Grant Mckenzie Page 10

  ‘You bitch!’

  ‘Leave the child be,’ she hissed.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  The woman sprang forward, but the giant wasn’t an amateur. Moving faster than his bulk would have suggested possible, the man used her own momentum to spin her and wrap one of his large arms around her throat. His other arm quickly snapped up to lock the flesh and bone vice, and then he began to squeeze.

  The woman’s eyes bulged as the increasing pressure began to close her windpipe. She kicked at him, but the giant just laughed and leaned backwards, lifting her feet off the ground.

  ‘Don’t kill her,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘She could still be useful.’

  The pressure on her throat didn’t ease and the woman felt on the brink of losing consciousness. Bright sparks exploded behind her eyes.

  ‘I said let her go, Richard. You’ve already fucked up once.’

  Before the darkness claimed her, she saw the limp body of MaryAnn dropped onto the cot. Her face was misshapen and coated in blood.

  41

  The cellphone rang and Sam felt his heart stutter like an engine choking on thin gasoline.

  He answered it.

  ‘Mr White,’ said the altered voice, ‘I would like you to make a delivery.’

  ‘OK.’ Sam felt his stomach churn.

  ‘You are to take the liquor bottles to the exact centre of the city. You will receive further instructions upon arrival. You have one hour.’

  ‘Where is—’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Shit!’

  Zack looked at him expectantly, his face reflecting the same pallid fear and churning anger as Sam’s.

  ‘Where’s the exact centre of town?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Burnside Bridge,’ Zack replied without hesitation. ‘It divides the city north and south; the Willamette River divides east and west.’

  ‘So the middle of the bridge . . .’

  ‘Is the exact centre of town,’ Zack finished.

  ‘That rings a bell,’ Sam said. ‘Probably something I was taught in school if I had been paying attention. Anything special about the bridge?’

  Zack thought for a second and shrugged. ‘It’s a drawspan. It can be raised for river traffic.’

  ‘I’ll need to do this alone,’ Sam said.

  Zack nodded in agreement. ‘That’s probably why he chose that spot. He can watch from either end of the bridge to make sure you don’t have company.’

  ‘And if I try anything,’ Sam added bitterly, ‘he’ll open the bridge and dump me in the damn river.’

  Zack held out the car keys, but Sam shook him off.

  ‘We should pick up my Jeep. If he doesn’t know you’re helping me, that’s what he’ll expect to see.’

  ‘What if the police are looking for you?’ Zack asked. ‘If the liquor guy did recognize you, your Jeep could be on a watch list.’

  ‘Shit! OK, let’s find out.’

  Zack drove into the quiet residential neighbourhood and parked behind a Suburban 4x4 that was the size of a small bus.

  Sam’s house, or the crater that had been his house, was a full block further down.

  ‘You see anything?’ Zack asked.

  Sam shook his head. ‘I can’t see them paying for a stake-out over a couple bottles of booze. If anything, they’ll have a patrol car driving by a few times a night.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘I’ll dump it tonight,’ Sam said. ‘Just one last trip.’ The last thing in this world he owned and now even it had to be thrown aside.

  Sam left the Mercedes with the stolen liquor bottles under his arm and cautiously moved down the block. His senses were keen for any movement or idling cars, but the street was quiet and he made it to the Jeep without incident.

  He slipped inside and placed the two liquor bottles on the passenger seat. A plastic bag resting on the bare metal floor caught his eye. Curious, he bent down to open it. Inside, was his guard’s uniform that he had meant to take to the cleaner’s, his red thermos and the DVD of his commercial that Ken had made.

  Working at the mall and being shot at by sugar-high kids with paint guns seemed a lifetime ago; a lifetime when his biggest problems were a soiled uniform and bruised ego.

  With a deep breath, Sam sat up, slid the key into the ignition and pressed down on the clutch to move the gearbox into neutral. The engine roared to life and quickly settled into a steady purr.

  Zack pulled up beside him and looked across the Jeep’s open doorwell.

