Chapter 1
THE CREW
or
The Devil Holds Auditions
XXXV
Bill was so damn mad he could not control himself. Of all the stupid things to do, he had left his cash in the van. It should have been no surprise that he was a robbery victim. After all, he had a good idea who his burglar was. His gun show stalker. Now how was he supposed to report a truckload full of guns, ammo, and cash missing? Sometimes, life was so unfair he could spit.
Bill had been on the road most of his life. He had been a victim of several hit-and-runs, and one broken window, but when you drove a 84 van, you did not think of yourself as a target for theft. After all, he had spent good money on that damn, dark window film. Bill was between sitting down in the parking lot and wailing, or crashing into every other car in sight.
The Ford Crown Victoria cruiser’s silent, flashing lights at first went unnoticed. Some sixth sense told Bill to turn around and there stood a pair of city cops, dressed in their dark blue uniforms. City cops always traveled in pairs, this was becoming one of the methamphetamine capitals of the world, and meth heads were capable of all the violent behaviors that paranoia and hallucinations inspire. The tallest, his 40 caliber Glock still strapped in place, his hat pulled down over his eyes and a notebook in his hand, approached Bill, and said, “Got a call from some kids that there was a robbery here.”
Bill, stammering between annoyance and fear, answered, “Yes, I’ve been robbed of all my luggage, cash and coin collection. And my van door has been damaged.”
The officer raised an eyebrow at the list, as the other cop circled the van, then Bill heard him ask, “What’s this red paint on the front bumper?”
Bill replied, “That’s him officer, that’s him.” Bill knew, and the cop knew, that when you had paint all over your front bumper and never reported an accident, you were the one that had hit another vehicle. He saw the officers exchange glances.
Cop number two came back to the right side of the van and pulled open the sliding door. Inside, covering the mud
encrusted carpet, lay scattered rifles, boxes of ammo, and a few dollar bills. That was not so bad, having long rifles in Missouri was like having a loaf of bread in the back seat. However, there were also several fully automatic weapons that required special registration papers to carry, and a better reason to possess them than for profit and resale. All at once, they were all business, one on each side of him, cop one asked, “Did your robber leave these guns as a surprise for you, Reverend?”
Damn, Bill had forgotten that he was dressed in his reverend outfit. He had planned to find a few older women as financial backers for his imaginary church. Selling God in the Ozarks was the con man’s easiest way to collect quick cash. Even he had to admit this situation was going to be hard to explain away. Years of stretching the truth through outright lying came to his aid, as Bill got defensive. “Now listen here, I’m the victim. I’m the one that has had his property taken. And I want something done!”
“We need to see your license, registration, and your gun permits,” the cop stated, as if he were issuing an ordinary traffic ticket.
The other officer asked, “Were you at the Ozark Gun Show yesterday, or the Gas N Grub last night?”
Bill felt the sweat running down his neck and tried to wipe away the drop on his forehead. “Hell no, I’m a man of God!” Bill shouted. Then, “No officer, I was not at either place, but let’s stop talking about me, and start finding the burglar.”
“Paperwork?” Cop number one asked again. Bill knew he was cooked. He had different licenses with several aliases, not sure on a registration, and knew he had no gun permits for the automatics. He had the crazy urge to run, but knew he could not outrun a bullet.
“Maybe we’d better take you into the station, Reverend, get this all straightened out.” Then the handcuffs came out. Bill never knew when to shut up, so he threw out some threats about his attorney and got into the back of the squad car.
Bill was in for a tough day. In the station, there would be records of him and his past escapades. There would be pictures of Bill in various disguises, and a chronicle of a career ranging over twenty years. The fact that a damn stalker had brought him low, robbed him, and now his freedom was being taken away, well, it was just too much. That a strange man, who did not even know him, would destroy him, it was just a pitiful way to end a profession. This was an unforgivable low point, and Bill began to weep, big, little girl tears.
