Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [44]
Park tried to block out the images that flashed in front of him. It was tough, but he managed. "Is he badly hurt?"
No reply.
"Huh?"
Still no reply.
Park lost control. Kicked Savage. Several times. Kicked him till the stinking bastard pissed himself. "Is he cut up bad?" Park asked.
And then Savage explained, between gasps, about the broken pane, the shard of glass. About Grant landing on it.
Park sat down before he fell over, breathed deeply. "You took him to the hospital, right?"
Savage said, voice trembling, "We did what we could."
"And what was that?"
"We called for help."
Park thought he might spew. "Jesus Christ. You left him?"
"It was a fucking accident."
Park said, "Is he alive?"
"I don't know."
"You don't fucking know?"
"Last time I saw him, yes, he was alive."
"Well, Tommy," Park said. "You better start praying that's still the case."
***
"WHAT ARE YOU going to do?" Tommy asked. He was sore and damp and his eyelashes were wet.
Smith was sitting next to him. Been there for about five minutes now. Not saying anything, not moving, not doing a thing. His reaction wasn't what Tommy would have expected. No rage, no violence other than a quick kicking.
Tommy didn't want to interrupt him. He wasn't forgetting that Smith most likely had their swords in the back of his car. Not that Smith needed a weapon, with Tommy trussed up like this. If Tommy had the freedom to move his limbs he might be able to fight back. Okay, he wouldn't. But maybe he wouldn't feel so utterly helpless.
God, Smith had killed already, just to prove a point. Wasn't as if there was a line he wasn't prepared to cross. He'd already crossed it.
This silence was terrifying. If Tommy was going to be killed, he wanted to know about it now.
He raised his head. It hurt like the kind of hangovers he used to get in his late twenties. The ones just before he accepted that he wasn't so young any more and couldn't drink like he used to. The ones that Phil got too but ignored. "I've been honest," Tommy said. "That's got to be worth something. Could've told you a pack of lies."
Smith looked at him. Looked away again.
Tommy breathed in, then out, slowly. "Who is he?" Tommy said. "Who's Grant?"
Smith stared.
"You have the money. Why does Grant matter?"
"Why," Smith said, his expression not changing, "does Grant," he said, "matter?" He got to his feet.
This was it. Tommy should have kept his mouth shut. He was all set to beg. He'd do anything. Didn't care. All he wanted was to stay alive.
Smith ran his hand over the chin of his ski mask. Then he put his hand in his pocket. Tommy expected to see it reappear with brass knuckles, a Stanley knife, a lock-back knife. Maybe something worse. A grenade, maybe.
But, no, it reappeared with a phone.
Must have been on vibrate, cause Smith answered it: "Effie," and walked around the side of the car towards the bonnet.
Tommy was lying a few feet beyond the rear bumper and couldn't see a thing. Might have been able to position himself so's he could look under the car, get a glimpse of Smith's feet, maybe, some indication of where he was. But Smith had turned off the headlights and it was dark out here.
And Tommy couldn't hear him now either. Which meant he had to be far enough away to give Tommy the chance to escape.
Could he get to his feet, though? Probably. But then what? He'd be in a similar situation to Grant. Only, unlike Grant, he wasn't tied to a chair. And there wasn't a plate-glass door around.
He could just about make out trees, left and right. Behind him, it looked clear for a few feet at least. A track. Maybe it led to a main road. If he could reach it, he'd be able to flag down a passing car by standing in front of it. Dangerous, but worth a try, surely.
But fuck standing up. If he did manage to get to his feet, he'd have to hop all the way there. Which was going to take more energy than he possessed. Plus it would take ages. Far longer than the likely duration of Smith's phone call. There