Killing Time
Page 1
TIME
By
Thomas A. Damron
Dedicated to:
My Grandson, Blake Gregory Damron, His Father Greg, and Mother, Oreana,
and My Editor and Very Good Friend, Donna Jean Hanna
These stories are a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Thomas A. Damron
Unless permitted under the U. S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.
Table of Contents
1) The Reconciler
A man of many names offers to reconcile problems for clients for a substantial fee. Little do they know how far reconciliation goes beyond the original need.
2) The Incessant Deadly Rainfall
Rory's job takes him to an unfriendly, rainy town where he rescues a young person from a mudslide deluge. His hopes soar with the possibility of having found a connection he could develop into a friendship to ease his loneliness.
3) Me? Handsome!
On break from his job on a Gulf oil rig, Gaston, a nice friendly, but an unattractive man, meets a long-haul truck driver that elevates his hope for a relationship. However, his overtures fail which cause him to take unusual actions.
4) The Unearthing of a Ghost
While visiting her home town while in rehabilitation, Baye Fowler is stunned when she accidentally sees an adversary whom she had been told was dead. Her visit changes direction as she executes her plan to take action against her 'ghost' foe.
5) A Moonlit Fright
Jericho, Texas comes under a siege on moonlit nights of unusually odd murders of a few of the town's young people. Suspects are non-existent, young townspeople fear moonlit nights. Assistance in enlightening the Sheriff comes from an Indian Reservation detective.
The Reconciler
The vehicle digital clock read '6:23 P' when I left Interstate 10 at the Comfort exit. I checked the Trip A mileage on the odometer. It displayed in white, 'forty-five point six' exactly, and assuming the rental Outback was correct that meant about a forty-five minute drive back to the San Antonio airport. I drove directly to the Cypress Creek Guesthouse to check in and dump my bags before I journeyed to Eaze, at most a twenty-three mile drive. Time was a factor and it was on my side if I could get back on the road quickly. I had reserved the cabin for two nights, Friday and Saturday. When I saw it, I liked what I saw. It was a stand-alone house with kitchen, bath, and queen-sized bed and, although I didn't need those amenities, it was the perfect location for my brief stay. The reservation was in the name of Clay Campo from Richmond, Indiana. I presented my driver's license as identification and was welcomed to Comfort. After check-in, I parked at the side of the cabin, went in and threw my largest bag on the kitchen table. The carry-on I left in the kitchen floor. I keyed the combination lock and opened it carefully. I dug through the shirts and retrieved my Smith & Wesson Model M&P22. From the side pocket at the end of the bag, I took ten twenty-two long rifle shells and loaded the pistol. I extracted my black Sketchers from the bag, reached into the right-foot sneaker, removed the sock I had stuffed inside and shook the shoe until the silencer dropped into my hand. - I stuffed it in my jacket pocket, sat in the chair and changed my shoes, putting on the sneakers for comfort in the dirt roads and paths. I removed my Kimber Ultra Carry II and holster, walked to the bed and put it under the pillow. I had no rounds for it. I would buy those rounds tomorrow morning. I looked at the clock and nodded to myself. The timing was in sync with what I had been told.
In the car, to avoid being obvious when I left; I took a secondary exit away from the cabin. I drove north and then returned to Interstate Ten west. I left the highway when I arrived at the exit for Kerrville. I drove slowly until I saw the Farm to Market dirt road heading west that I had been told to use. I smiled, turned, and met the wind-blown dust head-on. November in Texas is still hot most days. The three-year drought decimated much of the greenery and left farms as nothing but burnt stubs of prior crops. Ranchers have moved their cattle farther north, some as far as Montana, in the search for feeding land. Dust is a constant in the air and when you drive a farm to market dirt road, turn your intake fan off or you'll poison yourself with the terra cotta-colored dust from the underlying red clay. I already had the fan off, taking no chances because I had a twelve mile drive in this airborne shit.
