Hell and Gone

(of which there were three), the news probably shot through your eyeballs, tumbled through your brain, and quickly turned into synaptic compost. The “killer on the loose” angle was interesting, because that meant there would be a sequel to the story, but in this case it wasn’t all that shocking. Not Manson-worthy. There would not be books written about the Lane Madden murder; she’d be a chapter in a celebrity death roundup book.

The Hunters, though…

Oh, man, people would be puzzling this shit out for ages.

They turned up in Vancouver, at a small video studio. Hunter agreed to talk, but only to the news networks —which pissed off his own network, to be sure. If he was going to break some major news, why not throw his own people the bone?

The press conference was teased a full hour in advance—and speculation had run wild for hours before that. There had been Hunter family sightings up and down the California coast, out in the Southwest, as far south as Mexico, and as far east as Times Square in Manhattan.

Last America heard, there had been a hit attempt at the Hunter home in Studio City, California. On family movie night, no less! Many shots were fired, many pints of blood spilled. None of it matched that of the Hunter family, which was good. But the Hunters? Totally missing. Along with their beloved family minivan. Where had they gone? Why hadn’t they called anybody—not even their attorneys? Nobody knew! It was a proper mystery, and America loved its mysteries.

When Jonathan Hunter finally appeared on camera, the on-screen titles claimed he was broadcasting live from Vancouver, but he quickly shot that down. He announced that the press conference had been previously taped, and that he was no longer anywhere near the Vancouver area…and all America was, like, Ah, I see what you did there! and they loved it.

But they really went crazy for the next part.

“My family and I are being hunted by a group of elite assassins who specialize in murdering celebrities and their families. These individuals broke into my home and attempted to slaughter my wife and children. I will not be speaking about particulars at this time, because I believe that doing so will further endanger my family.”

No. No way—he did not just say that…

“But I will say that a man named Charles Hardie, who I understand is a security guard, helped us out. Again, I cannot go into details, but the same people who tried to murder my family also killed Lane Madden. It was these celebrity whackers, not Mr. Hardie. He is innocent and he is a hero.”

An hour later, Deke was in Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood, eating a loaded western omelet and sipping a Shiner Bock—his body clock was hopelessly off, so what the hell. Clever son of a bitch, that Jonathan Hunter.

Hunter had more or less confirmed what Hardie had told Deke over the phone…more or less. Sure, the man had added a little smidge of crazy to his speech, which was appropriate. Because Jonathan Hunter, creator of Truth Hunters, did not want to be believed. He wanted to be ridiculed.

Which was brilliant, because he had just created his own life-insurance policy.

If there were real “celebrity whackers” out there, then they wouldn’t dare kill Hunter and his family now. Because that would publicly prove their existence.

Brilliant, daring, insane fucking move.

And a boon to Hardie. Deke hoped, prayed, please, God, please, let him see this broadcast. Because if Hardie had any brains in his head, he’d realize that now he could come in from the cold, show his face, and everything would work itself out.

Come on, Hardie.

Walk in through that door.

Sit down and have a Shiner Bock with me.

We’ll have a beer, then we’ll all go home to Philadelphia and clear up the mess that is your life.

8

I hope you ain’t going to be a hard case.

—Clifton James, Cool Hand Luke

WHEN HARDIE WOKE up the fourth—and, as it turned out, the next-to-last time—he was on a gurney and being wheeled down to a cold, bright garage.

Still no idea where he was.

There were lots of people around him. Sodium-vapor lights. Hurting his eyes. The smell of gasoline, stale air. Somebody said, “Right this way.” “Pull it up.” “The black one.” Hardie rolled his eyes around and saw angry red taillights. He blinked and the image became a bit clearer. They were wheeling him toward a Lincoln Town Car. Big, black, and gleaming. Hands opened up a trunk. Other hands under his arms, lifting him up to his feet. “Come on.” Hardie looked down at himself and was mildly surprised to discover he wasn’t wearing any clothes. His body was naked, pale, weak, withered. They made him walk anyway. Hardie jolted involuntarily. “He’s a fighter, this one. Be careful.” The same hands carried him closer to the car. Close enough so that he could see what was in the trunk: tubes and pads and plastic bags, none of it making sense. Not at first, anyway. Then when Hardie’s brain finally made sense of it, the things in the trunk ceased to worry him. What worried him was the thing that was not in the trunk.

Namely, his own body.

The entire trunk of the Lincoln Town Car was a kind of mobile life-support system, with tubes and wires and pumps and IV bags, as well as enough space for a man to curl up into a fetal position.

A man about the size of Charlie Hardie.

Hardie’s weakened body bucked, jolted, kicked, punched. The men around him yelled, “Whoa whoa whoa.” But Hardie refused to go into that trunk. They pulled him closer. He was not going into that trunk. A hand pushed the top of Hardie’s head down; shoes kicked the backs of Hardie’s knees so that his legs buckled. I am not going into that trunk. More hands pushed him over the hard steel edge and into the space—many, many hands holding him down. I am not going into that trunk. A hand came near his mouth. Hardie tried to bite off a finger. A fist struck the side of his head. Something was forced into his mouth, chipping teeth. A gloved finger dug out the shards. Then the thing was forced down his throat, gagging him. A needle jabbed his bare arm. “Give him more—we don’t want him waking up halfway through.” Cool yet white-hot water cascaded over his brain. I AM NOT GOING INTO THAT TRUNK…

Hardie had no choice; he was too weak to fight and too fuzzy-headed to do anything at all…

…except go into that trunk.

They weren’t taking any chances. They checked on the acceptable amount of sedatives for a human being the size and weight of Charlie Hardie…and then they tripled it.

The driver saw this and started to freak out a little.

“Whoa whoa whoa—how much you giving him?”

“Trust me. This guy needs a heavier dose than usual. He woke up on the table. And the EMT told us he also popped awake on the gurney like they’d given him nothing stronger than an Ambien. Dude here has a high tolerance for knockout drugs.”

“That still looks like a lot. I don’t get paid if I deliver a slightly chilled corpse.”

“He’ll be fine. And if he’s DOA, that’s on me. But you’re going to thank me. You don’t want to be cruising out on the highway with this guy waking up in the back, banging on the trunk, trying to figure a way out.”

The three of them stared down at Hardie’s naked body curled up into the fetal position. The breathing tubes were humming along fine, and his pulse was being carefully monitored and regulated. IV tubes fed him nutrients; another set of tubes took away waste products. He could exist for days, in near-suspended animation, and not require any additional care. Even when the car was parked—so long as the backup battery was still working.

“Poor fucker.”

The trunk lid slammed over his head and locked shut. Hardie thought that if he could somehow will himself to stay conscious, everything would be okay. If he could stay awake, then he could figure a way out of this. Hardie