An
Incident Halfway to Hell
By Ian De Shils (Ernest
Shields)
Chapter 8
“I brought Hoot's cell phone,” Scotty said, indicating the back seat
“He's gonna call today . . .” He had no more than said it, when the cell
phone started buzzing. There was a slight scramble to retrieve it from the
plastic bag and it sounded several times before Casey finally said, “Hello.”
“Hi, Case. I see Scotty got there okay.”
“Yeah, he just arrived as a matter of fact. We're on our way to Hi Vista
to pick up a few things. How long are you staying in Vegas?”
“Just today. Cablevision is hosting a dinner tonight I have to attend,
but I'll be leaving directly after. I should be there around midnight,---
maybe one o'clock.”
“Okay, I'll leave a light on. Hey, Scotty just told me about Vitto buying
out my contract. Did that really void the thing?”
“Yep, it sure did. It seems Vitto's been playing fast and loose with Melva,
too, so maybe we'll have this mess all cleared up in a few days.”
“I hope so, I'm ready to go home, Ethel has a couple of scripts she wants
me to read . . .”
"You just stay put for awhile. Paul and Melva will be back this weekend
and I want to see what Paul has to say. Just relax and enjoy yourself,---
it's a vacation, remember? Besides, there's something we need to talk about.
Tomorrow we'll take the whole day and just ramble around, Okay?”
“You've got me intrigued. What's up?”
“Never mind,--- it'll keep. Now let me talk to Scotty for a minute.”
Casey handed over the phone and Hoot said, “Hi, 'Lucky'. Do I need to
ask what that name signified?”
Scott laughed, “I guess not. It was a hell of a night, though. I'm still
sore and we've got another date on Friday. I hope I'm all healed up by
then.”
“So, give me the skinny?”
“Remember the brunette who waited on us at Gino's last week? Her name
is Cathy Davidson.”
“You mean the one I said looked like a teacher?
“That's her. And maybe you were right! Man, she sure taught me a thing
or two.”
“Well, just remember your heart . . .”
“Hey, my heart's holding up fine,--- it's the rest of me I'm worried about.”
The conversation flowed on and neither Casey nor Scott noticed the car
that pulled into the parking behind them at the Hi Vista Jiffy Mart.
“We could take care of it right here, ya know,” Angelo told Manny on the
phone, “There ain't nobody around, only a couple of cars in the lot.”
“No way! That's not how I work and you know it. Besides, this isn't the
city where you can disappear into a crowd. You wouldn't make it ten miles
before the cops had you. The perfect set up is at the house so don't fuck
around there and get noticed. Understand?”
Scotty stayed for a few hours. Toward evening Casey whipped up a light
dinner consisting mostly of a salad and a pasta dish in a creamy sauce.
They ate on the patio as the sun settled low in the west. Casey nursed a
Sprite, Scotty a beer. It was a pleasant evening with no traffic sounds
to disturb the quiet.
“I can see why Hoot likes this place,” Scotty commented, “this is restful,
no smog either.”
“Yeah, it's nice, but it would be a lot nicer if I could run in to L.A.
for a day or two. I've got things to do and being stuck out here is a real
pain.”
“You know what Hoot said and I've got to think he's right. The more
he tells about Melva the crazier she sounds. Did she really can that fellow
,--- what was his name,--- Mathews,--- because he farted?”
“Yep, threw him off the bus in the middle of nowhere. She was pissed off
about something else and Mathews just happened to cut a rank one at the
wrong time. With Melva you never could never tell what would set her off.
The last tour I was on she fired half the road crew and no one ever knew
why.”
“Yeah, but Hoot said was in the dead of winter and Mathews was only wearing
pajamas. Jesus, what a way to treat someone; what if he'd died?”
“Luckily the band bus was about twenty minutes behinds us and they picked
him up.”
“Well all I can say, is if she'd do that to someone she worked with, what
would she do to a guy who pushed her down and poured coke on her? No sir,
I think you'd better do exactly what Hoot says and stay put.”
“Oh, I intend to, Casey replied.
It was close to one A.M. when Casey heard someone rustling around in the
living room. Hoot, he thought, as he stretched and yawned. There was a loud
thump and rattle like a kitchen drawer being slammed. What the hell is he
doing, Casey wondered? All went quiet for a minute, then there came a scraping
noise like a couch being dragged across the tiles. Getting up, he flung
open the door,
“Why the hell are you moving furniture in the middle of the
. . .” The words died in his throat. It wasn't Hoot, it was a man with a
nylon stocking pulled over his head. Another, standing right next to the bedroom
door seemed startled by Casey's sudden appearance, but only for a moment.
