Eddie Bourque: Speak Ill Of The Living Part 19

The man took several more steps and then knocked into another obstacle, making a hollow thud.

The stairs!

Eddie instantly placed himself on a mental map of the bas.e.m.e.nt, at the lower left-hand corner of the L.

He sneaked along the wall, trailing his attacker, keeping a hand out to feel for the next corner. When he reached it, he turned left and slowly made for the stairs. More blood pooled in his mouth. He drooled it into his palm and then wiped the hand on his pants.

Reaching a hand low in front of him he felt the bottom stair.

The old wooden staircase would be too noisy to slink up. Once he stepped on it, the man would be coming after him. Eddie took a deep breath, rocked back on his heels and then exploded up the stairs on all fours. At the top, he ducked his head and plowed his shoulder into the door. It popped open and Eddie rolled onto the floor.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs behind him.

Eddie bounced to his feet. The house was dark, but not black like the bas.e.m.e.nt; dim moonlight filtered through the broken windows. Eddie tore through the kitchen, searching for the way out. He ran to the next room, then the next, saw the door and whipped through it.

Outside, a crescent moon was tangled in the treetops. Far from any city lights, the stars were brilliant on this cloudless night. As he sprinted alongside the house, Eddie listened for the man's footsteps behind him on the porch, but heard nothing.

Could I have lost him?

Ahead, a black shape crashed suddenly out a first floor window, rolled over in Eddie's path, bounded up and ducked into a linebacker's crouch.

There was no time to be nimble. Eddie lowered his shoulder and plowed into the attacker. Both men groaned and rolled to the ground. Eddie was first to his feet. He took one step, heard the man growl and felt a hand grab for his shoe. Eddie tumbled again, rolled over, staggered to his feet and dashed off, the attacker right on him.

Eddie felt the man at his left shoulder, then jigged right and headed across the hayfield for the woods. The Late Chuckie's rat bike was in the other direction, but Eddie had no choice-if he couldn't lose this guy, the bike would be renamed for The Late Eddie.

Running through the tall gra.s.s was like running through water. Eddie was a speedster on pavement, but the terrain favored the more powerful attacker. Eddie could hear him panting almost in his ear as their strides landed step-for-step. The man grunted, clubbed Eddie on the shoulder and put Eddie down.

Eddie rolled to his knees and tried to scramble away, but the rope flashed over his head. He grabbed for the rope with his right hand, felt it hit his palm, just under his chin, before the man yanked it back. The rope pinned Eddie's hand against his throat as the attacker wrenched the rope tighter and wrestled Eddie to the ground like a roped calf.

The man growled, "Die now, little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He straddled Eddie, buried his elbows into Eddie's back for leverage and pulled on the rope.

Eddie's knees pushed into the cool, damp soil. His left hand grasped a fistful of gra.s.s. His right hand pulled against the rope around his neck, allowing him only the tiniest gasps of air. His vision blurred and he felt lightheaded.

Eddie saw mountains ahead, dark and hazy. That made no sense to him. There were no mountains here. He stared at the mountains' rounded backs and pulled against the rope.

"Just give up," the man told him, a strain in his voice, "and it'll be over in two minutes."

Two minutes. Five minutes? Eternity? What's the difference?

Eddie pulled forward, fell to his elbow and got half a breath of air before the rope clamped down again.

The man kneed Eddie's ribs.

Eddie felt nothing at all. He reached his left hand out and walked forward two steps on his knees. The man walked with him, pulling against the rope, riding Eddie the way he might break a stubborn burrow.

The man demanded, "Why can't you just f.u.c.king quit?"

Even if Eddie could have spoken, he would not have known how to answer. He pulled forward again against the rope that was slowly killing him. His left hand tore out gra.s.s by the roots. The strange mountains looked close enough to touch. He imagined how Lew Cuhna spent his last few moments, no doubt choking beneath this same powerful a.s.sa.s.sin. Did Lew fight? Eddie hoped so. The gra.s.s tickled Eddie's cheek.

Eddie blinked hard. Fantasy lifted from reality.

Those are not mountains. Those are stones.

He recognized the stone ring around the open well.

A new determination ignited in Eddie for one last desperate pull. He thrashed against the rope with a violence that startled the attacker. Eddie caught another half breath and willed his burning legs three steps forward on his knees. His left hand grabbed for a stone at the edge of the well. The attacker walked with Eddie, keeping the tension on the rope. He seemed to realize what Eddie was trying to do, and dug his heels into the soft earth and leaned back against the noose. His left leg pressed against Eddie's cheek.

