by Sarina Adem
Leon lowered the radio and turned to face C.C. “Cops are waiting for us to do something rash.”
C.C. sighed. Sipped her margarita. “They’re waiting on Jolene.”
“Yeah. And when they realize she’s not coming, they’re going bust in here like God’s fury.”
“You want to pack?” C.C.’s tone lightened in a cutesy way. “You want to run away from the mean little pork chops and their dollar store badges?”
“C.C.,” Leon said, speaking out the side of his mouth as he did when angered, “up until now we’ve floated under the radar. The lid’s being ripped off as we speak. Within a few hours, your face is going to be plastered all over the news. We can’t help that. Now we can either wait it out and when the time comes, your face will be accompanied by one of two captions – dead or captured – or we can get far away from this place. But you and I and this whole operation goes to shit, without question, if we don’t vacate this house right now.”
“Take the forest trail?” C.C. began to pace, considering their only option. “If we flee, that’s what we do. But they’ll follow.”
“Of course. And we’ll be long gone if we leave right now.”
C.C. hated the idea of running. Felt it made her weak. Besides that gross feeling, she’d be leaving behind her country ranch estate. The house she built with Mick. Luxury in ivory walls and elegant décor. Fake fruit in bowls. Cows and horses. Chickens. The dog. The pool.
“What was the plan anyway?” asked Leon. “Kill the sheriff, install Gully? Rule Bluff County with an iron fist?”
C.C. smiled at the thought. “Should have done it long ago, too. Before Jolene even made it this far. I really did not expect her to still be alive. I wanted to go out there last night and kill her myself. Poor Tommy here just had a mean ol’ tummy ache. Mommy couldn’t leave him like that.”
Leon’s eyelids winced, and C.C. knew that signaled he was fast approaching his limit of patience. “C.C.,” he said, “we don’t have long to decide. What’s it going to be?”
C.C. ignored him. “I wanted to cut that bitch’s tongue out. I would have fed it back to her. Maybe I should call Job and tell him to do that before he kills her.”
“C.C.”
“Yes, fine Leon. Call Jacques. Tell him this isn’t a drill.”
“You’ve got the money to pay him?”
“Do you have to ask, Leon? Call the man. I’m going to pack.”
C.C. left him to it. Went upstairs and set Tommy down to play with his four-year-old brother, William. Then she walked down the hall to her room, opened the door to her closet, and pulled her shoe rack out. It descended like a flight of stairs, which she climbed. Pushed a hidden segment of the ceiling up and felt around the secret attic. Found the metal handle.
She pulled the briefcase down. Threw it on her bed. Opened it and studied every crisp bundle of Benjamin Franklins. The emergency stash. The one-time payment for Jacques Hardy, the pilot, because it meant once he picked C.C., her boys, and Leon up, none of them, not even Jacques, could return to Bluff County.
Chapter Four
The Butlers were a family with deep roots in Folsom and Bluff County. Jolene had few neighbors out in the boondocks, and one of them was Frasier Butler. His hunting cabin sat at the end of a narrow trail only accessible by ATVs or foot travel. Frasier liked to keep things simple that way.
Since hunting season had been over for months, it would undoubtedly be empty. The tricky part was finding it with no trail.
Jolene and Troy kept silent, never breaking out into a full run, although they came close to sprinting in their strides. The men following them made no effort to conceal their pursuit, snapping sticks and resounding thuds in their heavy boots. Jolene wanted them to follow, so those sounds did not unnerve her.
She caught a glimpse of the corner of a pine straw-laden roof above a small ravine. She and Troy hit the slope hard and grasped at roots and impressions in the dirt to climb up. The hunting party’s racket closed in.
Jolene and Troy rolled onto level land, coming face-to-face with the back of the cabin. Jolene led the way around to the front porch. It was at this point she realized the door might be locked.
Wouldn’t be like a Butler to lock his shit up, though.
The knob twisted and they were in. Smelled old, dank, dusty, and moldy. Empty beer bottles on the table. An overflowing trash can. Frasier must have gotten hammered at the end of hunting season and lit out without a care as to how he’d find his cabin next year.
