WO HOURS HAD CREPT BY since Cap’n returned to the hotel room. Sound still refused to let him call an ambulance. All he asked is that his big, faithful friend stay with him until the end, when the heavenly door swung open and Sound walked through. His breathing had become more shallow, the coughing spells more frequent though less intense. As his lung capacity diminished, the oxygen supply to the brain grew less and less. Sound slipped in and out of consciousness.
During one of his more lucid moments, he said his last goodbyes. Then, amid tears on both sides, he tried one last time to lift his devoted friend’s spirits. “I don’t want you fretting over it, Cap’n,” Sound struggled to say. “It had to happen sooner or later. Now I just need a friend to see me off.” With that, he drifted off and slept for almost an hour. Then came another request that almost tore Cap’n’s soul to shreds. “Sing to me–tell me how it used to be when you were a boy.”
Cap’n slumped down next to Sound’s bony shoulders. Then, gathering him up in his arms and stroking the colorless face and limp arms, he started to sing. When every tune and lullaby he knew had been sung and re-sung, Cap’n began to tell a story, a favorite of his, all about another street-savvy character–a kind of fictional, rural-dwelling Sound. “Once upon a time, deep in the countryside, lived a rabbit. This was no ordinary rabbit. Br’er Rabbit was his name. Br’er Rabbit was a curious sort of critter, always gettin’ into things he weren’t supposed to be in.” Cap’n hesitated, trying to remember the childhood tale. With a shrug, he set out on his own version. “This here fox kept comin’‘round, thinkin’he’d steal Br’er Rabbit’s food. So the wily rabbit built him this here tar baby . . .”
Like the tar baby that stuck to everything in its path, there was only one more matter that still stuck in Vinnie’s craw, one name that burned in his murky brain: Wilson’s Wrecking Yard, I-15 & Logandale. The words– painted on the sides of the wrecker that had deposited the crushed Ferrari at his feet–were etched in his memory. And now, nearing Logandale, he was about to erase that memory forever. A sinister grin crept over his face as he passed the five-mile exit sign. Someone would pay, and it would be someone that Mitch loved. He would deliver a final blow, reviving his dignity and position of power.
Just minutes after the final document was signed, a call came in from Grandpa’s nurse. “Agent Barnes,” he said. “This is Agent Gage. One of the men you’ve been looking for is here in the junkyard.”
“Thanks, Gage,” Barnes answered. “But we’ve struck a deal. We can wrap up the case the minute we locate Vincent Domenico. I’ll send out a regular replacement for you as soon as I can.”
His business with the Federal agents accomplished, Reverend Keller decided to take a spin out to the junkyard and bring Smitty home. To pass the time, he invited Bino along for the ride.
After placing his call, Agent Gage returned to the trailer and gathered his things. When he explained that the night-shift nurse was on his way, Levina and Stephanie insisted he go ahead and take off. They could take care of the crotchety old fellow until the replacement arrived. The junkyard dog stew was just starting to simmer, and by the time it reached its mouth-watering best, they’d be hungry.
Gage stowed his few belongings in the car, first tucking his sidearm in the side of the trunk, then patting the vest into place. The crisp “FBI” label reminded him that he was a new recruit. For the next few years his lack of seniority and field experience would land him only the low-risk jobs. Still, he’d hoped for a little action on this assignment.
Pulling from the gravel onto the frontage road, he made his way towards the freeway entrance. Nearing the interchange, he spied a long, black limo pass beneath the freeway, having just exited. Rather odd for the rural setting, he thought, but no big deal.
Gage accelerated up the on-ramp. Since the assignment there had been no radio contact–he’d stored his radio in the glove compartment for safe keeping. Taking it out, he flipped it on.
In the meantime, Antonio had been found sprawled on the interstate, stripped of the larger portion of his wardrobe, not to mention much of his Italian hide. When he finally came to, he found himself stripped of all selfrespect as well. For a man in his mid-fifties, he’d survived the asphalt breakdance with only a scraped backside, a concussion, and a broken leg. The old man knew exactly how to take care of business, but it would have to wait.
By the time the information trickled down to the FBI from the three law enforcement agencies responding to the calls, Gage had figured out the black limousine was not in Logandale by accident. Even as he fastened his vest in place and strapped his Glock-23 to his side, his coded call was out over the airways and he was on the fly back to the junkyard.
“You wait for back up, Gage, you hear?” Barnes called out to his rookie agent.
“Sir, Stephanie Wilson and the congressman’s wife are in the trailer. I might be able to take him out before he gets there.”
