by Hunt, Jack
Lying had never been his strong suit. Besides, eventually, it would catch up with him. There were few things they accepted in their family, and lying wasn’t one. The truth came out as a nod. There was no judgment as he assumed there would be. Killing a Strickland after the taking of their father’s life was warranted in all their eyes, and yet he knew they were contemplating what it meant. Three for three. They hadn’t killed Miriam, no, they had done something far worse. At least that’s the way it was made to look. They’d beaten her, stripped her, and humiliated her. Hopefully, that was where the nightmare ended. Though he had to believe it wasn’t.
“When?” Lincoln asked.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his mother wasn’t listening. That she wasn’t nearby. He saw her through the window, hurrying around the house, frantic.
“The night we collected the supplies and brought them up.”
He outlined it for them.
There was silence.
“It could have happened, regardless,” Zeke said, coming to his defense. Zeke was always like that, seeing the bigger picture. It was the truth. How were they to know that the Stricklands would stop with the death of their father?
“She needs to know,” Dylan added. He was referring to their mother. “You told Alby what to do. You told him to hide the bodies. He ignored it. That’s on him. That’s why we’re here. That’s why Miriam is unconscious. She needs to know.”
“No.”
“Jess. If you don’t tell her, I will.”
“Dylan.” Zeke tried to intervene but his words couldn’t reach him either. While they all protected Miriam, and looked out for her, Dylan was closer to her than anyone else. Jessie inhaled nicotine to steady his nerves. There were few people he feared, but his mother was one of them. He rose and flicked the remainder of his cigarette out and walked into the house. He strolled down the corridor to the main bedroom and found his mother dabbing her wounds. Miriam’s face no longer had blood on it, but it was swollen, her lips split, both eyes bruised, her nose broken. His mother cast a glance his way.
“Get me the ice pack over there,” she said, pointing to an icebox. They’d made the ice from water and acetone. It couldn’t be used for drinks but it was perfect for keeping packaged meat and medicine cold. He collected the pack and handed it to her. She was distracted. His mother lovingly touched the side of Miriam’s face. “I’m here, sweetheart. Momma’s here.”
He nudged her with the ice pack.
“Thank you, Jessie. You know, I appreciate all you do.” She placed the ice pack on an area of swelling, “How did you come to find her?”
He told her but stopped short of telling her about the Strickland brothers. Jessie looked out of the room toward the front of the house. Dylan leaned against the doorway, waiting, eyeing him. He knew if he didn’t tell her, Dylan would, and having it come from him would be twice as bad. There was nothing she abhorred more than weakness.
“I need to tell you something.”
His mother was half-listening, still talking to Miriam.
“What is it?”
His stomach churned. He needed an angle. Some way to lessen the blow. He would tell her that it was a response to them killing their father. That would do it.
“Luke, Edgar, and Jared are…” he trailed off.
“Are what? Responsible?”
That’s when he saw it. He could lie and say they had attacked Miriam, and for that, he and Alby had killed them, and maybe, maybe she would buy it. But eventually, the truth would get out. He opted to come clean.
As soon as he did, she looked up at him. “You killed them without my approval?”
“They would have killed Alby. There was no time to think.”
She rose, her face a picture of anger.
Jessie closed his eyes, waiting to feel the sting of her open hand, as he had so many times before. She was about to go nuclear. Tear into him. Leave him battered and bruised.
That was the way it always was. It was all he’d ever known.
Except that wasn’t what happened.
Eyes still closed, he felt two hands wrap around his cheeks.
“Jessie. Hey, son.”
He opened his eyes to find her close to him. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“But…”
“No buts. We will handle this. You did what you had to. I need to realize you aren’t boys anymore. This was inevitable. I knew this day would come.”
It confused him. He’d expected backlash, a flaring temper, not this.
“How then? How will we handle this?”
“Leave that to me.”
ELEVEN
Hank Strickland
Humboldt County
The ATV growled as he brought it to a stop outside Seth’s farm off Wallan Road. His expression was calm, but his emotions were anything but that. All of his boys had properties spread throughout Garberville. Much like the Rikers, they’d positioned themselves in key locations, doing everything they could to support the business and protect their own. “Hey Pops,” Seth said, scooping up a cold beer and hopping down off the porch to hand it to him. The fool wasn’t alone. Six family members were lounging outside, drinking, listening to music. The small group only made up a fraction of his kin.
Hank shut off the ATV, then approached him.
Seth extended the beer, a drunken smile on his face. Hank slapped it out of his hand, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him down hard on the soil, knocking the wind out of him. Through gritted teeth he spoke, “Boy, what did I say?”
He gasped for air as Hank tightened his grip. “Huh?”
His brothers Derek and Marco launched themselves off the porch, yelling at him to let go. “Dad. C’mon. You’re hurting him.”
“Back away!” he bellowed, still holding Seth tight. With his one free arm, he reached around and pulled out a gun from the back of his jeans and placed it against Seth’s temple.
