Carter staggered into the wellsite trailer and collapsed onto the narrow bunk with a soft, broken whimper.
His left shoulder was dislocated. Every breath was burning agony. He couldn’t get the sound of Remy Moreaux smashing Bertrand’s head onto the trailer hitch out of his mind. At the memory he rolled over and dry-heaved, bloody spit stringing from his smashed mouth.
Remy’s eyes … Jesus Christ …
He pawed clumsily through the drawer beside the bed with his good hand. Cash. A phone number for a tame doctor who asked no questions. He was still fumbling for the phone when the trailer door opened.
“Who’s there?” he whispered through broken teeth.
No answer.
Alan Michael Taylor stepped inside and stood over him, gray eyes cold and furious.
“Your plan to leave me holding the bag while you rode into the sunset with a couple of hundred million dollars was stupid, Carter,” Alan said, anger held under tight control. “But I could forgive it. You weren’t the first to try something like that against me, and you probably won’t be the last. Nothing personal. Just business.”
Carter lifted his one good hand, trying to plead.
Alan’s voice dropped.
“But you, you dumb bastard … you laid hands on my daughter.”
Carter cleared his throat. Bloody phlegm trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“Alan … remember -- if something happens to me, your daughter and that psychotic husband of hers die very slowly and very badly.”
Alan gave a soft, almost gentle snort. Behind him three hard-eyed men stepped into the trailer.
“Yes, Carter. You paid a mercenary company and all that. Trouble is … I know how much money you actually have. Everybody does. We just let you run your mouth because a man needs his pride.”
One of the men drew a pistol and began screwing a suppressor onto the end of the barrel with deliberate care.
“You don’t have the money on hand to pay for something like that, Carter. No. What you did have was a letter with a lawyer, directing that in the event of your death or disappearance certain stock you hold was to be sold and the money wired to an account somewhere.”
“Yes! Yes, Alan, and the letter is still --”
“Carter.” Alan’s voice was almost patient. “It took my people until yesterday morning to figure your plan out. By 2:20 I knew exactly which stock options you were planning to use.”
Carter blinked at him, vision swimming.
“And at close of business yesterday, Helios Petroleum stock was worthless.”
Alan smiled then -- dark and completely without mercy.
“Cost me a pretty penny, but I’m sure I’ll get my money back from your holdings.”
The crashing nausea rolled through Carter’s stomach as understanding finally hit.
“Alan. Alan, listen to me --”
Alan Taylor turned to the leader of the three men.
“Clean this trailer out. Bring me everything in it.”
He looked down at Carter one last time.
“Take him out past the twelve-mile limit. Hang weights on him and dump him overboard. Burn this trailer down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alan, wait! Alan! Alan, I --”
Five soft, sharp reports, like muted handclaps, cut the pleas short.
Alan Taylor walked out into the Texas night without looking back.
Ok, there’s the closing scene. Maybe I’ll write a brief epilogue set weeks later. Damfino, but there’s the closer.
So. Now I’ve got Roof Goat scene —which may or may not be the opening scene, but it’ll be in the front somewhere — and I’ve got the closer.
I’ve got my cast of characters, I’ve got backstories, I’ve got a plot, and I’ve got scenes from each part of play.
Now I have to string them together.
UGH!
Why does this feel like work?
Grr.
Ian
In the future, you may consider the positive aspects of salt/brackish-water marshes, Ian. They're smelly. Something is always dead there, so the locals don't pay any real attention to buzzards circling. Eventually, the salt eats the bones. Cheers!
Why does filling in the parts between feel like work? Because the brain holds certain scenes like amazing desserts, and the rest are like the "healthy" meals and the cafeteria fills-a-hole and the fast food thrown out a window at you like you're a seagull to get you through until you get there.
I suppose I could use the metaphor Terry Pratchett did, about driving on a foggy road and being able to see a few mountain peaks here and there poking out, but otherwise fumbling through the fog until you get there... But I've been working by backup generator for 6 hours until the shift ended, so I'm hungry.
Oddest thing is, unless you tell your readers which is which, they often can't tell by the time you're done.
Keep going. Cussing and grumbling the whole way is fine, you'll get there, it'll be awesome. You'll see.