Chapter 1
THE CREW
or
The Devil Holds Auditions
XV
A Missouri State Trooper found the first body on Friday. It was the body of an infant, perhaps a few weeks old. It was lying along side old highway H, just off interstate 44, Tornado Alley, the Trail of Tears. It was wrapped in a blue blanket and faced the ditch. The autopsy report was incomplete, the body had been exposed to the elements and animals; the public did not need the particulars. Police were looking for the parents and/or killers. However, with no clues found by the small, lifeless body, justice was a hollow promise.
XVI
Time had clicked by in the gun show’s halls as Clint, Cherie, and Bill arrived at a certain understanding. First Cherie had decided she did not need a gun. Money being tight, she still had plans to visit the Kansas City casinos this month. There was a Double Diamond Machine up there with a half million, progressive pot and she wanted it. She also wanted to get out of present company, and when she tried to think, a silly chant, sickly sweet, came into her head: “Gas N Grub, Gas N Grub, Gas N Grub.” She had not felt this sick since her last beer fest food poisoning.
Clint was relieved to see Cherie was backing out of her, “buy a gun” decision. She never could hold an idea for more than twenty minutes before she was on to something else. Too bad, he was just beginning to hope that she would shoot herself while cleaning it.
He watched the old gun salesmen working the sale and knew his mood had also changed. Bill was no longer trying to close a deal, he was breathing too hard, and his countenance had a ghostly paleness. He was exposing a nervousness Clint felt was unusual for him. Instinctively Clint knew he was not the cause, and not since the old man had knocked him down a flight of stairs, had Clint felt this wary. Whatever was wrong, all Clint could think of was to get over to the, “Gas N Grub” immediately.
Bill packed up in record time. The two creepy siblings had left in a mad dash and Bill needed to light a candle too. He needed to buy gas and head out of town fast.
XVII
The Globe reports: Driver loses control, plows into gas pumps at the Gas N Grub last evening. Flames and smoke seen for miles as four semis exploded and three customers died in the fire. No cause for the collision is known and the Noelsville Police Department is investigating the case.
XVIII
Would she ever stop that damn WAILING? First the kid, then her, if she did not stop it soon, she would be the next one thrown out of the car.
Sue Ellen knew she was in deep trouble. Murder, that would be the charge. A little too much shaking, a bruise here and there, who knew it could kill a kid? She was sobbing, not in regret, as much as in fear of being caught. Prison, she knew she would never survive it.
When she met up with Billy Ray, she thought he was the sweetest thing since boy bands. Only he turned out sour and spoiled, carrying a child’s rage in a strong man’s body. Then the baby came along and Billy Ray hated sharing the attention. He was not much for sharing the money either, or the food.
What was going to happen to her now? What about her dreams of being a singer? The next American Idol? Surely, life could not be so unjust as to make her pay for a few mistakes.
“Slow down Billy Ray, for God’s sakes, you’re making us look suspicious with your speeding.”
Billy Ray was having no back talk. He flexed his right arm, making his tattoos dance and spring. He needed gas and then he would put Sue Ellen back in her place.
He took the exit faster than he knew was smart, but maybe he could shut her up if he showed her who was in charge. The Gas N Grub was coming up fast and just as he attempted the sharp turn into the pump area, Sue Ellen grabbed the wheel and tried to steer him to a stop. For just one moment, her eyes glowed red and flashed.
When the bald, Firestone tires hit the wet oil left from previous cars, the Ford Explorer topped over like a size 38EE, silicon busted, topless dancer. Sue Ellen’s side hit the pumps with enough force to cause the largest explosion Noelsville folks could ever remember.
The State Police would never connect the parents to the dead baby found on the interstate. If the heat had not been so intense, they could have found the near empty diaper bag; a few plastic bottles and wonder where was the baby? However, ashes told no tales and the crime was never solved. Still, someone knew what predators went with what victim.
HE relished keeping score of major sins. HE had watched the sad drama and had planned the little skid.
HE liked to end some of the plays fast, while savoring others. When you had all eternity, you could do whatever you damn well pleased.
HE breathed in deeply, loving the smell of tattooed flesh, burning. In addition,
HE wanted to put on a little show for the three people near the station. Upcoming attractions.
