Hard fall, p.1
Hard Fall, page 1
part #5 of Jon Reznick Series
OTHER TITLES BY J. B. TURNER
Hard Road
Hard Kill
Hard Wired
Hard Way
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by J. B. Turner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542049993
ISBN-10: 1542049997
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
To my late father
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
It started on a lonely coastal highway.
Jon Reznick glanced in his rearview mirror. The black SUV was edging closer. It had been six long miles. And the crazy fuck was still shadowing him.
Reznick decided to make a move. He hit the gas pedal and sped down the near-deserted road toward home. Swirls of red leaves whipped up as he drove hard to lose the trailing vehicle.
Suddenly, the SUV accelerated and pulled up to within inches of his truck’s bumper, flashing its headlights.
“What the . . . ?” Reznick said.
He accelerated hard to avoid being rammed. He took a sharp left turn, sped off the highway, and got on Camden Road, hoping to lose the crazy driver.
He checked his mirror again.
The SUV was still following. The road forked. Reznick’s mind began to churn through options and possibilities. Was the guy armed? Drunk? Just a backwoods crazy? Or maybe the guy was fucking with him. But then again, maybe it was a sign of something far more serious.
His mind flashed back to an attack on an American convoy near Baghdad Airport when a Saddam loyalist had rammed the rear car before opening fire, killing two US soldiers.
Reznick glanced in the mirror again. The guy was still there.
He’d had enough. The road was deserted apart from his car and the vehicle following him. He put a few hundred yards between them, then spun the steering wheel to the left, pulled on the handbrake, and came to a grinding halt. His truck now faced the oncoming SUV.
He jumped out and crouched down on the grass verge at the side of the road. He pulled out his 9mm Beretta, aimed, and shot out the right front tire of the SUV.
Screeching brakes. The smell of burning rubber. The vehicle swerved and flipped over. Time seemed to slow. Frame by frame like in a film. Metal crunched as the car slammed into the asphalt. The SUV shuddered to a stop. Smoke billowed out of the engine as its alarm emitted a high-pitched beeping.
Reznick ran across the road and kicked in the front-left window. The driver was wedged between the inflated airbag and the seat. Reznick leaned in and dragged him out, blood seeping out of a nasty gash in the man’s forehead and from a burst lip.
He pressed his gun to the man’s bleeding forehead. “You wanna play fucking games, is that it?”
The guy stared up at him blankly, blinking away tears.
“Answer!”
Slowly, the expressionless look on the man’s face began to change. The guy started to smile through the blood dripping onto the road.
“What the fuck is so funny?”
“Jon . . . Easy, man. It’s me.” The man held out his open palm.
Reznick stared at the skeletal figure’s wide, staring eyes.
“It’s me, Jon. It’s Jerry. Jerry White. You remember now?”
The name crashed through Reznick’s brain like an oncoming truck.
“Way back, Jon.”
Reznick was struggling to take it in. “Jerry? Are you fucking kidding me? I thought your car was trying to run me off the road or something.”
“It’s not my car. I stole it.”
Reznick stared long and hard at the emaciated figure in front of him. “You stole it? Jerry, what the hell is going on? You could’ve gotten us killed.”
“I’m sorry, man, but I’m desperate. I needed to see you.”
Reznick was shocked at the puny frame of a guy he remembered as a phenomenally fit and perfectly honed warrior. “See me about what?”
Jerry pointed at the gun. “Jon, you wanna ease up?”
Reznick put his Beretta back in his waistband and helped the ex-Delta operator to his feet. “What’s going on, bro?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I’m scared. I want you to help me. That’s why I came up here. I saw you purely by chance about ten miles back. I’ve been driving throughout the night and all of today. I’m on the run. Been up to your house. I drove around a bit. Then I saw you. Started to tail you. I wanted to get your attention.”
“Slow down . . . My attention?”
Jerry White seemed like a broken man, not the guy he’d once known. Reznick was standing beside a former Delta hard man who’d helped him through the loss of his wife after 9/11. A fearsome Special Forces soldier. “Shit, Jerry, is this really you?”
He blinked away the tears. “I knew you’d still live here. Remember when me and some of the Delta crew came up here?”
Reznick clasped his old friend’s shoulder. “How could I forget?”
“We drank ourselves shit crazy.”
“That we did.” Reznick shook his head as he stared at Jerry’s haunted face. “You look terrible. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Jerry stared at him. “I’m so scared.”
