The Cure Page 16

  Fully elevated, she was able to reach high enough to unhook the rope. Bic dropped her behind him. He then grabbed the table and marched backwards, exchanging gunfire with the Farmer.

  Backing around the corner into the washing room, Bic took aim, waiting for the Farmer to come out of the room.

  “Go,” he said over his shoulder. “My keys are under the bike.”

  “Come with me,” she pleaded.

  “I’m not leaving Hawk behind.”

  “He’s dead, Bic.”

  “I’m not leaving him. Steve hid the formulas in his favorite book at his favorite place to read.”

  Another series of shots riveted the table.

  “Dammit, Bic! Come with me!”

  “Get out, now.”

  “I can take the truck out back,” she said. “The key’s in the ignition.”

  “Fine.”

  “Meet me at Harold Washington library,” said Gracie. “That’s where Steve must have hidden them.”

  “We need a plan first. Tomorrow, we meet at your momma’s grave. Then we’ll go get them.”

  He looked back at her, fear blanketing over her as she looked into his eyes.

  “Go,” Bic said. “You may not trust me, but trust that this is what I do best.”

  Two more shots cracked into the table, each one ratcheted up her adrenaline until she took Bic’s advice and ran in the other direction.

  55

  The gunshots stopped, and a cacophony of silence descended.

  A moment had gone by. Bic was confident Gracie was well on her way to safety when a sudden noise shattered the preternatural stillness, and a thumping sound rushed through his ears, scrambling his thoughts into a chaotic mess.

  The sound was as unmistakable as the voice of ghosts. Someone was thumping a bare hand on a cast iron frying pan.

  “Hear that Bic?” the Farmer yelled from within the small room. “I’m playing your momma’s favorite tune!”

  The stainless steel reflected the inhuman glow in Bic’s eyes piercing out of him like rays of death. His veins swelled to the point of explosion.

  Thump…

  Thump…

  Thump…

  “After I kill you, I’m going to go have a celebratory drink with your daddy. I think he can teach me a lot. We’ll exchange frying pan tips.”

  One hollow thud after another beat into Bic’s skull, rendering logic to a spot of violent red. “It’s pork chop eatin’ time,” he muttered through the gathering foam in his mouth.

  Bic charged across the room, using the steel table as a shield.

  Bullets clanked into the metal.

  Ten feet away, the shooting stopped and the door slammed shut.

  With a guttural yell and a full head of steam, Bic crashed the table into the door. It blasted off the frame, shattering everywhere. Bic torpedoed into the small room, smashing the heavy table into the Farmer, pinning him against the wall. He blasted the Farmer with a right hook. The head snapped back hard.

  On the floor was the frying pan along with the Farmer’s gun. He kicked the gun into the corner of the room. He then grabbed the Farmer by the neck and pulled him out from between the wall and steel table.

  He brought him into the hanging room and threw him out onto the concrete floor. He then retrieved the black iron pan and walked toward the Farmer lying on the floor.

  Bic swung the pan at the Farmer’s head putting every ounce of his strength behind it. It smashed the concrete floor as the Farmer rolled to the side. He gave Bic a kick in the wrist. The kicked hand fell away. No matter. There was too much rage now.

  Bic maintained a backhand grip on the pan and he wound up again. Sudden, swirled visions of his dad intertwined with the image of the Farmer before him.

  The Farmer nailed him in his kneecap, then again in his chest.

  The pan slipped, catching only a swipe at the Farmer’s face. Taking advantage of the momentary incapacitation, Bic mounted the Farmer’s chest, wrapped one of his massive hands around his throat, then raised the pan high up in the air.

  There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his side, like a burning spear was being slowly driven into him. Bic howled as he let go of the pan and fell from his perch atop the Farmer’s body. The pain magnified, clouding his vision as he struggled to retrieve the pan.

  He felt as though his internal organs were shutting down.

