Nemesis (Southern Comfort) (2 page)

Skeet emitted a soft sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow.  If he hadn’t had a hankering for some
processed bakery snacks he might never have known they were in town.  He would have just gone about his business, innocent as a lamb, and they’d probably have slaughtered him in his sleep.

The image hit way too close to home for comfort.

Visions of the bloodstains he’d never quite been able to eliminate from his car seats caused fresh sweat to break out along his collar.

As he waited for Wilson to conclude his business and get out, Skeet planned what he had to do.  He obviously couldn’t stay at the place he’d been subletting from Josie’s brother, a National Guardsman who’d been called up to active duty.  But coincidentally that lease was about to run out.  The rental lady had been leaving messages on the machine wanting to know if he was going to renew it, and while he’d been considering that very option, it was clear now
that he had to get out.

It wouldn’t take him long to head back across the river into Mount Pleasant, and pack up what few things he’d left in the closets and stashed in the cupboards, the most important being that for which Brady and Wilson were now chasing him. 

Of course he’d hidden that really well.  Someplace no one would ever think to look.

All this for a stupid necklace.

He should just FedEx it back to them and be done.

But it didn’t belong to them.  It belonged to the family of that little old lady who
m he hadn’t known they were going to murder.

A deep sigh threatened to break from him as Skeet looked toward the uncertain future.  He had nowhere left to run now and no one he could turn to.  His ready cash was pretty much gone and his credit cards already frozen for nonpayment.  He needed to find some work, but wasn’t sure how to go about getting any without using his real name and social security number.
  Before this, his jobs had always been on the up and up.   

And besides that, Skeet knew the Marshall boys wouldn’t stop huntin’ him until they’d recovered what he’d taken from them– the reasons behind which were still not entirely clear to him, even now.  He’d just been so… angry.  So scared and so angry that they’d lied to him and made him a part of the terrible thing they’d done.  Maybe he wanted to teach them a lesson.  Maybe extract a small bit of justice.

Maybe he was just a dumb, dumb man who had no clue why he’d ever done anything. 

But the fact was the necklace was worth too damn much money for them to just call it a loss.  Not to mention that he was an end they couldn’t afford to leave dangling loose – no one else could tie them neatly to the robbery/murder which had so shocked the small town of Beaufort.  Skeet thought again about seeking out the police, but he was terrified of the consequences. 
He didn’t want to go to jail.  And even if they offered immunity for testimony rendered it wouldn’t guarantee his safety.  There were a lot of people angry over the brutal, senseless murder in which he’d inadvertently played a part.

Maybe he could just send the police an anonymous tip, try to fence the necklace and adios down to Mexico.  But he didn’t spea
k Spanish, and the idea of living in a foreign country made him uncomfortable. 

He hated life on the lam.

Shifting on the soles of his worn-out Reeboks, Skeet dared another peek at the counter.  Wilson had left and the skinny clerk was studying her nail polish while Auld Lang Syne piped from the store’s speakers in a tinny tribute to the season.  Relief shivered through him.  Scary as the thought of turning himself in might be, the prospect of running into his pursuers was even worse.  After what had gone down back in October, he knew exactly what they were capable of, and it wasn’t pretty.

Forgetting about the craving for chocolate cupcakes which had drawn him into the store in the first place, Skeeter edged his way toward the front window where he could survey the parking lot.  An old Buick Regal sat under the glare of lights out by the pump, a harried-looking woman shivering beside it as she filled her tank, but other than that the lot was empty.  A string of leftover Christmas lights, half darkened, wrapped the jagged trunk of the palmetto that divided the lot from the next door Popeye’s.  Skeet tried to see if his old pals might have had a hankering for some popcorn chicken, but from his current angle he couldn’t quite make out the fast food chain’s customers.

Sensing the teenager’s eyes upon him, Skeeter straightened and did his best not to look suspicious.  The last thing he needed was some dumb clerk calling the cops, dragging him into more hot water than that in which he was already boiling.

