Kane- Tooth & Nail Page 14

  Some people saw a tin star pinned on a man’s chest and believed the man wearing it was untouchable.

  In Sheriff Dunkirk’s case, Kane considered the tarnished star a target and would happily put a bullet through it.

  “Can’t abide rapists and murderers,” Foxx said. “So if he did it, I hope he gets what he’s got coming to him.”

  Sheriff Dunkirk’s tone changed abruptly, oozing menace. “What do you mean, ‘if he did it?’ You calling me a liar, Ernie? That what you’re doing?”

  Foxx held up his hands. “No, sir. Not me. If you say John did it, then he did it.”

  “Oh, so it’s ‘John,’ is it? Didn’t realize you and him were on a first-name basis.”

  “C’mon, sheriff.” A pleading tone crept into Foxx’s voice as he realized he had gotten on the lawman’s bad side. “I know his first name because I rented him the cabin.”

  “Sounds like you two are downright good and goddamned friendly. He just told me to call him Kane. Didn’t offer a first name.”

  Kane snarled, “That’s because I don’t give out my first name to assholes like you.” He was trying to deflect the sheriff’s rising anger back onto him.

  The lawman ignored him and continued to speak to Foxx. “Gotta tell ya, Ernie, I find this completely unacceptable. You believing a stranger over your own sheriff, I mean.”

  “It was a slip of the tongue, sheriff. Just a poor choice of words. If you say he did it, then that’s what happened.”

  Sheriff Dunkirk opened the Bronco’s door and climbed out of the vehicle. Kane clenched his teeth in frustration. This was going to end badly, and there was nothing he could do but sit in this damn cage and fume.

  “Problem is,” the sheriff said, clipping his syllables to signify his displeasure, “I don’t fucking believe you, Ernie.”

  “Sheriff, I swear—”

  “Shut up.”

  Still sitting inside the Bronco, Paul echoed, “Shut up.”

  Ernie obeyed.

  The sheriff drew his Glock 19.

  “Hey,” Ernie protested. “What the hell?”

  “I said, shut up.”

  “Shut up,” Paul repeated.

  Ernie obeyed again but kept a wary eye on the drawn pistol.

  Kane brought his duct-taped feet up and kicked the steel mesh barrier in frustration. “Dunkirk!” he roared, doing his damnedest to reclaim the sheriff’s attention. “Dunkirk, you motherfucker!”

  Paul turned around in the passenger seat and pointed a finger at him like a schoolmarm scolding an unruly child. “Shut up, asshole, or I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  Sheriff Dunkirk ignored the hostilities going on inside the truck, focused on the hostility taking place outside it. The Glock stayed down by his side, but he took a step toward Foxx. “I can’t allow this to stand, Ernie,” he said. “I let you start questioning me, pretty soon word’ll get out, and the whole damn town will be questioning me. That’s how rebellions start, and I’ll not be having any rebellions on my watch.”

  The door to the house opened, and a woman stepped out onto the porch in what looked like some kind of purple-dyed buckskin housedress. Calling her obese would have been a mild exaggeration, but she definitely edged in that direction. The bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in her doughy hands wasn’t doing anything to change that. Despite it being mid-afternoon, she wore pink and green curlers in her hair.

  “Sheriff, what in the blue blazes is the meaning of this?”

  Judging a book by its cover, Kane had expected her voice to be shrill. It was actually soft and pleasant, although more than a little annoyed.

  With a stricken look on his face, Foxx tried to wave the woman away. “Go back inside, Franny. Have another doughnut, and let us men finish our chat.”

  “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to,” Franny snapped, “but it better not be me.”

  “Just a little misunderstanding, Franny,” Sheriff Dunkirk called out. “Might be best if you do like Ernie says and go back inside until we get things straightened out.”

  “Yeah? And it might be best if you kiss my ass. How about that? And if it’s just a little misunderstanding, why is your gun out?”

  The sheriff stepped closer to Foxx. He kept his voice low enough to not be heard by Franny, but his words floated back through the open Bronco door to Kane. “Cat or wife, Ernie?”

  Foxx blanched. “What do you mean?” The look on his face made it clear he knew exactly what the sheriff meant.

