All The Way Under, Page 3

  I popped the sling off my shoulder, revealing the double-barrel .410 shotgun that I carried in the sling beneath my arm. I'd bought the gun at a swap meet and used a hacksaw to cut the barrels off before grinding the stock down to a stub of a pistol grip. The gun was so ugly that I'd spray painted it flat black in an effort to hide how crude it was. At that moment, though, it fit my mood perfectly.

  I climbed out of the Camry and walked over to the back door of the bar. I clicked off the safety, pulled the gun up to waist high, and silently re-entered the bar.

  There was a short hallway at the back of the bar with a pair of bathroom doors on the left, then another few steps to where it opened up to the main bar room. There was a single pool table at the rear of the main room with green ceramic lamps hanging over it and an old Wurlitzer bubbler jukebox playing the Stevie Ray Vaughan song “Cold Shot.”

  They were up front by the bar, and both men had their backs to me. The one with the welding gear was off to the left by the booth I'd exited just minutes earlier. He had a welder's mask on and held a metal igniter against the tip of the blowtorch. He clicked the igniter over and over, trying to get a spark to ignite the hissing blowtorch.

  Bonnie and the bartender both leaned against the bar with their hands on the edge of the countertop as if they were doing pushups against it. They had their feet spread wide, their heads hanging down. Bonnie’s flattened cowboy hat was on the floor by her feet.

  The one with the machine gun was sitting on a bar stool on my side of Bonnie. He'd taken the machine gun off and laid it on the countertop. There was a shot glass on the bar and he was pouring himself a drink. He told the guy with the blowtorch to get the damned thing lit.

  I glanced out the front window. Fullmeyer was gone.

  I walked up to the one sitting on the bar stool and put the shotgun barrel against the side of his neck just under his ear. He jumped slightly when the gun barrels touched his skin, but he kept his cool.

  “Lookin’ for me?” I asked.

  Chapter 2

  He put the liquor bottle down on the varnished surface of the bar and his hand started to move towards the machine gun. I responded by pushing the shotgun barrels harder into the hollow space in his neck below his ear.

  "Do you have a brain in your head?" I asked. He nodded slowly. "Do you want to keep it in there?" He nodded again. "Good. Then put your hands on the bar like your new friends here did and leave them there."

  I heard a popping sound as the acetylene torch came to life. The guy with the torch adjusted the flame to a blue cone several inches long before tipping his welding mask back, and saying "It's ready, Homie." His mouth made a small "O" shape when he saw me holding the shotgun against his partner's neck.

  "You hear that, Homie?" I said. "It's ready. How about that?"

  Homie didn't say anything. I could see the muscles bunch up in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

  "Homie," I said, "tell your friend with the torch that if he does anything I don't like I will end both of your lives."

  Homie turned his head slowly and said to his partner through gritted teeth "Don't do anything. Just stand there."

  His partner held very still. The flame coming out of the silver welding tip hissed like a snake. Black wisps of burnt acetylene residue rose to the stamped tin ceiling and then floated down like crow feathers.

  "Bonnie and bartender," I said. "You need to leave now. Don't come back." The two of them pushed away from the bar. The bartender made a wide circle around Homie and ran for the back door. Bonnie put her hands on her hips and gave me an intense look. She had her lips pressed together so tightly you couldn't have driven a nail between them.

  She spoke in a loud, shaky voice, glaring at Homie. “You son of a bitch. If you ever touch me again I’ll kill you,” she said. Then she spat at him.

  Homie shrugged. “You got a tight body,” he said. “Can’t blame me for wanting to check it out.”

  She pointed an accusing finger at me. "Are you WITH these assholes? I thought you were one of the good guys. I actually LIKED you!"

  "Bonnie," I said, "these aren’t my friends. They’re insects who came here to kill me. We’re about to have a discussion about how they're going to leave me alone from now on. You shouldn’t be here when that happens."