  The Farmer picked up the pan and smacked him across the face with it. It was a weak blow, but effective enough. Bic felt the blood in his throat. He fought for consciousness.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the adrenaline capsules. With what energy he had left, he jammed a capsule into each nostril.

  Before he could break them, the Farmer took another swing with the pan, catching him in the head.

  The world went black.

  56

  The Farmer stood over a motionless Bic. His need for revenge had served as a slow acting poison in his soul—and absolute payback was the only antidote.

  The Farmer dragged a four-by-four folding table out of the room Bic had pulled him from. He took a quick inventory of the rooms contents:

  Skew back handsaw—check.

  Car tire, P205-55R-16—check

  Can of Zippo brand lighter fluid, 12 fl. oz.—check

  Mini butane torch—check

  Pork chop, 10 oz. center cut rib—check

  Grunting, he pulled Bic up against the wall. He stood up, caught his breath, then grabbed the can of lighter fluid. Methodically, carefully, he filled the inside of the tire as best he could with the fluid. Satisfied, he carefully lowered the tire over Bic’s head and dropped it around his neck. The fluid ran down his chest.

  He smiled triumphantly as he stuffed the pork chop as far as he could inside Bic’s mouth.

  He grabbed the blow torch next. It fit snug in his grip, the size of a spray paint can. He clicked the ignition button and a bright blue flame shot out from the shiny metal flame guard.

  Perfect.

  He bent down, his face inches from Bic’s. “Wake up, you sonofabitch.”

  Bic was unresponsive.

  The Farmer backhanded him.

  Nothing.

  He clenched his fist. “Open those disgusting eyes, you ugly mother. I wanna watch them melt.”

  He punched Bic in the face.

  Nothing.

  He punched him again, right in the nose. The eyes flickered open, glassy, tearing.

  The Farmer smiled. “There we go,” he said as he relit the torch. He held the spike of flame in front of Bic’s face like a glowing blue stiletto. “Can you hear me, Bic? I wanna make sure you hear me. Listen up. On the day I saw my brother’s head sitting there on that table detached from his body, a pork chop stuffed in his mouth, I’ve thought of a thousand different ways to kill you.”

  Bic’s jaw moved around the chop. Not time yet, the Farmer thought. I want him fully conscious.

  “I promised my brother when I did, it would be like nothing ever done before. But you got my little bro pretty good. I had to think about how it was gonna go down for you, Bic. So, here’s what’s I’m fixin’ to do.”

  The eyes set on him. Bic’s muscles strained, but he was eerily motionless, understanding that movement equaled death.

  “That’s right, baby. You stare at me. I want you to know who’s responsible when you light up like a pit barbecue. When it’s done, when you’re charred like a three-hundred-pound pig, I’m going to saw your big ugly head off your body and put it in that frying pan.”

  Bic’s eyes cleared. The eyebrows lowered.

  The Farmer brought the torch up close, inches away from the tire.

  “Then,” he said, “I’m going to find that niece of yours and treat her like a Thai whore. How ‘bout that?”

  The eyes went wide. The nostrils flared. And a gush of air blew something out. Smashed gel caps?

  Bic’s hand sprung to life, grabbing his w
rist holding the blow torch.

  The men’s arms were in gridlock.

  The Farmer groaned as he heard and felt his wrist bones cracking.

  Bic raised the tire up from around his neck as he stood, ignoring the fluid that splashed over both of them. The Farmer used his free hand to stop Bic from putting the tire over his own head.

  As Bic’s eyes widened, the veins on his neck and temples throbbed. Whereas before the Farmer had been overcoming Bic on pure strength, whatever this surge was, there was newfound strength in Bic. The Farmer’s desperation of vengeance fought Bic’s will to protect Gracie. The two killers were deadlocked.

  The tire lit up. Flames shot out as both men now held the flaming mass of melting rubber between them.

  Bic kicked the Farmer’s gut. The brawny self-styled country boy flew backwards as his breath was knocked out of him. The next thing he felt was his back hitting the floor.

  And he saw the tire come down around his neck.