The cabin itself consisted of only one room. A small, round table sat in the center. On top of it the beer bottles, an ashtray filled with stamped out cigarette butts, and an empty tin can which once held sardines. Against the back wall was Frasier’s bed, which was just a stained mattress and pillow. The kitchen was bare.
Most importantly, the cabin’s interior was dark. The only light leaked in through the windows, but the awning outside blocked half of it. C.C.’s men would find them here, however. They had to. It’d be obvious.
Jolene and Troy cleared the table in the center and dragged it to the door, blocking the only entrance and exit. Then they each took a window on the front wall, cracking both open just enough for a gun barrel to fit through.
Jolene observed a cloud of dust particles dancing in a thin stream of mountain sunlight, and the question occurred to her. In a whisper loud enough for Troy to hear across the cabin, Jolene said, “Hey, how’d you manage to break free in the first place?”
“What are you talking about?”
“From the bondage?”
“You like that sort of thing, Jo?”
“Answer the damn question, Troy.”
“I used my watch. The latch is sharp.”
“Your watch?”
“Yep. Lucky they let me keep it, huh?”
Jolene sat with her knees buckled, pulled up against her chest. The Glock held firmly in both hands between her legs. She lifted herself just slightly to scan the front. Nothing yet. She lowered and said, “Pretty nifty watch.”
Troy grinned. “You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you. I just don’t believe you’re innocent in all this.”
“Truth is, twenty-four hours ago I thought the same thing about you.”
Jolene raised slightly from the wall to peer around the table at the man. “I’m sorry if I don’t follow.”
Troy kneeled, facing the wall. One hand on the windowsill, his eye level just barely peeking over it at the shaded expanse in front. “Guess now is as good a time as any to tell you. Maybe I should have told you sooner. It’s just, all this time I’ve been back in Bluff County, I was certain you were somehow involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“In C.C.’s operation. As a matter of fact, I thought I was pursuing Mick Lily for the better part of eight months. It’s when you killed him that I knew.”
“Knew what?” Jolene thought she heard voices and glanced outside. Nothing.
“That you’re innocent. At least, to the point of extreme ignorance.”
Jolene blinked. “I think I take offense at that, but I’m not sure what for.”
“Don’t worry,” said Troy. “Like I said, the better part of eight months I worked for Mick Lily. Never once caught on it was C.C. I was after.”
Jolene slid away from the wall across the dirty planks, certain she heard voices now. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Mr. Ellis.”
“Sheriff,” he said, “I work for the F.B.I.”
“You’re a Fed?”
“C.C. took my badge, but yeah. You hear them climbing up that slope?”
“Yes.”
“I was assigned this case because I’m from Bluff County. Apparently, I suck at my job. Or at least, C.C. excels at hers.”
“You seem to be good at shooting.”
They both fell silent. The voices outside stopped. Then one of them yelled at the cabin, his voice muffled but audible through the log cabin. “Jolene Flannery and Troy Ellis. We know you’r
e in there. We’ve got the place surrounded. Now you can either come out and we’ll make it quick, or we’ll come in there and make it slow.”
Jolene raised up to see the driver standing about fifteen feet from the cabin. The other three were nowhere in sight.
Troy hollered back, “Job? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Troy.”
“Who’d you bring with you?”
No answer.
“Let me guess. Hickory, Dickory, and Dock?”
Job said, “What’s it matter?”
Then another voice, outside the left wall, but close, added, “Dickory ain’t a real name, Troy. You know Warbler’s the only one calls us that.”
“Yeah,” said Troy. “That creative asshole. You didn’t bring Sparkles along?”
“If we had,” said Job, “I imagine you wouldn’t have received the courtesy of a conversation before meeting your demise.”
“I suppose not.”
