Jane's Baby

by Chris Bauer

  “So that was all bullshit about how you write for a newspaper?”

  “No bullshit. I’ve got a friggin’ column, and it’s a good one. ‘Chigger Bytes.’ Lost my press credentials, but I still have the column. They don’t want me near the affluent ticket holders. Or the press box. Too many out-of-town writers. It seems I have anger management issues.”

  He sniffed, an ambivalent little sniff like movie tough guys did when they paused for effect; a nose-noise equivalent of a ‘ya know.’ “Add a coupla beers and it’s like, whoa Nellie, gasoline on a fire. I’m Cowboy silver and blue, through and through, pardner, know what I’m saying? They all just need to shut the fuck up about my Cowboys.”

  He was fading, bordering on passing out, then rallied: “Or I’ll shut them all up, every one of them. The bastards all just need to shut the hell (errrrp) up.” The smell of semi-digested burritos and beer capped off a huge guttural belch.

  Maeby stood again and J.D., his eighty-pound German Shepherd, creeped out of his crate with a low growl, both now interested in Judge’s manners-challenged passenger.

  “Ever think of seeing someone about the anger, or maybe AA?”

  He didn’t get an answer. Owen was busy absorbing what was in the cargo area behind the van’s bucket seats. Passing headlights and an occasional utility pole lamp gave fleeting glimpses of Judge’s onboard tools and other occupational necessities. Slanted shadows were not the way people needed to see the inside of this van for the first time. Secured to the walls, the ceiling and the floor were leg irons, handcuffs, waist chains, some Kevlar vests, police batons, a short-stock shotgun and other weaponry, plus dog paraphernalia: leashes, harnesses, muzzles, and a dog crate large enough to hold a human being. There was no barrier between the seats and the cargo area, so to an unsuspecting passenger the space looked like a walk-in kink-fest closet. The two military-trained dogs didn’t soften these images.

  “Kee-rist, Judge, what the hell you got going on back here?”

  “Grrr.” The German Shepherd was sticking up for his master.

  “My job is what’s going on. I’m a fugitive recovery agent.”

  “What the hell’s a…?”

  “A bounty hunter. Like Dog the Bounty Hunter, but with real dogs as deputies, not big-boobed brassy blonds.”

  Too many b’s. Shit. A grip of the rabbit’s foot calmed him.

  “Cool,” Owen said. “Let’s go do some bounty recovery hunter shit. My news column can wait. Cowboys won, Eagles sucked. Whaddaya say, Judge?”

  “Look, Owen, you’re going home, and I’m heading back to my B&B so me and my partners can get some sleep. Four miles to your place, then I’m done.”

  Owen’s head slumped before Judge finished speaking. Moments later his mouth drooled, the shoulder belt the only thing keeping him from sliding to the floor in front of the seat. They stayed on this road for another three miles, a straight run, then one turn. Tonight had in fact been fun, Judge mused, except for the Eagles loss. LeVander would eat up this little interlude with one Mister Owen “Chigger” Wingert when Judge told him about it tomorrow, on his way back to Pennsylvania.

  His passenger commenced mumbling. “…you don’t bounce till you hit the ground…”

  “Come again?”

  His head tilted right, stayed buffeted by the window. He settled back into a snore, then, “…ain’t hit bottom yet, you high and mighty sons-a-bitches. (zzzzz.) Ain’t fucking ready. No AA till I hit bottom. Then watch this mighty midget bounce like a fucking superball, y’all…”

  Drunk guy gibberish. Judge and his deputies settled back into the drive, passing through Glenn Heights. He had no interest in LeVander’s schoolteacher bounty this time of night. Maybe he’d stop back tomorrow to interview these people to learn about her. Next town up was Oak Leaf, their destination, and the end of Judge’s time with Chigger, but something on the right caught his eye, a bright flash.

  “What in the fuck was that?” Judge mused aloud.

