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PART 6 “No Good End” from ttaylordude’s Twitter feed
Unc took Gus by a grocery store for bread, peanut butter and jelly. Clyde Gordon, the produce manager, stopped them.
“Gus,” he said, nodding in sympathy. “Unc. How y’all doing?” He stacked oranges into a precarious pyramid, which was his specialty.
“Getting by,” said Gus. Unc said nothing, but shook Clyde’s hand. Clyde looked nervous that Unc was so close to his orange sculpture.
“What happened to your brother is a crime,” said Clyde. “A damned, god-awful crime.”
“Well, hell yeah it’s a crime,” said Unc. “When a man is shot down like that, what else can you call it?”
“I was talking to Gus,” said Clyde. “Unc, the mustard is on sale; two for one. Why don’t you go get some? Gus and I can finish talking.”
“Two for one mustard?” said Unc. “That’s a sale. I may get four for two.”
Unc walked to aisle 8 and picked up 4 mustards and a box of cereal. He looked over his glasses at Gus. “I don’t eat these together,” he said.
“I understand. I like beer and ice cream, just not together,” said Gus.
Unc’s mind drifted. He absentmindedly browsed the female products, deep in thought.
“You looking for something in particular?” said Gus. “They got these pads here for 20% off – with a coupon.” Gus held a box of Maxi Pads.
“Awe, hell no. This ain’t my department,” said Unc. “I was just cogitating.”
The jelly sat next to the peanut butter. Gus picked the store brand of both. Each was a dollar cheaper per container for the same amount.
“Can’t tell the difference,” said Gus. “I need some bread too.” Unc noticed two men lingering at the end of the aisle.
“I guess you’re not a big fan of Florida after all of this,” said Unc. “I’d love to move down there myself and fish all day.”
“I love Florida,” said Gus. “Ab loved Florida too; the most beautiful beaches in the world, genuine people – and a few bad ones.”
“You seem to have stirred up a few of the bad ones,” said Unc. “Is that two of them sniffing our trail down there next to the chips?”
“Hell, my ex-wife wanted to kill me too. Can’t blame that on Florida,” said Gus, cutting his eyes through the boxes and bags. “Yeah, I saw those two when we were talking to Clyde.”
“You should move down there near the coast. Be a P.I. or one of those CSI investigators,” said Unc. “And invite me down to fish with you.”
“You got a good pond right behind your house,” said Gus. “You can fish anytime you want.”
“I like a challenge,” said Unc. “Pond fish are like eating prisoners. Ain’t nothing like a wild fish, roaming free in the ocean. Poor old pond fish can’t run but so far. Like shooting birds in a cage. Defeats the sport of it all.”
The two men near the chips had no cart and no groceries.
“You sure you don’t know those two guys back there?” said Unc. “They ain’t buying anything and they’re too young to be friends of mine.”
“Never seen them before. Could be just two guys like us,” said Gus. “Tourists, businessmen; maybe a couple of grocerholics.”
“What the hell is a grocerholic?” said Unc.
“People who just like to hang out in grocery stores,” said Gus. Unc gave him a skeptical look. Gus nodded. “It’s true. Saw it on TV.”
“Maybe they think we’re following them,” said Unc. He changed the subject to what had been on his mind. “You need a ride, don’t you? A car?”
“How much do you want for that car you got the ‘for sale’ sign on in your yard?”
Gus and Unc put their items on the checkout belt. The cashier smiled because it was her job to smile. She was not thinking about customers or groceries, but boyfriends and making rent and the fight she had last night. The two men following them left with no purchase.
“Just take the car until you can pay for it,” said Unc. “It ain’t doing any good sitting in the yard. Besides nobody has even looked at it.”
“It runs, doesn’t it?” said Gus. They put their groceries in the back seat and left. No more sign of the two men.
“I wouldn’t loan you a car that didn’t work. What good would that do you?”
An old woman pulled in front of Unc. If he had not swerved, they would have T-boned her – another potential customer for Benson at the funeral home.
A military medal swung from Unc’s rearview mirror: his Navy Cross. He grabbed it and stopped the swinging. He turned to look back at the old woman. “Saved another one,” he said.
Gus looked in the mirror. “I see our tail is gone,” he said. “They were grocerholics, guaranteed.”
“If they want us bad enough, we’re easy to find in a town this size,” said Unc. “They ain’t had any problems doing it lately. We’re just like them fish in that pond.”
People passed the jack-tilted car sitting beside the highway. Several stopped to help, but the three men politely refused.
