Sunday, 11:34 a.m.
He lost track of the number of times they woke him up to give him water, fruit and juice or to change the trickle of urine in the bedpan. As soon as he’d regained some of his strength, they’d start collecting blood again. Matt was light-headed all the time now, and his vision was blurring. The mercenaries looked horrific, their souls pocked with the unspoken evil of what they were doing. One with a shaved head never looked at him. One with thick red hair never stopped. The stoner never quit smoking. Their lack of sympathy and interest betrayed souls too far gone for any kind of recovery.
These were trained mercenaries, in great condition and still quite lethal, but the Dark Man had found a way to touch them. They ate Matt’s food on a whim, smoked dope, drank booze, and napped. When Matt was able to concentrate, he wondered if these men would even remember what they had done here. They seemed beyond caring.
And Matt didn’t have much longer to live.
The mercenaries rotated positions. Scotty was the only one with a smidgen of bedside manner. The others rarely spoke, except to grunt a request or use a four-letter word. One had the habit of constantly scratching his balls. They argued violently, exercised, cleaned their weapons endlessly, burped and farted, slept and snored. Sometimes they fought like animals over a scrap of meat. Killers without a purpose.
Matt was pretty certain it was just the next day, not two days later. The sun was up again, and the light and shade he could see through the small opening suggested it was approaching noon. He’d finally realized why they kept the door open, despite the constant air-conditioning. The pot smell bothered Scotty.
As Matt slowly died, Scotty talked about Charlie Chaplin and Fatty Arbuckle. Finally he switched to professional football. He had an obsession with the classic teams of the sixties and early seventies, especially Miami. He droned on and on about the Dolphins’ perfect season with Larry Csonka and Jim Kiick and Mercury Morris at halfback. The backup quarterback Earl Morrall. He described plays against the Redskins and a big playoff game against the Chiefs that went into overtime.
Matt came to appreciate those talks because listening to Scotty gave him something to hold on to, something to think about other than gathering darkness and the fear of bleeding to death. He wondered if he’d see Janey after he died and hold her again. That thought was a comfort.
“Boss?” one of the mercenaries asked. He was standing guard in the doorway, with an AK pointed down at the floor.
Scotty stopped in the middle of describing Larry Csonka plowing through three defenders and knocking himself silly running into the goalpost. He seemed annoyed by the interruption.
“What?”
“Somebody is outside,” the guard said. “Women.”
“The fuck?”
The other bored mercenaries rushed the door like frat boys, their weapons at half-mast.
Scotty sighed and stared down at the bed for a few seconds. When he looked up, his face was just raw meat and writhing worms. Matt cringed as Scotty shook his head and a couple of gray worms fell off and dropped writhing on the bedsheet.
“I don’t care if it’s the chicks from ‘Black Swan’ licking each other,” Scotty said. “Stay sharp or I’ll shoot you myself.”
The stoner went to the window, opened it, and jammed himself into the corner with his weapon pointed outside. To Matt, the man’s eyes were black holes. His nose had fallen off. The other two went to their assigned posts as well. Scotty patted Matt’s leg in an absurd parody of politeness.
“Excuse me for a second.”
Scotty gripped his weapon and went to the door. He kept the weapon behind his back and filled the doorway. Matt gathered himself to call for help but then realized he’d just get whoever was outside killed.
The breathless voice of an unfamiliar female. “Sorry to bother you, honey.”
“Hold it right there, honey,” Scotty said. Matt watched as Scotty’s fingers tensed on the Glock. Matt hoped whoever it was wouldn’t be killed right there in front of him.
“We’re coming back from a party in Elko,” another woman said. Her voice sounded slurred. “We got a flat tire.”
The stoner said, “I’ll change it.”
Scotty shot him a dirty look. He peered out the door again. Seemingly satisfied, he relaxed. “Just stay where you are, okay? Someone will be out in a second.”
He closed the door, looked at the stoner. “Get them out of here.”
“Kill them?”
“Not unless you have to. Someone might come looking before we’re done with Cahill. Go change the tire and get the fuck back inside. Red, you cover him from the window. Don’t let any of them see your weapons. Anything goes wrong, take all three of them out.”
Three?
The mercenary called Red went to the window. Whatever he saw there made him whistle with appreciation.
Matt tried to raise his head, but the effort made him dizzy. He considered calling for help but didn’t want to put the women in danger. Exhausted and queasy, he closed his eyes again and passed out.
When he came to again, the trailer was silent except for the humming air-conditioning. He felt shaky but not as bad as he had. He rolled his head to his right. They had once again stopped draining his blood. Two brownish slices of apple and a half-empty bottle of water sat beside him on the white sheet, placed there almost as an afterthought.
Some time had passed. Matt tried to sit up but failed. He tried again, got up on his elbows. The van was quiet. Why? Matt looked around.
No one else was moving. The mercenaries were passed out cold. Scotty was on the floor in the fetal position, nearly sucking his thumb, his pus-filled face and blank eyes twitching. The other three were in poses around the trailer. Empty bottles of beer and whiskey lay on the floor. Some of the furniture was tipped over. There was no sign of the strangers. Matt started to pass out again, but he fought the impulse. He had to get the hell out of here-now. And then he heard footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Matt struggled to free his hands. He got his left arm loose and pulled on the tape holding his right arm to the board, tape that covered the needle that had been draining his life pint by pint. The door creaked open. Panicked, Matt managed to tear at the tape. Then a shadow fell across the bed.
Matt Cahill look up and saw the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Sally, her face framed by sunlight. She had come to rescue him. Sheriff Pickens, Wally, and Kyle had come with her. The two other women waited outside.