp breath of air, as if warding off irritation. “It ain’t rocket surgery, brother,” Tommy said. “He didn’t show at the motel, at least as far as we know from our police friend, and there’s only two roads in here.”
“Would help if that idjit Jeb hadn’t gone and disappeared. Now Jonah don’t show neither?”