  A hundred yards off the road, the nighttime horizon tore open. Three short yellow-white muzzle flashes silently ripped holes in the veiled darkness, silent at least to Judge, but he was sure he’d seen them, the occupational hazard of midnight watches during multiple tours of duty as a Marine. He powered down the passenger window. Owen’s head skittered against the glass as the window disappeared into the door but he stayed unconscious even after its retraction. More short bursts, again with no noise. No matter, Judge knew nighttime gunfire when he saw it. He made a sharp right onto a two-laner and put the pedal to the floor. The van fishtailed through an entrance to an RV campground and trailer park, Judge concentrating on the spot on the horizon where he saw the gunfire, straight ahead, maybe five hundred feet away now, looking for any movement or more gunplay.

  Ba-BOOM.

  An orange fireball erupted like propane stoked to fuel a hot air balloon, a short burst that blasted skyward then expanded at its base. A mobile home engulfed in flames, and holy shit it was propane. All the trailers had propane tanks for heating and cooking, including those next to the one burning. He jammed the brakes, stopping in front of a camper two sites away from the burning home. This close in Judge realized the newest danger, the back half of the trailer park heavily forested. People needed to get out of their trailers, move to a safe distance.

  “Owen!” Judge shoved his passenger’s shoulder. “Chigger! Call 911!”

  “What the fuck…” Owen was fully awake, no choice otherwise, shocked sober by the blast. His eyes mirrored the flames.

  The home site was on fire, the exploded propane tank still showering debris onto the dirt and leaves behind the trailer like sparks from a welding gun, the leaves igniting. Out of the van, Judge trotted toward the screams coming from inside the trailer, scanning the perimeter as he closed in. Sirens gained strength in the distance. The mobile home was, had been, a creamy white aluminum, with two white picket fences, low to the ground that lined a walkway of red and brown pavers, and led to the front door. The door’s perimeter was the only part of the trailer not scorched. Little hope for anyone inside. Judge wrapped his hand in his tee shirt to try the doorknob despite what the burning metal might do to him. A jagged line of holes distracted him: bullet holes, punched into the trailer’s white metal hide and running forward from the trailer’s scorched rear section to its front door, the fire still moving, eating past them, nearing the door. The door burst open. A young girl stumbled out, her chest bleeding, her hair on fire, her face scorched black. In her two-fisted grip was a dead-weighted woman, the girl dragging her by the woman’s shirt.

  “My mother…help her…”

  Judge grabbed a waistband full of pink polyester pajamas in one hand and a fistful of gray adult sweatshirt smeared in blood in the other. He back-peddled, dragging both victims down the walkway, heat radiating from them, could smell their charred flesh, wouldn’t look closely at them until he’d pulled them far enough away from the advancing flames. They reached the street. Owen bent over and heaved his tortured stomach as Judge got closer to him then stepped quickly in his direction, but his vomiting stopped him again. The adult’s face and chest were charred and slimy and hot to the touch, like she was burning from the inside out. Judge knew CPR but quickly realized he’d be of no help to her; no one would.

  He moved over to the young girl, her pink pajamas on fire. He ripped at them, needed to get them off her body, to put the flames out…

  Christ, I’m wrong, he realized. The kid dragging the mother was a boy, and he was bleeding near his waist, from a gunshot wound.

  His arms flailed, were grabbing, searching, soon found Judge’s head, his hand connecting with his mouth. He gripped Judge’s lower jaw and pulled him down into his face, beneath his seared, blistering scalp. Smoke left his mouth as he tried to speak.

  “…we saw her…morning service. She killed…our pastor…”

  He passed out while Judge administered CPR. C’mon, kid, stay with me…

  A push nudged Judge’s should
er, someone trying to get his attention, the person grabbing at his shirt, then pushing and shoving him.

  Screw that, this kid is dying!

  “EMTs are here. Judge! Stop!”

  Owen, yelling at Judge, was spitting his words, buzzing about Judge’s face, this insect, this fucking Chigger insect buzzing in his ear goddamn it, not letting him do this. Steam shimmered from Judge’s bald head, and in a throat raspy from the smoke the verbal bile accumulated, the Tourette’s, looking for release.

  “Get off him, Judge! The EMTs, let them do their job”

  Fuck no, we’re doing this, c’mon kiddo…

  …can’t…hold it…in.

  “…burning…Cunt! Cunt balls…everybody smile, everybody say mid-jettt! Middd-jettt!”

  Two men dragged Judge off the boy while a third took over the CPR. They settled Judge on the grass, draped a blanket over his shoulders, gave him some bottled water. He further calmed himself by gripping the rabbit fur attached to his belt.

