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Solitaire (cont.) Mannix
felt himself pulled roughly out of the cramped vehicle bed and
dumped onto the ground, unable to cushion the fall because of
his hands being tied behind his back. Nauseated, he groaned as
he was pulled to his feet. The throbbing headache only
heightened the confusion, and when the blindfold was removed,
the bright sunlight added even more. Mannix squeezed his eyes
shut, but that only made him more queasy. He sank back to his
knees, nausea again threatening. He swallowed, concentrating
on not throwing up. “Stand
up, damn you.” Water
as cold as the voice was dashed into his face and once again
he was jerked upright. This time, he was kept on his feet by a
tight grip on the collar. A sharp slap to the side of the head
and more water finally brought all senses around. Vision
cleared, and with total control over his stomach, Mannix found
himself looking at the same elderly man, leaning against a
dusty blue jeep. He was inspecting the cane, nonchalantly
rubbing away with a white handkerchief what appeared to be
blood. If, in fact, that’s what it was, Mannix knew exactly
whom the blood belonged to. He wouldn’t have been surprised
to find a lion’s head imprinted permanently on his ribs or
the side of his head. He couldn’t see the other person
behind, still clutching his shirt, nearly choking him. Mannix
twisted and pulled away, and the collar was wrenched out of
the grip. The
old man held up his hand. “Leave him be, Evan.” The
large goon stood by the truck, arms folded across his massive
chest. A twenty-two caliber revolver was tucked snugly into a
holster inches away from his fingers. “You
remember yet, Mannix?” The cane was now resting on the
ground. “You remember who I am?” “No,
I don’t.” The only thing he truly remembered about the
bastard was his ability to inflict pain with the carved stick
he was leaning on. Mannix’s split lip, cracked ribs and
large, blood-caked lump on the side of his head were all
testament to that. “What did you do with Benny?” “Oh,
your friend is fine. You have matching goose eggs, but his
lifespan is going to be oh so much longer than yours.”
Mannix suddenly found the handle of the cane thrust against
his throat, forcing his chin up. The old man could move
surprisingly fast, bum leg and all. Joe braced himself for
more blows, but none came. “You
will remember, you son of a bitch.” The pressure from the
handle increased and the stranger’s face was now inches from
the detective’s. “Go back ten years, Mannix. Back when I
had two good legs. Before you set me up for an ambush by the
cops...for a murder I didn’t have a damned thing to do
with.” Suddenly
the voice, along with the reddening face thrust in front of
his own, was familiar. Jules Edwards. President of an
investment firm that had been mob-connected. It had been one
of Joe’s first cases after he’d gone out on his own. “Edwards,”
Mannix croaked. “What
a bright boy.” Edwards
grinned, but pure hatred burned away any warmth. “You ruined
my life.” The voice was soft now. “You
weren’t convicted of murder, otherwise you’d
be a lifer...” “Shut
up!” Now Edward’s fingers were grasping Mannix’s throat,
squeezing. “As much time as I spent in that hell-hole of a
prison, I may as well have been. The cops shot me, Mannix, and
they didn’t have to do that. I lost my leg because of it.” “I
wasn’t even there...” Mannix
grunted when Edwards jabbed the cane into his stomach. “It
all boils down to you. Only you.” He slammed the cane
against the artificial leg. “You’re the common denominator
in all of this, and the reason my wife left me, and the reason
for everything else in my life that’s gone down the shitter.” Edwards
stepped back and nodded. Whoever remained behind Mannix cut
the twine from the detective’s wrists. He brought his numb
hands in front, rubbing them, trying to get the feeling back. “So,
you’re going to put a bullet in the back of my head and
leave me for the coyotes.” The old man snorted. “I would hope they have better taste than that.” He shook his head and grinned again. “No, you’re not going to get off that easily... or that quickly. Mr.
Muscles, still standing next to Edwards, shifted and pulled
the pistol from the holster. Edwards turned to his cohort, his
back to Mannix. “The leg.” Before
Mannix had time to react, the gun swung towards him and the
trigger was pulled. Fiery pain exploded in his left thigh. He
collapsed to the ground, holding the wound tightly. As the
blood began welling up from between his fingers, a shadow
enveloped him. “That’s
better,” murmured Edwards. He drew in a satisfied breath.