  She looked at me for a long moment before going behind the bar to get her purse. I could see that her hands were trembling and her makeup had run like she'd been crying. She picked up her flattened cowboy hat and said "Why did you come back after you left?"

  "I thought you might be lonely," I said.

  She swallowed hard.

  "I’m not really engaged," she said. Her lower lip was trembling. "I just tell that to guys so they'll stop hitting on me."

  I nodded. "You should leave now, Bonnie. While you still can."

  She swallowed again. "Okay," she said, and then she left through the back door.

  The one with the welding torch gave me a confused look.

  "You want I should shut this thing off?" he said.

  "Not yet," I said. "Roll it over here."

  Keeping one hand holding the torch and the other on the handle of the welding cart, he rolled his portable torture chamber over to within a few feet of where I stood. With his thin facial hair, his beach-themed shirt and tennis shoes, he looked more like a high school kid in shop class than a killer.

  "That's close enough, Sparky," I said. "Hey Homie, are you afraid of fire?"

  "Hell no," he said. "I ain't afraid of nothing!"

  "Bet you are," I said. "I bet you're afraid right now. Surprised you haven't wet yourself. Close as you are to dying' and all."

  Homie jerked slightly. He started to bring his hands off the bar, so I pushed the barrels against his neck hard enough to leave bruises.

  "You pick those hands up again and you'll meet God right here," I said. "Tell you what, though. If you really are as tough as you say, I'll give you your gun back."

  "What?" he said. "You mean that?"

  "Hell yes," I said. "Thing is, I think that if I just burned a hole in your hat you'd mess yourself."

  "Would not!"

  "The proof is in the pudding," I said. I pointed with my free hand at his partner. "Burn a hole in the brim of his hat. Don't touch his skin, and keep the flame the hell away from me and my gun. Understand?"

  The welder obliged, moving the point of the flame to burn a dime-sized hole in the crinkled-up brim of the hat.

  As I'd suspected, the hat had been varnished to maintain the shape that it had, and the flame raced across the surface of the hat like Satan chasing souls at a massacre. Then the fire rolled under the brim of the hat, circling his neck and face in flames. Even with the shotgun barrels at his neck, Homie shrieked loudly and jumped away, knocking off his hat and slapping his shaved head from all angles as if it were still on fire.

  I told the welder to turn off the flame and sit down in a booth, and he complied. Homie continued his crazy hop, shouting curses and slapping at his head. I picked up a pitcher from the bar and tossed ice water at him. He didn't like that, but it seemed to calm him down a bit. I told him that if he didn't sit down in the booth with his friend that I'd shoot him on the spot, since he lost the bet.

  Homie continued to shout obscenities and began rubbing his eyes like he thought they might have melted when his hat ignited. Maybe they had. "OhShitOhShitOhShit," he said. I put my free hand on his shoulder and shoved him hard into the booth where his friend sat. Then I sat down in a booth across the aisle and rested my shotgun on the tabletop.

  Fullmeyer came through the front doors of the bar, his face registering shock as he took in the scene. Homie and his friend were sitting across from each other with sullen expressions. The machine gun was still on the bar, the hoses for the welding gear lay on the floor, and the remains of Homie's burned hat lay in the pool of water and ice cubes I'd thrown at him. Bonnie and the bartender hadn't returned. Homie glared at me with pure hatred, his eyes as dark and hard as iron ball
bearings. His eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. The smell of burnt hair and skin hung in the air.

  "What the hell happened here?" Fullmeyer said. "I gave you a direct order to leave."

  "These two came in the back door when I was in the parking lot. Since I wasn't here, and you weren't here, that just left the waitress and bartender to amuse themselves with. I came back inside and took their toys away from them. I told the waitress and bartender to take off. The one with the burns on his head is the killer, I think. The other idiot seems like more of a follower to me."

  Fullmeyer looked at me with a combination of awe and amazement.

  He held up one finger. "Category One. You're crazy." He held up a second finger. "Category Two. You have vigilante tendencies."