XIX
Cherie could not believe it. Flying truck parts were pelting her beautiful Firebird. A complete door spun past her head, barely missing her left side, but a steering wheel did hit her hood and bounced into another truck. Her ears rang from the explosion, so that she had a surreal feeling, like after a rock concert, when life goes on in silence. She felt her hair on the left side; it was singed, much dryer than normal.
Man she was hot. Cherie burned from the action taking place, with the experience of being right in the center of it. The only day better was when the old lady fell into the next world. The gut tightening thrill of death reminding her of the horror of her own actions. The pleasure of smothering the life out of someone she hated; dulled by a small sense of guilt. It was all mixed, the satisfaction with the fear. Matricide for money, so far, Cherie’s biggest achievement. She pushed those thoughts away; she did not need reminding, even by herself. What was happening at the Gas N Grub, what the hell just happened?
Bill slammed on his brakes, but the van did not have a quick response time, due to lack of regular maintenance. He rear-ended a red 4 x 4 and pushed it a good ten feet to the right of the flaming parts flying through the smoky air. For a moment Bill strained his brain trying to figure out how this could be his fault. Where was his escape? “Hell, wait a minute, I just drove in the damn place, I am the victim,” he realized. Some other idiot had caused this mess, and such a relief swept through him, he was almost giddy. He could not stand another rotten problem today.
Poor Bill needed a few shots of whiskey and a good rest. First, there were names to get and insurance information to collect. Someone was going to pay him big for the front bumper on his van. In addition, his neck and back hurt too. Why, pain and suffering alone should pay about fifteen hundred.
Clint glanced out the window of the Gas N Grub to see the whirl of a black SUV skidding for the gas pumps. His gut reacting, he pulled the elderly clerk in front of him, protecting his own face from the blast. The old man tried to duck but was unable to dodge the breaking glass and Clint’s grip. Blood streamed from his face and hands as he fought to get free. The noise stunned them both for a second and Clint let the clerk slide to the floor in a bloody heap. Amazed at his own behavior, Clint dropped to the floor and low-crawled around the counter to see more of the action.
Sirens cried in the distance, thanks to over fourteen calls from cell phones, and help arrived expeditiously. The reporter from the local television station got a chilly reception from some of the crowd. He thought it was strange. Most people wanted to be on television.
XX
A small boy shivered in the back of the Gas N Grub. His face pale, his heart fast, his mouth dry; he shifted behind a stack of overpriced canned goods and covered his face.
Casey was an old soul trapped in a young body. The son of an unwed mother, he had to be the man of the family, even at eight years old. Casey tried to look on the bright side of life; find the best in people, but what he had just witnessed chilled him numb. He was in the Gas N Grub, although he was not supposed to walk that far from home. He had to buy some Twizzlers, cherry ones, and the more he ate, the more he wanted. That sweet urge had placed him in the store when the explosion occurred.
He had seen the SUV racing towards the store and in his line of vision, he had watched in horror as the tall, dark clothed man used Mr. Brumbles as a human shield. He was tempted to tell the reporter, the police, the firefighters, but he did not. Mom worried enough without this. But an old saying came to him, “Where there is good, there is also evil.” He felt the evil. Moreover, right before the SUV crashed; Casey thought he saw someone in the back seat, someone with red eyes. He had heard screeching, something old and rusty. It made the hairs on his neck stand up.
Casey saw destructive manipulations everyday and sometimes he felt them. And the scariest of all, sometimes he knew them before they happened. Evil had an odor like an explosion, or sickly sweet, like a weed’s flower. He was not sure what frightened him more; knowing evil acts were going to happen or understanding that other people did not see it. They could not see it. And he never talked about it, EVER.
His mom had been voted Football Queen, and Founder’s Day Favorite. He had seen the pictures in her scrapbook. Sometimes she was riding on floats and sometimes standing on a gym floor, in front of a big curtain. She looked happy then. She wore a white formal and she was always standing by a different guy. It was very important for his mom to be popular and she had done anything to stay that way. That is what Gran said. “My Alice always had to be the star, Casey; you understand that don’t you?” And he did. He had watched her star glowing and he had seen it extinguished too. He thought he put that sadness there, because when he came along her senior year, mom’s popularity had fizzled to an empty promise.
