Shotgun Mine

by Jim Heskett

  “What do you want from me? An accounting of all my mistakes?”

  Layne leaned forward. “How old is your granddaughter?”

  “Is Cameron here? Can I see her?”

  Layne shook his head. “You don’t know how old she is, do you?”

  George’s face reddened and his eyes flared. “Damn it, Layney, you know I don’t remember stuff as good as I used to. I’m an old man. Cut me a break.”

  “And you don’t get to slide decades of bad parenting under the rug just because you smoked yourself into having lung cancer. Do you know how many times I listened to Mom and Randall cry themselves to sleep because you backhanded one of them, or—even worse—called them stupid and worthless? Do you have any idea how much damage you did to your family over the years?”

  George put his head down long enough to suck in four deep breaths. Finally, he looked up. “I can’t do anything about that now.”

  “I know, Dad. I know you can’t. I can’t, either. But you can make an effort by telling me everything you know about what’s going on here.”

  “This used to be a boring town,” George said. “A town where nothing happened.”

  “It’s time to start talking. I’m not going to protect you any more.”

  “What you want to know?”

  “The guy who came into town and then went missing. Do you know what happened to him?”

  George nodded. “They killed him. He messed up something, and they made an example out of him.”

  “That was one of my theories. The Disciples of the True America?”

  George nodded again, his eyes pointing down.

  “Why did you drive his car?”

  “They made me. They said they couldn’t be on the security cameras.”

  Layne leaned forward, his adrenaline pumping. “Who do you talk to? Do you have a phone number?”

  George shook his head.

  “Tell me what your contact looks like, at least. Tell me where I can find him and when.”

  “I can’t tell you,” George said. “Stop asking me about it.”

  “Why did you do it? Why are you working with these monsters?”

  George blinked, sighed, and sipped his beer. He sat back, letting his head rest against the back of the chair. Layne knew that expression well; it meant his father was done talking.

  If this were ten or fifteen years ago, and the man opposite him wasn’t his father, Layne would duct tape a dozen golf balls to the seat of a wooden kitchen chair to create a bumpy and uneven surface. Then, he would force the suspect to sit on the chair, with with hands and legs duct taped. After five minutes of enduring the uncomfortable surface, the suspect would begin to shift and wince. After a half hour, he would wail and moan and beg to be untied.

  These were the sorts of interrogation techniques Layne Parrish had learned from Daphne and the other senior members of the team, years ago. The kinds of methods that would leave no marks behind. But Layne didn’t do that detestable sort of work any longer. Also, he had a feeling that if he really tried to break his father, he might not even be able to do it.

  Part of him wanted an answer to that mystery, but part of him did not.

  “This conversation isn’t over,” Layne said, pointing a finger in George’s face.

  The old man opened his mouth to speak, but a knock came at the door. A heavy thud. Two seconds later, five more sharp whacks came.

  Layne met George’s eyes and he could see fear there. Clearly, the old man wasn’t expecting company, but the knock style was familiar to him.

  “Damn it, George,” roared a voice outside the door. “We know you’re in there, so we’re coming in.”

  It took half a second to recognize the voice. One of the two who had been at the hilltop, discussing moving barrels of something. The two who had nearly caught Layne out in the open. Maybe he should have killed them then, but it had seemed like a rash move at the time.

  The door opened behind him, and he rolled to his left, into the kitchen. He scrambled through the kitchen and around to the back hallway, where he waited for the two new arrivals to cross the living room. Then Layne darted down the hall to hide in George’s bedroom, where he could see the action unfold.

  20

  Layne stood against the edge of the door in his father’s room. It still smelled like the old cologne his father used to wear, brown liquid inside a miniature glass cowboy boot. Layne couldn’t remember the name. He held his Colt Peacemaker in one hand, barrel pointed to the ceiling and his finger lightly on the trigger.

  But Layne didn’t want to shoot. If he killed the two men in his dad’s living room, then he would find no answers.

  So, he stood and listened as these two questioned his father. They were the same duo from the hilltop meeting this afternoon, both white, one thin and one stocky. Layne couldn’t see them, but he didn’t hear slides drawn back or safety switches flicking, so he had to assume they weren’t holding his father at gunpoint. And, at least for now, they were only standing over him. If they hauled George out of his seat for any reason, that might instinctively trigger Layne into action.

  “What’s your son up to?” the thin one said.

  George mumbled something unintelligible, and Layne could picture with pixel-perfect accuracy the way his dad’s face looked when he’d said it. The lower jaw slightly sticking out, lips pulled down in a frown, his head tilted slightly back, as if looking down his nose at the entire world. As a teenager, his dad’s unearned smug expression had annoyed him on a daily basis.

  “George,” said the stocky one, “we don’t need to remind you what happens if you stop cooperating.”

  “I’m doing everything you told me,” George said, with as much confidence as he could put into his wizened and labored voice.

