Road of the Dead by Kevin Brooks
“I want to talk to you,” Cole said calmly.
There was a slight pause, then Quentin said, “You’d better come in.”
Cole waved me over and we stepped through the door together. The room was stale and dark. Heavy curtains draped the windows. The only light came from four white candles flickering palely on a dark wooden cross suspended from the ceiling.
I stood beside Cole and gazed around. Bowerman was lying on the floor just in front of us. Cole had shot him in the shoulder. There wasn’t much blood, but his eyes were glazed with pain and shock and he’d puked up all over the carpet. His rifle was lying next to him on the floor.
“Pick it up, Rube,” Cole told me.
I picked up the rifle and passed it to Cole. He pulled back the bolt and checked that the rifle was loaded, then racked it shut again and looked down at Bowerman. He was starting to struggle to his feet now. Cole watched him for a moment, then stepped forward and hit him in the head with the rifle butt. Bowerman slumped back down into a pool of beery vomit.
Cole turned his attention to Red.
“Over there,” he told him, gesturing with the rifle. “Against the wall.”
Red smiled and moved out of the alcove. When he reached the wall, Cole told him to stop.
“Take off your jacket.”
“What?” Red grinned.
“Take it off and drop it on the floor.”
Red shrugged but did as he was told. Still grinning.
“Now your pants,” Cole told him.
Red’s grin went cold. “I’m not—”
“Just do it.”
Red looked at him for a moment, his jaw set tight, then he shook his head and unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants. He started to step out of them, stooping down to his shoes, but Cole told him to stop.
“Just leave them there,” he said. “Stand up straight. Look at me.”
Red straightened up, naked hate burning in his eyes.
“Sit down,” Cole told him.
“You just said—”
“Shut up. Sit down.”
As Red sank slowly to the floor, his eyes never moved from Cole’s. “You’re a dead man, Ford,” he said quietly.
Cole looked down at him, seeming to think about it, then he shrugged to himself and looked up at Quentin. “If he moves or makes a sound, or if anyone comes through that door, I’m going to kill you—OK?”
Quentin barely nodded his head. His face was stonecold and his eyes showed nothing. He was dressed as before in his brass-buttoned soldier’s coat, only this time the coat was undone, revealing a collarless white shirt and a carved wooden crucifix on a leather string around his neck.
“Let’s see it,” Cole said to him.
Quentin raised his head a fraction. “Excuse me?”
“Your gun. Wherever it is, take it out slowly and put it on the desk.”
Quentin blinked once—the first time I’d ever seen him blink—then he reached toward a drawer under the desk.
“Slowly,” Cole warned him.
Quentin paused, then inched the drawer open and carefully lifted out an old army revolver. Holding it by the tip of the barrel, he placed it gently on the desk in front of him.
“It’s fully loaded,” he told Cole. “I keep it for vermin.”
“Rube,” Cole said, without looking at me.
As I went over and picked up the revolver, Quentin turned his eyes on me. His face remained blank, but there was an ice-cold smile under his skin that sliced through my flesh and cut right down to the bone. I lowered my eyes and stepped away from the desk, feeling strangely violated.
Cole stepped up to the desk and leaned the rifle against it. He still had the pistol in his hand.
“I know what happened,” he said to Quentin.
Quentin looked at him. “Do you?”
Cole nodded. “The hotel complex, Abbie Gorman’s house, your deal with her husband…I know it all.” He glanced over at Red, then turned back to Quentin again. “I don’t care about any of it, I just want to know what you did with Selden’s body.”
Quentin’s eyes fixed on Cole. “I’d like to help you, Mr. Ford. I really would. But, as I told you before, I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. All I know about John Selden is that the police are looking for him in connection with your poor sister’s death.”
Cole raised the pistol and fired a shot into the wall, missing Quentin’s head by inches. Paint and plaster erupted from the wall, peppering Quentin with a fine shower of dust, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Last chance,” Cole said to him. “The next time you lie to me I’ll put a hole in your head.”
Quentin calmly brushed the dust from his coat. He took his time—carefully picking out flakes of paint, scraping his cuff with a horny thumbnail—then finally he rubbed his palms together and placed his hands on the desk and slowly looked up at Cole. “Do you believe in vengeance, Mr. Ford?” he said.
“I don’t believe in anything.”
“How about retribution?”
“I can take it or leave it.”
“Really?” said Quentin. “And did you take it or leave it with a sinner called Billy McGinley? Or perhaps that was all your father’s doing?”
Cole’s face remained blank. “What’s your point?”
“Point? I have no point. I’m just trying to decide if you have what it takes to kill a man in cold blood.”
Cole just looked at him for a moment, then he raised his arm and leveled the pistol at Quentin’s head. Quentin kept perfectly still, ignoring the gun and staring intently into the depths of Cole’s eyes. I could feel him invading my brother’s heart—searching, probing, mining his soul—and I knew he could see Cole’s truth. He’d known it all along. If Cole had to kill him, he would. That was the reality, and that’s how Quentin accepted it—as a plain and simple reality. It wasn’t anything to fear, it was just something he had to deal with: a problem, an annoyance, a complication.