Casey wanted his dad identified, discussed, but that never happened. He had tried with Gran once, but those tight lips, her stern grip on his shoulders, had said louder than any words, “Do not ask that again.” So, Casey stared at the scrapbook, not at his mom the star, but at the young men standing around. He would search in vain for a resemblance. However, they did not seem like dads, only high school jocks, kids themselves.
Therefore, he had put the book up on his highest shelf, as if that would stop the hurt, and sometimes he could forget it was up there and that his birth had stopped his mom from being a star.
XXI
Alice had tried several careers in her last eight years as unwed mother. First, she had tried the local Trade College and thought business was the answer to a safe future. Only business was full of accounting spreadsheets, problem solving, and math. If she had been any good at that, she would not be broke.
Next, she tried Beauty College. This was more her style, but it was thirty miles away and cost too much. She liked the hair, hated the nails, and dropped out halfway through.
Working as a waitress brought in decent money, but required long nights, and longer weekends. Not to mention standing all day, even when the place was empty of customers. The young waitresses gathered at the back bar and exchanged sad stories. Alice went home dead tired and depressed.
She had had a few bad relationships since Casey came along. It did not take her long to learn high school popular was not life popular. Some men did not want anything to do with a young woman and her son. Some were broke and always borrowing money and never paying it back. Some wanted to use her, boss her around, or live in her apartment. After a few years, she had pulled back from all the pain and tried to make a life for her and Casey alone.
She did not care what her mother said; Casey was the best thing that had ever happened to her, even if she was not sure who the father was.
Alice’s mom had been surprised with Alice’s birth, near her own fiftieth birthday. The coming of Alice had thrown her parents a good old curve ball. One they did not see coming and never tried to catch. By then, they were set in their ways, and they had no desire to change. Then, after all the sacrifices, they had had to endure the shame and disappointment of Casey’s arrival. They could never see him as their grandchild, but the spoiler, the final nail in their coffin of hope. They received two gifts in life, and refused to unwrap either one of them.
Alice, who was never appreciated herself, knew Casey was the best kid ever. He never cried as a baby, he was never sick, thank God. She had no insurance. He was smart, kind, and pretty darn amazing when she thought of it. It still overwhelmed her that while in the back seat of a car, just trying to feel wanted, she had created such a wonderful kid.
Alice might not be the center of the universe, but to Casey she was a good mother. And that was enough for today, especially for a girl that had never been able to reach another goal or claim another accomplishment.
Alice opened her book and tried to study for finals. She was back in Trade School nights and working as a waitress too, but someday she and Casey would have a home, friends, and money to eat at the restaurant where she worked. They would have more than just a half priced special at the counter, standing up, but sitting at a table while someone else served. She had to laugh. Her dreams were very different from when she was eighteen.
XXII
HE felt him inside the Gas N Grub, small at first, then stronger. His presence bothered him.
HE had not planned for him. HE hated surprises and HE howled as his red eyes flashed.
XXIII
Casey was trying to be quite, his mom was studying. She had told him earlier about her terrible day. To make extra money she sometimes cut hair for a few people living in their apartment complex. She had cut Marina’s hair today. Marina had cancer and was losing her hair, so mom went over to shave it all off. She said they had tried to make it fun and pretend she was going into the Army, but it was not fun. Mom had come home and cried for an hour before making dinner. Casey was very glad he had run home from the Gas N Grub without getting on TV and further ruining her day. She must never know that he had been so far away from home and so close to an explosion.
Casey started thinking about his summer in terms of before and after the gas station blast. Before, it had been the usual school is closed, entertain yourself kind of year. Since mom did not have the money, he did not play in any of the summer programs. Even if McDonalds donated money to the soccer and T- ball teams, and supplied the equipment, you still needed a ride. Then there were also the “catches,” as Gran called them. The team photos for $10.00, the extra tee-shirts, and ice cream after the game, he could not afford those things.
He had tried team sports last year and had never felt so left out of anything. Other kids had parents in bleachers with video cameras and coolers full of Gatorade. They would be handing out words of praise and encouragement after every play. Watching dads hug their sons and promising summer camp and new gear broke Casey’s heart.