Seth’s eyes were now wild and fearful.
“Come on, Dad. You’re choking him,” Derek yelled.
He ignored them, fixing his steely gaze on Seth. The one and only one that would have been responsible for leading the others to do such a heinous act. Revenge was one thing, but there were some lines he didn’t step over. Nor would the Rikers. There were unsaid rules of engagement. And these kinds of actions were off-limits.
“Is that what you did to her? Did you choke her? Did you rape that girl? Did you?!”
Seth couldn’t get the words out. Hank released his grip just enough that he could speak. “No. No, we never raped her. We just wanted them to think we had.”
“You just wanted them to think? Boy, are you stupid? Did I raise you to be stupid?”
He shook his head.
“Is he telling the truth?” Hank asked without looking at the others.
“He is. We slapped her, tore off her clothes to humiliate her the way they humiliated ours.”
He lifted his fierce eyes to gauge their expression. None of them were good at lying. “Lie to me, and your punishment will be twice as bad. Did any one of you force yourself on Miriam?”
“No, Pops,” Seth said.
He tightened his grip, wanting to tear his throat out.
It took every bit of self-control to not do it.
“You stupid fucking idiot. I told you to do nothing until I had decided what we would do. Now you all listen up, and you listen good. I will say this only once. We will pay them back for what they did to your brothers, but if I ever, ever see you do what you did today, I will put a bullet in all of you, do you understand?!”
He pressed the gun hard against Seth’s head.
There was hesitation.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND!” he bellowed.
“Yes. Yes,” they hollered back. Hank released his grip and rose to his feet. Seth rolled, coughing and spluttering. Derek hurried over to his brother to help him.
Hank placed the handgun back in his jeans and covered it with his shirt. He was furious. “I
did not raise animals. Do you hear me? There is a way we do this, and it’s not this way. I raised you better than this.”
The silence could have been cut with a knife.
His eyes roamed, looking for even one that wasn’t paying attention.
He was about to leave when the storm door opened and out stepped Nancy.
He narrowed his gaze. “Nancy?”
“I see things haven’t changed,” she said.
“When did you get out? How did you get out?” he said.
“They let me go.” She stepped down and made her way over. She had this swagger that only Nancy could pull off. She was different from her sisters. A wild card. She wasn’t afraid of his outbursts. He hadn’t seen her since they’d put her away. He didn’t want to see her. He took hold of her but didn’t hug her. He had his reasons.
“How? Why?” he asked.
“Said it was to do with overcrowding. I don’t know. I didn’t argue. I’m just glad to be out.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you can talk some sense into your brothers.”
She looked at them and smirked. “Boys will be boys, isn’t that what you used to say? Monkey see, monkey do, isn’t that right, Dad?”
He stepped back. She was the only one that ever challenged him. The only one that called him out. Maybe that’s what bothered him. She was too much like her mother for her own good. Outspoken. Strong-willed. Certainly not moldable like the others. “Sober up!” he yelled at the others. “And turn that shit off!” he bellowed, pointing at the battery-operated ghetto blaster before heading back to the ATV.
“And nice to see you again, Dad,” Nancy said, a smile lurking at the corner of her mouth.
TWELVE
Dan Wilder
Eureka, Humboldt County
It was a damn circus. Dan hadn’t had a moment of peace since the event had begun. When news of Miriam Riker’s attack reached him, he was in the shitter, having a joint, trying to get a grip on the situation facing the county. Many locals were calling for answers, real solutions, and he didn’t have them. While he’d managed to secure what supplies remained, figuring out who to distribute them to without starting a riot was a massive headache.
“Sheriff. You in there?” Johnson asked.
He dropped the joint down the toilet and waved a hand in front of his face.
“Be right out.”
The toilets still flushed manually by pouring a bucket of water down them.
He lifted the one in his stall and dumped the contents, watching his sweet joint disappear.
Dan exited. “What is it?”
“Martha Riker is here to see you.”
Johnson sniffed the air. “You, uh…?”
He thumbed over his shoulder. “No, I’ve been meaning to ask who’s been smoking pot in the toilet. It stinks. Maybe you can look into it,” he said as he walked by him and returned to his office. It was legal but still frowned upon by law enforcement. The stigma would take years to change. He didn’t care who knew, but he didn’t want Johnson thinking any less of him.
Heading to his office, he wondered what she wanted.
Few women in this world intimidated him, but Martha Riker was one of them. He’d heard stories of people getting on the wrong side of her. She was already seated, her back to him as he entered.
He kept the door open for his protection.
“Martha. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you in?”
She wore a short black leather jacket over a bohemian dress. Her long silver dreadlocks loosely draped over her shoulders. “You’re telling me you haven’t heard?”
He stood off to the edge of the desk. “Hold that thought. Can I get you a coffee?”
“No.”
“You don’t mind if I have one, do you?”
