Intro
MYSTERIOUS WAYS
They buried him that night under a yellow-faced moon. His miniature body seemed frail, pathetic, and barely human. He resembled a plastic replica of a baby; too small, too quiet. He departed nameless, without a marker, or a prayer. His end was an accident, as was his conception.
His older siblings placed him in a small hole in the ground, dug with garden tools. His mother was too agitated to add her competence to the job. A task finished in quick fashion, without coffin or crypt. His only hymns consisted of an old garage door screeching, as the shovel was replaced, and the howling of a neighborhood dog that smelled blood.
Nameless, unwanted, unclaimed, he lay for all eternity alone. The cold earth embraced him, but did not comfort him. His life finished before it had begun. His death was a hopeful spark smothered, kindness killed, and the crack from which evil would enter.
Everyone that touched him that night would face repulsive fates. One killed by her own family, and the others, their fate sealed by a permanent glue of corruption mixed with greed. They were coated in the grime of bad choices, wicked decisions, and heartless acts. Their fate driven by corrupt values. They would not be meeting God.
Chapter 1
THE CREW
or
The Devil Holds Auditions
I
Clint was a son without parents, an employee with no job skills, a brother with no sisterly love, and a man lacking a dream. He worked in a machine shop, and he spread his hate over the job itself, the management, and his co-workers, all covered thickly in equal measure. Clint despised the intolerant fools who employed him, almost as much as he hated himself.
Clint did not own much of anything; it was a constant puzzle to him. He had traveled far and long, through hurt, fear, and loneliness and yet he was still so close to the starting point. He was weary of running in circles around a board game designed against him. He began life a little late off the starting square, traveled too slowly on the trips around and sometimes delayed, spending a night in jail. He never received a positive card on a chance or acquired any property worth having. His competitors proved luckier, smarter, and quicker at the contest of life than Clint did. No matter how hard he shook the dice, they always landed on an odd number, moving him nowhere. He never seemed to remember all the rules, understand the concept of the board, or get the point of the game. His training for life’s adventure was incapacitated by his constant escape from reality.
He loathed the phrase, “That’s not fair.” It burned a hole through his heart. He knew life was a fraudulent lie. He was walking proof of it. As the old man said, “You’ll never amount to anything.” Clint lived his years in a reckless, careless way to prove that prophecy correct. He could not see the brass ring, let alone grab it. Drifting was what he did best, and even then, he always seemed to blow downhill. He floated in the gutter, wallowed in the mist of the smog, and struggled at the drain. He spent years of his life waiting for someone to arrive and save him, but no one ever came. He sometimes wondered why. Clint did not realize he had avoided those hands and closed those doors long ago. Now as a man, he had waited in vain for someone else to rescue him. Desperation forced his move; he took himself off the board, and made a conscious choice to cheat. He decided time was up and only he could force a deliverance day. Clint was heading for a fate with no exit tunnels. His circumstances were definitely going to change.
He had gambled away every paycheck, lotto tickets, pull-taps, and pick-3, but mostly in the casinos. He had wrecked every car or truck he had owned and he had been evicted, locked out; homeless more times than not. He was tired of life, drained of energy, and ready to make a change no matter what the cost.
Clint decided that today was the time for his salvation. Circumstances had changed and life was bound to improve. The destroyers of his soul were dead. His parents both buried. Still he heard their fights and drunken sermons in his head. He thought of them whenever he saw a mother smack her kid in the grocery store. He remembered the bitterness of youth when he ate ice cream and potato chips for dinner and held his ears shut to the fighting and screaming downstairs. He avoided their funerals, his usual pattern of evading any unpleasantness, and he had no regrets.
“Closure,” a bartender had advised, “you should have gone.” Clint allowed no closure; he thought himself condemned to carry them in his head, see their likeness in his own mirror, and hear them in his own voice. Six feet of dirt never buried that.
Clint decided to proceed. He would quit his job, move out of his rental, and begin with something he had never had before, a plan. He felt liberated, no boundaries of society to control him, no directions to follow, he would set the rules of this new game. Evil saw Clint offer his soul, it shivered with pleasure, and
HE accepted it.
