Blood Test

“I’m sorry, Sis. It’s been heavy and we’re all stressed out. When I finish with him we’ll settle down, drop some B-twelve. I’ll show you how to cool the little guy down. Couple weeks he’ll be fine and we’ll split. This time next month I’ll be teaching him how to shoot the waves.”

“Doug, I—” she began. I hoped she’d continue to plead my case, providing diversion for a sudden run. But she stopped midsentence. Padded footsteps were followed by the whisper of the curtain closing.

“Move,” said Carmichael, angered by the hint of rebellion and expressing it by jamming cold steel into my kidney.

I pushed the door open and stepped into darkness. The chemical stench in the air seemed stronger, the bleakness of the mesa more pronounced. The husks of the unused machines were giant, rusting carcasses, sprawled passive and silent across the ravaged terrain. It was far too ugly a place in which to die.

Carmichael prodded me through the corridor created by the stacked oil drums. My eyes darted from side to side, searching for escape, but the black cylinders formed high metal barricades, mercilessly seamless.

Several yards before the end of the passageway he started talking, offering me options.

“I can do it while you’re standing, kneeling, or lying on the ground the way I did the Swopes. Or, if being still freaks you out, you can make a run for it, get a little exercise to take your mind off what’s coming. I won’t tell you how many steps I’ll give you, so you can pretend it’s like a regular run. Make believe you’re in some kind of marathon. When I run I get high. Maybe you will, too. I’m using a heavy load so you won’t feel a thing. Kinda like one big rush.”

My knees buckled.

“Come on, man,” he said, “don’t fall part. Go out with style.”

“Killing me won’t do you any good. The police know I’m here. If I don’t return they’ll be swarming over this place.”

“No sweat. As soon as you’re out of the way, we’re splitting.”

“The boy can’t travel in his condition. You’ll kill him.” The rifle jabbed painfully.

“I don’t need your advice. I can take care of my own.”

We walked in silence until we reached the mouth of the metal hallway.

“So how do you want it,” he demanded, “standing still or running?”

A hundred yards of flat, empty land lay before me. The darkness would provide some cover for a run but I’d still be easy to pick off. Just beyond the void were hills of scrap metal — strips of sheet-iron, coils of wire, the derrick behind which I’d hidden the Seville. Meager sanctuary, but finding cover among the detritus would gain me time to plan...

“Take your time,” Carmichael said magnanimously, savoring the starring role.

He’d played this scene before, was working hard at coming across cool and in control. But I knew he was as unstable as nitro and just might start blowing his lines if provoked. The trick was to get him sufficiently distracted to lower his guard, then flee. Or attack. It was a deadly gamble — a sudden burst of rage could just as easily yank his trigger finger. But there wasn’t much to lose at this point and the idea of submitting passively to slaughter was damned distasteful.

“Make up your mind?”

“It’s a bullshit choice, Doug, and you know it.”

“What?”

“I said you’re full of shit.”

Growling, he spun me around, tossed the rifle away, and grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling it tight. He raised the axe and held it poised in the air.

“Move and I’ll slice you like cheese.” He panted with anger, face glistening with sweat. A feral smell emanated from the mass of his body.

I kneed him hard in the groin. He yelped in pain and relinquished his grip reflexively. I pulled away, landed on the ground, scurried backward like a crab, scraping my knees and palms. While fighting to push myself upright I pressed my foot against something round. A large metal spring. It rolled, I was upended, and fell flat on my back.

Carmichael charged forward, hyperventilating like a child coming out of a tantrum. The edge of the axe caught a glint of moonlight. Shadowed against the blackness of the sky he seemed immense, fictional.

I yanked myself up and crawled away from him.

“You’ve got a big mouth,” he gasped. “No class, no style. I gave you the opportunity to end it peacefully. I tried to be fair but you didn’t appreciate it. Now it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna use this on you.” He hefted the axe for emphasis. “Slowly. Turn you into garbage piece by piece and make it last. In the end you’ll beg for a bullet.”

A figure stepped out from behind the oil drums.

“Put it down, Doug.”

Sheriff Houten stepped into the clearing, trim and sure-footed. The Colt.45 extended like a nickel-plated handshake.

“Put it down,” he repeated, leveling the firearm at Carmichael’s chest.

“Leave it alone, Ray,” said the blond man. “Got to finish what we started.”

“Not this way.”

“It’s the only way,” insisted Carmichael.

The lawman shook his head.