She gestured with a hand to his V60 behind him. “Knock your socks off.” He had a small jet-boil stove that he used to heat the water. As he prepared his drink, he continued talking. The act of doing something while he spoke helped him not look so nervous.
The fact was it was his third cup already, and his nerves were shot.
“Now what was it that I haven’t heard?”
“My daughter was attacked today.”
He turned. “What?”
“Oh, come now, are you telling me one of your officers hasn’t told you?”
“I’m sorry, but we’ve been pushed to our limits lately. Communication has fallen by the wayside.”
“Typical! Well, let me bring you up to speed. My daughter was beaten and possibly raped. That I won’t be sure of until she regains consciousness. Right now, she hasn’t opened her eyes.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In the vicinity of the Stricklands.”
“Oh God,” he muttered under his breath. “Have you filed a report?”
Martha widened her eyes.
“It’s just protocol. I didn’t mean to sound like I didn’t care.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
He tapped the air with his finger. “Okay.” He reached into his desk and took out a form, and was about to take a statement when she told him not to bother.
“I’m not here about that. Though you’d be wise to find out who was behind it before I do.”
“That sounds like a threat, Martha.”
She chuckled. “I think you know me enough to know I don’t make idle threats.”
That’s what bothered him.
Hank, her, they were cut from the same cloth. Their word meant everything. When they said something, it happened. Proving they were behind a crime, that was another thing entirely. They were careful, unscrupulous individuals who knew when to speak and when not. In many ways, it was like a game of chess. They spent a lot of time observing before they made a move, but when they did, it was always one that ended in checkmate. “It’s come to my attention that three of the Strickland boys were murdered, is that right?”
He picked up a pencil and tapped it against the desk. “You’re correct.”
“That’s too bad. I know who did it.”
He leaned forward, hands clasped together, curious.
“You do?”
“That’s right. My brother-in-law. Alby Riker.”
A Mack truck hitting him right then wouldn’t have had the impact her words did. He was surprised by her confession. It wasn’t just that she was telling him who was responsible, it was that she was throwing her kin under the bus.
“Are you sure about that?”
Martha shifted in her seat. “Positive.”
“And what led you to believe that?”
“My boy told me. Jessie.”
“Jessie told you. And how did he know?”
“Alby told him.” She reached into her bag and took out a cigarette, and lit it. He would have stopped her, but he didn’t need the headache. “So, what do you plan to do to remedy this situation?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “You want me to remedy this situation?”
“That’s what I said. You are the law, are you not?”
“That I am.” He got up once the water boiled and poured his coffee. With his back turned, he continued. “Not to pry, Martha, but I can’t help feeling this is very peculiar. I mean, he’s your brother-in-law. Bruce’s brother. Your children’s uncle.”
“And? A crime is a crime, is it not?”
“It is.”
“And I would be doing this community an injustice if I didn’t report a crime, correct?”
“You are correct.” He turned, stirring his hot brew, eyeing her, trying to figure out where she was going with this. No one in their right mind, especially not a Riker, would do this. “Let me ask you something. Has Alby crossed you?”
“No.”
“Then why would you tell me this? I mean, forgive me for stating the obvious, but there is one thing that I know is as true about the Rikers as it is about the Stricklands. Blood is thicker than water. You’d go to your grave protecting your own. So why?”
She
smiled. “Who’s to say I’m not protecting my own?”
Cathy, his assistant, walked by the room and glanced in. He looked up then back at Martha. Dan took a sip of his drink, almost burning his tongue. “This is about Miriam, isn’t it?”
She leaned forward. “This is about doing what is right. I would like to think that if Hank were in my shoes, he would do the same. If three of my boys were murdered by his brother, I’d like to think he would come forward.”
“Right.” His fingers drummed the side of the mug before he took a seat. “Of course, I would need proof. Something substantial. Your word means a lot, but it wouldn’t hold up in court.”
She nodded. “Of course not.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small voice recorder, and hit play. She set it in front of him, and a crackling voice came over the speaker. It was Alby confessing to having hung them. His reason — to send a message to the Stricklands. Martha stopped the recorder. “Will that suffice?”
Dan nodded and reached into his drawer for an evidence bag. He took it and placed it inside and told her he would need to hang on to it but would return it. “Did Jessie give you this?”
“It was given to me by a source that wishes to remain anonymous. That won’t cause any trouble, will it?”
Dan rubbed his chin. “No.”
“I thought so.”
Martha got up and closed her bag. She blew smoke out the corner of her mouth and dropped her cigarette into an ashtray on his desk. “I imagine you will need to let Hank know immediately. I would want to know. Can I be assured you will do so?”
“You have my word.”
She turned and headed for the door, not stopping to ask what would happen to Alby. It was as if she didn’t care. As if he was nothing but a liability, a scapegoat, someone to take the fall. Was he a sacrificial lamb being served up to circumvent the rules of the mountain, the ones that had governed them for so long? He wouldn’t know until he spoke with him. That would be interesting.