II
Clint was broke. Never a saver, Clint had a few bills in his pocket, change in his truck, and a twenty hidden in his wallet. He fumed over that five thousand his greedy sister Cherie owed him. She had her own sense of justice. She had institutionalized the arguing, complaining parents into a cheap home for the aged and cleaned out their bank accounts. Clint was never sure how she achieved that move, through treachery, doctor’s orders, or force. Clint was the perfect escape artist, never making the honorary visits, and after his tour in the Marines, he had vanished from anyone with the title ‘family.’
He craved distance from them, but could not stop the gossips from bringing him tales of Cherie’s deceit or descriptions of how his parents had continued their fights until the supervisors in the home had separated them to different floors.
Still they fought their public battles, the blame game and the victim’s role, trying to destroy the other’s reputation and gain sympathy. Useless endeavors as their troubled characters were well established. They attempted to gain allies in support of their grief; but sadly, they were incapable of fooling even the feeblest of the other elderly residents. Clint had heard it all. It kept his blood pressure high and his anger stirred.
Cherie had emptied each box and drawer, taken jewellery off the nightstand, and removed every ugly stick of furniture. Even the oversized lamps, the chipped dishes, and the dime store ashtrays, all of it appeared in Cherie’s home, like bounty from a Viking raid. This was her payment for promises broken, to stuff a heart left aching and bleeding to death.
Clint half admired his sister for her daring, while hating her for the theft. Someday she would be in one of his plans. Someday she would get hers all right. He harbored this hate of injustice. It
fuelled him. He would use it to strengthen him. Just thinking of it increased his heartbeat, heated his face, shot pains through his gut. He would use this hate; he would live off it. He had a lot of hate to go around.
Then it hit him; there was a way to make money. Good money, if you did not have a conscience. He had lost his, that night, under a yellow-faced moon.
“It’s the guns,” Clint whispered, ‘the guns.” Finally, he smiled, and a stream of salvia glistened in the corner of his mouth.
III
Cherie slapped at the old, stained lampshade, as its protruding triangle poked her in the head. Damn oversized piece of junk! She was not sure why she had taken everything. Lately, it was hard to find pride in her garage sale inheritance, her flea market grandeur. Nevertheless, she still believed she deserved it. She was the eldest and that meant it should all be hers. She was born first and she had first pick. Too bad the money went so fast. She had meant to save a few thousand, but she had seen that Firebird, that gleaming blue fender, and she had to have it too.
Her interfering old employee, who clerked at the store Cherie managed, told her that cars were a poor investment. That she should have purchased land, or bank CD’s. Cherie scoffed at any practicality. Securities did not give you pleasure, or lighten your heart! New cars make you important and let others see that you are better than they are. Cherie was somebody and she was glad she had taken everything. “Share and lose,” she said. “Share and lose,” she sang, “and Cherie ain’t known for her sharing.” Here she laughed at her wit and pushed the lamp further back on the table. How could she read the Inquiry Magazine if she could not hold her thoughts?
The magazine was brimming with pictures. It had colored shots of all the popular people, rich and famous ones, in unflattering poses, caught cheating, lying, or just found guilty of appearing in a dreadful dress. She loved to read everything about them. She would pretend she was one of them, an adoring crowd pushing in on her for an autograph or a picture. Cherie set no limits for herself; she was capable and eager to try anything. So far, she had been successful in her illegal endeavors, and she saw no reason to change.
Cherie opened another can of beer, and turned the page. “Life in Outer Space Proven!” How stupid, some people would believe anything.
IV
The Ozark Gun Show was set up in a local motel and convention center; an ugly building connected by a walkway made up of failed glass panels. It had a huge parking lot and each dusty row was full, forcing Clint to drive up and down every isle. The vehicles were pretty telling of the clientele inside. Lots of testosterone designed trucks composed of big rams with toolboxes and trailer hitches. Bumper stickers decorated every rusty inch, expressing deep thoughts like, “Back Off” and “I Shoot Easterners.” Warnings, “Don’t Mess with Bubba” and “Still Out for Yankee Blood” papered the dusty fenders. Clint loved it here already.
Clint thought he was quite the expert on guns. One benefit of enlisting in the Marines, it had supplied him with an education in good weaponry. He continued his firearm education by reading about their styles,
caliber, and the history of all the manufacturers in Shoot to Kill magazine. He had owned a few rifles, but sold them for needed cash. Mike at the machine shop had talked non-stop about the Ozark Gun Show and that is when Clint’s inspiration began to develop. Right there over the stripper machine, he saw his future. The dealers make the money and a gun dealer is what he would become. He would travel, live off the land. He would pick up guns cheap from “down and outs” and sell them to ignorant city people for huge profits. Guilt by association was no concern. If one of his weapons was used to shoot somebody, the Feds could never trace it back to him. Anyway, he was smarter than any cop on any day.
