Chapter 61
Eddie
The last walk
The best time of your life lasts less than a second.
When you hold your newborn in your arms for the very first time; when you meet the one you know that you will love with your whole heart until the moment you die; when you look around you and realize that everyone you love is happy and well and safe.
It’s a fleeting moment of joy.
The worst times of your life seem to last an age.
Right now, I was having one of those moments.
I’d just woken up in the trunk of a moving car.
My head felt like there was a rusty nail rattling around inside my skull.
The cut on the back of my scalp was still bleeding, and I could taste the fumes from the exhaust pipe and hear the rumble of tires on the road and the drone of the engine.
I couldn’t see anything, too dark. The only thing in my vision were occasional white stars that penetrated the black, probably the result of the head injury.
My hands weren’t tied. I felt around in my jacket and coat pockets.
No phone. No wallet. No cash. No keys. I put my right hand down, tried to move.
It was too cramped. My feet and legs were tucked up into the corners.
The bed of the trunk felt strange. It wasn’t hard plastic. It wasn’t that rough fiber that lines most trunk beds.
It was thick plastic.
I felt all round the edges of it.
This plastic had been taped to the inside of the trunk, so that I wouldn’t leave any blood, hair, saliva or fibers behind. There would be nothing for forensics to find.
Nothing to prove that this was the car that drove me to my final destination.
Every second in this trunk felt like a hundred years.
This was the moment.
It had been in the mail for a long time.
Some day.
Sometime.
This was always going to happen.
In my life, I’ve hurt a lot of people. Some of those people I loved. Some I hated. It didn’t matter – I always tried to do the right thing, even if it meant killing somebody.
I felt the car slow and lean left.
We were turning.
No idea how long we’d been on the road.
One thing was for certain, we were no longer on the highway. The suspension now had to work hard, and in the trunk every bump sent a fresh shot of pain through my head. We were on a dirt road, somewhere.
The end was close now.
I’d been in tight spots before.
But not like this.
Not with so many unanswered questions. I had a pretty good idea who had grabbed me off the street, though. I’d pissed off a very dangerous family. My ability to get myself into trouble was kind of a gift. Not that Christine saw it that way.
I thought of her, and my daughter, Amy. How would they react when they were told I was missing? Judging by the professional approach of the two guys up front in this car, and it was always two guys in a street grab like this, my body would probably never be found.
It was strange, but right then, that was the thing that pissed me off the most.
My family and my friends not being able to grieve properly. Not knowing where I was, but pretty sure that I was dead. I had known loss and pain, and I’d seen the damage it could do to others – their lives torn to pieces. I didn’t want that. I definitely didn’t want that for my daughter.
I didn’t care about myself. Everybody has to go sometime.
And one grave is as cold as the next.
It was the people I would leave behind.
That’s what hurt.
I should have seen this coming sooner.
Sometimes, we are so blinded by what’s right in front of us that we don’t see the real danger.
The car slowed.
My weight shifted as it turned.
I felt the vehicle roll over rougher ground. A series of bumps in the earth, rocks maybe, threw me around in the trunk.
I knew then the two men up front were professionals.
This gave me a chance.
Amateurs don’t think things through. They can try, but killing somebody and hiding their body is one of those few tasks where you can only really learn on the job. There’s no manual, and the guys who do it and get caught can’t really learn from their mistakes.
After a few minutes of getting thrown around, the car stopped.
The engine died.
Two doors opened.
I felt the weight shifting in the front suspension as two men got out.
Two doors closed.
No footsteps.
We were on dirt or grassland.
Not hard asphalt.
I closed my eyes, lay perfectly still.
The trunk opened.
Even with my eyes closed, I could still sense a flashlight, maybe two, pointed right at my face.
‘Get out,’ said a voice. Male, older. Not a New York accent. A hint of something familiar, though. South African?
Dekker. And he was undoubtedly a pro.
I didn’t move. Waited for a few seconds.
No shots were fired.
That meant the guy with him was also an experienced killer.
Amateurs take no chances. They’d be worried that I might make a play and lunge for a gun, or make a run for it.
Amateurs shoot you in the trunk. Safer. No chance for escape.
But then they’ve made themselves a bigger problem.