Listening to this conversation, Jolene came to the conclusion that she only knew what Troy had told her already. Basically, C.C. had sentenced him to death. Perhaps he claimed to be a federal agent in order to cast himself in a more favorable light, but then why had he not breathed a word about it when she placed him under arrest? If it was true he questioned her innocence, maybe he was attempting to avoid an early execution by not declaring his true allegiance until he knew he could trust the sheriff. With the Feds on C.C., that meant Lily’s cocaine operation might be more widespread than Bluff County.
But now, as Troy spoke, Jolene watched curiously as he moved away from the window, still crouched. In fact, he moved toward her, whispering as he passed by, “They’ll follow my voice. When I make it to the kitchen, kill Job.”
The man gave her an order as if he still had his badge. Assuming he actually had a badge.
Troy yelled again as he moved, “It’s not too late to turn, Job. Help me take down C.C.”
Job chuckled at the thought. “Don’t you think you’re the one should be begging for mercy right about now? I ain’t turning my back on C.C. She is crazy. You know, she had a guy’s legs cut off in De Soto? Let him live so he could make it to the hospital. Waited a day, then sent the guy’s legs to him in a cardboard box.”
Troy stopped. “That a true story?”
“I cut the guy’s legs off.”
Troy continued toward the kitchen. Jolene stayed a couple feet away from the wall as she raised up again. Job had stepped closer to the cabin. In a relaxed stance, he leaned with his foot hooked on the bottom step. His pistol, however, aimed for the clouds. Ready to fire.
Troy said, “Well, I see you’re in deep. If you can cut a guy’s legs off, why are you so scared of C.C.?”
“You know why. She’s good.”
“Yeah, I’ll give her that. Thought I was taking orders from Mick. He was just a general.”
Troy made it to the kitchen but raised a hand telling Jolene to wait. The Glock lingered beneath the windowsill.
Troy said, “So no one else out there wants to help the F.B.I. take down C.C. Lily? Maybe gain immunity when this whole shit ceiling collapses? When I don’t report, you know my buddies will come looking for me.”
No answer.
Troy gave Jolene the go-ahead with a nod. She slipped the Glock’s tip through the cracked window and lined her sights up with Job’s throat. Like shooting cans off a wooden post. She fired.
The man’s neck opened up. Crimson spilled out around his hand trying to hold it all in. Job fired at the cabin, but it was over for him. He stumbled backward in the dirt.
Then came the storm. From the other three sides, bullets tore through the cabin walls. Chunks of wood and splinters blasted in every direction, beams of sunlight spilling in through the fresh holes.
Jolene laid down flat with her hands over her head. Then she felt Troy’s massive frame cover hers. He wrapped his arms protectively around her to shield her completely. Suddenly she realized she had lost her hat because Troy’s rugged face pressed against hers on the dirty planks.
Finally, the shooting stopped. Troy pushed his lips to Jolene’s ear, making her squirm slightly. Even at that distance, she could barely understand what he said. He asked, “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Good. Stay quiet.”
Even in the midst of such carnage, Jolene’s mind wandered off to other things. A lot of time had passed since she felt a man take charge like that with her. He rolled off her and lifted his gun, and she surprised herself with a small inclination to scoot closer to where he now laid.
Footsteps on the porch brought her head back down from the clouds.
On their bellies, Jolene and Troy both aimed their guns at the doorway. The knob twisted, then pushed against the table.
Dickory said, “Something’s blocking it.”
Then either Hickory or Dock said, “Might be one of them. Ain’t no way they survived that rain of fire.”
Dickory shoved his shoulder into the door and forced it open. The table slid, but a leg hung up on a raised board so the door caught again. Halfway open. Just enough space for Dickory to stand inside.
Jolene and Troy fired two shots a piece. Two bullets hit him in the chest, one in the gut, and one in the head. Dickory bounced off the wooden door and fell outside on the porch. Hickory and Dock jumped down the steps and bee-lined for the trees, popping random shots off in defense back at the cabin.
In this temporary reprieve, Jolene and Troy shut the door again and pushed the table back. Jolene felt a little more than awkward now. As if this shootout actually were a first date. She felt something else as well.
