Great ass, like I said, sexy panties and all. Love that shit.” He was trying to move toward her, but he was still too drunk to stay upright without the help of the two-by-four. Then he stopped, looked into her shocked face, and made the mistake of laughing.
Karen lost it when she heard that laugh. She reached into her bag and pulled out Frank’s .45, and, almost as if she had been shooting one for years, she snapped back the hammer in one smooth motion and let one -go in Jack’s general direction. The two-by-four just below his hand shattered, blowing wood splinters all over the place. Jack yelled and went windmilling backward, toward the bike.
Karen stepped forward and fired again, the huge automatic kicking up in her hand and shocking her right - wrist.
This round pulverized the bike’s headlight, sending shards of glass into Jack’s face and causing him to fall sideways over the bike. The bike tipped and then fell over in a crashing heap, with Jack now pinned under the front wheel.
Karen walked toward him, the gun pointing right at him.
“What did you say, you son of a bitch? You put me in that bag, did you?
So that was you, Jack?” She fired again, aiming just over his head and hitting the back tire instead, and this time Jack was screaming for her to stop. She walked up close, her own hands trembling now, and lowered the muzzle to point right at his face. Jack started to babble and cry.
It Vas the sudden acrid smell of urine penetrating all the gunsmoke that brought her to her senses.
She backed away a step and slowly lowered the big gun.
Jack was curled into a protective ball underneath the front wheel of the bike, his right arm across his face. He was blubbering incoherently, his noises blending with the hiss of escaping air from the tire. Karen just stood there for a minute, taking deep breaths, struggling to wipe away the red mist of rage from her vision. She physically had to fight the urge to bring the gun up again and blow his damned head right off, and Jack sensed it.
“Get up,” she ordered. Her voice was flat and hard, and there was a strong metallic taste in her mouth.
“I can’t. I can’t,” he sobbed, still not looking at her.
“Do it, Jack, or I’ll put one in the gas tank. Get up.
Now! ” it took a moment for her threat to penetrate, and then he scrambled out from under the upset motorcycle, tearing his jeans and scraping his shins on a hub nut. He scuttled back away from her, farther into the hooch, a trembling hand still up in front of his face. There were shards of bright white glass on his T-shirt, and a large dark stain at his crotch.
“I said, Get up, Jack. I want you out here where I can see you, not just smell you. Get up!” She raised the .45 again.
He swallowed a couple of times and then crawled to his feet, suddenly very sober, his eyes locked on the black maw of the .45.
“Now,” she said, “we’re going to have a little talk. Or rather, I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to give me some answers. Call me bitch again and you’ll have to learn sign language, understand, Jack?”
He wobbled a little but nodded. She swung the gun around in the direction of the trailer. “In there.”
Jack walked carefully around her, eyeing the gun, his face pasty. He wiped his lips a couple of times on the way to the door. She could indeed smell him as he went past. He opened the front door and pushed it wide against some trash behind it. She followed him into the trailer, then told him to open some windows. The trailer stank of marijuana, with an overlay of sewage. The living room area was pretty much bare, with only -a sleeping bag rumpled up on a thin. and filthy mattress at one end, and two overturned boxes that apparently served as chairs. There were beer cans, wine bottles, old magazines, motorcycle parts, plastic jugs of oil, and assorted clothes scattered along the wall. A single overhead light hung by a broken fixture from the ceiling, and a telephone sat on the floor. She could smell the kitchen but could not see it, and she didn’t want to. A single hallway led back to the part of the trailer that had been smashed by the tree, but the hallway was blocked by a pile of clothes that looked as if they had been rescued from a Dumpster.
Jack stumbled unsteadily over toward the mattress. Karen followed him into the room, watching him carefully. Jack flopped down on the sleeping bag, then reached under it.
Karen brought the gun up instantly.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“Drink,” he said quickly. “Gotta have a drink. Goddamn, lady, you made me piss my pants. Gimme a break here.
Karen debated with herself. Maybe let him take a hit, steady his nerves.
If he was a full-blown lush, she might get more out of him if he steadied up. She nodded once. “Use one hand,” she ordered.
With his left hand in the air, he carefully felt around under the rag bag and there, with exaggerated slowness, extracted a long-necked brown bottle with no label. He undid the screw cap, still watching the gun, and took a long swig. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then swallowed, coughing as whatever elixir of the gods went down. Then he put the bottle down and pulled the sleeping bag over his lap. He had to put both hands down on the bag to keep himself upright. He looked at her expectantly.
Karen walked over to the stronger-looking of the two boxes and sat down, putting the automatic in her lap but keeping her right hand on it. She was aware that the hammer was still back, but she decided not to lower it. He might regain his courage after that slug of rotgut and make a move.
One part of her rather wished he would.
“You move and I’ll empty this thing into your face, understand?”
He nodded and then took another hit from the bottle.
“You were there,” she said. “You helped somebody kidnap me and then dump me in that river. Who was it?”
Jack looked away, a glint of fear showing in his eyes.
“My old man,” he croaked.
She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re telling me that Admiral Sherman was involved in that?”
He still wouldn’t look at her, just kept staring down at the floor. “W.
T. Sherman’s nothing to me,” Jack said.
“I’m talking about my real old man.”
What the hell was this? “You mean Galantz?”
“Never heard that name. He’s always been Mr. Smith.
That’s all, Mr. Smith. Ever since recon training.”
“Where is he now, this Mr. Smith?”
Jack glanced out the back window and shivered.
“Around. I dunno. He comes and gets me when he needs me. He just shows up, man. Always at night. He’s like a goddamned ghost.”
“So Admiral Sherman’s nothing to you?”
“Not’since he did what he did. Back there in D.C.,” Jack said, a hint of the old sneer coming back into his voice. The rotgut, she thought. Watch him.
“You mean when he divorced your mother.”
Jack didn’t say anything, just stared down at the floor.
Even so, Karen could sense the enormous resentment festering in this kid.
“Why do you call Galantz-Mr. Smith-your old man?”
Jack wiped his lips again and glanced sideways at the bottle. “Because he took care of me, back there in recon school, when I was getting my ass kicked by them other guys, the bigger guys. They were gonna wash me out, but Mr. Smith, he stood up, man. He knew about … about what happened to my mother. Said he was gonna be the old man I never had.
Said he’d get me through it. And he did, too.
Them other guys, they were afraid of Mr. Smith. He’s a bad bastard. Not like some a those guys, go around acting tough.
He is tough, man.”
“Yeah, real tough guy. Kidnapping women. Blinding them first, then stuffing them in a bag. Then if something goes wrong, quick, Jack, throw her in the river. A real man, that. A real tough guy.”