My destination tonight was the ranch named Hatchell Canyon Acres that was once the boyhood, and now weekender home, of Wyatt Hatchell, the seventy-two year-old oil baron billionaire many times over. He was expecting me, but not tonight. Tomorrow night was our appointment. I parked at the gate leading up to the spreading wooden one-story house. I stepped up quietly on the porch, went to the door and heard nothing. I peered through the window and all was dark in the front of the house. Texas ranch houses traditionally have porches that encircle the entire house. This one was no different, so I eased myself to my left turned the corner and tiptoed easily down the ancient wooden planks. In the last room on the left rear corner of the house was a light. I couldn't see through the green blind that was pulled below the bottom of the window. However, when I turned the corner to the back of the house, the window faced the old barn and was pulled only two-thirds of the way down. I dropped to my hands and knees on the planks and inched forward to where I had a view of the entire room.
Hatchell was propped up in the bed; his head tilted toward the ceiling, not a stitch on and to his right side was a naked peroxide blonde with her head in his lap and her butt high in the air. Both of his hands were on the top of per head pushing it up and down as he howled like a lone wolf at midnight. I kept looking until his head fell to his chest and his hands flew to her shiny butt and pushed her across his lap. He proceeded to spank her until her ass was beet red. She didn't object, in fact, she laughed with him throughout the loud spanking. I knelt there wondering if that qualified as domestic abuse even though both were having the time of their life. All I knew was I'd like to find out by repeating what I just watched them doing. I had to back up slightly when the blonde stood while looking at the window. But, she quickly turned, put her butt in front of my view and asked Hatchell something. He nodded and I watched as she left hee room. I turned to see him again and backed up and stood when he began playing with himself.
I went back to the front door and started knocking loudly on the door. I glimpsed a flash of the blonde as she ran to the bedroom with two glasses in her hand and disappeared from my view. I stood quietly at the door for several minutes and when I looked through the glass again, Hatchell was scurrying down the hallway toward the door, still naked and mumbling to himself. The light came on over my head, the door flew open and he said loudly, "What the hell do you want at this time of night?"
I handed him my card and said, "Wyatt, I'm sorry but my plans had to change. I know we're scheduled for tomorrow evening, but I'm hoping we can reconcile our deal tonight. It won't take but five minutes." He was squinting to read my card. It announced 'Mitchell Sullivan, Personal Service Representative, 800 The River, Savannah, GA.'
"God dammit, Mitch. You've interrupted a business meeting I'm conducting. Come on in and let's get 'er done so that I can get back to my meeting."
I followed him in as I said, "I've heard that you were always one that screwed your board members. Now I believe the stories."
He stopped, turned and laughed as he slapped my shoulders. He was still laughing when he said, "I like to deal with hired assassins that have a sense of humor, boy. Let me get the case for you." He clicked on a table lam
p, and quickly bent over; I turned my head to change my view as he pulled a small brief case from under the table. He flipped it open and the money was stacked neatly across the bottom of the case, one hundred dollar bills two bricks high filled the space.
"It's all there, all quarter of a mil. The envelope on top has the instructions of when she'll be in Savannah, where she's staying and a picture so that you don't make a mistake. Guarantee me that you won't."
"No mistakes in ten years, Wyatt. There's been no backlash to either me or my clients. You'll get a clean job with no worries. Is your new heir the glasses bearing blonde that passed in front of the window when I knocked?"
"So you saw my client, huh? Now you understand why I'm anxious to get to the next subject on the agenda. And hell no, she's not my heir. She my whore for the weekend." He laughed hard again, slapped my shoulder once more and said, "Can't hold up the agenda. Let yourself out." I watched his creaky, naked, bony ass heading rapidly toward the bedroom. The door slammed closed and I could only see a strip of light from under the closed door. The voices, however, were loud and amused. I snapped the lamp off, tromped loudly to the front door, shut it with a bang, turned and eased very quietly back and sat down lightly on the overstuffed aged couch waiting. He was amazing