Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I started the car and eased out onto the street. With no one in sight, I started to relax a little. My gaze swept back and forth as I moved through the darkness toward the main road. With no sign of my pursuers, I left the neighborhood feeling more secure by the second. The main road—four lanes that led to I-83—buzzed with commuters and whoever else might want to brave city roads at rush hour. Constant surveillance showed no sign of black limos or Good Samaritans. I made a beeline to the interstate and got the hell out of Dodge City, so to speak.

After an uneventful drive home, I pulled my car into the garage and left it in the space closest to the entrance. I trudged inside and climbed the two flights to my unit. While approaching my door, I spied a large plain white envelope tucked underneath it. What now?

I opened my door and toed the envelope inside. Unaddressed, but no doubt meant for me. It could contain a letter or anthrax. I shut the door and locked up tight, then retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the kitchen and pulled them on before opening my surprise delivery. Inside was one photo.

The man depicted looked like Terry, although it was hard to tell for sure. The lack of lighting and angle of the shot made it hard to determine the man's identity. He also looked like he'd had the living crap beaten out of him.

I recoiled at the sight but managed to recover rather quickly. My revulsion was dwarfed by rising anger and disgust. What is this supposed to accomplish? I could only hope that the victim wasn't Terry. Shoot me, if you must, but leave my friends out of it.

Too tired to think any further, I tossed the photo onto my coffee table. Get a magnifying glass and examine the picture, my conscience yelled. Later! I mentally shouted back. My lower back threw occasional sparks down my legs and up my spine. Frustration made my head pound again. It was all I could do not to scream.

Exhausted and in pain, I collapsed into bed fully clothed, but my brain was churning like crazy. So, I struggled to my feet and turned on the TV. Unfortunately, I'd left it on a news channel, which did nothing to improve my mood. Rather than channel surf, I snapped the damn thing off, made myself a pot of coffee (believe it or not, coffee for me, is both stimulating and relaxing), and tried to calm down by reading a book.

It was nearly half-past midnight when I finally felt ready for bed. I had just slipped under the covers when my cell phone rang. Answer or ignore? If it was the thugs who had sent that photo, the latter might be wiser. But, then again. My brain seemed to spasm. Then it cried, you need sleep!

The ringing stopped, then started again. I reached over and turned off the phone. A few minutes ticked by. Then, my land line jangled. I roused myself enough to reach the receiver, pick it up, and slam it down. Then, I turned off the ringer. So much for that.

It took a while for sleep to come. When it did, the dreams it brought were too much like being awake to be restful. I was plagued with a bizarre kaleidoscope of imagery. Being chased through a desert by Russians firing Kalashnikov rifles at me. Sidestepping a discarded soda can, which exploded in a cloud of fragments. A child's blood-streaked face emerging from the cloud, begging me not to shoot him. Bumping down a barely discernible road in a jeep with an aspiring pig farmer who'd end up dead right beside me.

I woke up sweating after hearing a loud bang. I stared at the ceiling in disbelief, but the banging continued. No explosions. Someone was knocking on my door.