Grabbing a bottle of soda from the reach-in cooler beside him, Skeet ambled up to the counter and offered the young girl his best
trust me
smile.

“That’ll be a dollar and six cents,” she said warily, clearly not swayed by
the smile.  Quite possibly because sweat was trickling down his face and it was hovering just under fifty degrees outside. 

“Here you go, darlin’.  Keep the change.”  Skeeter handed over a couple of crumpled dollar bills.  He thought of his car, parked to the side of the building near the outdoor ice machine, and thanked the good Lord that Brady and Wilson wouldn’t recognize it.  He’d done a slightly illegal upgrade of his vehicle recently, leaving his car in long term parking at the airport in Columbia while switching his plates to
the Explorer he’d temporarily… borrowed.

He’d been real, real careful to obey the posted speed limits and all other moving vehicle regulations in his travels from city to city.

But now he needed to get to his car, and walking through the front door of this neon-bright convenience store just didn’t seem like a good plan.

“You got a rear exit on this place?”

“Down that hallway.  To the right.  You need to use the john back there or something?  Cause they’re located outside in the back.”

“That’s right.”  He grabbed the excuse and ran with it.  “Do I need a key or anything?”

“Do I look like I care about who’s using the men’s room?”

He didn’t even bother to come up with an answer.  “Thanks,” he mumbled instead, easing toward the rear hallway that the little smart-mouth had indicated.

Marching quickly past some stacked-up boxes of new stock and peeling posters regarding minimum wage and various OSHA regulations, Skeeter pushed the metal door, pulling the collar of his corduroy jacket around his neck against the chilly kiss of night air.  He glanced around furtively, holding the door open in case he needed to retreat. Failing to see any visible threat in the dimly lit square of broken blacktop, he let it close behind him on a squeaky hiss.  The faint scent of cigarette smoke clung to the air, probably from the sullen store clerk’s non-regulation smoke break, and mixed with the odor of grease permeating the Popeye’s and the barely discernible smell of history.

Charleston was a nice city, and he hated to leave it behind.

Maybe he should head north, get lost in a big city like Boston or even New York, though he wasn’t sure he could stand the cold.

Shrugging it off as something to think about later, Skeeter headed toward the Explorer.

When the skin beneath the collar of his jacket began to prickle, his feet automatically slowed and then stuck to the pavement as if they’d been glued.

Breathing in shallow pants, he darted a nerve-wracked look toward the nearby
dumpsters, where he could have sworn he’d sensed a movement.  And peering at the ugly brown containers, debated between advance and retreat.

Could he make it to his vehicle in time?

Did the back door open from the outside, anyway?

Deciding these questions were too much for his short-circuited brain, Skeet ordered his feet to move forward, just as a loud clang sounded from the nearest
dumpster, followed by caterwauling and a nasty hiss.

A big old tabby scrambled past with some kind of spoil clutched between its teeth, followed shortly by another tom.

He’d been frozen in place by the imminent threat from a pair of cats.

“Good God, Cooper.  Get a grip.”  With a laugh that was only a l
ittle bit maniacal, Skeet gripped his drink and set off toward the car.

“Edward,” said the man who stepped from the shadows.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

This time, Skeet did wet his pants, if only just a little.  Throwing the full bottle of soda in the general direction of Brady’s dark head, he turned in a quick one-eighty, running smack into Wilson’s chest.  Like a limp noodle thrown at a wall, he stuck there for a moment, before sliding into a cowering heap.

Wilson hauled him up by his corduroy jacket.

“Boys,” he squeaked, pathetically.  “How we doin’?”  Wilson’s breath smelled like Big Red and onions.  He looked a little like Lurch Addams hopped up on steroids, with less outward charm and personality.

“We’ll be doing a hell of a lot better, my friend, when you give us
back the property you stole.”