McComack, cursing with every movement, changed the tire. Finney and Kamal stood 20 feet away in the shade of a pecan tree.
“Doing a fine job,” said Finney. McCormack rolled the runted spare around the car and lifted it onto the lugs inside the gaping fender.
“Nice to get some help here,” said McCormack. Sweat dripped from his chin into the gravel, his hands black from the tires.
“That is one puny looking wheel. Like a damned go-cart,” said Finney. “Hurry up. I could be two drinks into a dark, cool bar by now.”
“You’ll be that way in three hours,” said Kamal. “And we’ll all be four grand richer.”
They got back into the car. McCormack cranked up the air to 5. A state trooper pulled in behind them, and flashed the blues.
“Here we go,” said McCormack. “We’re cool. You got that Finney? Stay quiet. Don’t let your alligator mouth overload your jaybird ass.”
The officer put his smoky hat on and walked to the rear window, stopping behind McCormack’s door. He rolled down the window.
“Good afternoon. You gentleman need some assistance?” said the officer.
“No, sir. Just changed a flat,” said McCormack. “Picked up a damned nail back there.”
“This your automobile?” said the trooper in a robotic Southern accent, his mouth barely moving below the black shades.
“It is,” said McCormack. “Need to see some ID?” He held his license out the window between two fingers.
The trooper took a quick look. “Thank you. You can put it away.” He paused. “Florida plates. Up here on business?”
“Yes, sir. Got a meeting over near Andalusia,” he said. “We’re already late. Contracts are tough these days, you know?”
The trooper leaned in and looked at Kamal and Finney. “What kind of business you gentlemen in?” he said.
“Sales. Industrial parts, machinery, belts, hoses,” said Kamal. McCormack glanced over nervously.
“Trying to drum up some business,” said McCormack. “Used to fly. Now we drive.”
The Trooper looked at Finney in the back seat. “You probably want to get a new tire in Andalusia if you’re traveling far,” he said.
“Great advice,” said Finney, leaning forward from the back seat. The trooper stared at him to see if he was being a smart ass.
As the officer walked back to his car, McCormack rolled up the window. “Thanks boys. He saw us all. Troopers have damned good memories.”
“He’s already run the plates,” said Kamal. “We’re clean. Let’s go. I hate to keep people waiting.”
Unc took Gus to his house and gave him the keys to the car in his front yard and removed the ‘for sale’ sign.
“Glenie’s cooking some creamed corn, greens and butter beans,” said Unc. “You hungry? Got a pond of captive catfish; fry one up real quick.”
“No thanks, Unc. I better go. Got plenty to do. By best to Glenie,” said Gus. “Thanks for the car. I’ll take care of it.”
“I never did. But it does run like a striped-assed ape,” said Unc. “Watch the brakes, though. Rotors. Gets shaky it you slam down on them.”
Unc had planted three palm fronds around the back porch of his house and damned a creek to make his scraggy catfish pond.
He kept the St. Augustine mowed right up to the edge. Two wooden kitchen chairs sat next to the water, waiting for Unc to return.
“This is as close to the beach as I’ll get at my age,” said Unc. “Come on, stay a while. Let’s go fishing? A few sinkers and bobbers will do you good.”
“I better get back to the house. If those guys from the grocery store were following us, they may pay you a visit,” said Gus.
Unc looked down the driveway and slipped a .25 caliber Spanish pistol from his baggy pocket and rubbed his calloused thumb over the barrel.
“Snake wrangler,” said Unc. “It’s small but it’ll put a bouncer inside you that’ll scramble your eggs.”
“I don’t think you’ll get that close to them, Unc,” said Gus. “And be careful not to scramble your own eggs with that thing.”
“I got something inside for distance,” said Unc. “Your daddy gave it to me when we came back from Cam Rahn Bay.”
Gus checked his cell messages. Three missed calls from Ab’s number the night before. On the last call, Ab left a message.
Seeing the message display sickened him. Perhaps the shooters were watching he and Bren, waiting. Maybe they thought Ab was him. For years, Gus has tolerated criminals, scams and low pay with steady patience. No more. Ab’s death inspired revenge. Revenge, however, was not in his skill set. Methodical plodding was his talent. He was dogged, but not given to irrational moods, until now.
Logic and hard work had always dampened Gus’ emotions. Bren stirred them. His brother dying in his driveway ripped out his fuses.
Pulling over and stopping beside the road, Gus clicked the message button, wanting to hear Ab’s voice and dreading it at the same time.