  The lawman spelled it out anyway. “Best way to stop a rebellion is to crush it right in its tracks before it can even get started. I could just put a bullet in you and be done with the whole thing, but I ain’t gonna do that. But you are gonna pay a price. So, cat or wife?”

  “For the love of God, don’t do this!”

  “Don’t go bringing God into the devil’s work,” Sheriff Dunkirk growled. “Last chance, Ernie. If you don’t pick one, I’ll kill ‘em both.”

  “Kill ‘em both,” Paul repeated.

  Foxx said, “I can’t…”

  “Fine, have it your way.” The Glock started to swing up.

  Foxx yelled, “Franny, RUN!”

  The panic in his voice let his wife know something was terribly wrong. She dropped the bag of Doritos and tried to run back into the house.

  Foxx lunged for the gun, but the sheriff was too quick. The Glock’s sharp bang! sent a .40 caliber bullet ripping through the air.

  The projectile smashed into the back of Franny’s head just as she made it to the doorway. Dead on her feet, the lethal impact flung her lifeless body forward and into the house. Even from inside the Bronco, Kane heard the heavy crash of her corpse hitting the floor.

  Foxx managed to grab Dunkirk’s wrist, but the old man proved no match for the sheriff. The lawman jerked his arm away and lashed the barrel of the Glock across Foxx’s face, splitting the flesh over his cheek down to the bone. Foxx stumbled to the side, tripped over Doofus, and went down in the dirt.

  The cat crouched and hissed.

  The Glock blasted again.

  With a single, pained yowl, Doofus died.

  “No!” Foxx sobbed, clutching at the Maine Coon’s bloody fur.

  Kane kicked at the steel mesh again, knowing it wouldn’t accomplish anything but venting his rage and frustration. “Dunkirk!” he snarled. “You goddamned son of a bitch!” Given the chance, he would have torn the sheriff’s head off his shoulders with his bare hands.

  Paul slapped the barrier with the palm of his hand. “Shut up!”

  Sheriff Dunkirk crouched next to the fallen man and his feline companion. “Don’t ever cross me again, Ernie. Or next time, I won’t be so nice.”

  Foxx stared up at him with weeping eyes. Kane knew a broken man when he saw one.

  “We clear?” the sheriff asked, low and threatening.

  Foxx nodded and choked on another sob.

  “Think of all this as a chance to start fresh, Ernie. New camp, new cat, new wife. It’s like you’re being born again. Now that I think about it, you should probably thank me for what I’ve done here today.”

  Foxx bowed his head, tears dripping into the dirt.

  Sheriff Dunkirk reached out, put the Glock’s muzzle under the old man’s chin, and forced his head back up. “Go on,” the lawman hissed. “Say thank you.”

  Kane couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted to kill someone so badly. “C’mon, Dunkirk!” he roared. “What more do you want from him?”

  The sheriff turned his head toward Kane and smiled cruelly. “I want him to say thank you.”

  Kane knew if that if it was him down there in the dirt, the only thing he would tell Dunkirk would be to go fuck himself, even if that meant eating a bullet. He also knew that Foxx wasn’t built that way. Some men find the grit and steel inside themselves when they are bullied and backed into a corner; others just crack.

  Foxx cracked.

  “Thank you,” he croaked hoarsely.

  Sheriff Dunki
rk pulled the pistol out from under his chin, and Foxx’s head immediately slumped again. The lawman patted him on the cheek. “You’re quite welcome.” He stood up and holstered the Glock. “My condolences on your losses today.”

  Still chuckling, the sheriff climbed back behind the wheel of the Bronco.

  “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” Kane rasped.

  “His wife was fat bitch, and his cat was dumb as a box of rocks,” the lawman replied. “I did old Ernie a favor, putting them out of his misery.”

  “Out of his misery,” Paul repeated.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Kane said. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “You’re gonna have to break out of Hell to do it,” Dunkirk said, shifting the Bronco into drive. “Next stop, Black Bog Federal Prison.”