  "I've got skills," I said.

  Fullmeyer gestured towards my shotgun with his chin. "Did you make that weapon yourself? Or take it away from these two?"

  "It's mine," I said. "I had it in my sling."

  "Of course. You carry a sawed off antique squirrel gun in your sling. Is that category one or category two?"

  "It's category three, Eric. Self-preservation."

  "Sure." Eric nodded to himself. "How'd this one get the scorch marks around his head? Looks like he burned off his eyebrows, too."

  I shrugged. "I make friends wherever I go."

  Fullmeyer snorted a short laugh and pulled the pistol out of his shoulder holster.

  "Go ahead and leave," he said. "I'll take care of these two."

  I nodded and got to my feet. Then I stood in front of the two posse members and addressed them for what I hoped was the last time.

  "Listen to me," I said. "If I ever see either of you again, there won't be any warning and there won't be any backing down. I'll end you then and there. Understand?"

  Homie drilled me with his eyes. "We'll see about that," he said.

  "If that's how you want it," I said. "Now's as good a time as any." I held my gun out at arm's length, the barrel tips only a foot from Homie's face.

  "Delorean. No!" Fullmeyer said. "I'll take care of this. Leave the keys to your car and just GO."

  Chapter 3

  Twenty seven hours later I reached the safe house that Fullmeyer had arranged for me. I'd done almost 1800 miles of driving, with short stops for gas, food, and coffee. I'd worked my way through New Mexico, Utah, Idaho, and the Columbia River Gorge, checking my rear view mirrors frequently to see if anyone was tailing me. Nothing. I'd kept the shotgun on the passenger seat under a roadmap, but never needed to use it.

  Drugged with exhaustion, eyes burning from hours of driving at night, I finally turned the car into the small driveway described in the directions that Fullmeyer had left in the glovebox of the car. I felt an enormous desire to sleep, even if it was in the backseat of the car. I don't think I could have driven another mile.

  A yellowing bulb above the garage illuminated the short driveway I'd taken off of Highway 101 on the Oregon Coast. The flat-roofed house was sided in cedar shingles faded gray from the effects of salt and rain. Thick hedges of salal, rhododendrons, and blackberries encroached on both sides of the car as I stepped out into the rain. The smell of sea water was strong, and I could hear the surf pounding the shore nearby.

  The house key was on the same keychain as the car key. I let myself inside and closed the door behind me after finding the light switch. The heat was off; I'd have to look into that in the morning. Cream-colored carpet, a fireplace at one end of a small living room. There was a chocolate-colored brown sofa and a recliner off to the right, a kitchen to the left with tan linoleum floor covering and bronze-colored appliances. A small breakfast bar with a pair of barstools separated the kitchen from the living room. On the far side of the living room, a short hallway led to two small bedrooms. I picked the closest bedroom, pulled a quilt off the back of a chair near the bed, and collapsed on the mattress.

  Chapter 4

  I slept until the middle of the following afternoon, when the cold in the house overcame my desire to lay under the quilt letting the sound of the waves lull me back to sleep. I wrapped the quilt around me and went through the house turning the dials on the baseboard heater controls up. Gray light came through the window that faced the coast. Streaked with rain and caked with dried saltwater mist, the window gave the living room a view onto a half-acre patch of blackberry brambles and coastal pine trees, with a sliver of turbulent ocean visible between the pine trees.

  The kitchen was clean but spare. A reasonable assortment of canned food in the pantry, a few spices in one of the racks. The refrigerator, an ancient Frigidaire, groaned like an old arthritic dog every time the compressor kicked on. Not that the compressor came on very often, since it was cold enough in the cabin to see your breath. I opened the refrigerator door and was shocked to find a dozen eggs, orange juice, bacon, ham, a loaf of bread, margarine, a can of coffee grounds, and a six-pack of Olympia beer. A note taped to the six-pack said "Take care of the house. Don't leave food out where the ants can find it. Stay out of trouble -Eric."