“Your sister’s death was a mistake,” he said casually. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. These things happen, unfortunately. People stumble into other people’s business, a contract goes awry…I’m sure you know how it is, Mr. Ford. Business is business.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“What about Selden?” Cole said. “Was he a mistake, too?”
“Only in a genetic sense. In terms of the job, he was perfect. That’s why I used him.” Quentin looked at Cole. “Vagrant instability, Mr. Ford—it’s cheap and expendable, it doesn’t ask questions, and best of all—it’s terrifying.” He paused for a moment, gazing thoughtfully at his hands, rubbing plaster dust between his fingertips. “Of course,” he continued, “when I first found out what Selden had done, it did occur to me that perhaps I’d underestimated his instability, but now that I’ve met you and your brother I’m even more convinced that my initial judgment was correct.” He looked up from his hands and fixed his eyes on Cole. “Your sister was a fine-looking creature, Mr. Ford, but I doubt if her looks alone were enough to push Selden over the edge. Physical sexuality wasn’t John’s thing. He just liked to look. That’s why I trusted him to confront Mrs. Gorman.” He smiled coldly. “We’ll never know for sure, of course, but I think the thing that pushed Selden over the edge was the fight in your sister’s heart.” He cocked his head. “She had the same spirit as you, Mr. Ford. You all seem to have it—you, your father…even your strange little brother here.” He shot me a sideways glance, then looked back at Cole again. “If your sister had just rolled over and whimpered a little, she’d probably still be alive today.” The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “What do you think, Mr. Ford?”
Cole answered quietly. “I think I’m seconds away from wasting you.”
“No, you’re not,” Quentin said calmly. “You need me alive. I’m the only one who knows where Selden is buried. And you’re right, of course—his body would prove beyond doubt that he kille
“Especially you,” Cole said.
Quentin nodded. “I have business commitments. People have placed a lot of trust in me. Trust and money. Important people. Connected people. I can’t afford to jeopardize their trust.”
“You mean you can’t afford to let them find out you’ve been skimming off their investment.”
Quentin shrugged. “Skimming, maximizing, distributing…it’s all a matter of semantics.”
“Not if they find out, it’s not.”
“Exactly. I’m so glad you understand. If I told you where Selden is buried, I’d be dead within weeks.”
“You’ll be dead within minutes if you don’t.”
Quentin shook his head. “I don’t think so. If you kill me, you’ll never find Selden. I can promise you that. And, besides, if you kill me, the gentlemen downstairs will rip you and your brother to pieces.” His smile sharpened. “I know you don’t care about your own thick skin, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything to happen to young Ruben here, would you?” He looked at me again, and this time I saw hell in his eyes. My hell, Rachel’s hell…I could feel it happening. And so could Cole. Quentin was making us feel it. He was making Cole see the worst things in the world happening to me. And Cole couldn’t bear it anymore. He was losing it. Losing control.
“Imagine it, Mr. Ford,” Quentin whispered. “Imagine it happening. Imagine what that would do to your mother. Her only daughter’s been raped and murdered, and now her strange little boy—”
Cole lunged across the desk and rammed the pistol at Quentin’s mouth, aiming to stuff the words down his throat. But Quentin had seen it coming. It was just what he’d been waiting for. And when he moved, he moved like black lightning—his left hand grabbing Cole’s wrist and slamming it down on the desk, his right hand clubbing Cole’s head like a sledgehammer. The impact shook the air. Cole went down hard, slumped over the desk, but somehow he didn’t let go of the pistol. Quentin kept hammering Cole’s wrist on the desk—crack, crack, crack—then he punched him again, a wicked short jab to the side of his head, but Cole still wouldn’t let go of the pistol. With an angry shake of his head, Quentin got to his feet and raised his fist over his head and brought it down with a thundering crash on Cole’s wrist. Something cracked, and the pistol finally spilled from Cole’s hand.
I was trying to move now, trying to help Cole…but the air was too thick. I couldn’t get through it. Everything had slowed to dream-time. Quentin was standing slowly over Cole, slowly grabbing his hair and slowly lifting his head, then slowly smashing his face into the desk—once, twice, three times. Cole was still conscious. I could see his eyes shining black through the blood. They were looking down at my side, trying to tell me something…
The gun, Rube…Quentin’s revolver…
I was still holding it. Quentin’s revolver…it was in my hand…
Use it, Rube…shoot the bastard…
The dream-time cracked. I dropped the empty shotgun and raised the heavy revolver in both hands, steadying the sights on Quentin’s head.
Cock it, Cole told me. It’s a revolver—you have to cock it. Pull back the hammer.
I got my thumbs on the hammer and started to pull it back…and then Quentin was suddenly gone and all I could see in the notched V of the sights was Red—bare-legged and grinning, swinging the shotgun down on my wrists. CRACK! A bolt of agony shot through my arms and the revolver dropped from my hands, and the next thing I knew Red was stepping up and grabbing me by the shoulders, and I was looking up into his twisted eyes, and he was smiling his smile.
“Game over,” he said.
He drew back his head and hammered it into my face.