“It’s me. Pop says there’s a contract on you. Stay inside. Don’t get in your car. Sit tight. I’m five minutes away.” Gus saved the message.
Names carved into a black wall in Washington, D.C. came to mind. Ab’s message seemed that iconic. Gus played the message again.
Hatred beyond anything he thought was possible filled his chest cavity like ice water. He had never really known his brother. They took that from him. He wanted to take something from them, and he had to fight through his sense of duty to have such a feeling.
The sandwich was tasteless but the sweet iced tea was good. Iced tea was the only criteria Jimmy used in judging restaurants. Some people could not make good sweet tea. It was either too string or too weak. Perfection swam in the amber between those two.
In the parking lot, two children ran ahead of their mom. Girls argued on cell phones. A man took a local newspaper from a metal box. The cover told the story in 30-point type: “Officer Gunned Down In Brother’s Yard.” Jimmy stared at the picture. His jaws tightened.
For the first time since Vietnam, Jimmy allowed his emotions to override his detachment. Perhaps it was karma for all the hits. Karma, however, was not part of Jimmy’s belief system. Life was simply biology, physics, cause and effect. It was also short.
Jimmy clanked two quarters through the slot, but never took the paper, just got into the van. Somebody was going to die for this. Unlike Gus, Jimmy had no difficulty imagining revenge. He saw it as part of the job. The secret was making it rational, not emotional. Emotions got people killed. Ration pulled the trigger. Jimmy’s mantra was: be on the trigger side.
Outside the funeral home, the family of one of the officers waved at Gus, solemnly. He nodded and tried to imagine Ab in a suit. He already the brother he had only really known for the better part of a week.
Heat emerged from the car when he opened the door. Gus stood back, watching a dark car with black-tinted windows drive past slowly. It could have been the local minister or a team of thugs headed to a drug deal or a hit. Since Ab’s shooting, Gus saw threats everywhere, even in simple things like a passing car or a face he did not recognize.
Bren called. “You quit your job? You okay?” she said. “Why do I hear this from friends at work?” She was perturbed at his insolence.
“I was going to call you,” he said. “Been a little busy today. I’m sorry.” Barking echoed in the background. He felt another woman slipping away from him because of his work.
“What are you going to do?” asked Bren. His answer was clipped, distant and not what she wanted to hear.
Breezes threaded the oaks and wrinkled the pond behind Unc’s house. The sky was cornflower blue. Cut grass soured in a compost heap. Two catfish bumped fins in an ice chest. Unc worked a third one, a two-pounder. A glint of light from the tree line caught his attention.
“I’ll be damned,” he thought. “They’re going to try it.” After 39 years, the shrapnel in his leg tingled at he thought of another shot.
Unc abandoned the third catfish and carried the chest up to his porch. He was careful not to look behind him. The screen door screeched.
“Honey,” he said to Glenie. “You need to go down to the root cellar and stay for a while.”
“What in the world?” she said. “In the middle of the day, you get in the mood for the root cellar? Fishing get you all worked up?”
“No, no, it ain’t that, darlin. We may have some unwanted visitors and you’re safer down there,” he said. “Just be a few minutes.”
“This something to do with Gus Gantt?” she said. “You got that look I don’t like. You came home from the war with it.”
“Just go on down there,” said Unc. “It’s probably nothing.” Glenie kissed him and went down the stairs silently.
His memory dredged up a hill above a curved road near the Laotian border; a counter-sniper operation; two kills, no regrets.
Pulling a trigger was always simple compared to repairing relationships with the ones you love.
Unc opened the locked cabinet and pulled out the well-maintained XM-21 with a Leatherwood ART sight and Sionics Suppressor. Unc knew the rifle in the dark, by feel. It was a more accurate M-14, an upgrade of a WWII/Korea M-1. He could quote the specs by memory.
Unc had cleaned and fired the sniper rifle every Tuesday for years. His targets: beer cans placed in front of a clay mound across the pond. The distance to the weekly cans was 320 meters. 900 meters was close to his limit these days. In the war, he routinely hit 1,100 meters. Cans across the pond had become routine. Sometimes he shot beer bottle caps to make it more interesting.
Smooth 173-grain, .308, full metal jacket, boattails slid into the 20-round magazine like wearing old shoes. Out the window, he saw a form move just above the clay mound. “They’re setting up shop right on my target,” he mumbled. “Dead amateurs.”
Gus returned to his place. Crime scene tape whipped in the breeze between the pines and azaleas. Gnats and flies circled where Ab died.
