Once More to Die Page 2

  “You are not curious? Why six men would kill an old man and his daughter?”

  “I am, but I don’t need to know. I don’t need complications. You’re a complication.”

  The events of the day overwhelmed her: Don Diego had killed papá. Papá had always been there for her, a grand father and a leader of men. She did not care for the world’s loss, or the loss of the enslaved Cuban people. Right then, she only cared for her own loss. Yet she knew Diego would be coming for her. He needed her dead right now, especially after killing papá. She struggled to confine her grief to a section of her mind where soon she could open it and live her grief.

  “As long as I am alive, Don Diego will come for me. He has a radio.”

  “Great. Just fucking great.” He stopped and held up a hand, turning his head as if to listen more closely to the sounds of the jungle.

  They were in the open along the trail. María Elena could see the slope of a roof around a curve in the pathway.

  “You ain’t gonna tell me they got a chopper, too, are you?”

  “Yes. Of course they do. Courtesy of the American government. Surplus.” She made quote Signs with her right hand and regretted letting go of her left elbow. She grimaced. “I hear nothing.”

  “They or somebody got one and is heading this way.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  He favored her with a glance. “Back in the day, Pocahontas, I heard ’em all the time. You learn to know the sound. The mystic Mid East and points south.”

  “Lebanon?”

  “Sure thing. And other places around there.”

  That made him somewhat older than her guess. She’d guessed forty, forty-five. But he was the kind who was ageless after forty. He could have been forty or sixty. That conflict had taken place when? It started during the mid-seventies? Anywhere from forty-five years ago to thirty-five years ago.

  She sighed. “They will hunt me until they kill me.”

  “You gotta be important.”

  “No. I am just a blogger.”

  He snorted. “Hurry it up, Pocahontas, we gotta outrun a chopper.”

  They rounded the bend and a shack came into view. It was on short pilings. Perhaps six to eight hundred square feet, a room or two at the most. Front porch, a cistern on a tall cradle in the back. A dirty Ford F-150 pickup sat alongside the shack.

  “Home sweet home,” he said. “Uh oh.”

  He grabbed María Elena and dragged her off the path and into shallow water. He pushed her down in some sawgrass and reeds growing from the scummy water. She tasted algae. Her feet tangled momentarily in the tentacle roots of a mangrove. Noxious mud sucked at her as she settled into it.

  “Keep your head down and watch out for gators and giant pythons, Pocahontas.”

  Gators? Giant snakes? Jesus, Joseph and Mary. “Pythons?”

  “Yep. Or anacondas, I can’t keep them straight. Don’t worry; I’ve only seen a couple.”

  The chopper noise flowed over them as the strange man rolled onto the edge of the flat area around the house. He sprawled in a contorted, awkward position, concealing the M-16 below him. “Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “When you can, tell me if it’s them. I’d hate to kill a bunch of tourists.”

  Kill? He is so confident, he is almost cocky, she thought and closed her mouth to expel a patch of slime. The thick, brackish water stank.

  The chopper came into view, the old Black Hawk.

  “I recognize the helicopter.”

  “Not me,” he said, voice loud, “not familiar with this one.”

  “After your time,” she said, raising her voice. “No weapons are installed, just only what the men carry.”

  “Tell me quick if they look like they’re gonna shoot me.”

  In a moment, the helicopter swept up, and banked sideways. The mesmerizing “whompf whompf whompf” of the blades whipped gusts of wind and dirt across the open area.

  “They are stabilizing. They swing sideways so those in the cabin can see you.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Can you hear me?” she fairly shouted.

  “Pipe down, Pocahontas, I hear you.”

  The chopper dropped altitude.

  “It is maybe fifty feet off the ground.” She paused. “Ten feet lower now, left hand side facing this way.”

  The great blades were buffeting the entire area. She dropped her head below the waterline so that only her eyes showed. But the winds blew the sawgrass aside and exposed her position.