  Ambulances, fire trucks, the police chief, some deputies, and horrified trailer and campground residents, all were at safe distances from the rectangular bonfire that had once been a single mobile home, sparks shooting out like a roman candle in all directions. The fire trucks drenched the trailer skeleton and the dead leaves and tree fires surrounding it, keeping anything else from igniting.

  The woman was dead, maybe from the fire, maybe from a bullet hole in her right cheek. The blood soaking her sweatpants indicated she’d also been shot in the lower half of her body. They slid her into an ambulance, Judge watching them work on the naked boy, watched them connect him to fluids, wrap him in moist towels, prepare him for transport. He regained consciousness, the EMTs trying to reassure him, comfort him while he screamed in agony, and then the screams stopped. The woman emergency tech began the CPR drill again, this time with reduced enthusiasm. The tech shot Judge a look, followed up with a shake of her head no. They loaded the boy into a second ambulance, the tech still doing chest compressions. Judge’s disease stayed active, speaking its half-truths.

  “…silent night, holy fright, grab your ass, hold on tight. Silent night.”

  Owen spoke. “You say something, Judge?”

  “The shooter. The gun had a silencer.”

  When the garbled TS crap retreated Judge shook himself out of the blanket and sucked the bottle of water dry. Another bottle magically appeared in his hands. Two ambulances kicked up gravel as they hurried their way toward the RV park exit. Judge addressed Owen.

  “I saw the shots from the road but heard no report. They were from a semi-automatic with a suppressor.” The ambulances’ sirens waned but their flashing lights stayed visible along the horizon, few trees obstructing it, as the vehicles sped up the road. “My guess is the guy intended to hit and run without the histrionics of a fire.”

  Judge told the police chief what he knew, gave his name, his USMC rank at retirement, let the police know he was a fugitive recovery agent and that he was carrying, and he let them take his weapon. No mention of his other guns in the van, and they didn’t ask to search it after they heard from other residents about Judge’s attempt at saving the two victims. He let the chief know where he was staying, and that he planned on leaving tomorrow for a return trip to Philly, once he got some sleep.

  “You with Chigger?” the police chief asked. Owen’s ten-gallon hat put the cop’s Texas Stetson to shame.

  “Yes. I was driving him home.”

  “Right. From the Cowboys game. Cops at the stadium alerted us about his episode in the stands. You sober?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. We appreciate the car service. Stop by the station tomorrow for your gun. We’ll need to have someone run ballistics. A formality. Tell me again what the kid said to you.”

  “The kid said ‘she killed our pastor.’”

  “Thanks,” the police chief said. “You’re good to go for now.”

  Owen was of little help to them other than vouching for Judge. But right about then was when Judge got it, that Owen was a local celebrity or some other such shit, like Oak Leaf’s town drunk and pet and crier all rolled into one.

  They cruised toward the trailer park exit. Owen went for his flask again.

  “Christ, how much does that thing hold, Owen? Why not give it a rest. It’s six in the morning. Don’t you have a column to write?”

  He twisted the top back on after a huge gulp. “Not booze. One of the campers dripped coffee into it. The column’s almost written in my head. It starts with the football game, ends with the fire. Sports recap plus human interest. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be an Internet sensation, Judge. ‘Eagles Fan: True Dallas Hero.’ Oh, the irony. Your friends in Philly will never look at you the same.”

  This small man knew little about him, little about his cultivated friendships that, aside from his Marine buddy LeVander Metcalf in Allentown and one very special woman in upstate Pennsylvania, did not exist. Regardless, Judge had an ultimatum for him. “Leave my name out. Say ‘anonymous Eagles fan.’ No other identifiers. Got that?”

  “But…”

  “I don’t need any more friends, Owen, especially in my business. The less people know about me, the better.”

  “C’mon, dude, Philly fans could use some good press. Calling you ‘anonymous’ almost makes it sound like it didn’t happen.”

  “Then it didn’t happen. No name.”