He made a lunge and Casey leapt backwards slamming the door and soundly banged
the guy's knuckles in the process. Gripping the knob tightly in one hand,
he turned the privacy latch and realized instantly it would never hold. A
chair stood near the door. He tipped it up and jammed it under the knob,
making sure the rear legs seated firmly in the tile grout lines. Feeling
safe for the moment and quickly pulled on jeans and slipped bare feet into
shoes. The men were kicking the door to no avail. The wood seemed solid
as a bank vault until the moment a volley of gunshots rang out sending splinters
of carved wood flying across the room. Frightened half out of his wits,
Casey dropped to floor convinced that even the heavy Mexican panel wouldn't
hold up against that kind of assault. The bedroom had no windows, just
a skylight and a foot high row of glass panels that topped the wall just
below the ceiling, but the bathroom did have a small window. Casey slithered
across the tile, flung open the narrow sash and crawled out onto the patio.
His only thought was to get away as fast as possible. The Jeep! No, the
keys were in the house and so was the cell phone, Damn it! He cursed himself
for leaving it on the night stand. Slipping through the gate he crept toward
the front of the house. Inside, he could hear the two men cursing and still
kicking at the bedroom door and then one of them yelled, “Go around back,
see if there's a window!”
Casey hunkered down in the shadows trying to make himself as inconspicuous
as possible. The man ran past. Casey took off for the front at a dead run,
but as he cornered the house he ran smack into the other man. The guy's
first punch put Casey to the ground; a toe to the ribs followed and the
man yelled, “I got him!”
Casey rose to his knees just as the guy kicked again, throwing him back
against a wooden bench. As he landed, his bare arm came in contact with
something cold and metallic. It was the rusty, old sword he laid aside
when Scotty arrived. The guy advanced getting ready for another kick, Casey
grabbed the sword and thrust. It was awkward angle, but it penetrated just
above the groin. The man went down screaming,
“He stabbed me, the fucker stabbed me!”
The other man came full tilt around the house. Casey, now on his feet,
made a lunge at him as well and again the sword made contract, only not
as effectively. The man dropped back, nursing a slightly wounded arm,
“You Motherfucker," he yelled, pulling out snub-nosed thirty-eight. The
first shot missed as Casey danced aside, but the next one got him in the
gut. It was like being punched, all the wind went out of him. He staggered,
yet somehow remained on his feet and as a last desperate move, he held the
sword straight out in front of him and lunged at the man. For a moment the
whole house seemed bathed in light, then a fist clamped down in Casey's chest
bringing with it a pain like he had never felt before. The light faltered,
then begin to fade as a darkness deeper than night itself closed over him.
Hoot heard the shots, saw the flashes through the trees, but pulled
into the drive just in time to see Casey lunge at the guy with the gun.
The sword went completely through the man's chest and out his back, then
Case fell forward in an arc to the ground and lay motionless. The man went
to his knees, coughing. A great spurt of blood came from his mouth filling
the nylon stocking stretched over his face. Weakly, he clawed it off, then
he, too, collapsed to the ground, still impaled on the sword. Casey lay
deathly still. Another man wearing a nylon mask was trying to crawl to where
the gun lay. Hoot leapt from the car. Snatching up the gun, he kicked the
man,
“You move and you're one dead Motherfucker!” He yelled. He didn't
need to touch the skewered guy to know that he was dead, the man's eyes were
open staring blankly into the next life. Hoot rolled Casey onto his back
looking for wounds. There was only one he could find, just below the rib
cage. It's just a little hole, he told himself, why, he's not even bleeding
much. He'll be okay, he'll be fine he kept telling himself as he felt for
a pulse. He found it finally; it was weak, thready, and erratic, like his
grandfather's pulse just before he died,---and in that moment came the sure
knowledge Case was dying. He could sense the life forces slipping away. Stunned,
he knelt over Case not knowing what to do. From the corner of his eye, he
saw the other assailant move and suddenly Hoot lost all control. He stood,
pulled back his foot and kicked the man as hard as he could.
He felt ribs break, but the he didn't care. Again he kicked and again
until the man's sobs and whimpers finally reached through the red haze of
fury. Going back to Case, he once more felt for a pulse. His heart still
beat. Maybe there was a chance if he could only get him to a hospital, but
how far was that, twenty, thirty miles? Would Case survive the ride? It was
then he remembered the cell phone. Rushing inside he searched, tossing furniture
out of the way. It has to be here somewhere, he thought. He tried the bedroom
door and found it blocked. Pulling back his foot, he kicked with all his
might, tearing the hinges away from the wood and almost cried out in joy
when he saw the phone on the night stand. He punched 911 and a moment later
was yelling at someone to quit flapping their lips and get an ambulance on
the road.
“NO, NO not an ambulance,” he cried, “send a chopper,--- he's dying,
oh for God's sake help me!”
Finally he quieted down enough to follow instructions from a paramedic.
Grabbing the blankets from the bed, he wrapped Casey as warmly as possible
without moving him, then he simply sat on the ground holding his hand and
waited for help to arrive. It seemed like hours, but in truth it was only
minutes before lights and sirens filled the night. Hoot sprang up and ran
to the road waving his arms at the patrol cars while pointing to the drive.