He had done jail time before, but this time there was no gullible girlfriend to bail him out, no relative left that would speak to him, and no friend who would part with a dollar for Bill. What a sad termination to a great vocation, Bill thought, this was a travesty.
Bill actually was the luckiest of them all, locked away in a cell, a good distance from the others. He was a minor swindler and a liar but he was not a racist, child abuser, or murderer. There was not a big chair in hell reserved for him, at least not yet. Fate had smiled on Bill, but today, he was too unaware to see its rays.
XXXVI
Anne was in a panic. Another spring storm was moving in from Tulsa and she hated driving in bad weather, especially in lightening. Deep rumbles off to the west, accompanied by dark blue clouds, like a police officer’s uniform she thought.
Rain meant the restaurant would be even busier. When there was nothing else to do in the area, people could always eat out. Ozarkers liked their red meats: beef ribs, half-pound hamburgers with bacon and cheese, and chicken fried steak. They were not afraid of their beef, like the poor English and their Mad Cow Diseases. Here, everyone that owned ten acres or more ran a few head of cattle. The land had a few inches of topsoil overlapping red clay and rocks. There grass grew, even on slanted hillsides. That was all American cattle needed, grass, and a tree for shade from the hundred degree, summer heat. These spring storms supplied the fields, meat lockers, and then dinner plates, with some darn good beef.
When Anne entered the back area of the restaurant, the head waitress was frantic as she attempted to reach additional servers. At the back counter the owner, Joe Bob was eating a taco salad. He weighted at least 400 pounds, and made Anne feel slim in comparison. The servings of his restaurant were always good size, more than the average person could finish. However, Joe Bob never ate the regular portion. His plate was twice the size and topped with at least a pint of sour cream and guacamole. He was a heart attack waiting to happen.
Anne peeked inside the kitchen, catching the frantic staff in their dance of creation. Joe Bob had christened just about everything in the restaurant with the same two first and middle names, “God Damn”; as in “Where’s the God Damn spatula?” It had caught on and soon all the new recruits knew the equipment names in this way. The more frantic the crew, the freer the cuss words flew. Dishes slammed down sharply, like the cogs on a machine shifting to a higher gear.
An assembly line of motion, where plates slide down the counter, starting empty and ending full. A smooth operation on a good day with a seasoned staff, a torrent of confusion and name calling on a bad day. The kitchen of the restaurant ranged from a practiced orchestra to a preschooler’s jamboree. Anne noticed they were running out of glasses already and that a few servers were rinsing them in the small bar sinks. Dishwashers sighed, understanding they would not be finished with the lunch dishes until 4 p.m.
Anne hurried in the back, before they could see her, and started organizing her desk for the long day.
June rushed into the office, looked at Anne and said, “I finally got two more servers to come in today. Alice is coming as soon as she can, but she has a problem.” June waited, but Anne did not ask, so she continued, “Alice has to bring her eight year old son for the first few hours, so I told her he could sit in the office with you, is that okay?”
Anne would normally be in a serious dread over that news, but Alice was one of the few servers she liked. If her son was anything like his mother, it should be okay. “Sure June, it sounds fine to me, but don’t tell Joe Bob, he doesn’t want anyone in the office.”
June nodded and rushed out to get started setting up the banquet room for one of the bigger industry lunches. That left Anne wondering why she had agreed and why she felt so good. She went out to get herself a free coffee, thinking it was one of the few perks here. She checked all the customer areas, cleaned a few tables, and returned to her desk feeling calm.
XXXVII
Alice was anything but calm. It was a good thing she needed the money, or she would never be getting ready for work in fifteen minutes and taking Casey. This was not her idea of a good day.
This was her day off and Casey could not go to Gran's house until the afternoon. Gran had a church luncheon and nothing came before that. Alice’s mom had quite a collection of widows that filled her boredom. There was a lot of back-biting, jealously over who inherited the most, competition over who’s kids loved them more, and which ones could claim success.