  At the RV park exit the headlights flashed across a rectangular, gold-embossed wooden sign surrounded by a rock garden. Leaving Hi Ho RV Park. Come back soon. Hi ho! Hi ho!…

  The coprolalia part of Judge’s TS kicked in, wanting out with a vengeance. His mouth geared up, poised to sing selected portions of the fucking Seven Dwarfs song, ’cause his subconscious for some reason knew them. Maeby again rested her head on his shoulder. Judge pinched his rabbit’s foot, started massaging it. The internal tempest subsided.

  “A few miles will put us in Oak Leaf,” Owen said. “Make a right at the first intersection. My place is on a side road, on five acres.”

  A straight, lonely Texas road at dawn, the silence broken by Owen humming a tune Judge recognized. Unmistakable, it was soon banging around inside his head, messing with his Tourette’s for Christ sake, pressing all the buttons: “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work we go…”

  With that Judge lost control, his mouth babbling like a stuttering auctioneer:

  “…we dig dig dig dig dig dig dig dig dig…”

  Owen joined him, nailing the lyrics as they both serenaded an empty Texas two-laner at sunrise. That was when Judge decided he liked this guy.

  “…we dig dig dig dig dig dig dig dig DIG DIG DIG DIG…”

  They entered Owen’s driveway, and facing them was a sprawling ranch home, u-shaped, with a circular drive and a dusty-brown front lawn, very little of it green, a sagebrush, tumbling-tumbleweed kind of dusty, hardened and rocky. The house design fit the other few homes they’d passed on the way in, but the condition of Owen’s property didn’t. All were on Texas-sized lots, five acres plus, he said, but the other front lawns were well maintained and lushly landscaped. Owen’s rancher looked fairly new save for some missing shutters and roof shingles. Closer in to it was an uprooted blue and silver mailbox and its crushed wooden post, the mailbox and post both jutting from the center of tire tracks burrowed into deep mud that had hardened. The tracks ended a few feet from the home’s front porch overhang. Still in evidence in the grip of the hardened dirt was a pickup truck, its mud flaps caked in baby-shit brown. The truck was a custom paint job, a navy blue with a silver stripe, same colors as the Mustang and the mailbox. A late nineties Ford, and from the looks of it, late nineties was also when it became a permanent lawn ornament.

  The sun peeked over the horizon. The van reached the end of the long driveway and curled around near the house’s front overhang. Whatever statement his abandoned truck was making sidetracked Judge’s need to retrieve a text he’d just received. Owen spoke up.

  �
��Welcome to Casa Chigger, home to Owen Wingert, beloved Dallas sportswriter. Also, for some reason that escapes me, the scourge of Oak Leaf Farms per my odious neighbors. Well, this has been quite the eventful evening, Mister Drury, and I’d invite you in but I’m afraid there’s not much of anything to consume other than alcohol, and with you needing to head out today.”

  The text came from LeVander. It led with exclamation points, then…

  —Find that schoolteacher bounty NOW, Judge!

  “Owen, Chigger, gimme a sec.”

  —Change in her status. My Dallas connection says they now like her for 3 murders, a church pastor, a woman and her kid. Assassinations, maybe arson. Just happened.

  —Where? Judge keyed this, but he already knew.

  —An RV park. Hi-Ho RV park, town called Glenn Heights. Local law is talking reward money.

  —Fuck the money LeVander. The murdered kid died in front of me. Tell you about it later. Screw what I said before. I’m in.

  Judge put the phone away, addressed Owen. “I’m not going home today.”

  SIX

  Larinda entered the Texarkana, Texas, city limits, around seven thirty a.m. after three hours on the road in a newly acquired silver Dodge Durango with switched plates. A few minutes more on Route 30, she’d cross the state line and enter Texarkana, Arkansas.

  The R.I.P. bullets had been too effective. Her intention was to walk the perimeter of the trailer in the dead of night with her Tec-9s, strafe the section with the bedrooms, blow open the front door and go inside. Except the bullets had shredded a propane tank gas line. Too much collateral damage and too much attention.

  She needed to make sure the woman and boy were dead. In the shadows, away from the huddles of horrified trailer park gawkers, the circus got underway when a hero showed up in a van with barking dogs: a put-together guy, bald, maybe military, who joined the action by dragging the big-mouthed little queer and his mother away from the fire. Larinda waited, saw the EMTs work on them then shake their heads no to both. A fortunate outcome for the EMTs. Without the headshake, Larinda would have had to follow the ambulance and take them all out.