  I pulled one of the beers from the refrigerator and drank it on the sofa while I watched the ocean churn and listened to the wind howl through the coastal pines. Occasionally a few snowflakes would hit the window and stick against it before melting and sliding down the glass. By the time I'd reached the bottom of the beer can, the snow had stopped and the skies had cleared. For a few minutes the sun hit the ocean, lighting it up with a brilliant silver shine. Then the next armada of clouds moved in, and the snow began to fall in thick swirls that reduced visibility to a few dozen yards. At that point, I climbed back into bed and slept until the following morning.

  Chapter 5

  After the chaos of Bullard’s trial and the showdown in the El Paso bar, the cabin felt like a sedative. There wasn’t any pressure for me to do anything, so for the first two days I sat in the recliner, read books, and looked at the ocean’s horizon through a pair of old binoculars. Fishing boats and giant cargo ships appeared on the horizon and departed again. There was a shelf of well-read paperback books under the big window that faced onto the ocean, and I picked through them looking for something to occupy my time. I read Robert Crais’ “The Watchman” and Thomas Harris’ “Silence of the Lambs.” I made omelets with bacon, ham, and diced jalapenos. I vacuumed the carpet and cleaned the kitchen. When the rain relented, I went outside and followed the narrow path through the blackberry brambles to the beach. It was a half mile walk on cream-colored sand to the north end of Cannon Beach. Seagulls and pelicans coasted and floated like kites on the ocean breeze under a blanket of grey clouds. Occasionally I passed elderly beachcombers who were looking for shells. As I reached Cannon Beach, vacation homes and small businesses began to encroach on the beach. I turned and headed back towards the cabin when a crystal clear stream cut across the sand in front of me. I told myself that I was in no hurry to do anything or be anything, but I knew that the sensation of peace wouldn’t last. At the quietest moments in the cabin, on the beach, or walking the sidewalks in Cannon Beach I felt something tightening inside of me like a coiled clock spring.

  I'd been in the house for a week when the phone in the kitchen rang. It was ten in the morning, and Eric Fullmeyer was on the line.

  "How are you holding up?" He asked me.

  "Fine so far. Thanks for letting me stay here for a while."

  "You're welcome. I need you to do something for me."

  "Anything."

  "I just put someone on a plane. They'll be at the airport in Portland around two this afternoon. I want you to meet them."

  "Sure," I said. "How will I recognize them?"

  "You will," he said. "Trust me. They should be at bag claim 26 between two and two thirty. Okay?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I'll take care of it. Do you want me to take them anywhere?"

  "Pick them up and take them back to where you are now. It's just temporary."

  I thought about the fact that he wouldn’t give me a name over the phone, or mention th
at I was staying at his cabin. I wondered if he thought someone was listening in on the phone call.

  "Okay," I said.

  "Thanks," he said, and hung up.

  I was on the road within an hour of Eric's call. I'd made a pot of coffee and put most of it into a big thermos I carried out to the Camry. I left the sling behind, but I had the shotgun on the passenger seat under a coat I’d found in one of the closets.

  I should have had more than enough time to get to the airport by two in the afternoon, but snowfall reduced driving speeds to thirty miles an hour over long stretches of Highway 26, the two-lane road that twists through the mountains which separate the Pacific coastline from Portland. The pavement wasn't free of snow and ice again until I was down in the Willamette Valley, finally headed for the airport at highway speeds. The sky began to clear, and Mt. Hood was visible in the distance, snow-covered and majestic.

  I pulled into the Portland airport garage at 2:45 and found a parking place on the first floor. I left the gun in the car and went out through the exit to the walkway that connected the garage to the terminal. The huge glass awning that covered the arrival and departure levels had kept the area free of the snowfall and freezing rain that had slowed my trip. Now the sky was the color of a Robin's egg, and the sunshine flooding through the awning made the airport a nice place to be. I went through the one of the glass turnstile gates into the bag claim area and started looking for my passenger.