“Scared? Of what? You’ve nothing to be scared of.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Jon. There are people who’ll come for me. They will come for me. But you can’t let them.”
“Remember who came and got you out of Sadr City? It was me. You remember? Trust me, I got this.”
Jerry stared at him blankly, blood dripping from his forehead.
“I won’t let anyone touch you. Ever.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he whispered. “There’s something happening to me.”
“Like what?”
“You have to protect me. Hide me. For the love of God, don’t let them get me. They’re gonna kill me.”
Two
The lowering autumn sun cast long shadows. Gold and rust-colored hues dotted the trees as they drove back to Reznick’s oceanfront home on the outskirts of Rockland, in midcoast Maine. He knew the villages and towns around Penobscot Bay like the back of his hand. The quiet, pine-lined roads. The peaceful harbors and unspoiled beaches just off US 1. The tourists were long gone by mid-October. But encountering an old friend on his trip back from Camden, after some deep-sea fishing on a charter boat, wasn’t how he had envisaged his day ending.
He wondered what to do about the stolen—now damaged—BMW. He made a mental note to call Bernie to retrieve the vehicle. He’d get it fixed and returned to the owner. Reznick would pick up the tab.
In the passenger seat, Jerry began clawing at his arms, digging his nails into his skin. Blood oozed through his shirt.
“What the hell are you doing, Jerry?”
Jerry stared straight ahead as they turned down the dirt road to Reznick’s home. “Just look after me, Jon. Promise?”
“I promise. You have my word.”
“What about the car I stole?”
“I know a guy who’ll get it sorted. We need to get you cleaned up. You hungry?”
Jerry nodded, occasionally touching the wound on his forehead. Blood had dried across his face. “They don’t feed me too much.”
Reznick could see that from Jerry’s bony frame. “Who’s they?”
Jerry closed his eyes and began rocking back and forth, as if for comfort.
“I said who’s they, Jerry?”
“Don’t let them take me back.”
Reznick wondered what the hell had happened, whether this was some post-trauma thing. “OK, relax, man. Nearly there.”
The salt-blasted wooden house his late father had built with his own hands appeared in the distance. He drove down the dirt road for a mile before pulling up. He got out and headed inside, Jerry close behind.
“Make sure you lock the door and all the windows, man,” Jerry said.
Reznick could see Jerry was in the middle of some sort of mental breakdown. “Will you relax?”
Once Reznick had gotten him inside and reassured the bug-eyed ex-Delta that things were fine, he handed him a fresh set of clothes, two sizes too big, and ushered him into the shower. Afterward, he sprayed antiseptic wash on the gaping wound on Jerry’s forehead.
Jerry grimaced at the pain.
“Gonna have to stich this motherfucker up, Jerry, OK?”
Jerry nodded.
Reznick got a needle and thread out of a first aid kit, dabbed the needle with alcohol, then began to stitch up his old friend.
“Fuck!”
“I’ll be quick.”
Once the wound had been stitched, Reznick swabbed antiseptic cream over it and bandaged it up. Then he cleaned the minor wounds on Jerry’s busted lip and the scratches and abrasions on his arms.
“There, good as new, right?”
Jerry sat down by the log fire and pushed back the cuticles on his fingernails. “Thanks, man.” He looked at a picture of Reznick and Lauren taken in Central Park in New York on her eighteenth birthday. “Is that your little girl, Jon?”
“Yeah, that’s Lauren.”
“She’s beautiful, man. You’re a lucky guy.”
Reznick nodded.
“Last time I saw her she was about four or something, just a little girl.”
“She’s all grown up now. At college.”
“College? Good for her. Smart girl. I like smart girls.”
Reznick looked at his old friend. “So what’s going on with you?”
“You’ve no idea what’s going on.”
“Look, how about I fix you something to eat? You want some soup?”
“What kind?”
“Tomato. Out of a tin.”
“Tomato is good. Yeah, sure.”
Reznick heated up the soup and took Jerry a piping bowl on a tray, alongside a plate with buttered white bread.
Jerry slurped the soup greedily and ripped chunks off the bread, chewing ferociously. “That’s fucking good, man. Thanks.”
Reznick got two cold bottles of beer from the fridge. He went back into the living room, with its views over the darkening waters of Penobscot Bay, and handed one to Jerry.
Jerry held it for a few moments, transfixed. “Not had one of these for months.” He took a long gulp and sighed. “Long time. This is nice here.” He put down his beer and finished the soup and bread.
“You want any more?”
Jerry shook his head. “That’s enough, man. If I have any more, I’ll puke.”