Clint pulled into a vacant parking spot and jumped down from the truck. Today was the first day in the rest of his new life. Good-bye to standing on cement floors ten hours a day in heat and cold. Hello to travel, adventure, riches, and the fulfillment of a grand plan. Welcome to the doorway into hell.
V
Anne woke up in a sweat, soaked as intensely as a menopausal woman out of estrogen pills. Her cheap, cotton nightgown was wet and twisted, like an item caught in a washing machine. Sweat trailed down her legs and crimped her hair at the nap of her neck; brown wavy hair that curled at the thought of humidity.
Damn the dreams, what was she to do with them? They always started with her birthday and a visit from her godparents. What an oxymoron that was, “God” parents they were not. All her childhood birthdays were moved to Friday night so the godparents could come down for a visit. They would walk in the door, hand her a cheap card with a dollar bill inside, and ignore her for the rest of the evening. For that, she was grateful.
Uncle George with cigar breath and the too familiar hugs and Aunt Marilyn loaded down with her cheap
jewelry and heavy perfume. They would move to the dining room that barely held the dinette table and four cold, metal chairs covered in spots with yellow plastic.
There, the visiting relatives and Anne’s parents would play cards for hours on end, smoking, drinking, and eating cheese and crackers. At first, all was congenial and pleasant. After five minutes you would hear, “Calm down, we are not playing for the COURT HOUSE!” After ten minutes, the volume increased and caused Anne to turn up the TV. Arguments would break out over who had the lead, who dealt, and who was peeking at another’s hand. All four accused the other of incorrectly adding the score and the pad slid with force from side to side, as the scorekeepers defended their abilities. The shouting would increase with the drinking; then the insults would start to fly, then the cards, then the glasses. Only that night, the real meanness came out.
Anne tried to remember what happened next that particular night, but only a fog of sounds filled the void. A meowing hiss, cursing, and a noisy trip outside where the screeching of a garage door cried out on rising. Then the howling of a dog, a throaty yap that was gripped between excitement and hunger. However, those noises were not the worst of her dreams. The real terror of that night was that it was her first sight of the
eyes. Red eyes floating without a face, watching, a shrewd stare that was unblinking, unlashed, and inhuman. Was it real or imagined? Anne had read that everyone has a dark shadow self, a flip side deeply controlled by hate, or rage. Were her red eyes a creature, the presence of an evil entity, or a trapped emotion burning for release?
Anne only knew that the sight of those red lights paralyzed her. She told no one. She carried it around as if it were a bucket of stale, poison water tied around her neck. She could not forget it and bearing the menace made life a heavy burden.
After that night, her older sister ran away and married the first guy that said, “Yes.” She lived in a trailer a few miles down the road, stopped by to do laundry, complain, ask for money, and tell Anne what a loser she was. Anne faced certain ridicule if she confided in her. Her sister was always searching for new information about Anne. Cherie loved finding facts and using it as leverage, anything to support her cause at the expense of another. Anne remained silent.
Her brother Clint had absconded in his bid for freedom through an illegal enlistment in the military gained at the age of sixteen. In this family, the revolving door started spinning as soon as you could drive a car. He had run off to join the Marines and Dad had said, “Good, one less mouth to feed.” Clint was tall, sometimes funny, and quite handsome as a boy. He was also cold as a stranger in a foreign city, hurt as a stray dog, and hard as stale, rock candy. He began running away when he was about eight, and the parents always fought about it. Mother accusing, father shouting her down. Sometimes Clint would return home, only to be locked out. He would sleep on the front porch, a cement rectangular spot, carpeted in moldy, green pieces of cheap fabric. They would find him on the porch in the morning, like a dog that had wandered away, but came back, for lack of somewhere better.
Anne heard he was living locally now, but she never saw him. She wondered about him, how did he remember his childhood? Did he wake up nights in a sweat? Did he live in fear of what was going to happen next?
