Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Perhaps Shannon understood something of what he was going through. He felt her fingers forcing their way into his clenched palm. Then they were holding hands and she was leading him toward the place he was uncertain he wanted to go. He felt as if his mind, his heart, and his body were all going in separate directions, not working together as they were intended.

  Ragus used his rifle to gesture toward a tall, twisted maple, the only tree in the tiny yard. "That tree. That's where I buried her. That was our place. I had a swing in that tree when I was little."

  Shannon held his hand tight and didn't speak. As someone who'd lost her own mother, she was moved by the power of the moment, transported back to her own feelings of loss and powerlessness.

  Another thirty yards on the mountain road and they veered off to the right, climbing a driveway that was little more than two rutted tracks carved into the slope. Ragus remembered how his mother had parked at the base of the drive when it snowed, hoping her old car wouldn't get stuck. If she couldn't get to work, she wouldn't get paid.

  "It's...nice," Shannon attempted.

  Ragus shook his head. "It was a dump. If there was anything nice about it, it was that I lived here with a mother who genuinely cared for me. She made my life the best she could with what little we had and I always felt loved."

  Shannon grew teary at the thought of it, recalling her mother. "There's something about a good mother's love that's irreplaceable. Nothing fills that void. Nothing ever can."

  Ragus didn't have to agree. There were certain truths of the universe that didn't require validation. That the sky was blue didn't require discussion most days. He tugged his hand loose from Shannon's and slung his rifle over his back. He dug into his pocket and found the key that he still carried with him every day. The shiny coating had worn through to the brass beneath it. The key fob was green with white letters, advertising a used car dealer that had once sold his mother a ratty Buick.

  "We can go in," he said. "I haven't been inside since the fall. Not sure what we'll find."

  "We don't have to if you don't want. Not if it's too hard."

  Ragus shrugged. "It's all hard. Not one single piece of it's any harder than the rest."

  "I get it."

  The yard held items common to those who have nothing. Things that were worth little, yet too valuable to throw away. Two of his mother's old cars sat where they'd died, not worth fixing but too good to sell for scrap. There was a yellow dirt bike missing the seat and half the engine. Someone had given it to Ragus and he'd pushed it all the way home, hoping to get it running one day. He didn't know enough about engines, nor did he have the money to buy any of the parts he needed. Three years later it looked no different than the day he'd dropped the kickstand.

  There were two broken lawnmowers, one riding and one push. One end of the clothesline had snapped at its base, dropping all four wires to the ground. His mother had asked him to fix it once but he'd never figured out how and it was too late now. They turned the corner of the mobile home, and Ragus led them to the back door, the one his key fit. When he saw the back porch he stopped in his tracks. The back door stood wide open.

  "Son of a bitch!" he hissed.

  "You didn't leave it like that?"

  His face flushed with anger, he snapped at her. "Why the hell would I do that?" Seeing her reaction, he knew he was taking his anger out on the wrong person. "I'm sorry. I didn't leave it like that. Someone must have broken in."

  Shannon raised her rifle, though she knew the chances of the burglar still being there were very slim. Ragus recovered from his shock to do the same, charging angrily toward the back steps.

  "Watch yourself," he muttered. "These steps are rotten."

  When he got to the top, he touched the pressure switch on his rifle and triggered the powerful weapon light. He leaned forward at the open door, playing the light around the living room. What he saw was like a punch in the gut. The place had been tossed, rifled through by some stranger in search of something among the nothing that they'd owned.

  "Anything?" Shannon asked from behind him.

  Ragus took a long breath and blew it out through clenched teeth. "There's lots of leaves in here. The place has probably been sitting open for a couple of weeks." Playing the light over the counter, he saw mouse droppings scattered on the smooth laminate surface. A gnawed hickory nut told him that a squirrel had enjoyed a meal here.

  The cabinets stood open and many of the kitchen drawers were not shut properly. Ragus had never left them like that. His mother hadn't allowed it in life and he'd sought to maintain things to her liking after her death. Though there hadn't been any food in the cabinets, most of the housewares were still there. Ragus hadn't needed to take any of those things when he went to live with Conor and Barb so he left the house intact, taking only the personal items that meant something to him.

  "It doesn't look like it was vandals," said Shannon, glancing around. "Kids would have broken things just to be destructive. It looks like whoever did this was looking for things they could use."

  "It's a thief all the same," Ragus muttered. "House was locked and they broke in."

  They went from one end of the mobile home to the other, assessing the damage and making sure there were no intruders still inside before they returned to the living room. Ragus realized that the break-in had made him forget he'd been in the midst of conducting a tour. His rifle pointing safely at the ground, he made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. "This is it. Was it, I guess. Where I grew up."

  Shannon looked around but didn't know what to say. She was having trouble visualizing what the place must have looked like when it was home to a family, even a small two-person family. She couldn't recall that she'd ever been in a mobile home before. It reminded her of a camper, long and narrow. "It's nice."