Warmth. Real warmth. On her back. Her fingers danced across her shoulder, and when she held her palm in front of her face, her fingertips were dark red. Yet she registered no pain.
Troy, on the other hand, seemed to be feeling woozy, as he propped himself against the table now. Leaning over it, using both hands to support himself. The right side of his ribs wet with blood.
“Troy?”
“It’s alright,” he said. “There might be a first aid kit in here somewhere. We can dress it.”
Jolene took him gently by the arm, wrapping it around her shoulders to help him over to the ugly mattress. It appeared Frasier Butler consistently soiled himself in his sleep. At the moment, it seemed trivial.
Troy sat down and the springs creaked. Jolene scoured the kitchen and then the rest of the place. No first aid kit anywhere. She did, however, find some soap and paper towels.
By now, Troy had taken his shirt off. He said, “Looks like it just grazed my skin. Tore a nasty patch of flesh off, though.”
Jolene kneeled beside him and wiped the blood around the wound away. She cleaned it with the soap, causing Troy to grimace, before pressing a wad of paper towels against it. No tape to hold it.
They sat in silence. Jolene’s hands bloodied with her own and Troy’s. She slowly became aware that her other hand held Troy’s abdomen. For what? For support? As she pulled her hand away, Troy caught it with his own and pressed it against him again. Their eyes met, and a strange surge passed between their touch. His hand on top of hers, he said, “Thank you.”
Jolene yanked her hand out from under his. He winced at the sudden jerk to his wound. “You’re welcome,” she said, “but this isn’t the part where you get the girl.”
Troy grinned, albeit painfully. “Sounds like you have a time in mind when I do.”
Jolene took Troy’s hand and pressed it against the wad of paper towels. She unrolled another lump and exchanged it with the old one.
“We need to get you to a hospital. Now,” she said.
“How do you want to do that?”
Jolene did not respond. Instead, she picked up her Glock and removed the table from blocking the entrance.
For once, Troy didn’t seem to find her actions amusing. “What are you doing?”
Without even a glance back at him, Jolene opened the door and said, “Making a path.”
Chapter Five
Mark Parker grew up listening to a bunch of shit about his name. Sometimes they called him Marker Parker. He hated it. Some kids might have been able to let that stuff go, but not Mark. The taunting ate at him. He knew his reactions probably fueled the fire, but a guy can only take so much.
Then Mark Parker grows up and gets a job working security. A mentor-figure takes an interest in him, calls him by his proper name. Mr. Parker. Perhaps a verbal token of customary respect for most, but Mark heard that title and he wore it on his face like a badge of honor.
That mentor’s name was Job Knight, owner, and operator of Job Knight Security until Job Knight Security was incorporated by Mick Lily. Thought they were hired to run security detail on the local bank. Next thing Mark knew, Job was making cuts. Singling out the individuals he thought were up to the task, letting them stay on, and sending the rest packing.
But for what?
Then one night Job asks Mark if he could kill a man. Mark thought the scenario was hypothetical. Sure, he said. If it came down to it. If he really had to.
Job said it sure as shit was about to get down to it, and he really had to. Job said the security detail they were being placed on was less security and more focused on insurance. Job also said that if Mark wanted to make some fat stacks, then he’d better nut up and line his stomach with steel because things were about to get messy.
Mark didn’t have to give it a second thought. Job was the man.
Now Job laid dead in front of this backwoods cabin. Mark trembled behind the cover of a tree about twice his size in width. Watching that cabin. Watching that door. Let one of them stick their head out somewhere. That’d be the last thing they did.
All this for what? So he could report back to C.C. Lily and Leon Warbler, the man who named him Dock? A better name than Marker Parker, but not at all the name his momma gave him.
Mark waited patiently, eyes on that door. Hickory, or rather, Jake Reynolds, stood at least twenty feet away behind his own tree. Dickory’s corpse remained sprawled out on the porch, quickly dropping to match Job’s body temperature. Mark decided they could at least collect Job’s body after all this. Give him a proper burial, if not a ceremony. They would all be lighting out of Bluff County by sundown.