As he packed a small suitcase, a van pulled into the yard. Gus pulled the .45 and leaned behind the stove. Jimmy walked in and put the rifle case on the floor in Gus’ kitchen.
“I’m pissed now,” he said. “I haven’t been this pissed since 1971.”
Gus could not think about Ab anymore. He needed a few minutes away from the images that would not leave his head. Jimmy washed his hands. The feelings were still raw between them.
“Had lunch? I’ve got peanut butter and jelly,” said Gus, opening the fridge. “Some pickles?”
“No,” said Jimmy. “Got any sweet tea?”
“Got water, unless you want beer,” said Gus.
Something was molding in the fridge. Gus found it: turkey, turned fuzzy green.
“Why you here?” he asked.
“The hit was on an Alabama cop, said Jimmy. “Guess they mistook Ab for you.”
“Pop, Ab was a cop. I deputized him to help me after the heroin shootout when Briggs died,” said Gus. “Ab was a good cop, too.”
Jimmy’s face was structured like a man who could calmly kill people; wild eyes, creased jaws. “I thought it was you,” he said.
“Maybe you wish it was me,” said Gus. “That would be the only part of this that makes sense.”
“If you want sorry, I’m sorry, okay? Feel better?” said Jimmy. “Now let that old pain go, son. We got plenty of new pain on us.”
Vents in the floor blew cool air into the tense room. Jimmy’s apology was as real as he could muster. He was not wired for ‘sorry.’
“I’m on the list and you may be too,” said Jimmy. “They think I killed Tajo. But somebody beat me to it. That’s another story.”
“I don’t know who all you’ve killed, but we’re not safe here,” said Gus. “Where did you get the van?”
Gus made four PBJ’s anyway and packed them in a small cooler with pickles and chips.
“We need to leave it up the road. People will be looking for it. That your car out there?” said Jimmy.
“Borrowed it from Unc Lowe,” said Gus. “He was trying to sell it.”
“Good, then nobody’s searching for it. Let’s go, said Jimmy. “You got ammo?”
“Two boxes and a 12-gauge pump in the back,” said Gus. “Six full clips for my .45. Couple of boxes of loose rounds too.”
“We’ll leave the van up at that church,” said Jimmy. “Pack it up and let’s roll.”
“Where are we going?” said Gus.
“To take care of this business,” said Jimmy. “Should have done it a long time ago.”
Unc snuck out the door and set up a few watermelons and cantaloupes in a lounge chair on the screened back porch. He carefully covered them with a sun bonnet quilt that Glenie’s mother had made in the 1960’s. He arranged his slippers at the bottom.
A trap door under the kitchen rug led to a crawl space where jars of preserves and pickles were stored. Folding himself into the cool space, Unc laid out flat and got a good sight through the slatted opening in the brick foundation.
Through the nitrogen gas optics, he saw two men dipping their heads up from the clay mound across the pond. Piquant dirt stretched behind him through the supports under the heartwood pine flooring all the way to the root cellar wall. In the distance, a spotter lay on his belly to the left of the shooter. The rifle was a damned nice piece of equipment. Unc took in the flat black German DSR-1 Bullpup perched well in sight and watched both men calculating.
A flash preceded the explosion of watermelons under the quilt on the porch above him. The round punched through the screen, kitchen wall and refrigerator, embedding in a door frame. Splinters danced across the rug.
These bastards were going to owe Unc money for damages. But he knew they would not live to pay. He figured that nice rifle was his.
The spotter give a thumbs up to the shooter. The melon looked just like Unc’s head bursting upon impact in a pink mist. Figuring they had a headshot, the spotter stood up and bent to help the shooter carry the Bullpup away. Unc’s first shot hit him in the ear. Most of his head disappeared in a spray. Spasms jolted through the headless man’s limbs as his body took a few seconds to collapse.
The shooter dropped the rifle and turned to run. Unc’s second round caught him between the shoulder blades. Two shots, two kills. His thoughts went back to the village and two Viet Cong commanders he had hit from 900 meters. This was easy shooting compared to that.
When it was over, just like back then, he craved a beer. The toughest job for Unc was squeezing back up through the trap door.
“Glenie, it’s all over, hon, you can come up now,” he said. “I have to go down and clean up some garbage.”
There was no answer. Unc had missed the third man who was already in the house – in the root cellar.
Jimmy said nothing. Gus just drove in the direction of Florida. Gus’ cell rang. A female voice said, “Meet me at Blue Lake tonight.” Click.
Gus had heard the voice before, tipping him about heroin on a boat.