  "My mother tried to make it nice," Ragus admitted. "When I was young, I didn't realize we were poor. Once I got older, other kids at school made sure I knew. My mother tried her best, but there was only so much she could do. We didn't have any money so that kind of ruled out fixing the place up."

  "Home isn't about money and nice things."

  Ragus smiled at the comment. "Spoken by someone who has always had money and nice things."

  "That's not fair, Ragus. We don't choose the life we're born into. At a certain point the decisions become ours, even if it doesn't start out that way."

  He pretended not to have heard her. "Let's get out of here. I've seen enough. I'd like to visit with my mother, then we need to get on back."

  Ragus led the way out the door. Once Shannon followed him out, he tried to secure the door but it was too damaged from whatever the thief had used to pry it open. Ragus finally gave up with a frustrated curse and wedged a plastic chair against it, hoping that would hold it shut.

  Shannon was waiting on Ragus at the bottom of the steps. She didn't speak to him, aware that the damaged door had made him angry and upset again. He stormed by her with his head down, heading for the driveway. She fell in behind him, knowing he'd talk when he was ready. At the corner of the trailer, Ragus swung to his right, briefly disappearing from Shannon's sight.

  She heard a meaty thump and Ragus cried out. Assuming he'd somehow fallen, she rushed to the corner to see what had happened. She found Ragus unconscious on the ground, blood pouring from his nose. She was still processing that when she noticed the large man in the periphery of her vision, flattened against the side of the mobile home. He grinned as he swung the ax handle like a baseball bat.

  Trying to dodge the blow, Shannon whipped her head to the side but she was too slow. The stout length of hickory connected with her temple and the world went black.

  36

  Ragus's Home

  Jewell Ridge, Virginia

  Before rushing to subdue his two victims, Wombat took a moment to relish his success, performing a happy dance around their unconscious bodies. As a pipeliner, he'd performed the same ritual to celebrate small successes during the day. What he
celebrated now was entirely dumb luck, the misfortune of these two to come strolling by the deer stand he'd set up along the road. With no cars moving, the deer had decided the road was easier traveling. Wombat had good luck hunting the road lately and today it paid off for him in a way he had not expected.

  He knew these were the people from the compound. He'd gotten a good look at them through the gate the other day and he was certain these were the two who'd pointed guns at him. He had to assume that if they were here at the trailer, the compound was unguarded except for those two dogs. He'd killed dogs before but preferred to tame them if he could. They tended to be simple creatures, easily won over with a little food and affection. It would be to his benefit to charm his way past them and keep them on as guard dogs. If he was going to take the compound for himself, he'd need some help.

  First, he had to deal with these two. Although logic told him to finish them off and call it done, he was hesitant. Some of the people he'd killed had been haunting him in his dreams lately. While he didn't feel particularly bad about what he'd done, he had to admit that beating those six boys to death in that house on the Dismal River had been a nasty affair. It left pictures in his head that he wished he didn't have. He could still hear the sound of the ax handle and their cries. He could taste the blood that splashed onto his face as he slung his bludgeon. He could smell the scents of death.

  Since he'd been struggling with those nightmares he'd come to the conclusion that he might be better off just beating the shit out of people and calling it a day. They might eventually recover and he wouldn’t suffer the bad dreams that brutal murders brought about. It was a win-win situation. He was going to attempt to turn over a new leaf and it started with these two. He'd bind them securely and lock them someplace they'd have a hard time getting out of. Sure they might die, but he wouldn't have to be around to see it. He wouldn't have to deal with those lingering pictures in his head.

  Working quickly, he started with the young man, stripping him of his pack and rifle. Wombat carried a length of rope for dragging deer home when he killed them. He cut off a section and securely bound Ragus's wrists. When he was done, he did the same for the girl, taking her pack and rifle too.

  "Survival of the fittest, baby," he sang. "You're the biggest and baddest thing on this mountain."

  With their hands secure he began rifling through their pockets, cramming the few items he found into his own pack. Each of the two was carrying a handgun and he relieved them of those, as well as the holsters.

  "Damn, you people got some nice stuff," he whispered. "It's like Christmas. Can't wait to see what else you got up there."

  As he rolled them around so he could search them, they both began to stir. He considered striking them again but there was no point. Even if they yelled, who would come? Deciding that the only risk in them regaining consciousness was that they might try to run off, Wombat cut off two more lengths of rope and used those to bind their legs. With that done, he straightened out and began scanning the area for a place to lock the two away.

  Besides the ratty trailer, which he'd already thoroughly looted, there was only one other structure. It was a small cinderblock building with a wire running to it. Experience told him it was probably the pump house, containing the well pump and pressure tank for the property. Leaving his two captives where they lay, Wombat hustled the short distance to the structure. There was an unfastened padlock hooked into a hasp. What was it about country people that led them to think an unfastened padlock hanging in a hasp was almost as good as locking the door?

  When he removed the padlock, the door swung open to reveal a dark interior laced with spider webs. There were some shelves on the wall with canning jars that had frozen and burst. A rusty blue pressure tank sat in the corner, a water line coming from it and disappearing into a hole in the concrete floor. The building was about eight feet square and had a shingle roof. He was fairly certain this was a place they wouldn’t get out of. If he locked them in there, bound as they were, that was where they'd die. There'd be no getting out.