  She spit out water and gasped. “I think they see me. The door is opening and two rifles show.” A plan occurred to her. “I will distract them.”

  “No, goddamnit. I…”

  Suddenly, she stood, slimy water and mud shedding off her. She waited a moment for their attention to focus on her. Debris and dried wild grass blew past her. Her eyes dried. When they saw her, the chopper swung lower and more toward her, she raised the nine-millimeter and, with a two-hand grip while praying the weapon was not harmed by the water, she began firing calmly.

  The two rifle barrels were swinging toward her and the chopper edged more her way. Sand and plant debris flew haphazardly about.

  Then the stranger uncoiled like a snake aflame and came up firing his M-16. As she ran out of ammunition, she watched him fire three round bursts. The second burst found the open door and the third burst followed. He was good, shooting from the hip, like he’d done it his entire life. One of the rifles fell from above, twisting, and flew barrel first into the ground, quivering there. The next burst shot toward the cockpit and the chopper banked immediately and powered to higher altitude and staggered away.

  As the engine sound faded, the stranger said, “They ain’t gonna be back, not soon.” He walked over and pulled on her good arm to help her out of the swamp’s edge. “If they send a team from their base soon, by ground vehicle, how long will it take them to get here?”

  She covered her breasts with her good arm, the automatic dangling.

  “Look, Pocahontas, I already seen you topless. A wet T-shirt ain’t gonna set me off any more.”

  She grimaced acknowledgement and dropped her arm and the weapon. No more ammo. “Maybe an hour. They have to get to the main road first, and then come this way, and finally drive all the way down this God-forsaken pathway.”

  “Gives us half an hour, maybe more. Another half an hour to get to better roads where we can make different road choices.”

  He trotted to the shack and climbed a short flight of wooden stairs to the porch. A rocking chair and a table sat there, two books on the table. Fishing poles lay across brackets on the wall. “Come on,” he commanded. He sat the M-16 on the rocking chair and opened the screen door.

  Wearily, she followed him. Water and mud dripped off her. Some of the smelly mud from the edge of the swamp caked on her legs.

  Inside it was neat and tidy. A bed sat alongside a far wall. A small kitchen occupied one quarter of the one-room place. An old couch and another rocker faced it. The other quarter of the room held a makeshift desk and stacks of books grew from the floor up the wall. A laptop sat centered on the desk.

  From outside, a generator cranked on.

  He turned to face her. “Lemme see.” Lightly he traced her bad shoulder with gentle fingers. Then he went to her other shoulder, her good one, and did the same. “Shoulder separation.” He grinned. “I could tell better with your shirt off, but as wet as it is, it don’t matter anyway.”

  “What is your name? I have been undressed in your presence and I do not know your name?”

  “All right, Pocahontas.” He paused. “My name is Atkins, Tommy Atkins.”

  “Hello Mr. Atkins, I am María Elena—“

  “I know. Listen, lie down on the floor.” He eased her down and onto her back. She lay on a cheap tourist Seminole rug.

  “Relax, Miss María Elena. You’re safe with me.” Strangely, she believed him. He grasped her left forearm. “Bend your e
lbow like this.” Then he began pulling her forearm while twisting it. “Tell me if it pops back into position.”

  “Right.” She tensed up.

  “No, relax.”

  She made a visible effort and he continued to pull and rotate her arm.

  She was determined not to show pain. As the pain grew, he nodded approvingly.

  He paused. “Relax, relax. Tense muscles ain’t going to help.”

  Again she made an extraordinary effort.

  He had maintained pressure and continued. He moved her forearm next to her chest and kept rotating it.

  “Ahhhh.” Her voice came in relief. The pain receded quickly. “Done.” She knew she’d be sore for a few days.

  He helped her up. “I’ll get you some clothes. Outside next to the cistern barrel is a shower. It’ll make you feel better. And smell better. There’s a chemical toilet around back.” He dug into a cupboard and handed her a towel. “Don’t worry about running out of water; I don’t think I’ll need it any longer.”