“Much better. It’s going to be dark in a few hours, but
we’ll give you until morning. It should make the hunt more
interesting.” Joe
looked up in disbelief. “You’re kidding.” Jules
raised an eyebrow. “You’ll find I don’t have much of a
sense of humor anymore.” “Is
this really worth going back to prison over? You’re looking
at far longer than ten years.” “I
haven’t much time left.” The old man raised the cane and
jabbed the end of it into the ground just inches away from
Mannix’s leg to see if the detective would jump. He
didn’t. “Cancer. So it really doesn’t matter, does it?
I’m under a death sentence already.” It
was then that Joe noticed Edwards’ pale, waxy complexion and
almost skeletal features. If the old man was that far gone, he
still showed a surprising amount of strength. He also noticed,
now that the third man had stepped into view, a strong
resemblance. He could have been a young Jules Edwards, bruised
jaw and all. “You
may be dying, but they’re not,” Joe remarked, motioning
his head towards Edwards’ two companions. “Trying
to bring discontent to the ranks, are we? Forget it, Mannix.”
Edwards reached into the back of the jeep. “I’ve spent a
long time figuring all of this out. The location, the set up,
all the fun we’ve had, and of course, the fun that is yet to
come. Even if Wickes spills his guts to good ol’ Art, which
he will, even if the barmaid tells all, which I doubt, no one
is going to be able to figure out where you are. Believe me,
everything’s covered. My associates aren’t on file
anywhere, there are no fingerprints on anything. No one has
seen me, except you, and you don’t count.” Edwards tossed
a jacket and canteen on the ground and smiled. “I wouldn’t
want you dying of exposure tonight. It can get quite chilly.
As for the water, you may or may not want to drink it. Your
call, Mannix. ” With that, the three men climbed into the jeep and drove away. Not one of them looked back. Joe
slowly sat up, still holding his leg. The pain had eased, in
fact, his thigh now felt numb. He looked around. The closest
mountains were to the west, but fairly flat land littered with
rocks and sagebrush stretched nearly as far as the eye could
see in every other direction. The soft, shimmering outline of
jagged granite peaks ringing the vast valley completed the
picture of total isolation. He had no idea where he was. First
things first, he thought.
He carefully moved one hand around to the back of his
leg and found the exit wound. He didn’t really want to know
how badly the leg was torn since there wasn’t a whole lot he
could do about it anyway.
He reached for the jacket, turned it over and ripped a
strip of the lining out to wrap around the thigh. The bullet
had entered about six inches above the knee, but the exit
wound was a little lower. He tore more lining out so he could
be sure of covering it thoroughly, hoping there wasn’t dirt
already in the wound. That done, Mannix once again looked
around. He could barely make out a column of dust from the
still moving vehicle. They were heading east. Edwards would
probably expect him to follow the jeep tracks, hoping to find
a road. That would make easy tracking for his hunters in this
safari nightmare, so he decided to go the opposite direction.
To the mountains. He preferred to get out of the high desert,
away from the scorpions and rattlesnakes. If he had to stop
and rest, he really didn’t want things with scales or
multiple legs crawling down his neck. Mannix
eyed the canteen. He was sure the water was safe to drink.
Poison wouldn’t be sporting. After all, Edwards wouldn’t
want the good times to end too soon. That was evident with the
jacket. He slipped it on and then draped the canteen over his
shoulder. Drawing in a breath and gritting his teeth, he
struggled to his feet, and holding his ribs, took a few
careful steps to test the leg. At least it worked. There was
some throbbing, but so far the numbness counteracted, making
the pain tolerable. He was sure that would change. Another
wave of dizziness rolled over him, but he managed to stay
upright and ward it off. He unscrewed the canteen lid. “Here’s
to you, Jules.” He took a long drink of the lukewarm water,
ignoring the stinging of his split lip. No funny smell or
taste. Tough shit if there was, he thought. Too late now.
Feeling only slightly better, he limped in the direction of
the nearest mountain. ******* Page |