VI
Bill McCafy was a dabbler. He used to drive truck, but some people said he drove more, like drugs in the back of the big rig. He took bets on sports and horse races and was a known bookie, and though betting was illegal, he was never charged. He was generous with false praise, knew a few secrets, and knew how to keep them. He had a reputation for swallowing too many whiskeys and local restaurants banned him because of his loud, swaggering voice. However, he was popular with a certain set and never lacked for hangers-on.
Bill set up at the Ozark Gun Show at first light, understanding location was important. Close to the front door, but not too close to the skinhead groups. Bill’s dad had fought in WW II and he was not listening to any damn kraut lovers all day. He had unloaded the 84 Chevy van with care, each weapon wrapped in an old blanket.
The van carried over 200,000 miles of interesting history and stayed secure with the help of duck tape, wire, and beer cans. The front door did not fit within the body frame, leaving a half-inch opening that whistled as it moved. Bill liked to say it was manufactured on a Monday, before a strike. Mud coated the already ugly tan color of it and was especially heavy on the right side of the license plate, hiding the last three numbers.
Bill could afford better, but he liked to advertise poor. That was the difference in the Ozarks. Millionaires here wore bib overalls and drove old trucks. In St. Louis, millionaires spent every dime showing off their money and borrowed more besides. Bill kept his business tight and his finances close. He knew bankers were crooks and he never remembered seeing one he could trust. This was one of his biggest mistakes.
VII
Cherie drove fast, as she always did, pretending she was in the Indy 500. Actually, she was just going to the local Target for blonde hair dye, but in her mind, she was set on a great goal. Co-workers lamented Cherie’s decision to dye her hair blonde. Her other mistake was applying it herself, resulting in dry, frizzed strands tinted a golden retriever blonde. Now that she was getting older, the roots were white and mousy brown, like a dusty, dog’s muzzle. They marked a definite line down the side of her head, a tribute to Cherie’s economy in only dying her hair every eight weeks.
Her last husband had gone out to buy a Power Ball ticket and never returned, and she was glad of it. He was not getting his hands on her inheritance. She also had title to all the land they had purchased together. In the Ozark area, you could buy an acre for under a thousand dollars, and through the years, they had bought several tracts. She did nothing with them, they were as useless as she could be, but they were hers.
She was free as a bird, and the color of a canary, speeding along in that Firebird. If she only knew how much her life was going to change, she would have treated herself to the Clairol brand and a steak dinner.
Cherie did not possess foresight. No one had ever accused her of having insight or ESP; she was not like her sister Anne.
VIII
As Clint entered the cement building hosting the gun show, he was amazed at the crowd, the noise, and the merchandise. On his left was a vender dressed in kerchiefs. One on his head, a sleeveless tee-shirt made from them, and a final one tied around his wrist. Clint glanced at the man’s eyes but could not penetrate through the red glare of the wire-rimmed sunglasses. Well-worn jeans and dusty, tan boots finished his statement, and you could tell he had made this statement for
years and years. A chill ran down Clint’s arms and he rubbed them self-consciously. The kerchief man had made signs with a black marker on pieces of brown cardboard. They cried out to
passers-by, “Advanced Protection a Must” and taped below, “Protect Yourself Now!” As Clint surveyed the commodities for sale, he wondered who needed .50 Cal, Armor-piercing Ammo, or a Western Fast Draw Rig to protect yourself? Another sign, “Shoot First, ask questions later!” made Clint smile as he wondered who was the enemy? Clint turned again and tried to catch the man’s eye. It was eerie, weird, like staring at a mannequin. Clint felt sick, as if death had touched him. For one moment, he questioned his next step.
Other venders had small guns you could hide in your hand or the Z-Force Stun Gun series in case you wanted to stun your deer. There were the Ruger 10/22 Trigger Works, single action Rugers, and Smith & Wesson 4006’s. Stacks of shotguns, in various lengths, with cute names like Shorty Forty were laying two feet deep.
There were also the hate groups who were happy to supply possible target ideas for your guns. Flag sellers and bulletproof vests if you were afraid the deer might shoot back. There were hot dog vendors, popcorn poppers, and roasted nut stalls so you could make a carnival day out of shopping for protection.
Clint walked the gun show, watching, waiting, and deciding. He was getting discouraged. There were too many dealers and hundreds of products. He was not interested in causes, race wars, or separatist movements; he wanted fast cash. This start to his plan was going to take too much time. Learning all that boring lingo, talking to some lonely, old farm boy, only to have him walk off and buy nothing. It was another job of standing on cement floors for ten hours a day. All that carrying, driving, and eating fast foods. He was too smart for this. He needed a shortcut.
