There was no doubt that the man, who hung with his neck stuck in the crook of a stout tree branch, was dead.
Crater parted the brush and stared up.
Well, well, Johnson. You've finally impressed me. I've never seen anybody die like that.
Johnson's body was obscenely elongated, and his neck compressed to half its width from the force with which he and the tree branch collided. Blood dripped from his mouth, nose and ears. His eyes were gone.
Too bad your 'chute didn`t open. I wonder what went wrong. I packed it myself. Crater laughed out loud. I figured I'd have to clean up a bloody splatter, but you seem to have made it easier for me, Johnson.
He pried at Johnson's neck with a long stick, and with some effort, Johnson's body plopped to earth.
Except, now I'm going to have to dig a longer grave. Can't have anyone finding your bones hanging around in a tree, can we? People would think they found the Sasquatch or something. Everybody and their cousins would be out here digging around.
It was not long before Crater had worked up quite a sweat. The ground was fairly soft, but suffused with rocks and roots. Progress was slow using the small, folding, army shovel, but it was all he had had room to carry. Many times he had to use the shovel blade as an axe to chop through brush roots. He was soon smudged and dirty.
Crater dug until he had a hole sufficiently large to hold the body and the three parachute packs.
Finished with the burying, he shouldered the large money pack and headed downhill. It was only three miles to where they had left the pickup truck.
Shouldn`t take all that long.
The job had gone off perfectly. The payroll meant for local mine and smelter workers was on time; Crater and Johnson had intercepted the armored truck and the gas grenades and explosives had done the job on the guards and the truck door.
Five hundred thousand cash. Enough for the rest of my life and then some. And that hick, Johnson and his dumpy girlfriend; What was her name? Jeanne...Jenny...Jenna. That was it, Jenna. I guess she will be waiting for quite some time now, since her hayseed boyfriend and I won't be meeting her after all. At least she had the plane ready, and I have to admit, Johnson was one heck of a pilot; he got us to within a couple of miles of our drop point. That plane ought to be in the middle of the Pacific Ocean by now and just about out of fuel.
The perfect robbery.
All I need is to get over the border into Canada, about five miles. Ditch the truck, get myself to the Vancouver airport and fly my wealthy butt to South America. Pina Coladas and Senoritas for me for the rest of my life.
After an hour and a half of fighting brush and tangles, Crater reached the pickup. He was tired, bedraggled and his clothes were now torn. He dug the keys out of the pocket of his jeans and climbed in.
First, a quick look at the loot.
He opened the large pack. On top was a long envelope, which he set aside, wondering where it had come from. He did not remember an envelope.
Ah, the money bags. Loaded with hundreds and fifties. This is going to be rich. He laughed at his own joke.
He opened the first bag and reached in to grasp a handful of bills. He extracted his hand and with a great smile looked at the cash.
"What the Hell!"
He held a handful of newspaper.
"What the Hell! What the Hell is this?"
Frantically, he tore open the other money sacks, newspaper flying about the cab of the pickup truck. Every bag was the same. He forced himself to calm down.
How did this happen? How could this happen? I never let them out of my sight. Or did I? In the plane. But only for a moment. But why switch when he was going to bail out with me?
Then he remembered the envelope. He tore through the newspaper debris until he found it, and nearly ripped it in half trying to get it open.
Crater: I had hoped we could have a good laugh over this; over my distrust of you and my big practical joke of switching bags. We could probably be well on our way to South America by now. But, since you are reading this letter, I must be dead. I don't know how I died and I guess it really doesn't matter.
Somehow, I expected better of you, Crater. But the way you treated Jenna and me, like we were a couple of dumb hicks, made it necessary for me to have an alternate plan, for her sake.
You see, Carter, we are not as stupid as you liked to think. I puposely did not tell you that Jenna is also an accomplished pilot. Since I am dead, I obviously could not send up the signal flare to let her know that you came through for us and we could now trust you. By now, she is flying south over Mexico headed for a pre-planned location.
Those rotten, motherless hillbillies. If she thinks she can get away from me....
I can imagine the dirty names you must be calling us and the plans you are probably making to chase Jenna down, but you may as well forget it, Crater.
I had to make sure she was safe, so I saturated the newspaper and this letter with poison. It has entered your system through the skin of your fingertips and, since it probably took you two hours or more to reach the truck, by now you should be feeling a slight tingling in your arms. Nothing alarming, not yet anyway.
Crater concentrated on his arms. Nothing. Hah! Shows what you know.
Frantically, he read on. There has to be an antidote!
Soon, it will spread to your shoulders and chest, torso and legs. Then, you will have...oh, maybe ten minutes until your chest feels like someone is piling bricks upon it and then your heart explodes.
Sorry, Crater. I truly wish you could have been trusted. But to be fair, there is an antidote.
Yes!
I will even tell you where it is. But since I do not figure you would have opened the pack at least until you got to the truck, it will not do you any good to know. It is in my pocket. Good Luck Crater. See you real soon. Johnson.
No! You weren't smart enough to do this, Johnson! You and that mousy broad are no match for me, you stupid hicks! Your timing`s off, no tingling in my arms or anywhere else. I will get the money and I will strangle that little wench, but not before I have my way with her.
He quickly left the truck and headed back to the gravesite. Halfway there, it started; A low, tingling sensation that began in his hands and rapidly worked its way up his arms to his shoulders.
He moved faster, adrenalin pumping, giving him speed.
Almost there, almost there.
He reached the Johnson`s grave. I`ve forgotten the damned shovel! Damn you! I will get that girl, Johnson, and I will take care of her for good!
In desperation, he fell to digging with his hand, hurling great scoops of dirt away and behind. His breathing became faster, and shorter. At last, he felt the body of Johnson beneath his probing fingers.
There! No, nothing in his shirt. Farther down, there! Aha! Now, which pocket? No. There. I`ve got it!
He extracted a small vial, the size of his little finger. He grasped the stopper, to pull it off.
...Aghhh! My chest. Hurts. Heavy.
He fell on his back, then rolled onto his side, curling up in a fetal position. His hands shook and he broke out into a cold sweat as he pried the stopper off the vial.
Agghhh! The pain!
The attack of pain contracted his muscles, and he dropped the vial, the antidote trickling off into the ground.
No! Nonononono! JOOOHNSOOON!
copyright 2000 W. P. Hall