Here, Gran came in last, being the mother of a waitress, so her humiliation was worn like a hair shirt in the bitter mouth, drooping shoulders, and cheap dress. She did not have a rich son who was a doctor, sending her money like some people. Nor did it appear as if Alice would ever be anything important. Gran would sit and listen to her friends talking about their families, their trips, and their new cars. She would boil with anger that she had to be married to the only man who did not believe in life insurance. Fine for him, he had been lucky and died first!
“Casey, hurry honey and get ready, you’re coming to the restaurant with me for awhile,” cried Alice. No arguing, no pouting, Casey just got ready, tied his gym shoes, and packed a backpack of his favorite items. He put in a deck of cards, a library book about a wizard, and some drawing paper. He had heard the telephone ring, the reluctance in his mom’s voice, then a promise. He knew what was going to happen before she did.
Casey was excited, he had a good feeling about today. Today was going to be different. The feelings of depravity had moved off some distance, and a new feeling, one of peace had come. Casey had never felt this feeling before, it carried a good, steady fragrance, like new wood. Just natural and non-threatening, and he could not wait to get into the Honda Civic and see what was up the road.
The car had over 250,000 miles on it. The hot Missouri sun had baked the paint to a dull, flat finish. With a few minor repairs and some new tires, Alice always had dependable transportation. It was not an attractive car at over twelve years old, and power windows were only a wish, but it always started and for that, Alice was forever grateful.
Casey crossed his fingers as Alice pulled into traffic. He felt his neck and the cross that lay close and soft under his shirt. He had asked Mia where he could buy one and she had given him one of hers. He could never let Gran see it. He had heard her rant about the other religions. He did not care what she said, he felt safer since he had put that crucifix around his neck. Just now, he had a shot of intuition and an uplifting belief that everything was going to be okay. “Make something good happen, make something good happen, make something good happen,” Casey chanted.
XXXVIII
HE was in Africa. HE had heard that a quarter of the continent was dying of AIDS and
HE had to see it. The people there would not talk about it, the government did nothing, and the mass of humanity just kept repeating their same behaviors. Other countries wrote stories about it, drew up charts of death and projections, and said, “Too bad.” Drug companies refused to send the drugs needed, the victims did not have the money to pay the inflated costs. Too bad, so sad, what will they do with an empty continent?
HE had seen it before on other “empty” landmasses, with those troublesome Indians cluttering up the land. Collateral damage.
XXXIX
The Heckleys had relocated from Wyoming a year ago, right to the corner of Cherie’s back yard. They kept to themselves and no one in Missouri knew why they had moved. Their neighbors, none too neat themselves, would be appalled on seeing the condition of the Heckley interior. They would be surprised since the outside, with its brick sturdiness and large oak trees, hid its occupants from prying eyes so well. It gave off a deceptive quality, passing for one of the best houses along this deserted back road.
Inside, their house needed a professional team of cleaning experts to take off the top levels of grime that had accumulated since they had moved in. The smell of cigarette smoke so choked the air that it was hard to get a breath; one you wanted to keep inside. The carpets, curtains, and paint itself held these obnoxious fumes and released them up the nose of any visitor.
A group of slaughtered deer heads hung at uneven angles around the room in no set pattern. Dead eyes staring out and dead nostrils blessedly not having to breathe in, were wall decorations. Infrequent visitors noticed the carpet crunched as they walked on it, making their minds go mad with thoughts of what was hidden in the fibers.
All the rooms were dark with narrow casement windows covered with black film, making slits of darkness, and resembling the deer’s eyes, dead. The style had once been Mediterranean, but no person from that area of the world would have felt at home here. The woodwork, stained with the darkest tint available, made a black outline to every room. Small and dark, rank with odors, and unclean; this was the habitat of the Heckleys.
The family consisted of two sons, Wayne and Spence plus their father, Roger. The boys were actually men who could not handle life in the real world after prison, and had returned to their father’s care. Roger served them by example with a criminal record as long as his rifle’s barrel. Father and sons had the same look about them in color, height, and size. Only the sons had a premature balding pattern, a bone narrow waist, and jerky movements, like puppets on a string. All three had muscled, tanned arms that appeared as if they could squeeze the life out of anyone.