In a life or death struggle, there is no sportsmans.h.i.+p. Only survival. Eddie jerked his head around and sunk his teeth into the man's thigh just above the knee.

The attacker shrieked in pain and slapped an open hand over Eddie head. Eddie clamped his teeth deeper into the flesh and shook his head like a pit bull in a dogfight.

The man howled and the rope went slack. The a.s.sailant pounded his fist frantically into Eddie's head, as he tried to lift his leg and hop away.

On his knees and lower to the ground, Eddie had an advantage in leverage over his more powerful attacker. He shot a hand under the man's groin and clutched the back of his waistband. He pulled the man toward the open well as he released his bite.

As the attacker fell, he grabbed a fistful of Eddie's hair, and both men tumbled over the edge of the deep well in a tangle of arms, legs and rope.

Chapter 20.

Eddie got one deep breath before he plunged underwater and sank. He spun slowly over and saw a circle of night sky through a liquid lens. The stars blurred and it seemed they might wash away. The water grew colder as he sank. He could sink to the bottom, if he wanted to...he needed to decide what he wanted. In the water above, the attacker was thras.h.i.+ng like ten cats in a bag.

I can't beat him...

The bottom of the well seemed a fine place to hide. Eddie had enough of the beating, the choking, and the fighting with a man far stronger than he. Eddie was tired. He was despondent that his last chance to trap the man in the well had failed, because Eddie's trap had swallowed him, too.

The attacker was kicking to the surface. The m.u.f.fled commotion sounded like it was miles away, as if Eddie were in a sound-resistant bubble traveling to the bottom of the well.

There was no way for Eddie to overpower the man, and no way out of the well even if he could beat him, so why not hide at the bottom? Down where the water was cold, and even the attacker in the ski mask was afraid to come. As he slowly sank, Eddie watched the silhouette above him paddling its legs, treading water.

You can't get me down here.

Eddie's lungs were starving; his chest felt like a coal fire. It was the opposite of a real fire; a real fire died when you cut the oxygen-this fire burned hotter by the second. I'll just stay down here, Eddie decided, and wait for the fire to burn out.

Just give up and it'll be over in two minutes.

What the man had said was true, and Eddie hated him for being right. He had never felt such loathing; he was drowning in it. Eddie felt pleasant warmth around his midsection and realized his bladder had released. Another reason to hate him.

That's not him you hate, it's yourself-for giving up.

Yeah, maybe, Eddie thought. But he didn't see how it mattered. The man would just drown Eddie, or choke him, or beat him to death.

Then make him do it.

What would be the point?

It would p.i.s.s him off.

Yes...

The moment before he kills you, don't forget to give him the finger.

Eddie's face bent into a smile. That was reason to live, even for just one minute longer. The new purpose cleared his fuzzy head. He righted himself in the water, kicked his legs and swept his arms over his head, as if clearing a path. Two strokes...three. He broke the surface with a giant, scratchy breath of air that doused the coal fire in his chest.

The cylindrical well was about seven feet in diameter, which left little room for maneuvering and no place to run except back down. Eddie steadied himself with a palm against the wall, kicked his feet to stay afloat and noisily gulped air.

"G.o.ddam you," the man grumbled. He had a low, purring voice, like that of a mature man, at least a decade or two older than Eddie. "Why do you make this so f.u.c.king difficult?" Eddie had p.i.s.sed him off already-it had been worth coming up.

Eddie had accepted that he would never get out of the well alive, so he wasn't afraid for his life. But now with enough oxygen to think effectively, Eddie was horrified at himself for nearly giving up without a fight.

The man's ski mask was soaked and glistening. He swam at Eddie. Fighting in water was nothing like fighting on land, or even on ice. It was like fighting in zero gravity. There was no leverage, and strength was less of an advantage.

Eddie landed a sharp right hand to the attacker's cheek. The man grunted but otherwise showed no effect. He tried to push Eddie to the side of the well, but Eddie shoved his foot against the wall and pushed back to the center. There they fought. From above, the two men might have looked like a single growling, splas.h.i.+ng beast that had risen from the bottom of the well.

Eddie was soon exhausted and it became more difficult to slip repeatedly out of the man's grasp.

He has to be tired, too.

What could Eddie do? Swim until the other guy grew weary and drowned?

The man suddenly changed tactics and disappeared below the surface.

Eddie spun, treading water, looking for his adversary. The water was still.

Suddenly, the man's shoulder hit Eddie in the ribs from below and drove him into the side of the well.

Stunned for a moment, Eddie flailed meekly. The man grabbed under Eddie's chin and knocked Eddie's head back against the stone. The pain was blinding and it drained whatever fight had remained in him.