Barnes turned to Field, who was sitting at his desk, his blood pressure shooting through the roof. Field nodded apprehensively. The very thought of losing another agent sent shockwaves pounding at his bowels.
“Vest up, Gage,” Barnes ordered.
“Done, sir.”
“By the book. Only by the book,” he cautioned.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best, sir.”
Before reaching the junkyard, Gage flipped off his headlights and cautiously turned down the gravelly drive. Then his heart caught in his throat. The limo was parked out near the frontage road a block from the wrecking yard, its cab empty. He’d studied the profile and knew the drill. He eased his vehicle to a stop some 50 feet away. Wiping his sweating palms on the sides of his pants, he climbed from his car and made his way cautiously along the weedy edges of the road. With nary a bit of sunlight to see by, he crept still closer. It was then that he saw movement near the front gate. Vinnie was sneaking past the yard’s lone light, headed for the trailer. Gage scurried silently across the dusty yard, shadowing his prey. Crouching next to the trailer’s skirting, Vinnie eased his head up and peered through the blinds. There, sitting on the couch, laughing at the old man’s stories, were Levina and Stephanie.
Suddenly Gage’s voice rang out through the darkness. “Vincent Domenico, FBI! Put your hands in the air or I’ll be forced to shoot.”
Before the word ‘shoot’ was even out, Vinnie had spun and emptied three rounds in Gage’s direction. The agent managed to get off a single round before being struck in the chest and upper thigh by the flying slugs. On the gravel he lay, dazed, gasping for air and bleeding profusely.
Inside the trailer, the women’s screams sent Grandpa on the alert. He heaved himself up off his chair, switched off the nearby light, and whispered for Stephanie to crawl into the kitchen to do the same.
“Stef!” Grandpa whispered in the darkness. “Get a hold of yourselves. He’s a punk kid.”
“H-he’s going to kill us,” Levina whimpered.
“He’s not gonna kill us,” growled the tough old codger. Though out of breath, he crawled across the new carpet. “Follow me and be quiet.” On all fours, he began to make his way down the hall.
“I can’t see,” Stephanie whispered.
“Come all the way down the hall.” Past the bathroom he went and through the bedroom door. He kept moving at a steady pace, dragging himself to the opposite wall and up the side of the bed. Sliding open his nightstand drawer, he retrieved his vintage 9mm pistol. Then he reversed direction and scuttled across the hall to the utility room closet. Sliding the bifold door to one side, he rested his hand on the dryer, pulled himself up, and clicked down on the power breakers. All the while, the women were clutching one another, chests heaving in fright.
“Follow me,” was all the old man said as he led them back into the bedroom. His damaged ticker thudded inside his chest. Part of him felt like the ex-Navy Seal he once was, the other part felt like the disabled veteran he now was.
Just then the front door exploded inward. Vinnie, dripping blood from his wounded shoulder, called out into the darkness a line used by everyone from game-playing children to Jason of chain saw-massacre fame. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he chanted–only from the tough guy’s lips the words sounded at once more child-like than children at play and more sinister than a mass murderer’s threat. His words sent a chill down Stephanie’s spine and a lump to her throat. “I have a present to give Mitch, and you’re it.” He flicked the light switch. Nothing. Dogs on the howl erupted in the distant darkness, drawing ever closer.
At the opposite end of the trailer, Grandpa finished delivering his instructions. “This’ll put ya’ out in the junkyard,” he whispered, tapping on the back door. “In the northwest corner is an old bus. He won’t find ya’there. Now hurry!” His voice was gruff and pressing. “I’ll slow him down.” The old man pulled open the door and shoved the women out.
“But Grandpa . . .” Stephanie started to say before the door creaked shut. Seeing there was nothing else to do, she and Levina turned and fled.
Vinnie flicked on his lighter and stared through the shadows. Staggering down the hallway, he peered into the bathroom, then reached for the bedroom door.
Grandpa hunkered down next to the bed. Just then the bedroom door burst open and the cocksure gangster, his lighter leading the way, strutted into the room. The old man pitched and rolled across the queensize bed like an iron tumbleweed, causing Vinnie to squeeze off three shots. One more shot was fired as Grandpa crumpled from the bed and hit the floor. The barks off in the distance, mingled with approaching sirens through the partially open door, where the women had escaped only moments before. The old man lay sprawled on the floor, a fresh glimmer of hope calming his wildly beating heart as he listened to the wonderful yelps of his dogs.
Down the dark rows of rusting cars, Stephanie, hearing the echoing pops, gasped and cried out, “Grandpa!” Levina took her daughter by the arm and yanked her farther along.