Old Bill McCafy noticed the stranger watching him. He had been on the run a time or two and had developed a sense of danger. He felt it now.
The fellow seemed ordinary enough, tall, with wavy, dark hair and fed up with life. The mouth held too tight, the shoulders resigned and set. His clothes telling everyone he was not rich, but he had confidence. The tight polo shirt announcing he had plenty of muscle too. Only the eyes, hazel and hard, hinted at something sinister. They held the desperate glare of a prisoner’s eyes and fear chocked Bill’s windpipe closed. Those eyes made him think about hopelessness with no regret.
Bill usually had a friend or two at the shows, but this year they had headed down to the Raccoon Valley Show in Tennessee. The Ozarks had several small shows right off Highway 44 and now he wished he had bypassed this one. Oh, he had plenty of guns all right, but this fellow seemed set, regardless of any consequences. Bill should have trusted his insights.
Old Bill McCafy stole a swig of his ripe whiskey and decided he was being fanciful. “Quit acting like a kid!” he told himself, “the Irish ain’t cowards and it’s time to get busy and make some money.”
Signalling to a pair of good old boys in flannel shirts coming his way, he held up a semi-automatic and shouted, “You guys hunters?”
Clint smiled, and then forced it into hiding. The objective was looking better and better. He had seen the light film of sweat break out over the old man's countenance, interrupted only by stubble and a bad complexion. He could smell the dread, had heard the false bravo in the man’s voice, and he enjoyed this sensation of superiority over prey. He could live on this feeling and the hatred he stored. He leaned back against the wall and hoped the dealer would make a sale, lots of them, the more money the better.
IX
Anne’s childhood home had one telephone, a black rotary, and it was a party line. Her grandmother would call everyday and ask for her daughter. Anne’s mother would make up various lies, “Tell her I’m not here,” or “I’ll call her back,” and she would tell Anne to pass it on. Sometimes grandmother cried with this cruel hurt, and Anne, angered by her mother’s thoughtlessness would gather her courage and say, “She’s here, just a minute,” and receive a slap for it. The two older women would fight their word battles and it would end with Anne’s mother slamming down the telephone receiver and turning her rage towards Anne.
One day the ringing announced that grandmother was dead. After that, the telephone never rang. It sat there in its cold blackness and asked nothing, gave nothing, bothered no one.
When Anne’s mother got old, she forgot her own behavior to the elderly, but Anne never forgot. Her pity was tempered with a past remembrance of her grandmother’s sobs. Anne disliked the telephone and never took a job that required answering one.
Anne never called her sister Cherie again, after her insane behavior and her false justification for theft. None of them had gotten out of that house healthy, but Anne had not realized until then, how unbalanced some of them were. Though Cherie despised her parents, it was of the utmost importance that she inherit every possession they had. Just her and no one else. Who would want those memories in glassware, tables, and oozing out of pillows on an old, indented sofa? Anne was afraid the affliction continued, and she did not know how to stop it, or avoid it.
Cell phones, everyone had one, but Anne never would. She hated telephones. Anne hated many things; loud noises, conflicts, anyone in her yard, towels folded at odd angles, and being fat.
Anne ate too much and too often, and she was not sure why. All she understood was the feeling of comfort it gave her. A safe haven, as if she had zipped on a hundred pound coat and no one could hurt her inside. Now the weight also made her out of breath, her cholesterol too high, and caused her blood pressure to climb. Her safety was gone and the fear of being sick, with no one to take care of her, pushed her to thoughts of controlling her eating. She felt a chill, a dark, hazy feeling over her head and down around her shoulders, a stole wrapping her in gloomy apprehension. Something bad was going to happen, it came over her in a sick wave, intense, vile. It must be the feeling soldiers have before a battle and she knew she could not avoid this fight.
Habits die hard; Anne got out the sour cream and onion flavored potato chips. She would stay in today, take it easy, and pray the telephone did not ring.