Casey tried not to be jealous, he knew it was wrong to envy others, but it was hard, too hard and he claimed no interest in silly youth programs. That left him in Gran’s hands. Gramps had died of heart disease and his wife had never forgiven him this desertion. Gran wavered between bitterness, defeat, and just enough stubbornness to hang onto life. She watched Casey however; no one was going to accuse her of shirking her Christian Duty.
Casey could tell she did not enjoy having him around. Every time he got off the sofa, Gran would straighten the cushion. If he asked for a snack, Gran would say she was not a millionaire and that he would make a mess; or no, he would ruin his appetite for supper. If he wanted to watch TV, one of Gran’s soaps was on, and they came first. She had old games, Parcheesi, Chinese Checkers, and cards. No Play Stations here, or a computer. Just old, moldy smelling boxes with half the pieces missing.
Casey had started playing with the cards, because they were complete, 52 and 2 jokers. Gran had shown him a few ways to play solitaire and he started with that. Soon he got very good at the game. He started feeling what card was coming next. He made up games of laying all the cards face down on the old, flowered rug, then touching them and guessing in his head what they were. At first, as he turned them over and he was correct, he thought everyone could do it. He had asked Gran what the next card was, and she had said, “How would I know, I’m not the Devil.” Then why did he know? Was he the Devil?
He loved to read, make trips to the local library, walk to the Gas N Grub for candy, and talk to Mia. This was how he endured school vacation. Mia and Casey discussed many subjects, compared favorite TV shows, and swapped jokes. Both of them had no dad, no money, and not enough time with their moms. Mia had two younger sisters who she said were pains, but Casey loved to see them whisper, smile and exchange that other language, Spanish, which he did not understand. He wished he had a brother and a secret language, but he settled for his friendship with Mia.
Mia’s mother Rosa, looked a hundred, but he guessed she could not be that old. She worked in a canning plant, something with tomatoes. Mia said her mom had to do lots of standing, and lift heavy cartons. She also endured Ozark ridicule as she tried to speak English. Mia spoke it better than her mom did, but when she was excited or angry; she’d switch to Spanish and go sixty miles an hour.
Being invited to stay for supper with Mia was the best. Her mom might look a hundred years old, but she prepared food like a professional chef. Chips, sauces, and stringy cheese covered everything. She even made good beans and Casey hated most vegetables. Sometimes sitting around that old, taped, card table with Mia, and her family, eating chips and laughing, was the best times Casey had.
Therefore, Casey had his regular summer. Then he had his “after the explosion” days. These were frightening times, with bad smells and dark thoughts. Something had changed, something had shifted, and now it was wrong. The balance was wrong and evil hung heavier than good. He knew he sounded like a dope, he would not dare tell anyone, even Mia. She would call him loco. Casey felt loco and for the first time in his life, he felt afraid.
A few of us see; he was sure of it. But that was trouble, because something out there did not want anyone to see. He felt marked, branded, and his skin began to itch. Tomorrow he was going to ask Mia where he could buy a golden cross like hers, to wear around his neck.
XXIV
The open field prison sweltered in the Georgia heat. In the space of less than one year, over 13,000 men died at Andersonville. Ninety percent of the inmates weighed less than 100 pounds when released. Federal prisoners –dead 30,218. Confederate prisoners – 25,976 died in other prisons like Camp Douglas in Chicago where cruelty also earned a harsh designation.
Of course, these are estimates, as there were many missing, hundreds of non-reported beatings, and no count on the thousands buried in ditches. This was not the war, the fight, the battle; this was the cruelty of the capture.
HE had seen it all and sometimes even HE was amazed.
What could HE do worse than what humanity did to themselves?
XXV
HE believed in karma, was a product of it. Why did they not see? Why did they start each new life without learning from the last one? What was the point in living a thousand lifetimes and making the same million mistakes? As this planet grew more crowded, removing the trees, grasslands, swamps, and hillsides, and as the boxes of ugly, repetitive sameness filled the land, why was nothing improved? Not inside the boxes, or outside. Same old conflicts over land, money, and power.
HE saw it as doomed anyway. Why not have a little fun, see how far they would go, and to what end? They were not going to progress were they? Come on, peace in the Middle East; tell us a new joke.