  ‘I’ll work on that idea for the money while you’re gone,’ he said. ‘There’s an old acquaintance I need to contact.’

  Sam nodded his thanks and, with steely determination, headed for the bridge.

  After Sam was gone, Zack opened his cellphone and reported in. The fate of his wife made the betrayal a necessity, but Zack was finding it more difficult than he ever imagined.

  Sam wasn’t the same person he remembered hating so many years ago.

  42

  Burnside Bridge is an impressive structure. From the river path, the operator cabins on either side of the rising leaves look like fairytale turrets. From the road, however, it’s just another narrow stretch of blacktop that joins two halves of a city.

  As he approached the centre seam, directly between the two turrets, Sam flicked on his hazard lights and pulled off to the side. The small Jeep blocked the bike path and a thin sliver of one lane.

  Traffic was light, but several impatient drivers still honked their horns in protest as they swerved past.

  With the cellphone resting on the dash, Sam dug out his Zippo and tin case of small cigars. He chose a cigar, moistened the outer leaf, took a moment to toast the tip, and then rotated it just outside the lighter’s flame until the tobacco glowed evenly. He found the ritual, although unnecessary, calming.

  As he exhaled the pungent smoke, Sam watched the bridge operator become agitated inside his glassed-in cabin. He made angry gestures at the Jeep from his chair, shaking a finger and three knuckles, thumb cocked like the hammer on a gun. When Sam continued to ignore him, he reached for his phone.

  At the same instant, the cellphone rang.

  ‘Where next?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Anxious, are we?’ said the voice.

  ‘Just to see my family,’ Sam answered coldly.

  ‘Soon,’ said the voice. ‘At the east end of the bridge, there’s a village underneath. There you will meet Davey O. At the south end of the river path, there is a warehouse. The fence has many gaps. When I see you both in the yard, I’ll call back.’

  ‘What does—’

  The caller was gone.

  Sam tossed the half-finished cigar aside and eased the Jeep into gear. The bridge operator raised his arms in an unmistakable What the Fuck? gesture. Sam ignored him.

  At the east end of the bridge, Sam pulled off the main drag and took the back streets to a gravel lot guarded by a broken chain-link fence.

  Unlike the west side of the river, which attracted tourists and residents to Old Town, Chinatown and Waterfront Park, the east side was still waiting for its regeneration. Until that happened, speculators had left parcels of prime land to lie fallow, biding their time for the right moment to reap the profits.

  Sam parked the Jeep and walked around to the back. He opened the tailgate and pulled back a thin square of black rubber to expose a recessed, stainless-steel latch locked with a heavy-duty padlock. He spun the lock to the right combination and opened the latch. He pushed aside the wheel jack and emergency road kit to lift out a small canvas knapsack that contained a black metal flashlight with a weak but usable beam.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Sam removed the revolver from his vest pocket and placed it inside the hold beside a small black toolbox that held his emergency supply of stage make-up, wig parts and false teeth. Hannah often teased him about it, saying he was worse than a woman with an overstuffed handbag. But twice the kit had allowed him to snag a small speaking part because the actor that
the director really wanted couldn’t be tracked down in time.

  After locking the hold and replacing the mat, Sam wrapped one of the liquor bottles in an oil-stained rag to stop it clanking against the other, and stuffed them both in the knapsack. Then, with flashlight in hand and knapsack over his shoulder, he made his way to the river.

  43

  After crossing the freeway, Sam descended a long flight of stairs. The wooden treads were slick with evening fog and the metal handrails were corroded by use and decades of bird crap.

  At the bottom, Sam peered into the misty darkness beneath the bridge. Gradually, as his eyes became accustomed, the shambling activity of the homeless congregation took form. These were people who had turned their backs on the city shelters and either didn’t want to follow the sober rules of Portland’s ever-growing tent city, Dignity Village, or couldn’t make the seven-mile trek to get there.