“I just got a call from Jolene Skunker. I remember the voice,” he said.
“What did she want?” said Jimmy. It was not a conversation he wanted to get into right now. With Jimmy, few conversations were.
“She said to meet her at Blue Lake tonight.”
“It’s darker than six-feet up a bull’s ass down there at night,” said Jimmy. “I say we take a pass. We got plenty to do anyway.”
“This all started down there around those lakes and ponds,” said Gus. “Maybe we can finish it down there.”
“That’s mighty tidy, but you know where we have to finish it,” said Jimmy. “And it ain’t in the middle of the woods with Jolene.”
Jimmy didn’t mention Jolene’s genetic history. Ab was dead. He just wanted to keep Gus alive now. Grief was foreign. Jimmy was domestic.
“You sure that was Jolene Skunker who just called you?” said Jimmy.
“It sounded like her. The number was restricted, but it was restricted the last time she called. I got a trace on it then.”
“If we’re going to meet her, we got a few hours until then,” said Jimmy. “Will you take me by the funeral home to pay Ab my last respects?”
Gus thought he saw tears in Jimmy’s eyes for the first time in his life. It was likely just allergies.
Spanish moss draped above the Harley in the warm shade of the oaks. Some of it had molded and smelled like old socks, some like dried herbs.
Julie, Jolene’s life-long friend, had been missing lately. Julie hated violence. When she finally showed up, Jolene was embarrassed.
“I thought you were changing,” said Julie. “You said if you got the money, things would be different. What is this mess you have gotten into?”
“I was going to change. I am going to,” said Jolene. “Just something inside me that re-routes my plumbing sometimes.”
“I’m inside you, remember?” said Julie. “I’ve been watching. The plumber is you. Don’t be blaming anybody else.”
The tone struck Jolene as accusatory. She had always wanted to talk to Julie, but not now.
“You and I both know you aren’t real. I made you just like I made this other nightmare happen in my life. And that part is real.”
It was the first time Jolene had ever admitted that Julie was just a better part of her, invented to cope with fear and pain and abuse. It was the first time she admitted that Julie was all in her mind.
Jolene waited. Julie was gone. Her oldest friend, as unreal as she was, had left her. Perhaps, she thought, I am sane after all.
Finney and McCormack lay dead behind a clay mound across Unc’s catfish pond. The old man was a hell of a shot, but he didn’t get a chance to prove it in the kitchen.
Kamal dug the keys from Unc’s bloody pocket and took his car. He made a call to two men sitting at a cafe down the road. The men had been following Gus and Unc in the grocery store two hours ago. Gus was trackable. Unc was gone. Jimmy was still out there.
“Two down. Just me. Next move,” said Kamal. “Call Minsky.”
One of the two men walked outside the cafe and made the call. Jimmy presented special problems. He was smarter and more skilled than Unc. His cold ability to kill at any distance concerned Kamal. It was Minsky’s decision, thought Kamal. He was a genius. Minsky could deal with an aging sniper.
At the funeral home, with every room filled and the new guy still working on Mrs. Skunker, Benson roamed among the mourners, offering kind words, a hand on the shoulder, a gentle smile. He was born with a face for the death industry; serious, but jovial, sad but hopeful, reverential but spontaneous.
The overwhelming floral aroma of funeral arrangements lingered in every room. Mr. Benson was immune to the smell. Formaldehyde does that.
When Jimmy walked into the lobby behind Gus, people stared. Jimmy’s deadly reputation was no secret in this small town. Some, however, had paid him for his services over the years. Others feared him for his talents. Even at his age, he looked formidable.
They knew he had lost one son. Even as a detective, Gus, Jimmy’s other son, was never quite accepted, locally. He knew it and did not try to fit in. Didn’t see the point. To most people, Gus was unemployed, divorced, drank cheap beer, lived in a trailer, bedded a dog pound worker, and carried violent DNA. He was not invited to be a part of the community. He could police their dirty laundry, but he had to do it from outside the circle of respectability. It was an arrangement he could live with.
Gus’ situation was proof that the South’s famous hospitality sometimes withered underneath its infamous hostility when confronted by a mirror of its brutal reality. To the mourners and most other locals, Jimmy and Gus were two sides of the same necessary evil.
Mr. Benson motioned for them to come back to the room where Ab’s casket sat atop collapsible metal rollers. Jimmy tapped the closed lid.
“Open it,” said Jimmy. “Let’s get this over with.”
Gus stepped up behind Jimmy as Benson opened the lid. Ab looked like someone else, a distant family member, perhaps, but not Ab.