HE laughed and the breezes blew a foul stench that made dogs whine and hide.
HE stared around him and grass blades lay down and wilted into brown clods.
No need to rush, they all waited for him, half-wishing for an end, while the other half pretended he was not here. Nevertheless,
HE was here.
XXVI
Anne filled her days with non-threatening activities. She would work, sleep, and guard herself from pain as much as possible. She would crochet, and had piles of unused blankets, hats, and scarves stored in every closet. She would cook, eat, shop, and never make eye contact with anyone in the store. She would play card games, one after the other, with herself as the opponent.
Each day Anne would check the answering machine, but she seldom had a message. Sometimes the doctor’s office would call to remind her of an appointment. Anne had back pain, never diagnosed, the cause never found in x-ray, MRI, or CAT scan. However, it hurt her, preventing her from exercising, playing in sports, or helping others. She wanted to participate in the world, but the pain. It was so risky to get involved, even when you knew what was going to happen, it was better to mind your own business.
Anne had started minding her own business to the exclusion of everything else many years ago, after the family trip down south. There, they had toured the antebellum homes, walked the historical downtown streets, and visited the Civil War battlefields. They had stopped at Shiloh in Tennessee, visited the forts along the coast, but the most frightening place for Anne, was Vicksburg. That was where she saw her first ghosts. Walking over the hot, humid park, Anne felt the dead. She would gaze over the built in trenches and see the bodies lying inside them. To this day, Anne could feel that sick urgency, that choking fear; but as she tried to describe her visions, she was criticized for having too much imagination and warned to be quiet. As they walked deeper into the fields, reading dead names on state monuments, Anne saw the red eyes again. This time they gazed through daylight. They glowed and held no face, but they watched her. They followed her and panic flushed deep inside her until she trembled.
HE had sent her a warning, “Mind your own business girlie, or else.”
Anne heeded those words, even though sometimes she resented them, and she wished she were stronger. People that see evil should do something about it. However, like a small boat in a hurricane gale, she could not imagine what she could do to fight its strength. She let time float along, strapped a life preserver tightly around herself, and worked very hard at seeing nothing. That is how Anne became such a big television fan and never missed the evening news. When the Noelsville Gas N Grub explosion story began, she sat up straight and put a hand over her heart.
“No,” she moaned in a hush, “don’t start here, DON’T START!”
Immense fear coursed through her. She felt her wrist being twisted, an action her mother was famous for, and whispers in the air, “Beware Ms Timid,” a hoarse voice cracked, “mind your own business.” Then, something screeched, putrid and repulsive and Anne raced to the bathroom.
XXVII
Bill McCafy tried not to recall his day. If you could have a day when nothing went right, anything, then today was his. First, his profit was smaller than the cash he made at the tent gun show in Ridgeline. Some sideshow affair, decorated in handkerchiefs for hell’s sake. Second, some stalker creep had forced him out of the big show before closing time. Then, he had almost gotten his ass blown off, while trying to buy some gas for the van.
Jeez, if that was not enough, he had to run out of the Gas N Grub without filing any insurance claims. There were too many cops and reporters. Those damn cell phones; a decent man did not have time to do his business before the law moves in, cameras everywhere. Some old ex-wives and business partners would like to see his handsome puss plastered all over their screens. Him, standing by an explosion, with a van full of illegal guns and ammo, that would be just Oki Doki.
After a couple of sleepless hours at the worst Daisy Inn he had ever stayed at, Bill was ready for a new idea. Water dripping in the sink all night, toilet running for hours, light bulbs burnt out; you could not get a decent stay for twenty bucks anymore.
His van’s front bumper was crashed in and full of red paint, and he never did get his damn gas.
A worse catastrophe he could not imagine. Life just was not fair for a hard working man.
Bill gazed into the smeared mirror of the Daisy Inn and decided he was not bad looking. He might clean up, put on different attire, rent a car, and try the widow’s game. That was always good for a few grand. Though he had to admit, it had worked better when he was younger.
XXVIII
Anne was shaky the next morning and she tried to use her regular routine to comfort her. She started her computer, ground the coffee beans, and washed her hair. As she drank her fourth coffee, she watched the computer monitor listing all the lonely-hearts club web sites. She liked to go into the chat rooms, but she never chatted. She felt sorry for the poor, lonely people out there with nothing but a screen to connect their heart and hopes to.