They ate standing up, argued like hyena littermates, and smelled like their house. Their laundry room was stacked with soiled clothes, and when they ran out of shirts or shorts, it became a closet.
This was the pack Cherie had picked to be her enemy. Always underestimating life, this was her major miscalculation. She had started the neighbor’s quarrel by throwing a beer bottle over the fence and laughing as it broke, spraying glass over their driveway. That was her retaliation for Wayne yelling at her dogs to “Shut Up!”
Over the past year, Cherie had left notes on their truck’s windshield, threatening little compositions with lots of misspelled words. She had thrown cans and bottles over the fence on a regular basis, every time they started the four-wheelers. She had yelled at them, to them, and about them in her shrill, high whine, while displaying her middle finger. It was a regular white trash triple play, a trifecta of refinement. Never had they replied, never had they retaliated, leading Cherie into some false sense of security, that she could get away with anything. That she was the stronger, the smarter, and the braver she had no doubt. However, the tire slashing had unleashed the anger in the Heckleys, an anger better left alone.
XL
Luck, Clint needed to hold on to his. He was in a daze and driving around town in a prudent, lawful way. Had someone seen him during the robbery, or had he gotten away with it? Did they see and report his license plate number? He had to regroup, get the guns to a pawnshop, find a place to repack, rethink.
As stupid as it sounded, he thought of family. Anne was out of the question; she would run to the cops the minute she saw a gun. However, Cherie could furnish a safe haven, if there was something in it for her. As Ozarkers would say, “Cherie was a piece of work.” He could give her a gun, threaten her. No, a threat was a sure way to get Cherie stirred up. He would go in nice and cool, leading her on with flattery. At least her house was out in Hicksville and sat on lots of private land. She was the best place he could think of and he had to get off the streets. Driving around with stolen cash and guns was just begging for trouble.
As Clint pulled into Cherie’s gravel drive, he saw her sitting on the stone carport floor, stroking a dead dog. She was just wearing a tee-shirt and her hair was standing in circles about her head.
She glanced up with a snap, hearing the truck and stood up; she pushed back her hair and approached him, like a person suffering from combat fatigue. In spite of his past hatred of her, Clint felt sorrow, surprise, and suspicion. He stared past her, at the scattering of broken glass and noticed the front windshield on the Firebird was gone. What had happened here?
“Cherie, it looks like the site of a riot, what happened?” Clint asked, with a trace of real concern in his voice.
“Clint, am I glad to see family.” Cherie answered before she burst into hysterical laughter. “They got me, they got me back. I didn’t think they would, but damn it the dogs and the car.” Cherie had a brief epiphany, the last she would ever have. The thought scared her for a few icy clear moments, until the calculation came back into her eyes, and her darker side won the battle between reason and dysfunction. “Help me get even Clint, will you?”
Clint could not have masterminded a better situation, she needed him and he needed her, or at least her house, it was a perfect match.
“Go inside, make some coffee, I need to bring in a few things. Together we’ll take care of them and everything else.”
Cherie obeyed him, a rarity, and went inside. Clint backed his truck right up to the door and carried in his personal belongings, his stolen gun collection, and his stack of cash. He wanted to get everything inside before she had time to think about why he was here. He knew moving in was easy; getting them to move out was the trick.
Clint thought back to his days on the machine shop floor. His idea for a new start and some cash to make it happen. In a few short days, he had done it. He had established himself as a winner. He felt good, it was his first taste of any kind of success, and it was not bittersweet, but stronger than honeysuckle. Clint thought he was finally on his way to becoming somebody.
Out of the dark covered windows, the Heckleys watched the tall, broad man moving in. Plans would need to be adjusted, but the course was still plotted, and true vengeance had just begun.
Chapter 2
THE DEVIL’S IN THE DETAILS
It is the Small Things That Count.
Or
There is Always Worse.
