Denny hadn’t just been in a state of shock when he’d been filming Daria’s murder? Maybe he was just playing along with Tito and Umberto because not doing so would have gotten him tied to the stake behind Jacque.
There was no going back from dead. He tried not to think about it.
“You had to,” he said, hoping it was the truth. Cynthia looked like she needed him to be sure, so he tried to sound it.
“Tito is definitely off the deep end.”
“Then let’s get out of here.” Cynthia hooked an arm under his shoulder and began to pull. “Can you stand?”
She wasn’t giving him much of a choice, so he tried it. His joints stung as if someone had wrapped them in barbed wire while he was asleep, but he got to his feet and was able to lean against the stake.
The fire was dying down now, and it gave everything a soft orange glow, but little illumination.
“Where are we going?” Jacque needed to know, because her plan was oblique at best.
“If we head into the jungle, we’ll be able to hear them coming.” She was choosing her words and pulling him along as she whispered.
“Not that way. Over here, we need water. The well.” Jacque pulled back against her and wished he hadn’t. The strain between his arm and shoulder almost made him scream out in anguish.
Cynthia mouthed a silent “ sorry” and followed him to the far side of the village, ducking low to the ground and trying to move in the shadows cast by the huts. The crouching was not only a burden on Jacque’s cramped-up legs and back, but altogether useless for avoiding Tito.
“Stop right there!” Tito’s voice boomed out in English. There was not even a hint of his cartoon accent in the words. “I’m through wasting bullets on warning shots. The next time I pull this trigger, I’m putting one in your skull, Jacky boy.” The last part was in French except for “Jacky Boy.”
Jacque didn’t turn to face Tito. The old man was already out of breath from shouting, and it sounded like there was a solid distance between them. Squeezing Cynthia’s hand hurt, but he had to do it to get her attention.
“Don’t listen to him. We make a run for it. And when I drop your hand, you split to the right and head for the trees.”
He gave her one look, long enough to see her eyes gently pleading.
And then they ran forward together.
Chapter 21
Tito
Tito Bronze was a veteran director with over thirty films in his oeuvre. Over forty, if you counted the porno movies and stag loops that he’d done under the name “Terrance Amato.” Tito Bronze was a professional.
Tito Bronze did not bluff.
He did not bluff, but he had not expected the crazy writer to start running away, either. It took a moment to widen his stance and level the gun. Between the inconsistent light, Jacque’s bobbing gait, and his reluctance to hit the girl, the first shot went wild.
There was a small explosion of dirt and debris in front of the black man, and he loosened his grip on the girl’s hand in response. Already the pair was disappearing deeper into the village, zigzagging at odd intervals and trying their best to mess up Tito’s aim.
He decided that he could use their indirect path to his advantage if he ran straight forward. The fastest route was always a straight line. Tito began to hobble after them, his lungs burning with exertion and heavy with the tar of too many cigarettes.
Cynthia began to peel away into the jungle and Tito let her go. They could always catch the girl again. He had no real way of stopping her, and no hope of catching her on foot. Besides, Tito had promised that he would shoot Jacque, so he kept after the black man.
Tito felt his gut jiggle with each step, wishing he were just a bit closer so he could put one in the base of Jacque’s neck. Intentionally winging Jacque to keep him alive was an option, but there was too little time for trick shots. His target was approaching the tall grass, his dark skin getting harder to spot as they moved
There was no going back from dead. He tried not to think about it.
“You had to,” he said, hoping it was the truth. Cynthia looked like she needed him to be sure, so he tried to sound it.
“Tito is definitely off the deep end.”
“Then let’s get out of here.” Cynthia hooked an arm under his shoulder and began to pull. “Can you stand?”
She wasn’t giving him much of a choice, so he tried it. His joints stung as if someone had wrapped them in barbed wire while he was asleep, but he got to his feet and was able to lean against the stake.
The fire was dying down now, and it gave everything a soft orange glow, but little illumination.
“Where are we going?” Jacque needed to know, because her plan was oblique at best.
“If we head into the jungle, we’ll be able to hear them coming.” She was choosing her words and pulling him along as she whispered.
“Not that way. Over here, we need water. The well.” Jacque pulled back against her and wished he hadn’t. The strain between his arm and shoulder almost made him scream out in anguish.
Cynthia mouthed a silent “ sorry” and followed him to the far side of the village, ducking low to the ground and trying to move in the shadows cast by the huts. The crouching was not only a burden on Jacque’s cramped-up legs and back, but altogether useless for avoiding Tito.
“Stop right there!” Tito’s voice boomed out in English. There was not even a hint of his cartoon accent in the words. “I’m through wasting bullets on warning shots. The next time I pull this trigger, I’m putting one in your skull, Jacky boy.” The last part was in French except for “Jacky Boy.”
Jacque didn’t turn to face Tito. The old man was already out of breath from shouting, and it sounded like there was a solid distance between them. Squeezing Cynthia’s hand hurt, but he had to do it to get her attention.
“Don’t listen to him. We make a run for it. And when I drop your hand, you split to the right and head for the trees.”
He gave her one look, long enough to see her eyes gently pleading.
And then they ran forward together.
Chapter 21
Tito
Tito Bronze was a veteran director with over thirty films in his oeuvre. Over forty, if you counted the porno movies and stag loops that he’d done under the name “Terrance Amato.” Tito Bronze was a professional.
Tito Bronze did not bluff.
He did not bluff, but he had not expected the crazy writer to start running away, either. It took a moment to widen his stance and level the gun. Between the inconsistent light, Jacque’s bobbing gait, and his reluctance to hit the girl, the first shot went wild.
There was a small explosion of dirt and debris in front of the black man, and he loosened his grip on the girl’s hand in response. Already the pair was disappearing deeper into the village, zigzagging at odd intervals and trying their best to mess up Tito’s aim.
He decided that he could use their indirect path to his advantage if he ran straight forward. The fastest route was always a straight line. Tito began to hobble after them, his lungs burning with exertion and heavy with the tar of too many cigarettes.
Cynthia began to peel away into the jungle and Tito let her go. They could always catch the girl again. He had no real way of stopping her, and no hope of catching her on foot. Besides, Tito had promised that he would shoot Jacque, so he kept after the black man.
Tito felt his gut jiggle with each step, wishing he were just a bit closer so he could put one in the base of Jacque’s neck. Intentionally winging Jacque to keep him alive was an option, but there was too little time for trick shots. His target was approaching the tall grass, his dark skin getting harder to spot as they moved
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