She lived close to work, that way she did not have to worry about being in a traffic accident. There were so many crazy people outside; she did not want contact with any of them, even bumper contact.
Anne was a bookkeeper at a restaurant and she enjoyed the half price meals, and the isolated office in the back. She had conversations with the waitresses from time to time. There were payroll problems, cash registers coming up short. There were also the hiring and firing folders, which kept her the busiest. No one stayed at a restaurant long, it wore him, or her down, and the hours ruined their personal life.
The kitchen staff joked about life, the boss, and troubles in specific terms. The servers were more careful with their free talk; they were more expendable. High school dropouts came in daily and applied for their jobs. There are not too many openings for the unskilled and no one understands that better than restaurant owners.
Wandering through the door, like an unwanted snowdrift, desperate souls continued to stumble inside. Never perceiving how to dress, or having anything suitable to wear, they always made a bad, first impression. They came in without a resume, an address, or even a telephone number. They would never be accepted anywhere else, but when you were paying $2.18 an hour, you couldn’t be fussy. Then after a few days, they would start coming in late, then later, then not at all. An additional problem, since you could not call them, you had to send one of the other employees to go get them. Sometimes they were drunk or doped up, or had no babysitter. Sometimes they had moved on, the trailer door standing open, always in a hurry to go nowhere.
Anne wondered if the public ever theorized about the quality of the staff involved in their food preparation. If they knew the truth, would they feel safe eating it? Clean when the owner was there, but he had to sleep, go to the bank, and on his one day off, Anne brought her lunch. When you never have to add soap to the men’s room dispensers, well you knew the score.
Anne liked a few servers. Those that always balanced their money to their receipts and the few that showed up for more than two weeks. She tried not to like them, they would not be around long, and she was tired of starting over.
XXIX
By the time Cherie got home from the explosion, her headache was in full swing. Not enough food and too much excitement made Cherie a strung out stick of dynamite ready to ignite. She rolled a cold can of beer over her forehead and around her neck. She got out an old towel, rubber gloves, and the new bottle of hair dye. Cherie was just about ready to unwind when her neighbors started up their four- wheelers. Anger filled her in record time; it shot to the top of her head like mercury on an oven thermometer. Then her dogs began their barking and for once, that made her furious too. If she could just lie down in a padded cell somewhere and escape those neighbors, she thought.
They were a sick family of irresponsible jerks, who had nothing better to do than play with those damn four-wheelers! Every night, they started them up, revving them repeatedly, and drove in big loopy circles around their property. Like that could make life worth living. For cripe sakes, why couldn’t those losers just watch TV or go to a wrestling match at the arena!
Her fuse burned low and hot. After 2 a.m., Cherie took a deer-skinning knife, crawled over the property line, and slit eight four-wheeler tires and then, went back to do two tires on their truck. She had never had a day this good, this exhilarating. Cherie had slipped from the thought stage to the action stage and she loved the feel of the spotlight. Mess with me and I will mess back, and good. She whispered fiercely into the damp night air, “Don’t screw with Cherie.” She was finished with being the nice guy.
XXX
Now that Clint had quit his job, counting on the gun show idea as his salvation, it would not take him long to be out of cash. While other people talked about their 401K plans and buying new homes, a bitter Clint worried about buying his next tank of gas or where to spend the night.
He drove through the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart, looking for what, he did not know. What, did you think you were going to find, a stack of money by the cart rack? Damn stupid day. Clint glanced down the road at the Daisy Inn. He was tired, needed a shower, and could use a drink. Too bad Wal-Mart did not sell liquor. Many places in Noelsville did not sell liquor; it was the Bible Belt, and people here planed to arrive in Heaven sober.
However, there were liquor stores, plenty of them hidden on side streets and down darker alleys. After buying a bottle, he would take a motel room and tomorrow, tomorrow what?