A few minutes more an ambulance arrived and soon after that an Aero-med
chopper churned the air. Hoot was pulled aside and told to stay back. Medics
swarmed around Casey and the wounded burglar. More cops arrived, cameras
flashed and for awhile the yard was full uniforms. Then like a wave it began
to subside as the wounded were loaded into the chopper and whisked away.
Hoot, however was detained for questioning.
The officer in charge finally came to talk to him led him back into the
house, “Look Mister Anders, I know you're upset, but I need a statement.
What happened here tonight?”
"I only saw part of it as drove in. I heard gunfire, then I saw Case
spear the guy with that old sword. He'd already been shot, he just sort
of lunged and fell.”
“Can you tell me what time that was?”
“I don't know,--- just a few minutes before I called.”
“Was Mr. O'Brian the kind of man who would take on a burglar; you know
what I mean, the gung-ho type?”
“No, Case wouldn't go looking for trouble. He must have discovered them
in house, the bedroom door had a chair stuffed under the knob. I had to
break it down to get to the phone.”
“We saw that. If you'll follow me I'd like to show you something.” He
led Hoot to the bedroom. The door lay where it landed after he kick it
in, one end tilted against the bed. “Did you know there are bullet holes
in this door?” The officer asked.
"No, I didn't. You mean those men shot at Case in here?”
“It looks like it, and that's rather odd too, burglars usually
high-tail it if they run across someone in a house. It does look like a
burglary, though, they had the T.V. and V.C.R. outside, the place was ransacked,
only there's no sign of forced entry.”
“Well, Case was expecting me tonight, he probably left the door unlocked.”
“Do you two live together?” The cop asked, gazing toward the bed.
“Case is an old friend. He was staying here a few days while I was away.
Not that it's any of your business, but no, we don't live together!”
"Sorry, but I had to ask. You never know what the domestic situation
is nowadays. Another question you might not like, but I have to ask this
one too. Is your friend into drugs?”
“Not that I know of and I doubt it. He doesn't even drink.”
“Is he a gambler?”
“No,--- nothing more than a lotto ticket now and then.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He's an actor, why, what are you saying?”
“Nothing, except this crime doesn't exactly fit the profile for a burglary
and I'm wondering if there could be some other reason for those men coming
here. You're sure he doesn't use drugs?”
“Look, I can't say for sure the Pope doesn't use drugs, but I don't think
so and don't think Case does either!”
"Don't get upset, Mr. Anders, these are questions I have to ask and I'm
afraid there'll be more later. By the way, we found out who these guys
are. The dead man is Turk Packard, the other one, Angelo Martinez. Do those
names ring a bell?”
“I've never heard of either one of them.”
“You know, Martinez is saying you kicked the hell out of him after he
was down. Any truth to that?”
“I'll bet he didn't tell you he was going after the gun. Yeah, I kicked
him, I should have kicked his fucking head off!”
The officer grinned, “I'm afraid I didn't hear that and if you don't
repeat it, I'm pretty sure it won't ever come up again.”
“Whatever you say. All I want to know is where they took Case,---
which hospital?”
“Probably the one in Palmdale, but I'll check.” The cop went out and spoke
to another officer who was monitoring the radio. A few minutes later he
came back, “I'm sorry, but your friend is in real bad shape. They took him
to the regional trauma center in Glendale.” What he didn't tell Hoot was
the air crew held out little hope of O'Brian making it to the hospital alive.
His heart all ready stopped twice and he was bleeding internally faster
than they could pump plasma into him. “You might want to check with them
tomorrow,” The officer said soothingly, “I doubt they can give you any information
tonight.”
“Well, if you don't need me anymore, I'm going home. You guys can lock
up when you leave.”
“Home?” The cop asked.
“Woodland Hills, this is just a weekend place.” Hoot pulled out a checkbook,
peeled off the top check, tore it half and handed the addressed half to
the officer. “That's my mailing address and phone number, or you can reach
me at Birchline Productions. Can I go now?”
“Sure, only take it easy Mister Anders and get some rest. You know, there
are some decent motels in Palmdale and you might want to stay there rather
than driving all the way to the Valley.”
“I'll think about it.” He replied, but of course he had no intention of
doing so. On his way out, he scooped up his cell phone still lying by the
bench and as he drove, the cop's questions kept rolling through his mind.
The officer wasn't convinced this was a robbery and the more he thought
of it, the more he could see the man's reasoning. Those two weren't burglars,
they were after Case, otherwise he wouldn't have been barricaded in the
bedroom. This wasn't burglary gone wrong, this was Melva's thumping that
went wrong. Oh, God, he thought, if I only did what Case wanted and called
the cops. To hell with protecting Melva. To hell with all her crazy horse
shit!
“This all my fault, I could have stopped it; all I had to do was open
my mouth. It's all my fault.” Tears filled his eyes obscuring the highway
ahead, but all the tears in the world couldn't wash away the guilt.