  Sam walked closer, his body tense, eyes scanning makeshift tents and cardboard shelters in search of a man he didn’t know. He was surprised not only by the number of homeless who huddled beneath and within the ancient bridge, but by their composition: youths, dozens of them, with feral eyes and stern faces; single women and men, their chatter bubbling with anger, laughter and madness; even whole families, the loss upon their faces palpable.

  Sam stopped just a few yards beneath the shadow of the bridge as a bearded man, not much taller than an average eight-year-old, approached. In a dusty-brown slicker that stretched behind him like a wedding train, and a pair of oversized cowboy boots, he looked like a misplaced Hobbit who had leapt from the pages of Tolkien into a chapter by Zane Grey.

  The man stopped less than a foot away and looked up with such intense concentration, Sam found it difficult not to flinch.

  ‘What d’yer want?’ the man demanded in a low growl.

  ‘Er, I’m looking for someone . . . a man.’

  ‘Plenty of those. Name?’

  ‘Davey O.’

  The man nodded and turned to scan the darker recesses of the makeshift village.

  ‘Second burning barrel,’ he said after a moment. ‘White hair, green coat. Watch how you step. Men have died for less than the weight you carry.’

  Before Sam could ask for an explanation, the man disappeared into the bridge’s deep, dark embrace.

  Sam approached the burning barrel. Two men and a pug-nosed woman stood around it, sharing tall tales and a bottle of wine without a label. In the flickering light, the wine was the colour of an unripe lemon: pale yellow with just a tinge of green.

  ‘Davey O?’ Sam asked.

  A man with white hair, his back stooped beneath a pea-green coat, turned around slowly. His steel-grey eyes locked on to Sam’s face with a similar intensity as the guardian, but then they inexplicably softened and his face became more youthful than his worn physicality implied.

  ‘I know you,’ Davey said.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Sam said uneasily. ‘I have something for you, but I can’t give it to you here.’

  ‘Sure, sure. Let me grab my bag.’

  Sam waited as Davey disappeared inside a makeshift lean-to made from scrap lumber and cardboard, the pieces held together by an intricate web of orange and green fishing net. From within, he produced a bulging, blue denim backpack.

  Everything he owned was probably inside that backpack, Sam thought. And for the first time in his life, he actually understood how that felt.

  With great effort, Davey swung the heavy pack on to his shoulders and followed Sam downstream, away from the cover of the bridge, away from prying eyes.

  ‘You’re Sam.’

  ‘You were expecting me?’ Sam asked in surprise.

  ‘No, but I remember you.’

  Sam stopped. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. All those plays, man. They were really cool.’

  Sam started walking again. ‘I haven’t been in a play since high school.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Davey said. ‘You were good. I liked that one where you danced with all the witches and we got to use black lights and fog machines.’

  Sam stopped again. ‘That was Dark of the Moon. I played the Witch Boy.’ Sam paused. ‘That was Grade Twelve.’

  ‘Yeah, that was cool. I designed the lights for that. Ran the board, too.’

  Sam stared at the white-haired man, recognition slowly sinking in. ‘David O’Donnell?’

  Davey flinched. ‘Yeah, that’s me, but I don’t use the name any more. Just Davey or Davey O, OK?’

  ‘Christ, I didn’t recognize you. We used to hang together.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Davey grinned and pulled at his hair. ‘I had a few misadventures. Human body can only take so much, you know?’

  Sam looked off the path, spotted the warehouse, and began moving through a patch of long grass towards it. Davey followed, the overgrown weeds brushing at his knees.

  ‘You ever see any of the old gang?’ Davey asked.

  ‘Nah. I left town right after graduation. Only came back a few months ago.’

  ‘I heard from someone, can’t remember who, but they said you were on Magnum P.I. That hadda be cool.’

  Sam smiled. ‘Yeah. Just two episodes though.’

  ‘Still . . . fuck, eh?’

  Sam reached the chain-link fence separating the warehouse from the riverbank. ‘Let’s get out of this grass. The bugs will eat us alive.’

  Davey pointed downstream. ‘There’s a break down that way. There’s no bugs, though. Too cold for ’em.’

  Sam began walking again. Davey kept pace beside him.