Now I’m falling, slumping, my legs crumpling like paper tubes, and I seem to be going down sideways, and I’m thinking—Why am I going down sideways? And I know it doesn’t matter. I can hear people running, shouting, kicking, punching. I hit the floor slowly and start to roll over onto my back, but my arm flops out and I push against the floor and somehow get my elbow underneath my body, and now I’m sprawled out on my side with my head half-raised, looking across the room at Cole. The air is cloudy, misformed, moving. It throbs against my eyes. Cole is a blood-drenched sack on the floor, a thousand miles away. He’s surrounded by raging faces and frenzied fists and hundreds of pounding legs, stomping him into nothing.
A preacher man stands back and watches.
My skull is moaning. The room is darkening. The preacher man is shining his amber eyes on me…and now I’m following his light. I’m floating back through the light of his eyes, back through the airless black air, back into his preacher man’s head, and just for a moment I can see myself through his eyes—lying on the floor, my face bloodied, my eyes half-closed, my mouth hanging open.
There’s a figure standing over me. A small red man. A shotgun poised over my head.
“Make sure you don’t kill him,” the preacher man says.
And the shotgun comes down like a piston, and everything goes black.
Fifteen
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a big brown rat gnawing away at the sole of my shoe. He seems quite content, for a rat. His eyes are twinkling. His nose is twitching. His teeth are yellow. I don’t want to disturb him, he’s only chewing my shoe, but I think I’d better. Just in case.
But when I try to flick my foot at him, nothing happens.
My foot doesn’t work. My feet don’t work. I don’t know where they are. I know where they are—they’re right there, at the end of my legs, where they usually are—but my legs don’t seem to recognize them.
I don’t get it.
I don’t get it.
I’m closing my eyes now, trying to work out what’s going on. But I can’t seem to think straight. My head hurts. My wrists hurt. I feel sick. My shoulders are aching. My arms are paralyzed.
Maybe I’m dreaming.
But I know I’m not. And when I open my eyes again, the rat’s still there. I watch him for a while, intrigued by his chewing action, then I turn my attention to my legs. They seem to be stretched out in front of me. I think about that for a while—Why are my legs stretched out in front of me?—and eventually I come to the conclusion that I must be sitting down. And that makes me think—If I’m sitting down, I must be sitting on something. So then I turn my mind to the hard brown stuff I can see on either side of my legs, and it doesn’t take too long for me to realize what it is: It’s wood. A wooden floor. Floorboards.
Now I’m getting somewhere.
Summary: I’m sitting on a wooden floor with my legs stretched out in front of me, and a rat is chewing my shoe.
I still don’t want to disturb him, but they’re old shoes, and the soles aren’t all that thick, and if I leave him chewing much longer he’ll be through the shoe and into my socks and then he’ll start on my feet, and I don’t want that. So I think I’d better try flicking my foot again…
And this time it works. My foot moves. Not very far, and not very fast, but it’s enough. Ratty jumps back and scurries away, leaving a small cloud of dusty air in his wake. And now I’m just staring at the dust. It’s fine and old, like the dust of an unused room. There are bits of straw in it, too.
Straw?
I seem to remember seeing bits of straw somewhere before. Somewhere? Where? On the floor? I look down at the floorboards again. Bare wood. Dusted wood. Flecks of yellow on faded brown.
Floor.
OK, so that’s the floor. What about the ceiling?
And then I’m throwing back my head to look up at the ceiling, but before I get to see anything a roar of thunder rips through my skull and the veil of blacknes
I only passed out for a second or two, but when I opened my eyes this time, everything had suddenly become clear. I knew what had happened. I still didn’t know where I was, or how I’d gotten there, but at least I could remember what had happened. I remembered being in Quentin’s house, and Cole getting beaten up, and Red hitting me with the shotgun. I could feel the blunt gash on the back of my head. It was bleeding again. Fresh blood. Fresh pain. It hurt like hell, but that was OK, because now I knew what had happened.
When I’d looked up at the ceiling, I’d cracked the gash on my head against the thick wooden post behind my back, the post I was sitting against…
The post I was tied to.
My arms weren’t paralyzed. They were just tied so tightly behind my back I couldn’t feel them anymore.
I sat there for a while, staring at nothing, just slowing my heart and trying not to panic. It wasn’t easy. I wanted to panic. I was tied to a post, my head felt weird, I couldn’t move my arms, I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t know where my brother was, or even if he was still alive…
God, I wanted to see him. I’d never wanted anything so much in my life. I wanted to scream and shout and cry like a baby. I wanted him to be here. I wanted to know he was all right. I wanted him to tell me that I was all right, that everything was going to be all right…
I wanted him.
I needed him.
But he wasn’t here. And I couldn’t feel him. And crying like a baby wasn’t going to help, was it? So I didn’t. I just sat there for a while, staring at nothing. And when I was sure I wasn’t going to cry, I started looking around again.
And this time I kept the back of my head well away from the wooden post.
I took my time, letting my senses soak up everything around me—the floor, the walls, the roof, the air, the light, the emptiness, the silence—and when I was done I was pretty sure I knew where I was.