|
“I . . . talked her into letting us out on the grounds for a while,” Mike said.
He glanced down at Benny from his six-inch advantage. He flicked an imaginary
speck of dust from the sleeve of his conservative alpaca wool coat. “That
doctor of hers, Trina, helped.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Sure. Sure kid.”
Benny adjusted the black patch over the ruins of his
right eye. He kicked at a small stone on the jogging path and rubbed the back
of his neck; the thick muscles were like rocks under his hand. “This about
Sweet-Bottom?”
“Terry Marie,” Donnelly snapped. “My kid
sister's name is Terr-”
Benny threw him a mocking grin and pushed the long
hair away from his face. “Sweet-Bottom, man, and she likes it when I call
her that. Likes it more than you want to know, cop. She likes her red-neck red
skin. Is that what gives you a real hard-on for me? Hell. She's seven years
older than me. That would make her, what? A pedophile?”
“Look, Benny, she's pregnant-”
“I know, Donnelly. Don't I know it. Why do you
think I left? If your bosses in the Project get wind of it, she's history. In
a collar, like I used to wear, only she'll be earning her keep on her back.
About like I used to, but facing in a different direction. So shut it. You
want to help Sweet- Terry Marie, my man, you better do some fast thinking,
'cause when, not if, Cindy figures it out, Terry's gone.”
“Let's go on a little further. Your dossier says
you were raised in the woods. You . . . you like the woods?”
“Love 'em. Ok if we jog? Good, last one to the
swimming hole dies.” He bolted up the path. A low, maniacal laugh sent cold
chills up Donnelley’s spine.
A few miles in Donnelly called out to Benny and
sagged against a tree. He glared at Benny and tottered up the path.
“Hold it, Greylov.” He offered a smile. “Guess
I better start using the track.” He patted an iron hard belly.
“Too many doughnuts?” Benny ask, all innocence
and child-like wonder.
“Up yours.”
“Not even if you bought the Vaseline, shrimper-man."
He looked around. “This where we do it?”
Donnelly stumbled and Benny caught him. “I . . .
Do what?” He jerked free of Benny, rubbing the place on his arm where
Benny's finger had gouged into the muscle. His gaze darted back the way they
had come. Trees loomed around them. Like silent witnesses, Brooding with vast
disapproval. Donnelly scowled, wary of the cool, almost bored tones in the
kid's voice. He moistened his lips and patted the sweat from his forehead. The
act allowed him to check his shoulder holster in a furtive movement.
Benny saw it. He smiled. “Like, it,
Donnelly. You know, and then you run back and cry on Cindy's shoulder that
bad-boy Benny tried to escape. You didn't forget your steel dick, did you? I
mean, this is the only way you can think of to keep Sweet-Bottom safe from
your friends,” the word was said with every ounce of contempt Benny could
bring up out of a soul filled with scorn.
Donnelly hissed, “Damn you, don't call her that.
Yes, I have my weapon with me.”
“And enough lead come to make it look good?”
“I- Yes, more than enough, you bastard. Do you
want to run?” Mike scowled at Benny watched the cocky little bastard grin.
“Run, dammit.”
“Yo, I ain't no rabbit, and my last name ain't
dammit. Try Grey Wolf.” He raised his head and howled. An answering howl
came from the mountain above. The hair on the back of Donnelly’s neck
stirred.
“Yo,” Benny shrugged at the man’s poor attempt
to hide his fear, “Just family.” His eye closed. Death . . . was his only
alternative. Better dead than a slave in chains.
Mike Donnelly pulled out a .22 small automatic,
holding it in both hands, muzzle pointed to the sky.
“I can say you attacked me. Yeah, you attacked me,
right? I couldn't get out the remote in time.”
“Dude, sounds like a winner to me. Let's make it
look real.”
He gave Benny a blank look. Benny reached out and
rabbit punched Mike in the face with three quick jabs.
Benny grinned at the shock on Mike's bleeding face.
“Yeah. Looks good on you, man. Better have that
nose straightened tho'. The ladies might sigh over it, but it'll be hell to
breathe through come winter.”
Holding his smashed nose, Mike shouted through the
blood, “You son of a bitch.” He tore out a silk handkerchief and stanched
the flow.
“So Mom always said.” Benny's eye grew chilling.
“And she's friggin proud of it, too.”
“Christ, but I believe it.”
“You better. When she feels my death on the
spirit-line, there'll be hell to pay. She plans on eating Cindy's liver. Raw,
one bite at a time, until Cindy croaks.” Benny stepped closer. Mike ducked
away.
“Be cool, Donnelly, I had my fun with you. After
what you people in the Janissary Project ran me through, I don't give a hairy
rat's ass if I live or die anymore. All I want is your word you'll do your
best to keep my kid, your sister's kid, man, safe until Mom can take him. If
Cindy finds out about him, I swear to God I'll find a way out of hell and kill
you myself. Got it, pretty boy?”
“Don't worry, Greylov. The boss lady won't find
out. I have friends-”
“Who are friends of friends of friends of
Cindy's,” Benny said, his words flat, filled with scorn. “That's how it
always works. After one fool tells another fool no secret stays a secret.”
Stiffening, Donnelly snapped around the now scarlet
handkerchief, “These people-”
“Are human. Probably caus, at that. Go up to the
rez in Cherokee, En Cee, and look up some of the ani:Wya. They'll keep
them both safe. They know about hiding out. Just tell 'em Old-Man Waya from
White Haven sent you, through me.”
Benny stepped back, cocked his head and spat on the
ground between them.
“Now finish it, you butt punk.”
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
