California Moon. Catherine Lanigan

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      1

      He couldn’t be drowning.

      He was in too much pain to be dying. No, he was very much alive. At least for the present.

      His ribs felt as if they’d been cracked in half. His right arm was numb and flopped against his side. His shoulder was white-hot as if branded. He heard accents, maybe Hispanic, difficult to understand. He had no idea what they wanted from him. He didn’t even know where he was or how he’d gotten there. He was shocked to find himself struggling for his own name.

      His head throbbed with pain but he tried to stand anyway. Then they grabbed him roughly under the arms and dragged him from the back seat of the car.

      Not my car…a rental from the Shreveport airport.

      They frisked him and one of the men took his wallet.

      “You want money?” he managed to ask.

      “Idiot!” one of the men growled as he clumsily shoved the wallet in a jacket pocket. “No identification. No traces,” he explained in thickly accented English.

      Anger exploded inside him as the realization hit that he might not come out of this alive—whatever this was. That was the hell of it. He didn’t know these men. In his bewilderment he reasoned that his wallet was vital to staying alive. He lunged toward the man. “Gimme that!”

      A fist slammed into his jaw, stunning him, and his assailant continued frisking him.

      “Where eezit?”

      “What? I don’t have a gun,” he tried to tell them, but his cut, bruised mouth barely moved.

      Hands moved down his jeans and back again. He shivered, the fleece lining of his Houston Rockets windbreaker doing nothing to cut the biting wind. He shivered.

      One of the men laughed.

      What do they want?

      Suddenly, his arms were pulled behind his back. A fist sank into his jaw again. Pain screamed through his body as another blow hit his midsection and another. His face was pummeled.

      He fell to the ground and struck his head on a rock.

      He saw stars, tiny swirling lights, but then they faded.

      And he remembered. He wasn’t alone. He’d been with Adam, his best friend.

      He could hear the sound of Adam’s frantic pleadings as the assailants turned their attention to him.

      “That’s only my wallet. I don’t have it, I tell you.” Adam groaned.

      He heard scuffling of feet on gravel and dirt, the sound of fists pounding on muscles. Then he heard a chilling human wail.

      “Please don’t kill me. No!”

      What are they doing to him? And why? Adam, do what they want.

      Adam screamed. The sound was frighteningly high-pitched, as if he couldn’t take any more.

      This is insane! Adam, what have you gotten us into?

      He tried desperately to focus his eyes. A dense gray mist swirled around everything. Glancing sidelong toward the long, dark structure to his left, he realized they’d brought him to a bridge.

      But where? And why?

      He was barely able to make out a sign—the Sabine River. He’d been brought out to Highway 79, south of the city. Down the embankment the murky river flowed deep and wide this time of year.

      His arms felt as if they’d been pulled from their sockets. He could barely move his numb fingers as he reached under his jacket for warmth. Behind the Rockets’ heavily embroidered emblem he felt the computer disk. It was safe.

      He remembered back to his dinner earlier that night with Adam at the Catfish King. “They’ll kill me if they get their hands on this,” Adam had said, passing the disk across the wooden table. “Thanks for flying in to meet me and not asking why I arranged for your rented car using a phony name. I don’t want anyone tracing you back to me. You’re anonymous in this thing. I swear, I’ll protect you,” Adam had said. “Just do this for me.”

      He knew Adam was in trouble then, but still hadn’t fully understood the ramifications at the time. He should have paid more attention. He thought he was helping Adam, but at what price?

      His head felt as if it was about to explode. His fingers wrapped around the disk.

      Hide it.

      His hand moved as if by its own will.

      He knew now they were both going to die.

      Palming the disk, he slipped it under the bloody rock where he’d hit his head.

      No! No good. Think man, think. Your life is at stake!

      He moved his hand away from the rock. Pain washed over him. He could barely see them, fuzzy figures looming over him. A booted foot kicked his ribs and shoved hard. He heard the man grunt, then walk away, leaves, twigs and pinecones crunching under his feet.

      Adam’s screams rent the still night one last time, shocking him alert. He heard the sound of a muffled gunshot.

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