  He jerked and rolled, throwing the flaming tire off, then popped back onto his feet and grabbed the saw.

  Both men ignored the small fires burning on their clothing.

  Bic stood, his eyes stained with an inhuman glow, far more intense than the reflection of the tire behind the Farmer.

  With a bellowed roar of challenge, the Farmer charged.

  He swung the saw at Bic’s throat. Bic lunged into the arc of the swing, deflecting the Farmer’s hurt hand with his forearm. Then, using the Farmer’s momentum, he spun in place and threw him into the wall.

  A jolt of hellish pain shot through the Farmer’s shoulder as he crashed into the brick. His head had hit as well. Oddly, he felt nothing. But the world was slurring before him. His eyesight was blurred. He stumbled away from Bic realizing his right shoulder was completely out of joint.

  He saw Bic walking toward him, the flaming tire in his hands.

  The Farmer, clutching his dead shoulder, ran from the chiller room.

  57

  It would have been nice to kill him.

  Bic wanted nothing more. He could have done it. He could have gone after the Farmer like a lion after a wounded zebra. But instead, he found himself running towards his best friend. Hawk lay in a semi-fetal position, a bloody mess on the floor, hands bolted to his head.

  Bic reached down and checked for a pulse. Weak, but still there.

  “Hang in there, partner,” Bic said. He lifted Hawk from the floor and hurried toward the exit as best he could, kicking the old door open.

  Outside, his motorcycle sat in front of the livestock building. He flopped Hawk on the bike in a sitting position. Bloody spit flung from the slack jaws. The weight from his hands attached to his head pulled the body forward.

  Bic sat behind Hawk, then started the bike.

  A shot fired from the exit door. The bullet tore into Hawk’s leg.

  Bic wrapped one arm around Hawk and hit the gas with the other. The engine roared and the back tire kicked up dirt as more shots came, ricocheting off the chrome. The bike’s back end flared out hard right. Bic stopped it from tipping with his foot while letting off the gas. After gaining balance, he reaccelerated.

  The bike picked up speed. And the moment the wheels went from gravel to the street pavement, Bic opened it up.

  Twenty miles down the road, he pulled over and called Tony to arrange care for Hawk.

  58

  Blue and red lights flashed in the distance on an otherwise dark road. Gracie didn’t think anything of them at first, but suddenly realized that could be a checkpoint waiting for her. Even if it wasn’t, she didn’t have a driver’s license, or insurance for that matter. Pulling over to the side of the road, she cut the lights. The truck was about out of gas anyway. About seven hours still to Chicago—she’d have to figure out another way.

  The flashing lights turned off. It wasn’t a checkpoint after all, just someone being pulled over. She looked at the gas gauge—it was hovering on E. She started the engine and prayed to the patron saint of fuel tanks.

  Twenty minutes later, running on fumes, she rolled into the gas station in the middle of nowhere off I-80, breathing a sigh of blessed relief.

  The pumps were ancient. She needed only to flip the lever on the side and start pumping. A little old man stood watching her from within the station. That was it. She was seen. Now what?

  She sauntered into the station. “Howdy,” the man said. Then his face changed. “Hey, you alright?”

  She only just realized that she must have looked half on her way to death.

  “I’m… okay.”

  “Ya look like you been in some kinda accident.”

  No, just spent the last however many hours hanging from a meat hook, screaming my bloody brains out. That’s all.

  “I was,” she said. “I got out of my car to change a tire, and I didn’t realize in the darkness how close I was to a drop on the side of the road. I took a pretty bad tumble.”

  “You… want me to call someone?”

  “No, I’m fine. Really. But I need to ask you a huge favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s… been an awful, awful day,” she said, and the tears came. It wasn’t hard. She didn’t need to act. She continued through high-pitched sobs. “I’m sorry, I thought I had my wallet in the truck… but I must have left it at the house…”

  “Hey, hey,” the man said, stepping out from behind the counter. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be just fine. Sshhh.” He put a hand on her back.