“He had cancer,” said Jimmy. “They didn’t have to do this to him. He wouldn’t have made it much longer anyway.”
“Mr. Gantt,” said Benson. “We did about all we could do. It was a lot of damage. Our skills have been challenged recently.”
“So have mine,” said Jimmy. “I appreciate the effort.” Jimmy seemed emotionless on the outside. Inside, he was ripped up. He hid it well.
Gus looked at his dead brother and remembered Ab jumping in the lake when they had gone on the picnic with Bren. Again, he had lost the brother he thought he lost years ago. This time, it was permanent. Gus wiped his eyes. Jimmy paused beside Ab one last time, touching his arm. He followed Gus out the back door into the bullets.
An automatic assault weapon opened up on the rear of the funeral home. Rounds dislodged the back door from the hinges. Rattling bursts punched walls and deflowered the arrangements inside. Gus pushed Jimmy under a hearse. More fire pecked the automobiles. Slugs buried into embalmed corpses inside. Bottles fractured. Fluids poured.
Gus rolled behind a brick wall separating Mr. Benson’s living quarters from the business door. Crunching bullets shook the wall. Across the parking lot, an Uzi raked rounds across the entire building. The sound of metal flattening on brick and concrete was deafening. In a twist of ironic violence, people inside thought they were going to die in a funeral home.
Jimmy clinched his 9 mm beside his head, Gus, waited with his .45 drawn. Smoke settled around them. Car tires raked asphalt on the back street. Jimmy waited two beats before peeking around the wheel inside the flattened hearse tire. Gus rolled out, gun aimed. The shooters were gone.
“Check on the people inside,” said Gus. Benson was already doing it. Sirens approached.
Remarkably, no one was seriously hurt. The only people who took hits were already dead. Two $3,000 caskets were stitched with holes. Three deputies slid to a stop in the lot, crouching behind doors, weapons drawn.
“Get an ID?” said the first deputy.
“No,” said Gus, “They went west towards town.” Two more cruisers arrived. More questions were asked. Jimmy was gone.
With Julie out from her life, Jolene faced her circumstances alone. The naked emotion hurt, and not just mentally.
She had concocted Julie in 5th grade in hopes of having something good in her life. Julie was her response to abuse. The abuse mostly came from her mother. Sometimes it came from other girls. Often, it had come from men. The harshest abuse, however, came from Jolene herself. Yet Julie never judged her and always forgave Jolene’s abhorrent behavior.
Julie had been there during the years when Jolene couldn’t find the good part of herself – during the stealing and drugs and hooking. Jolene’s recent turn to murder relegated Julie to second place behind guilt. Jolene had never felt guilt before. Julie had protected her.
In her mind, there was always justification for the killing. Only bad people fell to her deadly wrath. To Jolene, they deserved it. Perhaps they did; perhaps they did not. Perhaps she could not tell the difference anymore, and that bothered her – the lack of resolution.
In her conflicted condition, Jolene fell asleep. Trueberry visited her dreams. He was completely different, almost decent. He apologized – something he would have never done in life.
She wanted to talk, but her mouth did not work. He told her it was okay. His was the confession of a tortured soul hoping for salvation. She knew it was impossible to change your life once you are dead. The thought filled her with dread, even in her dream.
A ringing cell woke her. It was Minsky. He had used the phone he gave her to track her like Jimmy had tracked the 18-wheelers.
A crowd gathered in the parking lot of the funeral home. Mr. Benson was calm as he worked to sooth the wrecked nerves of mourners.
“When you spend 36 years working around death, a near miss like that is a blessing,” he said to Gus.
“It’s the first near miss in a while around here,” said Gus. “Been far too many that was right on target.”
“I believe Jimmy has left the building,” said Mr. Benson, scanning the crowd. “I hope that means I’ll be seeing the people who did this as customers soon.”
“I’m working on it,” said Gus. “It’s been Pop’s goal for a while now. Can we get a commission?” Considering the travesty, it was a desperate attempt at levity.
“Let Jimmy do this. He was built for it,” said Mr. Benson. Gus felt inadequate by the comment, but he understood Benson’s intention. Gus was a good man. Jimmy would kill these people with no seconds thoughts, no remorse, no guilt.
Gus left to look for Jimmy. As he drove, the back seat folded down and Jimmy crawled out. “Hot as a two dollar pistol back there,” he said.
“You were in the trunk?” said Gus. “How the hell did you vanish so fast with cops and people crawling the place?” asked Gus.