“Why you not eating?”
“I told you. They don’t feed me. Rations almost. I go days without food. I’m ravenous most of the time. I have ringing in my ears. I’m hearing voices.”
Reznick took a swig of beer. “Tell me what’s really going on with you. And don’t give me any bullshit.”
“I can’t tell you some of the things I’ve seen.”
“Maybe we should take you to a hospital and get you looked over.”
“Jon, that’s not what I want. That’s where I’ve just been—in a hospital.”
“A hospital? Where?”
“I don’t know. Near Ithaca, I think. That’s what I heard.”
“What . . . is it a veterans’ hospital?”
“I don’t know, man. Just had me down there going crazy. They’re trying to drive me out of my mind. When I close my eyes, I see things—myself killing people. That’s all I see.”
Reznick kept his expression neutral. He’d seen guys like this before. Guys who were hanging by a thread. Jerry needed urgent psychiatric treatment, not cozy chats over bottles of beer. He was gone. “Listen to me. I know a guy . . . a doctor. A friend of mine. He might be able to help you.”
Jerry began rocking back and forth. He sobbed hard, tears streaming down his face. “I’ve got things in my head, man. I see things. I keep on hearing the same words. Over and over again.”
“I know.”
“I’ve had my fill of doctors. Sick fuckers . . . what they’ve been doing to me. Do you hear me?” Jerry glanced out the window. “You mind pulling the blinds? It’s getting dark.”
“Sure.” Reznick made a quick tour of the house, shutting the curtains to obscure the view inside. “So, here’s what I’m thinking. You can spend the night here. And tomorrow morning I’ll drive you across to the doctor I know. He’s a good guy. He’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
Jerry finished the rest of the beer, hands shaking. “And you know this guy?”
“He’s a former Marine. Went to medical school. Smart guy. And I swear he’ll look after you.”
Three
They talked into the early hours.
Reznick listened while his old friend tried to explain what had happened to him over the years. Jerry talked of being a panhandler down on Ocean Drive in South Beach after he’d returned from Iraq, unable to handle life at home. Begging for cash. Food. Drink. Drugs. Sleeping in doorways. Dumpsters. Under bridges. Abandoned lots. Then he’d been arrested and taken to a hospital in Hollywood, Florida.
A few months back, he’d been flown to a hospital in upstate New York. He talked of hearing whispered voices in the dark. Voices from the shadows. People filming him. And then more voices. Repeated voices. Imploring him to kill.
The more Reznick listened, the more certain he was that his friend was acutely unwell. A psychiatric illness, for sure. And the sooner he was given the help he needed, the better.
Jerry ground his teeth. His eyes darted across the room. “Did you hear that, Jon?”
“Hear what?”
He pointed to the ceiling. “Like someone’s on the roof.”
“Just the wind. Got a couple of loose roof tiles I keep meaning to fix.”
Jerry closed his eyes for a few moments and began to take deep breaths, as if trying to relax.
“You going to be OK tonight? Do you need any medication?”
“Just a sleeping pill. Might calm me down.”
Reznick went into the bathroom and rummaged in a cabinet. He found an old bottle of sleeping pills he’d been prescribed years earlier. He handed Jerry a couple, which he washed down with a glass of water.
After fifteen minutes, Jerry’s breathing became shallower, his eyes heavy. Half an hour later, he’d drifted off to sleep in the frayed chair opposite—the one Reznick’s father had sunk into after work at the sardine-packing plant.
Reznick fetched a blanket from his wardrobe and wrapped it around Jerry. He took the empty bottle of beer and the tray with the plate and bowl to the kitchen. He washed the dishes and then sat down, watching over his old friend.
Hour after hour Jerry tossed and turned, moaning in his sleep. Agitated, as if trying to escape someone’s clutches.
Reznick listened to the old grandfather clock in the corner ticking, the crackling logs on the fire. He wondered whether to text the psychiatrist he knew and ask him to see Jerry first thing in the morning. He reflected on that for a few minutes, then decided to wait until daybreak, hoping Jerry would enjoy a good sleep.
He made himself strong black coffee and sat back down in his seat. His old friend twitched, the spasms interspersed with an occasional groan. Perhaps a recurring nightmare.
Reznick was no stranger to searing nightmares. The worst had come after his wife died. He’d picture her over and over each and every night, silently screaming from high up in the Twin Towers, black smoking billowing out into the pristine blue September sky. He’d wake up in a cold sweat, shaking for minutes.