  “The next few days are very important,” said the stocky one. “If this gets screwed up for us, everyone in this town is going to feel it. Everyone from you on down to that Black mayor your town is so fond of. How did she even get elected in a town that’s ninety-eight percent white? Do you—”

  “Where is your son?” interrupted the thin one, and Layne could hear the anger elevating his pitch. He edged closer to the door. He didn’t want to kill these two, but he would if he had to.

  “Ain’t here,” George said.

  “Where is he sleeping at nights?”

  And that was a good question, actually. He realized that since the Disciples had put out a kill-on-sight order on him today, he hadn’t yet planned what to do about his accommodations. Probably crashing on Keegan’s or Molly Waffles’ couch.

  “What have you told him, George?”

  “Nothing! I haven’t told him shit. Besides, I don’t know anything. How can I tell him what I know if I don’t know any damn thing? Now leave me the hell alone. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  “Are you telling us the truth?”

  Layne didn’t like the condescension and malignance in the man’s tone. He readied himself to attack.

  When George didn’t answer, one of the Disciples said to the other, “This is a waste of time. It’s late and we have a long drive, so let’s go.”

  “We’ll be in touch again soon, George, if anything comes to mind. I shouldn’t have to spell out what happens if we hear you’re holding out on us.”

  George mumbled something Layne couldn’t hear, but the two Disciples didn’t respond. Two seconds later, the door shut behind them.

  Layne left the bedroom and entered the living room to see George in the same spot as before, with his fingers tented in front of his face. He looked harried, out of breath, on the verge of a coughing fit. The old man made no effort to acknowledge Layne’s presence, and he apparently had nothing to say about his two recent visitors.

  “Why did you help them to cover up killing one of their own?”

  The old man shrugged and said nothing.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Dad?”

  “Nothing. I don’t even know who those assholes ar
e.”

  Layne took a step toward his father. “How do you contact them? What do they want from you?”

  George shook his head. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “Enough with the riddles.”

  “I’m not telling ridd—“ before he could finish, George launched into a violent round of coughing, and he waved Layne off.

  The younger made a face at the elder and then left the cabin to watch these Disciples drive away. By the time he was outside, he could see only the tail lights creeping down the mountain. He’d thought of possibly getting the license plate and reporting it to Harry, but it wouldn’t matter.

  If Layne wanted a look at their faces, all he had to do was walk down Main Street tomorrow morning. Going after all these shitbags wouldn’t help a thing unless he knew what they were planning.

  As much as Layne wanted to shoot his way through or slap everyone in handcuffs, he had to find a different solution this time.

  Standing in the driveway of his father’s house, Layne put his hands on his hips and turned his face upward toward the millions of stars blanketing the night sky. He flashed back to junior year of high school, out here in the dark with Molly Waffles one night. There used to be a porch swing, but now Layne only saw the holes where it had been anchored.

  He wondered if he used to deliberate back then if he and Molly would marry. As far as he could remember, they hadn’t talked much about the future at the time. They’d been content to enjoy each other's company until the relationship had run its course.

  The past didn’t matter anymore. Only in that if Molly Waffles or Keegan or anyone in this town suffered at the hands of the Disciples, Layne would never forgive those supremacist assholes.

  Now, he had to figure out how to trudge forward and slice at the heart of the Disciples’ plans. He dug his hands in his pockets and wandered in a circle around the front of the house, trying to clear his head. Listening to his boots shuffle through crunchy leftover snow, watching his breath plume out in front of his face.

  A few seconds into his stroll, his phone chirped, and he took it out to see a video chat request from Inessa. He knew what it meant. Not actually his ex-wife, but someone else who would be much more excited to speak with him.

  Layne tapped accept to see little Cameron’s face filling up the screen.

  “Daddy!”

  “Hey, little one. I miss you. Isn’t it about your bedtime?”

  She nodded. “My tablet is charging, but Mommy said I could call you on her phone to say I love you and goodnight. I love you and goodnight, Daddy. That’s all Mommy said I could say.”

  Layne chuckled as he listened to Inessa talking in the background. He also thought he could hear water running.

  “Is it bath time?” When she nodded but didn’t speak, he said, “You better go on then, before Mom gets angry.”

  He watched her pudgy little fingers stab around to find the button to end the call. For a few seconds after, Layne stood there, staring at the screen, feeling warm. He replayed the short conversation in his head.

  The screen faded and Layne’s night vision returned, and he saw George hovering in the window, peeking out of one edge of the curtain. When he saw Layne had caught him, he flinched and disappeared.

  Layne came to a conclusion. If his father was willing to help the Disciples cover up the death of one of their own, then they must have something big on him. They must have some deep dirt or leverage to use.

  And also, Layne now realized that the dead Disciple no longer actually mattered. Pursuing an investigation into his death probably wouldn’t even get Layne to the finish line.

  These white power gangsters were planning something, right here in Shotgun. Something big was about to go down, and Layne could feel it.

  If he didn’t locate the heart of the monster to defeat it, then he couldn’t even predict the consequences.