“Practice,” said Jimmy. “Pull over up there and let me in the front seat. I think Unc carried fertilize or something back here. Smells like shit warmed over in a microwave.”
“I’ll take your word for that,” said Gus. “Pop, we have to end this. Too many innocent people are suffering because of it. We have to find the source of this mayhem.”
“We have to end terminate the source, “ said Jimmy. “Find a cool shade first. I’ve spent my life looking for good shade, even in the war. Then we’ll kill these sons-a-bitches.”
Minsky’s call pushed Jolene’s emotional introspection out of her mind and replaced it with the actuality of what she was facing.
“Did you make the call?” said Minsky.
“Yes,” said Jolene. She knew there had to be a catch, but $250,000 more would give her the freedom to disappear. She could deal with the catch. A Caribbean beach and a fruity drink and a future without killing and selling her body filled her thoughts. She could almost see love from here.
When she thought of the kind of love most people knew from instinct, her instincts failed. Her instinct for survival, however, was exceptional.
“Your contacts will be two men,” said Minsky. “They will have your money. Just take it and leave and never mention what you have seen.”
“I am no genius, but I have been screwed enough to understand what it feels like,” said Jolene. “It feels a lot like this.”
“Nothing is ever perfect,” he said. “You’ve done okay so far. Just keep being lucky.” Minsky hung up and watched her from the tree line.
Jolene figured he was watching, but she also knew she was being used as bait of some kind and that made her safe. She had been bait before.
“What would Jimmy do?” she thought, rolling the things he had told her over in her head. Then she knew exactly what he would do. He would kill them all and probably leave the money just to show them he did it as a warning.
Gus and Jimmy sat under the shade of a bay tree. Jimmy said little, deep in thought. Gus knew they would never be close. The last 4 hours were as close as they had ever been.
Finally Gus broke the silence. “These people are hell-bent on killing us,” he said. “So far, they have been good at it.”
“That’s their job. It’s what they’re paid to do,” said Jimmy. “Been there my whole life. I take it for granted.”
Neither of them knew what had gone down at Unc’s house earlier in the day. Gus would have felt horrible about it. Jimmy would have expected it. Unc did. He got two out of three, not bad for an old soldier who had never planned to come home from Vietnam outside of a box.
“There are more bullets flying around here than are available in stores,” said Gus. “Briggs would have been able to get a handle on it.”
“Not really. He died trying,” said Jimmy. “These things work themselves out. Watch the flow and be flexible. Take your opportunities.”
Jimmy ate one of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Gus had made. “I’ll tell you something about Briggs.”
“What?”
“He thought too much. Just like you,” said Jimmy. “Good man. Just too conflicted. Damned fine human being, though. The father I never was to you.”
“Maybe we don’t go to Blue Lake tonight,” said Gus. “That may be an opportunity to take one in the head.”
“That is the opportunity,” said Jimmy. “They may cap our asses, but they’re going to get the chance. See, you’re still conflicted. Meet these bastards right where they want and do them so close they can smell what you ate for lunch.”
“PBJ’s,” said Gus.
“Yep.” Jimmy ate another one. “Wish I had some sweet tea.”
Gus turned on the radio in the car to lighten the mood. A country singer was harmonizing about fried chicken, beer, the good Lord, a good woman and the flag.
“Turn that shit off,” said Jimmy. “Last thing I want to hear is a rich man singing about how good it is to be poor.”
The forest of pines towered on each side of the road to Blue Lake. Under the trees, a forestry team had done a controlled burn.
Seared bark reached six feet from the blackened ground up the tree trunks. It smelled of burned leaves and boiled turpentine.
Jolene stopped at a produce stand and bought a dozen peaches. “These from Chilton County?” she asked. “They are the best, you know.”
The old man running the stand was blind. His dog watched every move. Exchanging money with customers was a matter of trust.
“No ma’am, these fuzzy boys are from right here behind my house. I’d stack mine up against anybody,” he said. “Even theirs.”
“That’s a tall order,” said Jolene. She ate one and gave the old man $100, telling him it was a five and told him to keep the change.
His demeanor so much reminded her of her father and she hoped he was far away by now, starting a new life.
“You’re right. These are pretty tasty,” said Jolene. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“That’s my business partner,” he said motioning in the direction of the German Shepard. “His Christian name is Raymond. You can call him Little Ray ’cause he ain’t no Christian.”
Little Ray’s tail waved a greeting. His eyes did the job for the old man. Neither of them judged her.