  “I’m so sorry…”

  “Ssshhh, nonsense. You live far?”

  She shook her head.

  “Alrighty. Just go home, get your wallet, and come on back. That is, if you want. If you don’t, I’m sure I’ll survive without your money. But uh, just don’t let it get around.” He gave her a wink.

  Gracie threw her arms around him. “Oh my! Thank you!”

  “Oh, ho, ho, don’t worry about it.” He withdrew from her hug. “It’s a kindness. I want you to pass it along. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Gracie said as she ran out of the station. “I won’t forget you!”

  59

  The late-afternoon sky was mostly deep steel blue-grays, save for a band of brilliant pink along the horizon. Across a busy two-lane street from St. Michael’s Cemetery, Gracie sat in a red vinyl booth at a hole-in-the-wall diner, looking out the window, watching Bic at her mother’s grave. The comforting smell of homestyle biscuits and gravy and pot roast wafted out from the kitchen filling her nostrils, as well as the rest of the diner.

  He stood, statuesque and motionless. Subtle gusts blew red and yellow leaves off the trees, showering him. The gentleness of the scene represented what she once knew Bic to be—her loving caretaker. She had not so much as heard Bic even raise his voice at another person. As for the sunglasses that he wore all the time, he’d told her he was embarrassed by the uniqueness of his eyes. It especially hurt his feelings when little kids cried and hid from him like he was some sort of monster. She had always told him they were beautiful, one of the great wonders of nature.

  Should she go to him? Men were after her. Other men, like the Farmer, were after Bic. Did it make sense for her to go to him? The bell on the entrance door jingled.

  Quinn entered the diner.

  She got up, ran to Quinn, and hugged him.

  Their bodies tangled nicely as Quinn said, his mouth nuzzling her ear, “I thought I lost you.”

  Gracie didn’t want to let go. She finally felt safe.

  They separated, and sat down in Gracie’s booth.

  “I didn’t know who to call,” Gracie said.

  “You did the right thing.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

  Quinn smiled. “Arrest you? How? You’re dead, remember?”

  She looked into his blue eyes. “That means a lot.”

  “You mean a lot to me.”

  She looked away.

 
“What is it?” He reached across the table and rested his fingertips on top of her hands.

  Gracie looked away. “There’s something you ought to know.” She dropped back into his eyes. “There is one last copy of all my formulas at the Harold Washington library.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Quinn said. “Let me guess, hidden in Steve’s favorite book.”

  Her mouth went agape. “Now how could you possibly know that?”

  Quinn unfolded Anna’s letter for Gracie to see. “Mack and I found it in Anna’s safe deposit box.”

  Gracie read the letter through tear-filled eyes. “I miss her so much.”

  He touched her arm. “What is his favorite book? I can have someone get them for us.”

  “I don’t trust anyone else. I need it to be us.”

  Quinn looked at her for a moment. “Let’s get you somewhere safe. Tomorrow we’ll go get the book and set about clearing your name.”

  Walking out of the diner, as she was getting ready to enter Quinn’s car, Gracie hesitated as she saw Bic in the distance.

  “Everything okay?” Quinn asked.

  She entered the car. “Yes, now it is.”

  60

  Bic’s heart sank with the sun’s slow departure over Chicago’s skyline. Even though he’d known Gracie might not show up, he was counting on her to forgive him for his deception and his sins, to listen to how it had all happened, to understand him and who he was. They were family. That strength had to prevail.

  “Hey big sis,” he said to the grave, “getting a little chilly out. First snow is right around the corner.” He tucked his hands into his jean pockets. “I thought Gracie was coming to see you today, but she’s not too happy with me right now. I kind of earned it, but it still hurts.”

  He stared at Chandra’s small grave marker as if waiting for a reply.

  The long moment gave way to a series of horrific flashes, first his mom beaten to death, then Chandra withering away to nothing, then Hawk as he left him a bloody mess at an emergency room in a hospital in Iowa, barely breathing.