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48

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Mort, now fully dressed and shaven, ran down the path in the woods behind the hotel. He stopped dead at a clearing, seeing an abandoned truck. He walked forward, breathing heavily. His pace slowed as he got closer. Mort looked at the truck. He advanced slowly and saw a man in the driver's seat.

Mort gulped. "Sir?" Mort asked, as he continued to walk toward the vehicle. "Monsieur?" He came up to the open window and saw a man with a screwdriver of Mort's sticking out of his head.

Mort coughed and gagged. He spotted a bloody axe on the passenger's seat. His own as well. Blood was all over the truck. Mort raised his head up and looked through the rear window. He spotted another man with his throat severed. He backed away from the truck, his heart starting to beat quickly. He turned around and saw a squirrel in a tree. The squirrel chattered. Mort waited for the squirrel to continue up the tree, his heart to slow down. But neither ever happened.

His head began spinning and he passed out on the ground.

After some hours, he woke up, opened his eyes, bolted upright and tried to see what time it was on his watch, but his vision was blurry.

"Quarter past 2," A voice from out of nowhere announced.

Mort rushed to his feet, grabbing the truck for support, and tried to run, but he fell down.

"You've been out about 3 hours. Your leg's sleepin'. You laid on the damn thing," Shooter explained.

Mort got up again, but fell down. He tried once more and began to hop away.

"Now I would've moved you, but I didn't want to wake you. Got tired of waitin'. Almost pinned a note on you. Decided not to," Shooter explained, all the while cleaning the blood of the two men off of his fingers. "You scare too easy," The man told him.

Mort continued to flee the scene as quickly as he could with the circumstances he was being faced with at the moment.

"I wouldn't go too far if I were you. I hooked you to those two men in more ways than you know," Shooter said.

He was right about that. Those were Mort's tools. He'd be tried, surely.

Damn you Balkan! Now look what you've gotten me into! He wanted to scream.

Mort limped further away from Shooter, and instead screamed, "You're insane! I'm going to the police."

"Who's screwdriver you think is in that fella's head?" Shooter asked.

Mort knew very damn well who's fucking screwdriver was lodged into 'that fella's head'. He stopped his limping and stood still, but refused to turn around and look at the man.

"If you leave 'em here and I disappear, you gonna find yourself standing with your head in the noose and your feet in Crisco," Shooter said.

"What do you want from me?" Mort yelled.

Shooter walked toward Mort. "Why, I told you that already, Mr. Corso. I want you to give me back my book. The one you stole. Or ain't you ready to admit it yet?"

"I did not steal your book," Mort said, turning to finally face the bastard.

Shooter stayed where he was and continued to clean his fingers. "Oh, I expect you to let yourself..." He spit on his hand. "...go to Greenhaven for murder before you'll admit it," He said and looked up at Mort.

"It's not my book you lunatic! It's not my book! It's not my goddamn book!" Mort yelled.

Shooter advanced. "You have proof about this so-called 'Boris Balkan' right now?"

"On me, no."

"There can't be any proof! Not about that book. That book is mine!" Shooter said, beginning to get angry.

Mort advanced towards Shooter. "What do you want? You wanna kill me? Why don't you just do it. Just kill me," Mort said, feeling that perhaps it was the best thing for him.

"No sir! I could've killed you before in our little fight, but I didn't. You bring me that book. I bet it's in that there bag of yours right now, isn't it?" He asked, circling Mort and eyeing the book bag that hung loosely from his shoulder.

Mort looked down at his bag as well. Luckily the book was safely hidden in his hotel room -- At least he hoped it still was.

"I'll be in your room in two hours. You got some heavy lifting here first, I'd get to that if I were you," Shooter said. He started off, then stopped. He turned around. "By the way. If you talk to those authorities of yours again, or if you don't show up in two hours, I will burn your life and every person in it like a cane field in a high wind," Shooter said.

Fuck it, Mort thought. He had nothing to live for anymore, anyway. Well.. there was money.. but so what? Amy was a cheating ho-bag and he almost wanted to say, 'Burn her good!' But he didn't.

"And when you realize that you're a fucking idiot hick with nothing better to do than make up crazy stories and harass people about bogus claims, then what?" Mort asked. He was sure that the man would strike him, but he didn't care.

But the man did not strike him. He simply replied, "Then I turn myself in. But I take care of myself before a trial, Mr. Corso. Because if things turn out that way, then I suppose I am crazy. And that kind of crazy man, has no reason or excuse to live."

Mort looked at him, speechlessly. He didn't know if he believed what the man was saying.

"You got two hours, Mr. Corso. I'd use 'em wisely if I were you." Shooter repeated, grinning at him.

"Try me," Mort said simply.

Shooter pointed at him. "Listen. You got my hat. I want it. One way or the other." And then he walked off through the woods and disappeared.