“He’s probably as good a Christian as most I’ve run across,” said Jolene. “His church is built on acceptance and honesty, not hypocrisy and money.”
“The whole, wide world is Little Ray’s church,” said the blind man. “Him and the Good Lord help me every day. But Little Ray does the heavy lifting.”
“Sounds like Little Ray is living up to what Jesus talked about, as I recall from Sunday School a long time ago,” she said.
“They don’t let dogs in church. So he wouldn’t know about that,” said the old man. “I ain’t been in a long time myself, mainly because he can’t go. And I like to drink. They don’t tolerate blind drunks in the pews. So me and Little Ray talk to God out here by ourselves.”
“I know the feeling,” said Jolene. She gave him another $100 bill. “Here’s an extra dollar for Little Ray.”
“I know you just gave me $200,” he said. “I’m blind and I sip the Jack, but I ain’t stupid.”
He held the money up in her direction. “The peaches are my gift.”
The Harley rumbled, as Jolene was already gone. Little Ray barked behind her.
“There goes the first real Christian we’ve met in 6 months,” said the old man. Little Ray did not argue.
Temperatures crawled into upper 90’s. Late afternoon clouds turned pewter across the southwest, moving rapidly over the agriculture. Thermometers shed twenty degrees in four minutes of wind. Torrents of pungent rain beat the ground into soup and ran in the ditches like rapids.
When it ended, pavement and roofs lifted steam as twilight shifted the leaden sky to salmon pink. Long shadows merged to murky shade from the gloaming inside the belly of verdant forest vegetation.
Ahead, the curvy road was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Dense growth on each side made it a green tunnel. Gus drove slowly with his lights off and windows down. Jimmy scoured the trees, looking for the right place. Longleaf pines shot up a hundred feet in perfectly straight, vertical trunks to form a sparse topping.
“Right up here,” said Jimmy.
Five hundred yards from Blue Lake, Gus stopped the car. Jimmy got out with the rifle and a Kevlar ammo pack neatly filled with rounds. Jimmy eased the door shut as quietly as possible. Gus kept on toward the lake. Jimmy navigated through the wet ferns into the woods.
The sound of Jolene’s stolen Harley was difficult to disguise. She didn’t try. She did scan the darkening lakeshore for two men. No one was there. She didn’t want to be in the open, so she drove into a thick grove uphill from the lake. A blue heron watched her.
Inside the leaves and branches, foggy moisture smelled of plowed earth and fresh cut Bahia grass. Spanish moss hung from low limbs. Jolene’s brain told her not to be here. Her gut told her to play the hand. As usual, Jolene played her gut.
If no one showed, she would start her new life with the money she had. If they did show, she just needed to be lucky a bit longer.
Jimmy’s riflescope was fitted with a $4,000 night vision adapter. His settings remained the same. He figured 500 meters for night accuracy.
Environments not ideal for distance shooting were the norm in Vietnam. Walking quietly was a skill he learned while hunting as a boy.
Blue Lake was mirror calm, reflecting the last coral light in the sky. Gus felt déjà vu parking in the gravel lot. He took a deep breath. The last week played out in his mind. So many dead – Briggs, Ab, his fellow officers, Lewis, Tajo, all of them. He figured he was next.
Death took the just and the unjust equally. Life took everyone else. The end result was hard to tell apart. It seemed Biblical, yet wrong. Truth was, it didn’t matter. He had little to lose and nothing to gain. His good and bad balanced out. He was even. Crickets tuned the darkness.
No vehicles. He was alone. The sickening feeling of being an exposed target heightened his senses. A dead fish stunk in the shallows. Ab’s black Fat Boy Softail was wedged into the fragrant honeysuckle up an incline. Jolene watched Gus. She was not the only one.Minsky had told Jolene that two men would meet her. Maybe he miscounted. The man beside the car was obviously waiting for someone.
She reached behind her. The 9 mm felt heavy for the first time since she had been carrying it. She debated walking out to him.
Mosquitoes rose from the cattails and buzzed her ears. The man looked like a cop. Bad news for her. It was the catch she figured was coming.
Woods like this could be filled with cops or Tajo’s leftovers, all looking for an ambush or easy bag of cash, and she had one.
Another man drove up in a 1970‘s car with a vinyl landau roof. He parked beside the first man. They did not look like they were together. The second man got out of his car, He and the first man stood about ten feet apart. Jolene crouched and watched their awkwardness. Two men, just like Minsky said. The newcomer carried a bag. Had to be money. If it is possible to smell a shooting, Jolene smelled it now.