Trying to appear calm and reasonable despite the fact that his oxygen intake was severely restricted, Skeet managed a nod
, and refrained from pointing out the fact that the property in question was already stolen.  “I can get that for you,” he croaked at Brady.  “No problem.”

Wilson let go of the death-grip but kept a hand on Skeeter’s collar.

Brady laughed, and it wasn’t pleasant.  “Where’s the necklace, Skeeter?”

Tongue darting at his cracked lips, Skeet realized he had no saliva to wet them.  Maybe if he stalled around just long enough, somebody would come to use the restroom.  He hadn’t seen a gun or anything yet, which improved his chances considerably.  If just one witness showed up, the boys would surely back off, and Skeet could high-tail it to his car.

But Brady didn’t seem inclined to be patient.  After a nod from his brother, which was obviously a signal of some sort, Wilson produced a shiny switchblade with his free hand.

“We can do this easy or we can do this hard,” Brady said equably
, and Skeeter shuddered.  “Give us what we want, now, and Wilson kills you quickly.  Make me have to repeat myself and he does it slow.”

The very ease with which he laid out the options made
gorge rise in Skeet’s throat.  “That’s it?” he managed, half-jokingly.  “Those are my choices?”

Brady smiled, but the joke was on Skeet.

“It…it’s n-not here.” Eyes fixed on the knife, he considered the best lie.  “It’s in a safe deposit box in Columbia.  The kind you can’t open unless I’m there with identification.” 

The knife plunged into his side.

Through the ungodly, burning pain – the very shock of what had just happened – Skeeter tried to scream, but Wilson’s hand crushed against his windpipe.  A blurred version of Brady stepped close enough to feel his heat.

“Don’t lie to me, Edward.  You’re too much of a fool not to have kept it with you.  Now tell me where exactly in this city you’ve been hiding or Wilson will aim the knife a little lower and you’ll part company with your balls.”

Just then, another loud ruckus kicked up near the Dumpster, and Wilson loosened his grip on Skeeter’s throat while Brady jumped backward.  Skeet took advantage of the momentary distraction to bring his knee up into Brady’s own scrotum.  He fell back further and Skeet shot forward, the knife leaving a trail of fire as he went.  Knowing he’d never make it as far as the Explorer, he hurled himself through the nearest door.  It was one of the restrooms, and he leaned against the door and locked it.

An immediate thump against the solid surface let him know that he’d just barely outmaneuvered Wilson, but the momentary triumph he felt rolled beneath a tidal wave of nausea.  Trembling, in pain, weak and shaky from blood loss, Skeeter grabbed a roll of paper towels from the nearby dispenser and pressed the whole thing awkwardly to his wound.  He needed to figure out what to do.  The door wouldn’t hold Wilson back for more than a few minutes, and the back lot was so deserted that he had little hope of an imminent rescue.

Then like a dolt, he suddenly remembered the disposable cell phone he’d bought a few days ago when he’d first started toying with the idea of that anonymous tip.  It was in the pocket of his corduroy jacket.

Needles of agony dragged through him like talons as he awkwardly fumbled for the phone, and he crumpled on legs that would no longer hold him.  “Ow.  Sh-shit.”

Teeth knocking together in earnest, some still-coherent part of his brain realized he was rapidly slipping into shock.  He’d probably done considerably more damage to himself by twisting to get away from Wilson than if the knife had been pulled out straight.  The low voices coming from outside accompanied a scratching sound at the lock. With a sinking heart Skeet realized that they were picking it with one of their tools.

He thought about dialing nine-one-one, realized they’d not get here in time to save
him.  The brothers were crack burglars, could even break into safes with combination locks – which was what they were supposed to have done that night in Beaufort, rather than carving up an old lady to get the numbers – so a flimsy little lock like the one on the door behind Skeet would be no trouble to him at all. 

It was only a matter of time before they came in after him. He wouldn’t even make it to see another New Year.