Clint did not feel right. He was depressed and for the first time on the edge of resignation. Something had changed today. He was not disappointed with the gun show, or seeing Cherie, or even distressed over the explosion, but something else. Part of his spirit had died in that store, grabbing that old clerk like that and using him. He hated life, had acted with malice in the past, but now he felt he had crossed the line. The line that divides purgatory from hell. He had not planned to cross that line, always thinking his lucky break would arrive. Clint had not given up the thought that someday, despite his past, that he would be normal. He would have a new truck, a home, and someone who cared about him. He never knew, until it was too late, that the road to hell approaches so fast, you turn without thinking, and that there are no exit ramps.
There had been a kid in the store. A kid had seen him at his meanest and Clint felt shame. He felt the final blow, like an actress that half decides to kill herself, not sure, then realizes she has already taken too many pills. Major roads accepted and permanent acts committed, the last realization that it is too late. Then the knowledge that God will no longer see you in His scheme of things settles over you.
Clint had stood on the side of the mountain, been tempted, and had throw an old man over it. Jeez, he did not even know his name. Clint thought it would be in the paper, in the obituaries.
XXXI
Baby found dead in a Dumpster, more details on News at Six.
XXXII
Crows sat on the black, bare branches framing the shocked fields. HE walked along several roads: Bloody Lane, the Sunken Road, La Fayette Road, Missionary Ridge, and the Bloody Angle. This was the Civil War and these were Ditch Dying areas; places where men were ordered to charge, over and over again, the same stone walls, or built in bunkers. Through open fields, they made effortless targets and walked to their death for no gain. Sometimes whole divisions fell and the bodies had to be stacked up like cordwood. Under the peach blossoms, the wounded moaned and called for comfort, and were left to die the slow deaths: the gut wound, bleeding to death, the cracked, parched, pain of endless thirst. Some were left to fight off birds of prey as they circled, landed, and approached, while the soldier lay delirious. To walk through that, seeing the headless, some cut in half or
disembowelled, you learned what cannon fire looked like up close and personal.
Men forgot these lessons; they did it again in foreign places, repeated it over, and over in World Wars. Fathers told sons, but sons did not see it first hand, could not smell the decay, nor have their ears ring for days from the cannon fire. Sons did not have to sleep for years after, with the dying screams inside their heads. However, some unlucky sons did see it in other wars and appreciated the words. However, they were as powerless as their ancestors before them were, they could not refuse to go. Their elected politicians, whose sons never went to war, manipulated them. They preached to “stay the course,” while others bled to death.
They were steered by their friend’s hot talk of adventure, or forced by a draft because their families were not important enough to release them.
Yet they continued this behavior, and thought they should be saved? More followers than leaders, easier to go than to stand, until it was too late and they saw what the standing would cost them.
HE was not surprised. It could not be more repetitive, if in a television script. Whether the year eight hundred or now, the sameness bored him. The whole of humankind sickened him.
HE saw the killing, the falling. HE was incapable of seeing anything else.
Redemption was in the details, the millions of actions, too small to be noticed by someone not searching for them. Nevertheless, Someone was watching.
XXXIII
Clint decided to hit the road early the next morning. He had slept poorly on that narrow, lumpy mattress with the questionable clean sheets, and he was ready to check out. He had several cups of coffee in the lobby, one of the few perks in the Daisy Inn, and headed for the parking lot.
The tan van owned by Bill McCafy sat several rows down from Clint’s dented truck. He recognized the vehicle in the bright, red sunrise. He remembered it from the gun show, parked next to the entrance. Then later, he had seen it hit his truck at the Gas N Grub. He kicked himself into action with a desperate man’s sweat.
Clint drove his truck down to park beside the van, jimmied the poor-fitting door open on the passenger’s side, and “Open Sesame.” Inside was his stash. So many weapons, not enough truck room. However, he did manage to get most of the handguns, several boxes of ammo, and a blanket to cover them. He would have to do something about concealing them better later.
Just as he was ready to call it quits, he noticed a hole in the floor. On further prying and pulling, he opened a small, rounded area. He stuck his fist inside and drew it out; it was stuffed with US currency. For a minute, he just stared at it, like a dinging slot machine. He could not believe it was paying off. Then he heard traffic out on the nearby highway and started grabbing and taking as many bills as he could hold.
He saw a few kids coming around the outside door to the soda machine, and decided enough was enough. Now, if only his advantage would hold until he could get away. It was about time he had some good luck!