  Chapter Ten

  Black Bog Federal Prison

  It took them less than ten minutes to reach the prison. A right-hand turn off Wolf Pond Road onto Route 73, then a quick left-hand turn onto an unmarked side road that ran along the base of a mountain before meandering through pine woods and stagnant wetlands. With the driver’s side window rolled partway down, Kane could smell the dead water.

  Coming around a bend, he spotted the bog for which the prison was named. The body of black water stretched for nearly a quarter-mile and looked to be at least two hundred meters across. All the trees around it were dead, and the whole area looked bleak and blighted.

  As they swung into the prison’s entrance, the Bronco’s tires rumbled over a set of old railroad tracks that ran east-west along the northern edge of the marsh. Glancing in both directions, Kane saw that the crossties were rotted, and weeds had choked the gravel bed into submission. Clearly, no train had been through here in a long time.

  “Where do those tracks go?” he asked.

  Sheriff Dunkirk glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Why the hell do you care?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Some jackass city slicker with more money than sense tried to build a scenic railroad between Vesper Lake and Lake Placid,” the sheriff said. “Laid about ten miles of tracks through the woods before calling it quits.”

  They drove through the parking lot and pulled right up to the front entrance. Inside the officer’s station, Kane saw a prison guard talking into his radio. No doubt announcing his arrival and putting preparations in place.

  Paul opened the door as Sheriff Dunkirk said, “You can behave yourself and come out on your own two feet, or I can have Paul drag you out by the ankles. Your choice.”

  “Your choice,” Paul repeated.

  Kane knew there was no point in resisting. Not right now, anyway. Better to save his strength for the battles to come. Once he was locked behind the razor wire, his life would become one big battle for survival.

  “I’ll walk,” he said.

  Paul nodded, pulled out a pocketknife, and leaned inside the prisoner cage to cut the duct tape.

  As soon as he did, Kane brought his knee up sharply, smacking it into Paul’s swollen nose. Fresh blood spurted.

  Paul howled in pain and scrambled backward out of the Bronco, banging his head against the roof in the process. “You bastard!” he yelled.

  Kane slid out of the truck and smiled thinly. “And then some.”

  Sheriff Dunkirk came around and took hold of Kane’s handcuffs. “Cheap shot, Kane. I expected better from you.”

  “Being around you assholes brings out the worst in me.”

  Dunkirk marched him inside. The correctional officer behind the elevated desk nodded as they walked in. “Afternoon, Sheriff. What do you have for us today?”

  “Off-the-books deposit.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Calls himself John Kane.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Raped and killed a local girl.”

  The guard glared at Kane with disgust. “Should’ve just put a bullet in his head and dumped him in the woods.”

  “Figured Nazareno might like to use him in the Pit.”

  “He is a beefy slab of badass, ain’t he?” The guard’s eyes studied Kane’s powerful frame.

  “See something you like?” Kane asked.

  “Shut up, convict, or I’ll make you gargle pepper spray.”

  “Careful with this one,” Sheriff Dunkirk warned. “He took on a whole bar last night and walked away with nothing more than bruised knuckles, so he’s clearly got some hand-to-hand combat experience.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The guard nodded. “He’ll be perfect for the Pit, then. As luck would have it, there’s a match tomorrow night.”

  Through the barred window behind the officer’s station, Kane saw a wide-shouldered man decked out in tactical gear lumbering down the walkway that seemed to lead to some sort of main building. An unseen control center, presumably monitoring the proceedings on CCTV surveillance cameras, buzzed him through two interlocking doors, and a few moments later, he stood in front of Kane.

  “What do we have here?” the man asked, sizing Kane up. The guy was average height, maybe five-eight or five-nine, but bulked with muscle. The Velcro name tag on his Kevlar vest said GOATSACK.

  Kane replied, “Just an innocent man that you’re about to fuck with.”

  “Innocent?” Goatsack chuckled. “Well, hot damn, fella, you’re gonna fit right in.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Every last homeboy in there is innocent. Just ask ‘em. Nothing but priests, choirboys, and Jesus-lovers, right down to the last swinging dick.”

  “No doubt,” Kane said sarcastically.