Now they’ve got to put their hands on me again, and manhandle my body out of the trunk, onto the dirt, and carry my bleeding ass to a place where I can be buried.
Amateurs carry bodies.
Pros make the bodies walk to their own graves.
‘Get out or I’ll put one in your knee,’ said the voice again, unmistakably Dekker.
I blinked, raised a hand in front of my face to shield the light.
It did no good. I couldn’t see a goddamn thing.
With great effort, I sat up. The nausea returned.
I’d been hit on the head harder than I’d first thought.
Probably I had a mild concussion. That didn’t help when I had to think my way out of eating a bullet in the next few minutes.
I got up on my knees, threw my left leg over the lip of the trunk, found the earth with my foot then shifted and turned and got my other leg out, like climbing off a bike.
They’d left the headlights on in the car.
I was in woodland. Thick trees reached for the sky.
A dirt track on the right cut through the forest. I could barely make it out, but it was there.
I couldn’t see the men holding the flashlights.
One flashlight was lower than the other, so I guessed that guy was shorter.
The other, much bigger man had to be Dekker.
‘Turn around. Start walking, straight past the car. Don’t run. You’ll regret that,’ said Dekker.
I wanted to vomit. I couldn’t stand up straight. I had to lean on the car. My head felt like it was on fire. I looked around, hoping to see distant lights from a landmark somewhere. But there was nothing. Just black forest. Not even a sound. No birds, no bats, no animals. Not even wind.
The forest seemed like it was a dead zone. And it could be anywhere. I had no idea how long I had been in the trunk. We could be in Jersey, or upstate, Rhode Island or Virginia for all I knew.
I stared down at the car.
It was a dark blue Honda. Something disposable.
‘It doesn’t have to end like this,’ I said. ‘There’s got to be a way of working this out.’
‘You’re done. The only options you have left are whether it will be slow and painful or quick and easy. Do what I tell you and it will be quick and easy. Keep running your mouth, you’re gonna wish you were dead.’
I turned and walked along the side of the car, using it for balance.
I couldn’t see far ahead. The flashlights blazing at my back threw my own shadow in front of me, long and dark, into the trees beyond the hood of the car.
I glanced through the rear passenger window, saw a pick and a shovel lying across the back seat.
They needed these tools, and obviously didn’t want to hand me either of them in the trunk.
Same reason that they would take them out of the back and carry them to wherever we were going.
It was so dark they needed flashlights to see where they were going.
Dekker was the senior man. He would have a flashlight in one hand, his handgun in the other. He’s not the guy to haul the heavy digging tools. Or share the load.
But his friend? He would need a flashlight, and he would need to carry the tools.
So he had to put his gun away.
I knew when we eventually reached the spot they wouldn’t toss the tools to me and tell me to start digging either.
Amateur mistake. Even if you have a gun, you don’t give the target a weapon, because they know the writing is on the wall and if you hand them a shovel, they’re going to use it to fight for their lives.
No, when we got to the gravesite, I’d be shot. And then I would lie quiet while they dug the hole for me.
Everything I knew about these two guys told me this wasn’t their first rodeo. They’d done this before. And that at least gave me some knowledge that I could exploit.
I stumbled, lost my footing and went down on one knee right beside the driver’s door.
No one was coming to rescue me. Nobody could track me. No one had seen the grab on the street.
I was on my own. Two gunmen behind me. Nowhere to run. No weapon.
I only had one move.
One chance.
And it was probably going to get me killed.
If I messed up, they would adjust their plans accordingly. A quick bullet to my temple, and then they would drag my ass to the grave. Not ideal, but safer, and professional.
I stood up, inched along the car, put my hand on the passenger-side wing mirror to steady myself.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ I said.
I leaned over, my knees bent, hunched my back.
The side mirror was in my hands, concealed from the two men behind me.
I leaned all my weight on it, both hands around it, held it tight to my stomach.
And started to work the hinge, twisting it as I pretended to vomit.
‘Jeez,’ said the other man. This guy had an American accent. I heard him move toward me as he spoke, then I heard the rear passenger door opening. He was right behind me.
I waited for one second while he opened the door fully.
Another second for him to lean into the back seat.
I heard the clink of the shovel head hitting the pick as he grabbed them.
One chance.
Still bent over, I planted my left foot in the ground.
Raised my right knee to my stomach.