  She stopped and looked up in his eyes. He was four or five inches taller than she, maybe six two, maybe six three.

  “Thank you, Mister Atkins. I don’t know how…”

  “Never mind the bull shit, sister, just go hose off. We’re in a hurry.”

  She gave him a faint smile and went out the door.

  Around back, there was a small pallet and a PVC pipe with a showerhead. No hot water here. The plumbing connected to the barrel in the cradle. Above it, roofing gutters led to a set of filter screens on top. Rainwater shower.

  Favoring her shoulder, she gingerly removed her foul clothing including the ripped panties. They’d been almost as uncomfortable as her aching shoulder. She twisted the handle and water gravity-fed onto her hair. She found a bar of soap on a ledge and soaped down quickly. After she rinsed herself, she tried to wash her hair, aware of the passage of time.

  From time to time she heard unexpected noises from inside.

  Who is this Tommy Atkins? And how does such a warrior come to be so far from civilization?

  The water was tepid, the giant barrel having been heated by the sun.

  She was soaping her legs when she heard an exclamation.

  Tommy Atkins stood there stunned. “You clean up good, girl. And I thought you were scrawny under all that dirt and muck.” Shamelessly he watched her until she became self-conscious and grabbed the towel he was holding.

  He put some clothes on the ledge. “Jeans and shirt from an Indian kid. Hairbrush, but don’t waste time on that. You can brush in the truck.”

  “Indians?”

  “They used to live here, and I used to rent the place from them after they moved out.”

  “Used to?”

  “Now they got a stake in a casino and live in a million dollar condo on the beach in Lauderdale. Ain’t seen ’em in five years.”

  Water was still running and she stepped aside on the pallet.

  Atkins shook his head. “I am beginning to be impressed. You’re good in a firefight. You look a lot better without clothes and mud. I betcha you got character, too.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “I been meaning to tell you, Pocahontas, that decoy move with the chopper was perfect. Gave me time to get the range.” He set the clothes down. “We’re out of time. Get dressed. No underwear to fit.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll go commando.”

  “If the tennis shoes are too big, there’s a couple of pairs of socks and that ought to work out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Atkins.”

  “Tommy. Mr. Atkins makes me feel old.” He leered at her. “After seeing all of you, I ain’t near as old as I thought I was.”

  Soon she was dressed. The shirt was too large so she tied it off around her waist showing a little skin.

  She ran up the steps into the house. He had two small duffel bags packed. He put his laptop on them. “Take these to the truck.”

  She grabbed one and the laptop and went out and to the Ford. It was a few years old and she’d seen a million of these on the back roads out here.

  She returned for the last duffel and found him dousing the inside of the place with gasoline from a five-gallon can. That one emptied, he picked up another and splashed gasoline on the books and bedding. He emptied the metal gas can and tossed it aside.

  The fumes were gagging María Elena and she went out onto the porch.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He came out and went down the stairs. Under the stairs he retrieved two propane tanks. She watched as he put them inside alongside the walls. Then he turned the valves atop them and she could smell the agent they put in propane so you can smell it. The mix of gasoline and propane was deadly.

  He came out and picked up the two books next to the rocker and stuffed them into the duffel she carried. “Better clear out, Pocahontas. Might be a spark someplace.”

  She ran down the stairs and dropped the duffel in the bed of the pickup.

  He climbed in and started the truck and backed it until it was heading out. He got out and pointed for her to get in. “You drive for a minute. Put her in drive with your foot on the accelerator and the other on the brake. When I yell, drop the brake and get us the hell outa here.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “Wait!” She ran around the house and came back with her Miami Dolphins hat and got behind the wheel. “Ready.”

  He took another gas can and poured gasoline all over the porch. Then he poured a small trail of the liquid to the truck. He tossed the gas can onto the porch and climbed over the tailgate. “Ready?”