I
Roger Heckley grew up in an old mining town in Wyoming, where a legal divorce was a shooting. He had no parents, just an uncle who ungraciously accepted him as his burden. Roger’s mother had run off with the local minister, after his father went upstate to prison. By the age of ten, Roger had heard the saga of his parents enough to last him a lifetime.
Roger learned that to please Uncle Jack; he had to make himself useful. He became a slave, a cowhand, and good in a crisis. He wasted his youngest years, trying to win love. He waited in vain.
Roger became indifferent to hardship and suffering. As he hardened, like an egg cooked too long, his humanity congealed into a gooey, useless ball. He made it his life’s work to protect that vulnerable inside and he became dangerous with an aggressive style as his
defense. It seemed to work, and it expanded to a belief that he could not depend on anyone except himself.
Roger rejected authority; no one would decide his fate, no one but himself. Not teachers, policemen, nor jailers could control him, because they did not care enough and because Roger was smart enough to stop them. He had been born clever, with a quick mind, an organized pattern of behavior, and a motive to use it. He stayed busy proving that no one could control him, but of course, with their indifference they were controlling him, shaping him for what was to come. Each step made matters worse, and each vile deed became easier.
Betsy Starks came in twice a month to clean Uncle Jack’s ranch house. She saw which way the wind was blowing and tried to help Roger. However, she thought she was too infrequent a visitor to be a great influence. She would have been surprised to know that over the years Roger recalled their talks, clung to them, as the only rope ever thrown to him.
“Your Uncle ain’t a bad man Roger; he’s just an uneducated one. But he ain’t cruel and he don’t mean no harm.”
Old Betsy puffed as she talked. She was a good size, western style woman with lots of meat on her bones. Good strong bones and a set of muscles around them that could move heavy furniture, lift big dogs, and control horses.
“You got to try and understand, even if you are a kid, that your uncle doesn’t know anything about being a father, not by example or otherwise.”
Roger asked, “Why not? Didn’t he and dad have a father?”
That made Betsy pause. She was a good woman, and did not want to tell Roger what kind of man his grandfather had been.
“Let’s just say yes they had a father, but he was busy just starting the ranch, and he had a heavy hand.”
“Oh, I know a heavy hand,” Roger would say.
“Yea do?” Betsy asked, stopping her dusting, “how do you know that?”
Roger, feeling disloyal to his father just shrugged. They spent many of their talks in this way, skirting around the truth, guarding secrets, and protecting the undeserving. If they had both been honest, life might have been different for so many people. What Roger learned from these talks however, was to be a good liar, a conniver, and he developed a skill of calculated cunning.
When Roger was fourteen, and still worth saving, Betsy had a heart attack while shoeing a horse. It was as quick as her step and as soft as her touch. Roger did not attend the funeral, though Uncle Jack had tried to make him go. “You uncaring sons’a bitch!” Jack yelled as he drove off.
Nevertheless, Roger lacking the courage to go, he refused to witness her being lowered into the ground, the dirt falling on the casket, the shuffling of big boots, dry tears, and awkward hugs. He had just lost his only hope, his last chance, and he knew it as sure as he understood that the pale horse rider was coming for him. Without her kindness, the one thing left to him was a void of indifference. He was a needy soul that would never be filled, and that
fuelled excessive anger, that would lead to destruction.
Roger made a conscious choice that day, a premeditated decision to be secretive, wily, and to hide everything that was inside, until he could overcome his enemies. He never cared about another living soul, until Wayne and Spence came along, and that did not last.
Through his teens, Roger was a study in being as emotionally detached, as uncommunicative as possible, while still maintaining a small group of friends. He rode the junior rodeo circuit and was very adept at sitting a bull. He was too tenacious to let go and too strong to have to.