  21

  The mayor’s assistant smoothed his hair and opened the front door to city hall, the janky little building between the antique shop and the auto parts store. The morning sun blazed off the clean windows of the building.

  Jordan liked coming to work here, because the hours were flexible and he could work as diligently or as leisurely as he pleased. He enjoyed the thought that he had such direct influence on the town, without even being elected. All he did was show up to a job interview and throw around his winning smile.

  Jordan had always believed power was for the taking. No one would hand it to him.

  His boss, Winnie Caldwell, had spent so much time floating on a pompous cloud about being not only the first female mayor, but the first Black mayor, that she hadn’t gotten any work done. It didn’t seem like a great accomplishment to Jordan; in a tiny town like this, seemed like the job of mayor could be picked by drawing out of a hat. Then they could all take turns.

  Winnie drank on the job frequently, so mostly, Jordan’s responsibilities consisted of making sure she had eye drops and breath mints and was able to sit at her desk for video conference calls without swaying in her chair. If she lost her job, then so did Jordan, so he made sure to keep her looking her best.

  She was a pretty skilled drunk, actually. Yesterday had been a bit rough, with her showing up to the budget meeting at beer o’clock. The meeting hadn’t gone well. In her defense, it wouldn’t have been much better if she’d been sober. The town had progressed beyond the phase where they stole from one department’s budget to make up for a shortfall in another. No more nooks and crannies to source money.

  Soon, the town would run out of resources. When that happened, everyone would likely pack up and leave, creating the carcass of yet another mountain mining town. Something for future urban explorers to document.

  Up until a few days ago, Jordan hadn’t been too bothered by the teetering stability of the Shotgun economy. As far as his personal plans went, he thought it worked well either with Shotgun as a thriving small town or as a ghost town. He’d even thought it might be a touch easier to work in a ghost town.

  Maybe that had been a foolish notion to play both sides.

  Because now, things mattered. Things were changing. He had recently realized one crucial detail: if there were no civilians in town, then he had no cover. And cover held a lot more value than Jordan had initially believed.

  If he didn’t step up and help Winnie right the ship, then he would go down along with her.

  He knocked on the door to her office, expecting no reply. He’d intended to set up her workstation, make the coffee, and check through her planner. She used a paper one, but he’d been trying to get her to go digital for months.

  But, instead of no reply, he heard her meek voice, telling him to enter.

  He pushed the door open. “Ma’am? You’re here early. I was going to stage your office for you.”

  She waved him in as he listened to the coffee machine chugging and churning in the corner. “Yeah, Jordan, I have a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.”

  She looked defeated and weak, still a little drunk from the day before. Dark bags ringed her puffy eyes, and her hair had been pulled back into an impossibly tight bun. She looked like pure shit.

  Winnie hadn’t seemed herself the last couple days, either. Jordan wondered if she’d missed a day or two of her medication. The daily pill dispenser box sat next to the coffee machine, but he resisted the urge to glance at it.

  “You okay?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and then simply shook her head. If she were an hourglass, she would be down to her last few grains of sand. For the first time, Jordan could see the full gravity of the situation.

  The mayor was on the verge of a complete breakdown. And now, Jordan realized that as the mayor went, the town went, and with it, Jordan’s hopes for the future.

  “When I was little,” Winnie said, “the old pastor at my church retired. The man who became pastor after that was youthful and full of energy. He made it fun again, and we all loved that.
But I was too young to understand the politics of it, because there were people who wanted him to succeed, and people who wanted him to fail. Attendance spiked for a while, which everyone took to be a good sign, but it was mostly people turning up to watch the ascent or demise of this new pastor. They wanted a show, not Jesus. And, although I didn’t understand it at the time, I watched this man lose his faith in the Lord little by little, and I watched him lose confidence in himself. The congregation lost faith in him, too, and it only got worse. One day, after church, he cleaned up his office and left town, without a word.”

  Jordan wasn’t sure he understood the point of the story, but he could see the helplessness in her eyes. “Mayor Caldwell, what can I do to help?”

  “I didn’t understand until a few days ago what had really driven the man from town. It wasn’t that he was a bad preacher… it was the act of being studied, of trying to do his job while so many waited for him to fail, that made him fail. How can you withstand an irresistible force like that?”

  Now she looked up at him, with tears at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve had a question sitting on the edge of my lips for days now, and I haven’t had the courage to ask you.”

  He eased onto the loveseat opposite her desk. “Ask me.”

  She sighed. “Did you know I have a YouTube channel?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Cutting the sand sculptures. I’ve seen it. It’s not really my thing, but I appreciate the production value you put into it. The videos look great.”

  “I failed at that, and I’m going to fail at this, too.” She paused, breathing, staring at the floor. “Did I tell you the joke about the three lawyers who went on a cruise?”

  She was stalling.

  “Yes, you told me that joke last week. Please, tell me what’s going on. Whatever I can do to help, I will.”

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this. I can’t believe I’ve let things get this far.”