Redemption Road(90)

“Jesus!” Preston cupped his gushing nose. “Where did he come from?”

“That’s the lawyer.”

“I know it’s the lawyer, you stupid shit! He didn’t get out here on his own.” Preston pulled a gun from his belt and pushed it at Olivet. “Check the house. Make sure there’s no one else. Take the car. Hurry.”

Preston pressed a handkerchief against his nose, then dragged the lawyer from the drive so the car could speed past. Adrian felt the dust, the gravel. He tried to crawl to Faircloth’s side, but he was choking.

“Stay put.” Preston put the boot on Adrian’s throat.

The car was back in seconds. “No one there.” Olivet slammed the door. “It’s all burned out and empty.”

“Give me the gun. Take him.” The boot came off, and Adrian watched helplessly as Preston took Faircloth by the ankle and dragged him down the drive. The old man was conscious, but barely. One hand came up as he disappeared into the gloom, and Preston’s voice rose. “You’re the one worried about cars, Olivet, so let’s go.”

“Go, where?” Olivet asked.

“Just bring him.”

Olivet dragged Adrian to his feet. The night stopped spinning. “Don’t make me use this.” Olivet flashed another baton. “You know how he is when he gets like this.”

“Crybaby…”

“Don’t talk. Just move.”

A hand settled on Adrian’s back and shoved hard enough to make him stumble. He kept his feet the first time. The second push took him down; after that, Olivet dragged him, too.

It wasn’t far.

Preston had the old man on his back, twenty yards down the drive. “See. No cars. No worries.”

“What are you doing, Preston?” Olivet dropped Adrian on the drive. “This is not what the warden wants.”

“Ask me if I care.”

“He won’t talk. You know that. We’ve been down this road before.”

“We didn’t have the lawyer before.”

“Come on, man.” Olivet stepped forward, but Preston was already on his knees with a thick arm around the old man’s neck. “We’re just supposed to watch. Just in case.”

“Look at him, though.” He meant Adrian. “Look at him and tell me I’m wrong. He’ll break for the lawyer.”

“I’ll kill you.” Adrian found his knees. “Crybaby…”

“Hold him,” Preston said. “Make him watch.”

Olivet brought the baton across Adrian’s throat and held him up. Five feet away, Preston did the same thing to the old man. Crybaby struggled, but it was feeble: thin legs dragging in the dirt, spotted hands on Preston’s arm. Adrian tried to say his name, but Olivet had all his weight on the baton.

“We’ll start slow.”

Preston took the old man’s pinkie in his fist, and Adrian watched Faircloth’s face as the finger broke. He knew how much it hurt, but the old man didn’t scream.

Adrian drew in a blade of air, managed, “Stop it. Don’t.”

Preston took another finger.

“I’ll tell you.”

“I know you will.”

The second finger broke, and when Crybaby screamed, Adrian did, too. He kicked and struggled as Olivet threw his full weight on the baton, and the night went red, then black, as Adrian choked and clawed and went down in the dark.

When he came to, he was alone where he’d fallen. No baton on his throat. Breath scraping in. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but it felt like a long time. Ten minutes? Longer? His throat was dry; blood sticky on his lips. He rolled to his knees, heard voices, and looked up. Olivet and Preston stood above the old lawyer, who was twitching in the dirt, both eyes rolled white as his heels drummed and spit gathered at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t know, man! I don’t know!” Olivet looked scared. “A heart attack? A f*cking seizure?”

“How much longer will he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s freaking me out. Make him stop.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I can’t watch it anymore.” Preston pulled a gun and pointed it. “I’ll kill him right here. I swear to God I will. I’ll shoot him in the head. I’ll f*cking kill him.”

He cocked the hammer, and it was as if the lawyer heard. The legs stilled. The hands stopped twitching. The old man gasped three times, and a final shudder rolled the length of his spine. Adrian saw it happen, and the silence behind that final breath slammed the door on thirteen years of fear and submission. His legs were still numb, but he didn’t give a shit. Life. Death. All that mattered was Preston’s face and the weight of his own gathered fists. The guards turned when he stood, and for a moment showed an utter lack of fear. They thought him the broken man, and why not? After years in the pipes and on the metal bed, it’s all they’d ever known of him, the screams and withdrawals, the dark holes of the prison and the faint scratchings of a forgotten man. He was the inmate who maybe knew a secret, and that’s how they saw him still—a final mistake—for there was no prisoner left in Adrian’s soul and nothing where he stood but the fighter.

“Preston?” Olivet understood first, looking once at Adrian, then stepping back. “Preston?”