He discovered girls and used them, as he would a tasty meal or a fast car, for temporary satisfaction. However, deeper feelings never came and his aloofness intrigued enough females to last him through high school graduation. That day overwhelmed him. He panicked, was taken off guard, he was unprepared for the future. His friends had plans, college funded by caring parents, or scholarships earned by good grades. Other options being selected were accepting jobs in big cities far away, or the military. Roger, who despised all authority, could not enlist in the service, or work for a boss and there was no money for college. He saw his future as empty as his childhood. His single plan was to marry a mild woman, one he could dominate, and make a real family. He would have sons to teach, inside of Roger a dim spark still flickered, sons would love him, and if he did not achieve that emotion at least once, he would go insane.
Later, when Uncle Jack died and left him the ranch, Roger did not shed a tear.
II
Susan Brown could not inspire the love, but she did supply the sons. She knew Roger from high school; she was lonely and wanted to have her own family. For Roger, she came in handy, did what she was told, and took care of the boys the first time he was incarcerated for theft. By this time, Roger practiced a cold temper, while being confined to small jobs he hated. He had grown tired of being broke. He was on his way to becoming antisocial and prison taught him how to be ruthless and live by his wits.
During those long years in and out of lock-up, Roger began to be convinced that he had omnipotent powers. He was made for something special; he had a destiny and further, that he could not be harmed.
Roger did not see that the present facts rejected his theory. Sometimes, on long isolated nights, his mind descended into chaos, terror, and horror. Being locked up was the end of Roger as a man and the birth of Roger as a demigod. Though he was clever enough to hide his new self until an early release in six years.
That same year, a young woman disappeared from her apartment. It was all over the news, posters tacked on light poles, her picture displayed in shop windows, and grieving parents pleading on local television. Her purse was left at her home along with her contact lenses and some cash. Old boyfriends and even family members were investigated, but strangers just mean enough to kill for killing’s sake, were left alone.
III
Before Roger left for prison, he easily controlled Susan with a harsh look or a disapproving stare. She had proven to him that there was no easier spirit to manipulate in this world, than an insecure person in love. However, after his six years, Roger had changed, and so had Susan. She had dealt with the debts, the children, and the world; she had gained a little confidence. She had also remained loyal; thinking that she was lucky to be married to a man that tall, big built and willing to go to jail to feed his family.
Roger admired loyalty, though he did not possess it, but it was useful along with the love in holding the reins. Now, he had developed a new weapon in prison, sarcasm, and the art of belittling.
There was never a need to knock her down, bruise her up, or worse. He enjoyed experimenting with the finer art of destroying her self-worth. He achieved perfect timing and a sparse use, so she could not develop a defense. Sometimes he was amazed he could be so accomplished. Since he had never loved, he could not quite understand the full power of his words. All Roger understood was their effectiveness. At that, he was a master.
The best results were attained if witnesses were handy, especially the boys. Susan hated to be smirked at; she became adept at remaining quiet in front of others. “Oh, she finally got it!” or, “Go slow Susan is listening” to meaner lines: “What makes you think I give a damn what you think?” Alternatively, “You bore the hell out of me, you don’t have a brain in your head.” If all else failed, he went for her appearance, “You couldn’t be any uglier if you tried” or, “You get fatter and plainer everyday, it makes me sick to look at you.” He had worse, much worse, but so far, he had not needed it, and he held it in reserve.
At first, the boys had hated having this sardonic man come back into their lives. Susan soon set them straight. He was their father, and they would respect him, obey him, and do, as he demanded. She quit her job as soon as Roger started making money with the ranch, and stayed home catering to the men. She would cook their breakfast everyday. While other families had toast, or a quick donut, the Heckleys had bacon, eggs, and pancakes. If one of them wanted coffee, she could not jump up fast enough. The more she jumped, the more the boys took on the attitude of their father, and as the years went on, Susan was just comic relief.
Susan read her Bible, attended church, and prayed for her family. She kept a neat house, a quiet manner, and was known as a nice person, if not very interesting. She was the perfect wife for Roger and never challenged his madness. She was a moist dark earth in which his meanness grew freely and without restraint. In trying to do her best, she did her worst by spoiling her sons, encouraging her husband’s behavior, and giving away herself. However, it did not help her, she did stay alive any longer than the rest.