  He jogged back to the bound couple. "Hey, I've got good news. Your new accommodations are ready. We'll get you moved in right away."

  He started with Ragus, hooking his hands under Ragus's armpits and walking backwards, dragging him along. Ragus was no lightweight but neither was Wombat. Pipelining was heavy work and Wombat had grown strong from it. He tugged Ragus to the pump house, over the threshold, and dropped him on the floor. Ragus was waking up now, still disoriented from the blow to his head. When Wombat turned loose of him, he toppled over onto his side.

  Wombat was back in a moment with Shannon. She was lighter and a hell of a lot easier to drag. He dropped her on the cold concrete by Ragus and backed out of the tiny building. "I hope you'll find the place to your liking. I'm pretty sure the heat doesn't work and the kitchen is closed, but you'll be fine. Until you’re not."

  With that, Wombat slammed the heavy wooden door shut on the two, leaving them in pitch blackness. He hooked the padlock back through the hasp and locked it shut. The fact he didn't have a key was irrelevant at this point. By the time the world got back to normal and someone decided to go in the pump house again, they'd find nothing but bones and rags. The story of how the two ended up dead there would be lost to the ages.

  Wombat stood there for a moment, hands on hips, relishing the success of the morning. He'd set out for a deer and found more than he'd hoped for. He strode back to the pile of gear he'd removed from Ragus and Shannon. He didn't want to leave any of it behind so he piled all the gear into Ragus's pack, tossing Shannon's to the side. He was already carrying a .38 in his pocket so he decided to toss their handguns and spare AR mags into the pack too. Uncertain of how else to carry them, he strapped their rifles to each side of the pack and pulled it onto his shoulders.

  The pack was heavy but in a pleasing way. Heavy with important items that would help him survive. Heavy with promise. With a satisfied grin on his face, he started walking. He needed to go check out his new home.

  37

  Conor's Compound

  Jewell Ridge, Virginia

  Wombat stayed on the road and walked directly to the compound gate. He was a little wary but mostly certain he'd subdued the only two residents of the compound. He had no idea if those people who'd left in the chopper intended to return or not, but he could deal with that when the time came. First things first.

  "Uh, hello?" he called from the gate.

  When there was no response, he called again louder. "Hello!"

  There was a response then. Two slavering guard dogs came barreling across the compound like fur missiles, barking and growling. They hit the fence full-speed, jumping high on the chain-link and snarling. Wombat took an involuntary step backward, wanting to put at least an arm’s-length in between him and the dogs. He kept his rifle ready, waiting to see if the barking brought anyone else. If there was anyone at the compound they'd surely have some reaction to all the commotion.

  Wombat let a good five minutes pass, pacing around the entrance and watching for movement inside the compound. When he saw nothing, he slung his rifle over his back and removed his pack.

  "You and I are going to be friends," Wombat said to the dogs while he dug around inside his pack. "You're going to love me. I just know it."

  He found the baggie he was looking for, the reddish-gray strips of deer jerky put back for his lunch. This was more important than lunch. He had hearts and stomachs to win over. He fished out two long strips and held one in each hand. He extended them through the holes in the fence, keeping his fingers on his side, ready to yank them back if the dogs tried to eat him.

  The dogs backed away from the gate and barked, but Wombat was certain he could hear some doubt in there now. They were smelling the jerky and beginning to question their dedication to the job.

  "That's right, doggies, I'm a good guy. I'll give you lots of treats. We'll be good friends. I'm the new sheriff in town. The sooner you accept that, the bette
r off we'll all be."

  When the dogs didn't move to accept his treats, he went ahead and dropped them through the fence and stepped back. As if thinking with a single mind, both dogs quit barking and approached the jerky, sniffing it suspiciously. The bigger of the two gave it a tentative lick, then devoured it. Following his lead, the second dog did the same.

  With the treats gone, the dogs backed away and started barking again, but Wombat could tell their hearts weren't in it. They were just going through the motions, like some bored teenager working the drive-through window. He extracted two more pieces of jerky from the bag and the barking immediately ceased. He held the treats up in front of him and waved them toward the dogs. Their eyes were glued on the dried meat. It was the center of their furry universe.

  "See there!" Wombat grinned. "We're making progress now."

  He held the slices through the fence and the dogs approached cautiously, taking them from his fingers. Thirty minutes later, they were wagging their tails at him and licking his fingers through the fence like they were old friends.

  "Boys, it's time to take this relationship to the next level. What do you think?"

  They looked at him expectantly, standing back from the gate and watching. He reached into his pack and tails began wagging, hoping that hand would be coming out with more treats. It wasn't. It was the bolt cutters that served as Wombat's master key to most locks he encountered. Not wanting to cut a hole through the most visible part of the gate, he stepped off to the side and snipped his way through the fence, opening a hole big enough that he could step through it.