The van’s door said “Keller’s Kitchen,” but in the pitch blackness the words were indistinguishable. The vehicle’s headlights lit up the gravel parking lot and the grim-looking trailer beyond. Thirty feet to the north of the structure, an agent’s pale face peered up from a pool of blood, his eyes blinking against the pair of bright lights. Reverend Keller leapt from the van, simultaneously stripping the white shirt from his back. Wadding it up, he pressed it up against Gage’s thigh wound to staunch the bleeding.
“Vinnie’s here,” Gage whispered, his breathing labored from the pain and bruises to his chest. “Stephanie . . . and her mother too. . . .” he managed to say before slipping into unconsiousness
Bino had remained glued to his seat, sucking deep breaths of oxygen through the tubes he held to his nose. “I need your help!” Keller yelled. “Get his radio and call it in.” But the man was unable to move, paralyzed by the sight of the downed officer. Deep-rooted memories flashed through his mind, replaying a night he’d desperately tried to forget for 22 years. The clatter of gunfire resounded in his brain; once more he could see and smell and feel the gray matter spraying across his face. He was lying on the mean streets of LA, his partner’s body slumped in the gutter, motionless.
“Bino!” Keller yelled again. “Get down here and help me!” Already pushed beyond the brink of disaster, Reverend Keller bowed his head and mumbled a five-second prayer: “Father, forgive me for what I’m about to do. This once, I need to tell a lie.” He loosened Gage’s gun-belt, tugged it down his leg, and cinched it tight. Then he wrested the pistol from the man’s almost lifeless fingers and strode over to the van. “Bernalillo Dalton, God needs you! Your sins are forgiven.”
The frail man blinked and stared into the preacher’s eyes. Keller slapped the handle of the gun into his hand and, seizing him by the shirt, lifted him from the van. “You get off your sorry horse and go help those women, or so help me, He’ll strike you dead right here and now, and every one of those sins will be back on your skinny shoulders!”
Bino blinked again, then squinted down at the government-issue weapon in his hand, muttering, “I . . . can’t. . . .”
“Don’t tell me you can’t!” Keller fumed as he shook him by the collar. “I say you can. God says you can. And if you don’t, the blood of two women will be on your hands. You have the training, I don’t, and if I don’t help this officer right now, you’ll have yet another person’s blood on your hands.”
Bino stared into Keller’s eyes, which burned like fire from the reflected headlights. Keller turned back to Gage and stripped the bullet-proof vest from his torso. “Put this on,” he called out, tossing it toward Bino. “Pull your suit jacket back over the top, button the preacher collar at your neck, and he won’t be able hurt you. I promise.” Bino peered down at the gun one more time. Then, at the reverend’s final command of “Go!” he slid the handle into his palm and gave it a squeeze. At first his gait was slow and cautious. Then he flung the small oxygen tank over his back, strapped it around his chest so it rode high under his chin, and lit out in the direction of the angry barks.
Reverend Keller scooped up Gage’s radio and made an emergency call. As he knelt back down and applied additional pressure to the wound, he whispered another prayer: “I will resign in the morning, dear Father. I pray that someday thou wilt forgive me. . . .”
A crescent moon nudged its silver smile above the eastern horizon as 30 FBI sedans screamed up I-15. Vinnie’s left arm hung limp at the elbow. He staggered like a scourged shadow down the central aisle of the metal boneyard, Gage’s slug having done its share of damage.
Somewhere up in the far reaches of the yard’s northwest corner, Stephanie and her mother had been unable to find the bus Grandpa had mentioned. Now they huddled in the cab of an abandoned Chrysler, the second up on a pile of four. Seven skittish, barking dogs bayed hysterically in the darkness at the base of the stack, eager to get at the passengers trapped inside.
“If these dogs don’t leave,” sobbed Levina in her best attempt at a whisper, her voice trembling, “he’s going to find us.”
“Maybe we need to get out . . .” Stephanie started to say, when suddenly a broad, smiling face popped up at the broken window, sending echoing screams into the night.
Out in the yard, Vinnie instantly turned and began to run towards the screams; Bino did likewise. Strangely, the dogs had gone silent.
Back inside the junked Chrysler, the utter sense of panic had begun to evaporate. Smitty’s frantic array of hand signals were trying to convince the women to climb from the vehicle. “Are you Smitty?” Stephanie asked, her eyes darting about. Smitty nodded enthusiastically. “Mitch told me you’re his friend.” Smitty nodded again and gave the startled young woman a hug. From all the stories Mitch had told him, he felt as if he had known her forever. Her fears lessened, Stephanie reciprocated. Then she shivered and whispered, “There’s a man after us, Smitty. I think it’s Vinnie.”
