Bronx Requiem(78)

49

A ringing sensation from a deep black void pulled at Beck while his brain remained unresponsive to the hand slapping his face. And then suddenly consciousness crashed onto him as he felt himself choking. He tried to raise an arm to block the water splashing into his nose and mouth, but couldn’t, so he turned away from the water, spitting and choking. The pouring stopped.

A voice yelled, “Stand up. Get up, goddammit!”

Beck didn’t recognize the voice. He didn’t remember where he was. And then everything came flooding back. He realized why he couldn’t block the water. He was lying in a field outdoors, in the black of night, handcuffed.

“Get up before I shoot you right now, you son of a bitch.”

Now he recognized the voice. Oswald Remsen.

Beck struggled into a sitting position, blinking away the wet until he could make out the three of them standing about five feet away. Remsen and his two sons. William, the larger one, held the Coleman lantern. Oswald aimed a .45 semiautomatic at him. Joe, standing next to his father, pointed his .38 service revolver at Beck.

Beck struggled to his feet, still trying to blink away what he realized was not just water, but also blood dripping into his eyes.

Oswald yelled at him.

“You animal piece of shit. You killed him. You goddam killed him.”

Beck didn’t answer.

“You had to turn animal, like every f*cking piece of shit convict always does. So now we’re going to skin you and gut you like the animal you are. I just hope you don’t die too soon.” Oswald pointed to his left and yelled, “Walk.”

Beck turned and saw nothing but darkness until William Remsen stepped in front of him holding the lantern.

The other two fell in behind Beck, both of their guns pointed at his back.

Beck had to walk fast to keep up with William and the circle of lantern light. He stumbled for the first few yards, but walking revived him somewhat. The blood dripping from his forehead channeled down the side of his nose and mostly out of his eyes.

Remsen hadn’t shot him after he’d killed Austen, so he still wanted answers. Maybe he could use that to find out why Packy Johnson had been killed. Then he might at least go to his grave knowing the truth of it.

After about a minute walking, the light from the lantern revealed a wooden lean-to about ten yards ahead of them. Beck caught an odor of rotten meat.

“Stop.”

William continued toward the structure, which was about ten yards wide, eight feet deep. The open side facing them stood eight feet high. The roof angled down to about five feet at the back where it met a plywood wall. Three sturdy fence poles, each about twelve inches in diameter, supported the two-by-four framing and a roof covered in asphalt shingles.

William raised the Coleman lantern and hung it from an eyehook screwed into the two-by-four supporting the roof. The white light revealed the source of the stench. Drying deer skins hung stretched across the back wall. Various size butcher knives and hacksaws hung from the poles supporting the roof. There was a set of rope and tackle attached to a crossbeam. The dirt under the lean-to appeared discolored and crusted in spots where they’d bled out the animals.

Fifty-pound bags of lime were stacked at one end of the lean-to for covering the guts and organs they buried after dressing deer. About a cord of split wood had been loosely thrown into a pile at the other end of the lean-to.

It didn’t take a huge leap of imagination for Beck to picture himself suspended by the rope and tackle. He wondered which of the Remsens would slice him until he told them what they wanted to know. He wondered how far into the forest they would haul the pieces of his body for burial.

He contemplated the possibility of getting his hands in front of him. If he could, he’d try to grab Oswald Remsen’s throat and not let go until they killed him. Hopefully, he’d have time to crush Remsen’s larynx before that happened.

Oswald pointed his gun at a small tree stump standing on its end outside the lean-to and told Beck, “Sit.”

The log was about a thirty inches high, barely wide enough to sit on. Beck straddled the stump and sat on it, spreading his feet to keep his balance with his hands cuffed behind him, his back facing the lean-to. Remsen and his sons stood in a semicircle in front of him, just within the light cast by the Coleman lantern hanging in the lean-to behind Beck. Between them was a pile of ashes and charred wood, the remains of many campfires.

Oswald Remsen said, “We both know you’re going to die here tonight, it’s up to you how. Answer my questions fast, no bullshit, and we’ll finish you with a bullet to the head. You don’t, we’ll gut you and rip off strips of your skin until we get our answers.”

“That simple, huh?”

“That simple, convict.”

“How do I know you’re not going to torture me anyhow?”

“You don’t.”

Beck nodded. “How about this—you want to find out what I know. I want to go to my grave knowing a few things. How about you ask me a question, I’ll answer it. Then I ask you a question, and you answer it. Get it all out fast and easy.”

“You’re an idiot. Last chance, a bullet, or knives and pliers?”

“Try the knife if you want, but I f*cking guarantee you it’ll be hours before you find out anything. If ever.”

“Fine by me. We got all night.”

“Really.” Beck pointed with his head toward the body somewhere in the dark field off to the left. “You going to have enough time for me, and for burying your buddy?”