"Goodbye, Bourque," the man said, "I should have finished this a long time ago."

He pushed Eddie's head beneath the water.

Eddie's scream came out in a gurgle. He struggled up, grabbed a breath, and was forced back under.

He looked up to the rim of the well. Ten feet from freedom. Ten G.o.ddam feet.

Wait!

That was the way out, he thought. The walls that trapped them could save Eddie Bourque.

He thrashed his head above water again, coughed, and wheezed his lungs full of air. "When I'm dead," Eddie cried before the man could dunk him again, "so are you!"

Ploos.h.!.+ Eddie went under again. He was limp. He was done fighting. Either his plan was going to work, or else...

Eddie's head broke the surface, and he could breathe. The attacker held Eddie's neck just above the Adam's apple. Eddie coughed, spit water and then enjoyed delicious air and its damp, mildew smell. He panted, coughed.

The man in the water was just a big square head. Eddie could see the outline of the ski mask, where its eyeholes were, but at this angle it was too dark to recognize the eyes.

The man asked calmly, "What the f.u.c.k did you say to me?" His thick breath seemed to fill the well with swamp gas.

Eddie inhaled deep, coughed out a mouthful of water and croaked: "Look at them sheer walls." He took three deep breaths without coughing. "Unless you're Spiderman, there's no way you're climbing out of this well once I'm dead."

The head tilted up, swiveled side to side.

He's thinking about it.

Eddie breathed deep a few more moments, and then pushed the point. "This water's cold, no more than sixty degrees," he said. "We've been splas.h.i.+ng around, keeping warm, but look at us now that we're still-my teeth are chattering and I expect yours are, too. You might not survive the night. Water this cold can kill as fast as five or six hours."

"I'm not cold," the man growled. He tightened his grip on Eddie's throat, but not enough to choke him. It seemed he had decided to hear Eddie out.

"Maybe you can survive until the sun warms you in the morning," Eddie said. "But how long do you think you can tread water before you drown?"

"Huh?"

"How long can you stay afloat? The world record is thirty hours," Eddie said. He had picked the number out of the air. He had no clue about the world water-treading record, but who did? Not this guy, for sure.

"Thirty hours?" The man's grip slacked as he looked away and seemed to be doing the math.

"That's thirty hours for an expert swimmer who's fresh-not somebody who's been running around all night expending energy trying to kill a guy."

The man grunted and dug his fingernails into Eddie's skin; he hadn't liked Eddie's sarcasm. But the man was boxed in and Eddie was right-neither of them could get out of the well alone.

"The nearest house is a mile away," Eddie said, still breathing heavy. "n.o.body will hear you scream. And even if somebody did, would you want them to find you here with my dead body?"

Eddie gave the man a moment to consider his argument.

"No matter how you figure it," Eddie continued, "you're dead by tomorrow evening, if not sooner, either frozen or drowned."

The man clutched Eddie's throat and looked around the well some more. Eddie guessed his thoughts. "Go ahead and try to get out," Eddie offered. "I'll wait here."

The man sounded suspicious. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"Alone?" Eddie chuckled. "Do you think I'm going to run away?" The man said nothing and Eddie guessed his thinking again: "I'm not going to cold-c.o.c.k you when your back is turned. Then I'd be the one alone in here, drowned or frozen by tomorrow."

That seemed to make sense to the man. He let go of Eddie's throat and swam across the well. He felt along the wall for handholds.

Eddie rested his back against the side of the well and kicked his feet lazily to keep afloat. He needed time to recover, to slow his racing heart and get his breathing back to normal. He took a mental inventory of his injuries. His throat was sore and his windpipe felt bruised, but not dangerously so. There was a lump on the back of his head. Eddie touched it, felt warm blood. He pressed it, grimaced at the shallow pain, and decided it was a serious scalp injury, which was way better than a skull injury. He could not taste blood in his mouth anymore, though his jaw was still stiff and it hurt to open his mouth. It reminded him of the time he took a baseball to the chin off a bad hop-in two weeks he was fine. There were numerous other superficial welts, sc.r.a.pes and pulled muscles in his back, neck and arms that would hurt tomorrow, if he lived that long. Those problems were of no concern at the moment. Overall, Eddie was pleased. He had come close to death without a debilitating injury that would make escape impossible.

The cold water was a minor concern-he had been truthful that sixty-degree water could kill them before sun-up. But Eddie was confident he could stand the cold for another hour or two. By that time, he'd either be free or murdered.

The man sc.r.a.ped his feet on the wall in a useless attempt to scale the stone.