Smitty cocked his head to the side, listening. In turn, the stifled dogs’ ears perked up as they awaited a command from their new found friend. Squatting down next to them, he began puffing little wisps of air through his teeth, producing a chain of soft trills. Seconds later, he aimed his face at the moon. One by one the dogs joined in, adding their voices to his shrill scream, hurling an eerie wave of territorial howls through the warm night air.
The churning pandemonium made Vinnie stop in his tracks. Bino, however, pressed forward, his courage fortified with every step. It pumped at his lungs, at his heart and mind; it pounded at his thoughts as he groped his way among the piles of cars. It was then he remembered why he’d joined the force so many years ago. He’d wanted to do good, to see that justice was served. He thought of his friend Mike, whose life had been snuffed out, and of his daughter who was being held captive. And those thoughts all focused back on the fiendish Vinnie, somewhere out there in the yard.
The wail of sirens could be heard more strongly now, easily drowning out the comforting prayers of one Bart Keller, still crouched on the ground next to the trailer, holding the wounded officer in his arms.
With the restless dogs primed for their mission, Smitty signaled the women to return to the safety of the car. Then he climbed to the top of the stack, a veritable king of Wilsons Junk Yard, and began to leap from one pile of cars to the next, the pack of dogs following below.
Vinnie, unable to tell from which direction the babbel came in the echoing maze of autos, struggled to reach the top of a pile of cars. From his perch, he looked on in disbelief as Tarzan of the Junkyard leapt closer and closer at every bound. Drawing a bead on the dancing figure, he squeezed off three rounds. Smitty stumbled, then plunged between two closely stacked piles of cars. There he lay, half unconscious, tightly wedged two feet off the oily ground.
Clambering triumphantly down from the cars, Vinnie, his adrenaline flowing and intent upon finishing off his prey, continued to weave his way through the junkyard, once more following the sound of whining dogs.
Then suddenly, floating not more than 20 feet in front of him, came an unexpected sight. Illuminated by the flicker from a cigarette lighter, Bino’s face appeared. The lank man was lighting a smoke. He couldn’t tell if Bino was aware he was there or not; his face registered no look of alarm. But whether he was aware of it or not, the two-bit gambler was standing guard between himself and the fallen Smitty, who was in danger of being licked to death by the pack of distressed dogs. Vinnie continued squinting at the strange sight. Each time Bino sucked air through the cigarette, its tip cast an orange glow down the front of his coat.
Less than 25 yards away, Smitty struggled to force air into his cramped lungs. The confused dogs, sensing his desperation, began to howl. Vinnie raised his weapon and stepped out into the open. The smell of gasoline was strong in the air, as a steady drip seeped from the gas tank of a nearby car struck by one of Vinnie’s wild bullets. “Bino?” intoned Vinnie, as if he were staring at a ghost.
Bino didn’t flinch. “Drop your gun . . . or burn in hell,” he muttered, speaking over the eerie yelps and whimpers.
Vinnie smirked. “You wearin’a preacher’s coat?”
“Drop your gun,” Bino repeated, a bit louder.
Vinnie lifted his chin and laughed at the moon. “What, you’ve come to send me off?” he roared. Suddenly his head dropped and he lunged forward, firing a single shot directly at Bino’s heart. Bino staggered backwards, a shrill hissing sound streaming from his chest. The light-weight metal bottle he had strapped to his shoulders dropped from under the preacher’s coat and tumbled at Vinnie’s feet, gently rocking back and forth before coming to rest in a well-worn loader track in the road. Vinnie glanced down at the puddle of gasoline he was standing in as the gust of oxygen buffeted his pant leg and up his front.
Bino snatched the stub from his lips and stuck it between his thumb and forefinger. A miniature cascade of glowing sparks shot through the air. In near perfect form, the cigarette butt hurtled end over end and bounced against Vinnie’s lapel. Vinnie slapped at the glowing stick, but failed to keep it from ricocheting off his chest and dropping steadily to the ground.
Reverend Keller looked up from his prayer as a “whoosh!” filled the air and a tiny mushroom cloud rose above the heaps of cars to the north. Seconds later, a bevy of government vehicles skidded to a stop in the drive. Grandpa then stumbled from the trailer, holding a washrag to his head, a trickle of blood dripping between his fingers. “Father,” the reverend said, casting his eyes once more to the heavens. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the loss of one of your children. I will try harder. I promise. . . .”