  ‘So how did you end up here?’ Sam asked.

  Davey’s voice was pained and hollow. ‘Drunk killed a little kid. Driver only nineteen. That was the end of the road, man. Broke something that can’t be fixed. Not ever.’

  ‘You were the driver,’ Sam said.

  Davey dropped his chin to his chest as though hiding, not wanting to put voice to it.

  Sam found the break in the fence and climbed through. He crossed a gravel yard and stopped beside four large, industrial garbage containers. There, he swung the knapsack off his back and laid it on the ground. As Davey approached, Sam reached inside the pack and retrieved one of the large bottles.

  Davey’s eyes lit up as Sam handed it over.

  ‘Rum.’ Davey licked his lips as he unscrewed the top. ‘Bottle this big could kill a man.’

  Davey took a long swallow and handed the bottle back. Sam joined him, feeling the alcohol burn down his throat.

  Davey retrieved the bottle and took another deep swallow. Grinning, he dropped his backpack on the ground and began to rummage inside.

  ‘Gotta show you somethin’,’ he said excitedly.

  After a few moments, Davey stood up with a large, half-inch-thick hardbound book in his hand. The cover featured a silver ink etching of an Indian Warrior and the numbers ‘1984’ embossed in faded gold.

  ‘Recognize it?’

  ‘It’s our high school yearbook.’

  ‘Fuckin’ right.’ Davey’s eyes filled with glee as he took another long swallow of rum. ‘They changed the mascot the year after cause somebody thought it was racist. I carry it everywhere.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘WHY?’ Davey screeched. ‘Why?’ Davey tipped the bottle again, his mouth filling so fast, alcohol squirted from the corners. ‘This was my life, man. Everything good that ever happened to me happened in that school. Everything since has been shit.’ He began to yell. ‘You understand what I’m saying. Shit! Shit! And more shit!’

  Tears erupted from his eyes as he placed his hand on the yearbook as though swearing on the Bible. ‘It was like walking among gods, man. And I was there, and I was pure, and I was . . . I was good.’

  Davey sunk to the ground and crossed his legs, bottle beside him, the dog-eared book on his lap.

  ‘Let me show you.’ He opened the glossy pages and began to point at the photographs.

  Unsure of what else to do, Sam sat on the ground
beside the man he had known as a boy and listened to his stories as they shared the bottle.

  44

  The watcher looked down from his perch on the rooftop to study the scene playing out on the lot below.

  The moon was barely a sliver low in the sky and the darkness was so deep the figures were unrecognizable to the naked eye. The voices, however, carried through the night without hindrance, every word as clear as if he was sitting beside them.

  Intimate.

  Cozy.

  The watcher removed a pair of night goggles from a small pack and slipped them over his head. He powered them up with the flip of a switch and immediately the scene below was bathed in a phosphorous green light. He saw the distinct shapes of the two men now, huddled close together, looking at the book.

  They had been friends once, but how flimsy the bonds to be so easily broken. Sam White was like that. So focused on himself, he didn’t stay in touch with one of the most loyal friends he ever had.

  When Davey went through the trial, the attempted suicide and the years in prison, Sam hadn’t even known – hadn’t cared to know. What did the pain of others really matter to him? People were drawn to the actor like moths to a flame, never understanding the flame didn’t care who or what it burned in an effort to stay bright.

  Yet, even after being abandoned in his time of greatest need, Davey was laughing with him like nothing had happened.

  The watcher shook his head. Davey should have been so angry at the betrayal, the uncaring selfishness, of the man he called a friend. The sight of him should have incited a riot of fists and feet, teeth and nails. Not laughter.

  Sam White should be begging for his life as the truth of his own narcissism was pounded home.

  The watcher clutched the disposable lighter tight in his hand, his thumb rubbing the side so hard it began to burn his flesh.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Sometimes he wished he was more like Davey and capable of feeling all the vibrant shades of pain. Still, he and Davey were alike in other ways. They both tried to hide the scars that made them the men they were. Survivors.