  She closed the door and put her hands on the wheel and put the truck into gear.

  “You betcha,” she said, mocking him.

  He held a large box of kitchen matches. He struck and dropped one and it went out on the way down. He cursed. Then he lighted another match. With that one he caught the whole box on fire. As all the sulfur tips began flaring, he dropped the flaming mess on the puddle of gasoline below him. It popped immediately into flames.

  “Go!” He sat quickly for safety as she accelerated the truck. “Faster.”

  She really stood on it.

  In the mirror she saw an arc of flame race across the dirt and up the stairs. The entire porch ignited at once. She felt rather than heard the whoosh. She also saw that Atkins was down in the bed of the truck, protecting himself.

  She was up to forty on this terrible pathway and going faster by the second. She was afraid she was going to lose control as the Ford bounced and banged amongst the ruts.

  Suddenly, the whole world went quiet, then a tremendous blast sounded and the force of it hit the truck and rocked it. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a plume of fire streak into the air two hundred feet high. “Oh my God.” A quick pressure differential assaulted her ears.

  The truck skidded off the pathway and she slowed quickly, trying to regain the roadway. Then Atkins was banging on the back window and she slowed to a stop.

  He jumped out and went to the driver’s door. “I’ll take her from here.”

  They both looked back. Pockets of flame were burning all around where the house had been and out toward the swamp. The house was still a mass of flame, but she could see that it no longer existed. The structural integrity of the shack was gone, eight smoking pilings remaining, two at an angle, and the oils in them beginning to burn brightly.

  The surroundings were eerily quiet; birds had silenced, lizards and ground animals were no longer scurrying about. The wind seemed to have been sucked away. Clumps of dry grass burned. Even the omnipresent mosquitoes had disappeared.

  She smelled burned civilization. Everything this man owned, gone in a second, and by his own hand. Soon the land would reclaim the remains. Why would he do that? All he had to do was go away until things quieted down. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: not only did Tommy Atkins not want to be found, but also he did not want to exist. And apparently, he no longer did.

  She had to wonder. W
as he some kind of pervert hiding out in the middle of the swamps? Was he on the run? What was he hiding from? An abandoned family? A bad business? The law?

  Or could he be one of those men you infrequently hear about, not hermits necessarily, but recluses, men who wanted nothing to do with society any longer. She remembered his familiarity with weapons and his quick-kill ability. She shivered. Was she safe with him?

  She didn’t know, but she did know he had saved her from rape and death and killed five and maybe more men on her behalf and he didn’t even know her. She resolved to withhold her judgment.

  Mentally, she crossed herself and scooted across the bench seat to the passenger side.

  Tommy Atkins stood looking at the utter destruction for another second, sighed, then slipped behind the wheel, closed the door, and pulled the gearshift into low. Soon he was following the path again, returning the way they had fled from the scene of the gunfight.

  “I want to bury Papá,” she said with resolution.

  He drove without answering immediately. “Would it not be better for authorities to do their CSI thing?”

  She thought for a minute and said quietly, “I don’t know.” She dropped her head in sorrow. Then she looked at him. “By the time law gets here, animals will desecrate the bodies…”

  “There’s that,” he allowed. “We could put him in the truck and take him to a mortician.”

  She sensed he did not want to do that thing. “I dunno. Don’t they have to have certified death certificates and all?”

  He nodded knowingly. “You can’t simply drop off a body at a funeral home, not unless you already—never mind.”

  They rounded a turn and came into the clearing. The Humvee was there canted over like the damaged machine it was.

  All six of the bodies were gone.

  “Diego!” she spat.

  “You betcha, sweetie. They done removed the evidence. And they will be back for the Hummer, too.” He stopped and looked around. “It explains why the chopper was so easy to run off.”

  Through the windshield she could see back the way they had come. A column of black, oily smoke twisted angrily into the clear sky.

  He saw her looking. “Gotta get going. Might be a wildlife officer want to check that out.”