X
Cherie drove past the interstate and noticed the cloth sign, “Ozark Gun Show” flapping in the breeze. She slowed down to sixty and took the exit ramp so fast she almost rolled the Firebird. She felt alive and in control, but she wondered, how would having a gun make her feel? Talk about control and safety; after all, she had to protect all her acquired items. What if some escaped prisoner broke in on her, a woman there alone with just the boys. They were always escaping from the local jails, prying out rotten bars from crumbling mortar; they just walked off, stealing, and killing innocent people like her.
Then there were her neighbors. Cherie hated the ones bordering her southern property and wished they would crash their four-wheelers and burn. Stupid, irritating, noisy jerks always yelling at her two boys, her Schnauzer dogs, and little barkers they were too. No one was going to sneak up on old Cherie when the boys were on guard, but she acknowledged, they were too small to attack anyone and do much damage. She could relocate but that would mean letting them win. No way was Cherie giving into the neighbors; they were the obnoxious ones. What more could she do to them than what she had done before? She had called them vile names, thrown bottles and cans over the fence, and written them nasty notes. Maybe she could scare them with an accidental shot over the fence. Was a second murder easier than the first?
It was late afternoon and several parking spots were vacant. Proud of the Firebird, she parked up front, right beside the ugliest, tan van she had ever seen. Hitching her purse strap up, Cherie checked her wallet. Sixty lousy dollars and her payday a week away. Maybe gun sellers took credit cards, craft shows did, flea markets too.
She hated this cold, gloomy building with its 70s white brick. She decided to make this quick and then drive through Taco Bell for a special, celebration dinner. Her life was finally coming together and she was going to get all she deserved.
XI
Bill McCafy studied the competition with a smirk. If you were going to sell merchandise, you had to understand your customer. These new fellows did not have a clue about how to make the real money.
Smith & Wesson guns for sale, God Almighty, no NRA card-carrying man would buy one of those. That British owned traitor to the Bill of Rights, with gunlocks and all the rest. Gun manufacturers had to believe in gun rights.
Now, if only that creepy person would leave, Bill would be feeling the breath of success. He wanted to count his money, go into a bathroom stall and check his profits, but he could not leave his merchandise unattended.
Bill brightened up as a floozy of a woman approached his table. She looked like she would not know a Luger from a M16. If she did not understand the product, she sure as hell would not know the price. He just stopped rubbing his hands together, straightened up, and called, “Help you pretty lady?” A false compliment never hurt with the girls, he thought.
Cherie’s head snapped up fast at the remark, not sure if it was genuine or a come on. There stood a tree of a man at least ten years her senior, dressed as if he just crawled out of the woods, and possessing a large nose, rather red, it screamed his drinking habits for the world to see. This was her advantage. He was probably drunk and slow. She could get herself a deal with this one.
Cherie heard a soft curse to her left, and turned. “Clint! Geese Louise, what are you doing here?”
XII
Now if the devil wanted a crew, here were a few prime ingredients. Each one sizing up the other, planning and plotting, wondering and worrying. What to say, to whom. Cherie had a sudden headache and wished she had gone through Taco Bell before the gun show.
Clint could have killed his sister for showing up and ruining his big score. She had always spoiled every good idea he had ever had. She had beaten him to the punch by taking all the parents’ property first, and today her mouth would upset this carefully laid plan as well.
Bill studied the expression on the new customer’s face as she scrutinized his stalker. They knew each other all right and neither was glad to see the other. Or was that their plan, to fool him, rob him. Well, Bill was too smart for that. He would handle these two just fine.
“Well Clint,” said Cherie, “are you buying a gun too? Maybe you could help me pick one out, since violence is such a part of your life.”
Always a slam in every sentence, thought Clint. She had hated their mother, yet she was a mimic of her. If he squeezed his eyes half shut, he could see dear old mom standing right there. Well he was not going to play that game, not now.
“Cherie, I wouldn’t peel you off the highway after a head on. For God’s sakes, what’s with you hair, you look like a bag lady.”
There it was, that criticism she had heard since birth. “Nice seeing you too, brother. I don’t need your help anyway, I was just being nice.”
So that was her nice, thought Bill, and this was her brother. Some crazy, dysfunctional family this was.
XIII
Anne was in a deep sleep; a carbohydrate induced reel of old memories and childhood visions. She was in her front yard and it was summer, mild and safe, as only the rural areas seemed to be. A place where you could ride your bike all day, no helmet, or elbow pads, only the wind in your face and the sunshine lighting your way. Outside was perfect freedom and security; back then, the threat was inside your own house and strangers were your friends.
