I circled the parking lot and headed downhill, eyes peeled for the DOP driveway. If I missed it, I’d have to go into Hubba-Hubba’s old holding-up point, then make my way back uphill, and I didn’t want to do that if I could avoid it. Every movement was agony.
I kept the vehicle lights on high beam and let the car just coast on its brakes, leaning on the wheel to relieve the pain. I turned off the radio to help me concentrate. There was no sound from the trunk.
At last I saw it. I moved into the oncoming lane, killed the lights, put the Focus into first and managed to make the sharp right turn onto the track. My chest burst into flames again, and I coughed blood onto the dash.
The rusty chain was padlocked to a wooden post at either end. I put my foot down. I hit it dead center and the Focus lunged forward, but then stopped, throwing me against the steering wheel. The engine stalled.
My chest was agony. I coughed up another mouthful of blood and mucus and reached for the soggy McDonald’s bag. When my breathing had slowed, I lowered the window, listening for vehicles. There was nothing; I moved the gearshift into reverse, checked there was no white light behind me, backed into the road, and tried again, this time with more revs.
The post ripped out and I braced myself and braked, not wanting the Focus to go all the way down the hill just yet. I turned off the engine, put the hand brake on, and pressed the trunk-release catch before stumbling outside. Shoving the wet McDonald’s bag down my sweatshirt and using the car to support myself, I waded through a river of broken boxes, empty cans, and burst garbage bags.
The light came on as I lifted the tailgate. Goatee was still out of it, just a limp bundle. I got hold of his feet and swung them out, bent down, and half-lifted, half-dragged him out onto the ground. It was just as well there was no resistance from him: I wouldn’t have been able to fight back.
I made my way back to the driver’s seat, released the hand brake, and gave the Focus as much of a push as my grating ribs would allow. It rolled slowly forward, gathered a bit of momentum, and continued down the slope until it hit a barrier of old washing machines. It hadn’t gone far, but was out of view of the road, and that was what mattered.
I turned and limped back to Goatee, got my hands under his armpits, and dragged him onto the canvas tarpaulin to the right of the driveway.
A car came downhill from the picnic area, bathing the roadside and bushes in light. I waited for the sound of its engine to die, then pulled him over onto his side to make sure he didn’t choke on his tongue. He curled up like a baby. I sat over him; I tried lying down, but it was just too painful.
Coughing out more blood, I checked traser. It was just past seven o’clock: it could be hours before we got a pickup. Goatee’s condition was a worry. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. Come to think of it, I wasn’t too sure about myself.
I lifted the corner of the tarpaulin and covered him, trying to maintain his core temperature. I tried to get some of it over me as well, but it hurt too much to pull it any farther. I started to hyperventilate again with the effort and the McDonald’s bag finally fell apart as I tried to breathe into it again. There was nothing I could do but use my cupped hands. I rested my elbows on my knees for a moment, but that was too painful.
More vehicle lights bathed the skyline intermittently for the next hour or so, then I heard a diesel engine coming down the hill. I listened and hoped it would stop at the driveway, but no such luck. It passed and the lights disappeared. I checked traser again. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time I’d looked.
Goatee retched, and I heard a splash on the tarpaulin. He wheezed and fought for breath, then coughed again, and I felt warm liquid on the hand that I was using to support myself.
Two or three more vehicles passed in each direction as I just sat there, cross-legged, trying to keep my trunk upright, wishing my life away because I desperately needed Thackery to turn up and get us out of here. Goatee moaned gently below me; now and again his body twitched and his legs pedaled on the tarpaulin, but at least his breathing was more regular than mine.
Suddenly, soft bleeping noises filled the air. I wondered if I were hallucinating. It took me several seconds to realize they were coming from Goatee’s cell phone. He started to straighten out his legs, mumbling to himself in Arabic. I lay down next to him, feeling in the dark, finding his hand as it tried to find his pocket. I pulled it away weakly.
“Fuck you,” he grunted. There were only a few inches between our faces now and I could smell his rancid breath. Mine was probably no better.
I dug into his pants pocket with my left hand and pulled out the cell phone. It had stopped ringing, and Goatee was whining in Arabic, I thought more in anger at not being able to take the call than from the pain.
“What are you saying?”
I could hear slurping as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before muttering, “My wife.”
I opened up the phone and a dull blue display glowed in the dark. “Tough shit.” With the blood-and tar- covered thumb of my right hand I tapped in the digits 001, then the rest of the Massachusetts number.
It would be afternoon in Marblehead, and she should be home. She had to be — it was her day to look after the bed-and-breakfast.
It rang three or four times, then I heard her voice. “Hello?”
“Carrie, it’s me. Please don’t hang up.”
“Oh.”
“I need help.”
“I’ve been telling you that for months.” Her tone changed. “So, Nick, where do we go from here?”
“Listen, I really need your help.” I tried to stop myself coughing.
“Are you okay, Nick? You sound…have you got somebody with you?”
“Yes, I have.” I hesitated, then realized I had no choice. “Look, I’m still working for George.” I moved the phone away from my mouth, and this time coughed up some more blood.
“Nick?”
“I’m all right. I need you to call your dad for me. Tell him I’m coming in with today’s collection, and the collection is ready now. Tell him we both need medical attention, and quickly. Can you do that? Can you contact him?”
“Sure, his pager. But—”
“Please, just make the call.”
“Of course.”
“Please do it now — it’s important.”
“Nick?”
“I’ve got to go — just do it now, please.” I hit the off button, but kept the power on in case the phone had an access code.
Goatee coughed and cleared his mouth before speaking. “Your wife?” He lay there waiting for a reply.
“You’re dying. People are going to pick us up soon and try to save you, but that’s only because they want you alive. They want to know what you know. After that, I don’t know what happens, but it’s not going to be good.”
There was a pause. He didn’t say anything, but I could hear his head moving up and down on the canvas and the smell of his breath came and went in waves.
“Me, I’m going home. That’s the end of it, apart from the fact that somebody screwed both of us. Those two you lifted in the shop, they were the real collectors.” I could hear his head move again. “We were there to follow them, to get to you — and then do exactly what I’m doing with you now. So my job is done, but my two friends are dead. And so are yours, and chances are you’ll never talk with your wife again. Tell me who you saw in Juan-les- Pins Wednesday night, and what they said.” I let it sink in a little before continuing. “Look, you’re fucked, but I can do something for both of us.”
A vehicle passed by, up on the road, so I let my words sink in a little more. “You’ve got nothing to lose, you’ve lost it already.”
He gave what sounded like a sob, then made an effort to pull himself together. He turned his head toward me, and the rancid smell returned. “He said he knew that the collection was taking place today…. He said the collectors were not the real guys. They were coming to steal the money, but they were coming with the correct code. He also told me that there would be other guys out there following them as protection.”
“What did this man look like? Was he white? Black?”
“Arab.”