XXXIV
Cherie slept late. She worked rotating days as a manager in an upscale clothing store, inside the local mall. She liked the power of hiring and firing, arguing with customers, and the thrill of sometimes catching a shoplifter. Cherie also liked the discounts and she was not above “borrowing” off the racks on occasion, for herself.
At the mall, she liked to be in everyone’s business. She knew who was sleeping with whom, for how long and sometimes she knew it was over before the other partner. She was close to the Coffee House, the best place to be, because if she was not drinking it, she could just enjoy smelling it. Then, across from her store stood the Hot Nuts Stand, which offered up a delicious aroma of hot oil, salted nuts, and popcorn. This end of the mall smelled a lot better than the other end, by the Food Court. There, the skylights steamed with odors from Chinese, Mexican, Mickey D’s, and Good Home Cookin, as the circular offerings were served to hungry shoppers on sticky, unbalanced tables. There, they ate off plastic plates, and carved their tough meals with plastic knives, careful to not shake the tables and spill their $2.00 sodas. They were entertained with the blare of radio quality music, the hum of the air conditioning units, and tired conversations. But it was alive with action and people watchers lined the area in green, wooden chairs and sipped burnt coffee from paper cups.
Cherie had a certain group of women that shopped weekly and always asked for her. These were the wives of successful executives. Women with too much money to burn and not enough brains to find something else to do with it, but spend it on themselves. They were all 34C, perfect silicone. Their lips pouted out like baboons in heat and their skirts, 70s short. They had one interest, themselves. They tolerated each other for shopping partners and cruise ship buddies but make no mistake, this was not friendship. Competition and jealously ran as deep as the mink on their fur coats.
Their children had cell phones, motorcycles, name brand clothing, private suites, and their eyebrows waxed. They had everything but parents and attention. They shopped down the mall, on the right, while the moms came in to have Cherie compliment them, zip them up, and wait exclusively on them. Moreover, Cherie did not mind because they bought everything that she recommended. She advised them on what was the most flattering and they paid full price. Cherie was on commission.
Cherie was in her thirties, a little old to be hip, but she had not noticed. She would flirt with boys in their teens and never caught their surprise, or dismay. Her hair, far from being fashionable, was long and stringy at the ends. However, her clothes were trendy and fit her average figure. She had never gotten fat like her stupid sister Anne. Cherie thought working at a restaurant was the last thing Anne needed with that body. Only she did not think that often, never thinking about anyone much, except herself.
As Cherie got up from her queen size bed, she remembered last night’s adventures. The tires!
She bet those lousy neighbors of hers could not get to work this morning! Such a joy filled her; she almost tingled with the feeling of getting something over on someone. Man, she was clever.
She needed to get up and feed her Schnauzers. Those boys always got a rawhide treat every morning, or they would bark for hours. Cherie slipped on her over-sized tee-shirt and walked out to the porch. No barks of welcome, no sound of those sharp toenails rapping over the pavement. Cherie called them several times and was just getting worried. Then she saw them lying in the corner of her chain-length-fenced yard; they were puffed out, on their sides. She ran to them, bent over and screamed. Both the boys were dead. Circling them was raw hamburger, small chunks of it. They were in the corner of her lot that bordered her four-wheeling neighbors. Cherie dropped to her knees and screamed the sound of fierce anger. It was somewhere between a dog’s growl and an alien’s screech.
Cherie raced around to the carport, her tee-shirt flapping in the south wind as she ran, and sure enough, her Firebird lay there, destroyed. All four tires had been sliced, the windshield had a brick through it, and deep, dark scratches made horizontal patterns on the door panels. Receiving was not as fun as giving. Cherie had not calculated on this, that they would retaliate. She did not think anyone had the malice she possessed. These were people like her; people that liked to make their own justice. There were many people in this county who didn’t like calling the sheriff, who liked to handle their own feuds, and Cherie was unlucky enough to have found a set.
For a moment, Cherie was frightened. What if they were as vicious as she was? What if they were willing to go farther than she could handle? Well, there was no backing down now. The gauntlet thrown, the slap taken, there was no going back. She could take care of herself. If only she had bought that gun! She would find a way, she always had and she had always gotten away with it. But Damn, her Firebird, that hurt!
The neighborhood escalation had erupted into full combat.
