Bronx Requiem(76)

William leaned forward and spoke to his brother. “You noticed the old man took Austen with him.”

“Yeah.”

“I bet he’s giving him hell for not being able to take out this guy.”

“He should.”

William sat back. “I guess we’re going to the place.”

“I guess so.”

While they talked, Beck slid the thin piece of metal between his forefinger and middle finger a split second before William jabbed an elbow into his left arm.

“Asshole. Puke on me and now we gotta sit here and smell your stink.”

The blow nearly made Beck drop the tiny shim.

Beck stifled a curse. Losing the wafer thin, inch-long piece of steel, barely wider than a matchstick meant losing his life.

Joe Remsen shoved the SUV into drive and accelerated out of the parking lot, sending Beck back into his seat, causing more pain. Dirt and gravel spewed as he caught up to a large Ford F-350 truck in front of him.

Beck tried to ignore the pain and concentrated on relaxing his arms, shoulders, and back. If he stiffened up now, he wouldn’t be able to maneuver into position to use the shim.

Beck leaned over so he could see out the windshield. The truck ahead of them looked new, its metallic black paint gleamed in the glare of the GMC’s headlights.

Beck took a sidelong glance at William. He resembled his father, with the same bloated piggy face. Joe must have taken after the mother. He was shorter than his father and brother, wiry, with sharp features and dark, stringy hair. He reminded Beck of a weasel.

Nobody spoke during the drive. Beck breathed deeply, slowly, and quietly.

There was nothing to be done except use his mind to seal off the pain. Every breath hurt him, which made it more difficult, but he kept at it, trying to slow his heart rate and stave off the fear and dread over what was coming. He assumed they were taking him someplace where they would beat him until they found out whatever they could. And after that, kill him.

Beck stopped thinking about it. He tried to take note of what direction they were driving in, and how long they drove. But mostly he sat visualizing the shim sliding into an infuriatingly small space where the ratcheted end of the left handcuff slid into the lock housing.

Once he maneuvered the shim into the opening, it would stop where the ratchet on the cuff met the edge of the pawl inside the housing. The shim had to be pushed past that point for it to release the cuff. But the shim was wafer thin. Trying to push it past the pawl would bend it. The only way to do it was to push gently and squeeze the cuffs farther closed. That would move the shim between the ratchet edge and the pawl. Then and only then would the cuff slide open.

But if the person putting the cuffs on made them too tight, there would be no room to close them farther. Beck had clenched his hands to make his wrists a tiny bit thicker, and the CO who’d cuffed him had learned to avoid closing the cuffs tight on the skin to avoid endless complaints. There was room, but for only one more click.

Suddenly, the brake lights of the truck up ahead flared. Joe Remsen braked hard, pitching Beck forward against the back of the passenger seat.

The sudden movement caused a wave of nausea to come over Beck. He thought he might vomit again. A sign of a concussion. He breathed deeply and swallowed the bile rising into his mouth.

The truck up ahead took a sharp right turn into a scrub forest. Joe followed, bouncing off the asphalt onto a rutted tire-track path that cut through the scrub forest. The SUV’s suspension jounced and creaked as it traveled over the uneven ground. Every jolt sent pain through Beck’s rib cage, but he used it to steel himself and his resolve. Twice the GMC dropped into deep ruts and several times it banged into stones embedded in the ground. The trees and foliage were so dense the SUV’s headlights made it look like they were traveling through a raggedy green tunnel.

Beck knew he might die this night. But not as a beaten, helpless, handcuffed ex-con. He was not going to let these arrogant bastards, who one way or another had been responsible for the death of a man better than they would ever be, kill him without a fight.

Finally, they emerged into a circular clearing about the size of an acre. The two vehicles veered away from each other and parked at opposite edges of the clearing, pointing toward the center.

When they cut their engines and turned off their headlights, everything plunged into near darkness, barely illuminated by a half moon obscured by the clouds.

William and Joe got out of the GMC and walked across the clearing to join their father and Austen. As the dome light in the SUV faded to black, Beck could see them gathered around Remsen, who was working on something he’d placed on the hood of his Ford. In a few seconds, a harsh white light flared as Remsen fired up a Coleman lantern. He adjusted the flame inside the cloth mantel, and all four men stood talking in a huddle.

The moment William and Joe got out of the GMC, Beck began to work on the handcuffs. He took one quick breath to focus, turned his right hand over, and slowly opened his fist. Carefully, he brushed the thumb of his left hand over the palm of his right, feeling for the shim. It was there, stuck to his palm.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, and concentrated on moving carefully and methodically. He picked up the shim from the palm of his right hand with his left forefinger and thumb, and transferred it to the same fingers on his right hand. He gently gripped the tiny piece of metal, feeling the shim’s small, round top, turning it in the right direction.