  Goatsack continued, “Thing is, buddy, I don’t give a shit about your guilt or innocence. All I care about is that, for whatever reason, you’re behind the razor wire, and that means your ass is mine.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Goatsack’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you just say?”

  “Fancies himself a tough guy,” Sheriff Dunkirk remarked. “Got a bit of the ol’ badass in him.”

  “Does he, now?” Without warning, Goatsack swung a short, chopping uppercut into Kane’s groin.

  The fingerless leather tactical gloves the man wore did little to cushion the blow. Kane stumbled backward, biting back a groan, and fought the rising wave of nausea spiraling up from the pit of his stomach.

  “How about now?” Goatsack asked. “Still feeling like a badass, boy?”

  Kane ignored the pain, straightened his shoulders, gave the bully a tight-lipped smile, and said, “Feels like my balls just got tickled.”

  Sheriff Dunkirk let out a little chuckle. “Like I said, a badass.”

  “Badass,” Paul agreed.

  Goatsack grabbed Kane’s arm and steered him toward the interlocking doors that would take him inside the prison. “My boys will cure him of that right quick.”

  The control center buzzed them in. Right before the door closed behind him, Kane heard the sheriff call, “Enjoy your stay.”

  Kane turned his head, fixed him with a grim stare, and mouthed the words, “See you soon.”

  For half a heartbeat, he saw a flicker of doubt in Dunkirk’s eyes.

  Then the second door popped open, and Goatsack hauled him toward a building with the words Receiving & Discharge painted in yellow on a large wooden placard.

  “Welcome to R&D,” Goatsack growled, shoving him down a narrow concrete corridor. “Usually, this is where we process all the paperwork and get you entered into the system. But since you’re an off-the-books guest of Black Bog Federal Prison, none of that bureaucratic red-tape bullshit will be necessary.”

  A left-hand turn took them down another hallway, which ended in a large holding area with two cells, a body-scanner machine, a digital fingerprinting device, and stacks of brown boxes marked Inmate Property, with various names and registration numbers written on them in black marker.

  Nine men, all decked out in the same tactical gear as Goatsack, stood in the middle of the room. The welcoming party.

  “Howdy, boys,” Goatsack said
. “Meet John Kane.”

  “Big fucker, ain’t he?” one of the men muttered. “Guy’s been eating his Wheaties.”

  Goatsack pointed at the speaker and said to Kane, “That there is Red Cent.” He proceeded to point at the others, naming them as he went down the line. “Breezy, Yippy, Big Belly, Goodbye, Duck, Happy, and Sirius.”

  “Why the hell are you telling me their names?” Kane asked.

  “Because I want you to know the names of the men who are going to stomp the shit out of you shortly.” He shoved Kane toward the group. Big Belly grabbed one arm while Sirius grabbed the other. “Strip and hit, boys.”

  Knowing what was about to go down, Kane gritted his teeth as the team forced him into a small room off to the side that had the words Visual Search, which was just prison jargon for a strip search, stenciled above the door.

  The room was only big enough to fit seven grown men, so Goatsack, Red Cent, and Duck stayed outside.

  “Fine,” Red Cent said when Goatsack ordered him to hang back. “Not like I wanted to see his dick anyway.”

  Inside the strip room, Kane was forced against the far wall. Breezy stepped forward with a handcuff key while the others drew their riot batons. “I’m going to take your cuffs off,” Breezy said. “You so much as twitch toward me, these boys are going to beat you until at least seventy-five percent of the bones in your body are broken. We clear, big guy?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Kane replied, knowing they were going to beat him anyway.

  The shackles sprang loose, and Breezy stepped back. “All right, you know the drill. Strip.”

  Kane complied. Not like he had a choice, and besides, his time as a Marine had immunized him to the indignity of being naked in front of other men.

  He tossed his clothes onto a table in the corner and faced the team, arms down by his side, but fists clenched to let them know that when the beat-down started, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  They looked behind his ears. They shined a flashlight into his mouth, ordering him to lift his tongue. They made him lift his feet and wiggle his toes. They even checked his scrotum, all in the name of proving he wasn’t smuggling any contraband. Kane endured it all stoically, knowing it was standard operating procedure for inmate intake.