In this dream, Anne was happy; she was wearing her hand-me-down cowgirl’s outfit. Red vest and flared, red skirt, both pieces fringed at the bottoms. Strapped to her sides were her two, rusty six-shooters with mold growing on the holsters. There was nothing like a cap gun, the smell of the caps as they fired the easy load of the circle of ammo laced through the chambers. The feel of the top-heavy barrels and the noise that made all the neighborhood dogs howl.
In the dream, her sister Cherie and her friends were in the yard, having a truth and dare contest. Cherie was the bravest, never losing. While other girls kept a part of themselves in check, Cherie exposed herself far more than she knew. She struck her audience speechless with her schemes and she would dive deeper, thinking they agreed. She did not realize they were quiet in their shock. They would talk about boys, school, and the movies, or the one girl who was not present. Cherie would talk about whom she hated, how she was going to get even, and hint at sinister plots.
Anne was sitting in her favorite spot. To the west side of the house grew a huge, apple tree, one that smelled fresh with new, spring blossoms and hummed with the flurry of birds. However, the best thing about the tree was the low, long branch that Anne had looped over with ropes. They were her stirrups, this branch was her horse, and life did not get any better than riding her Fury and wearing her guns. Those silver pieces with the white handles transferred her mind into almost every old, western rerun she had ever seen. While her brother Clint shot helpless birds and rabbits, Anne shot bad men and villains. Anne’s head was full of adventure stories and this retreat location would always be the most cherished place of her childhood, until her Dad cut off that branch for spite, a day when she had never cried harder or with more grief.
What was it in this dream, the grief and guns, she had not thought of that in over twenty years. Woven in the emotion was herself as the savior, riding to the rescue. Anne could not imagine anything more remote. Then she sat up straight, wide-awake; a noise had startled her, it was the screeching of a garage door opening. And that smell, sulfur.
XIV
HE smiled that crooked smile that could melt a mother’s heart, and still a woman’s breath, the smile of total assurance and self-satisfaction.
HE was not Beelzebub, Lucifer, or Satan, but the spirit of depravity and
HE was a master at infiltrating men’s souls. HE was not recruiting a crew, but standing here dressed in his kerchiefs,
HE could not help being attracted to these three mortals before him.
Gun shows were reliable places, hotbeds for harboring candidates to foster evil. They were filled with deadbeat dads, abusive husbands, big talkers, and slow thinkers, rolled together with broken dreams, lost causes, and mischief makers.
HE observed his surroundings, and breathed in the strong, rank odor of nostalgia;
HE had not seen the confederate flag displayed so gloriously in years and years. “State’s Rights” bumper stickers, not one, but an entire bumper full, from bottom left to corroded right. That confederate flag brought back memories: if you wanted to stir up misery and pain, disease and cruelty, false pride and treachery, that war had it all. But what this local gun buying generation thought of when they flew the “Bars and Stars” was not their grand pappy’s nobility, but their own prejudice and hate.
The thought that these men cared about old man Bobby Lee or the Battle of the Wilderness, inspired him to smile broader, and his red eyes danced with the despair dripping in this room. “Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg.” Federal dead 12,653—Confederate 5,309.
HE had been there.
HE had no current strategy, unless it was to be as erratic as possible, like a tornado in its destructiveness and unpredictability. Life offered opportunities and you accepted the ones you wanted and refused those you feared. There were no crossroads for him, only hundreds of paths over people, places, and things. What
HE left behind, was a swath of downed lives, buried under lost dreams and empty spaces torn through people’s souls. This was what
HE lived for, what HE was good at, and what HE needed to survive.
Finding these three characters was common; there were millions on the planet like this, ready for the picking. That they felt desperate, cheated, or just unhappy at the deal they received, was as normal as rain in Miami. Funny how they never took responsibility for their hand. They forgot they held one card over another, dealt more than once and sometimes cheated themselves by dealing from the bottom of the deck. They refused to accept the fact that they had made all their own decisions. Judgments that had led them to this point in their lives. They thought they were adrift in a current, when they were just taking the accommodating way out, riding downstream, floating along a path of their own design.
Humanity, so effortless to dominate, so ready for the quick profit and the easier path. Should
HE watch them for a while before making a move, let them perform a little play for him first? Like a large swaggering tomcat,
HE decided HE would. Always play with your food before you eat it.
