On The Devil's Side of Heaven

by Roger Peppercorn

  On The Devil’s Side of Heaven

  Roger Peppercorn

  ON THE DEVIL’S SIDE OF HEAVEN

  A WALLACE PUBLISHING BOOK

  First published in 2018 by Wallace Publishing, United Kingdom.

  Copyright © 2018 Roger Peppercorn.

  The right of Roger Peppercorn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is sold under condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting courtesy of KGHH Publishing, United Kingdom

  www.kensingtongorepublishing.com

  Contents

  Foreward

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Authors Note

  Foreword

  The banging of the judge’s gavel still echoed in my head as I exited the courthouse. I stood on the steps, letting the hot Florida sun beat down on me while I thought about what had just happened in the courtroom.

  After several minutes the realization of what had happened started to sink in—I had lost my two kids to my ex-wife and her new boyfriend. Now it was official, I had lost my job as a cop, my sister, my ex-wife and finally my two kids, all because of Ronald Jacobs, my ex-best friend.

  I really needed a drink, so I headed to the closest bar. Sitting in a bar drinking gives you lots of time for reflection. It gave me time to think about how I hated Ronald Jacobs, not only for marrying my sister but for all my other troubles. I never want to hear from him or my sister again.

  That thought had just filtered through my alcohol-soaked brain when my cell phone rang. When I checked the caller ID, my first thought was ‘Why call me now, after all this time?’ As I took another drink, I debated on whether to answer…

  Chapter 1

  I used to be a good cop in Texas and then I used to be a good cop in Florida. I used to be a good husband and a good father. Hell, I used to be a lot of good things, but now I’m just an Ex. Ex-father, ex-husband and an ex-cop. In fact, the sad running joke I tell people is if X marks the spot then you’ve found me.

  It’s pathetic, I know, but it’s the sad truth. Years ago I was a state trooper in the state of Florida that could boast the highest clearance rate in just about every category of crime there is but that was before the incident. By ‘incident’ I mean the one action I can never walk back from, nor can I fix or even mitigate.

  My ex-best friend Ronald used to be a button man. He freelanced and his allegiance was as fleeting and as permanent as the wind. Ronald worked for the highest bidder. Didn’t matter if it was the cartels or the Italian mob or for that matter, a rich man looking to off his wife or rid himself of competitors. If you needed someone dead, then Ronald was your man.

  I had him dead to rights on a righteous murder beef, but he was in love with my sister and she was in love with him. So I did what any stalwart cop would do. I buried the evidence against him. Don’t get me wrong, the sad sack he offed had it coming and no one was going to miss him, but I broke the one credence every cop lives and dies by – ‘you do the crime, you better be ready to stack the time’.

  I could say he promised me he would never do it again and that’s why I ignored the evidence against him, or I could even justify it with his undying love for my sister. Hell, I could even justify it with the fact he only killed a shitbag.

  When you’re a cop, it’s drilled into you from the start that if you commit the crime then you stack the time. Part of the interview process concerns your mother and whether or not you would arrest her or not. When I was asked if I could arrest my own mother, I had answered in a loud and clear voice that “No one is above the law!” Of course what I didn’t tell them was that my mother was dead. I just assumed it must be buried somewhere in the file that the review board had in front of them.

  That’s in the academy though. When you work the roads in your cruiser, it’s something else. You learn over time there’s crime and then there’s crime. The former you overlook or give warnings to, the latter, you hook them up and stuff them in the back of your cruiser.

  With Ronald, his crime was the latter, but I chose to punish him like the former and it cost me my badge, my dignity, my marriage and finally my kids. This they don’t teach in cop school. In the academy they teach, nay, they preach and drill into you that when you find any criminal you cuff and stuff.

  As a result, I no longer carry a badge (unless you count insurance fraud investigator, I got mine from the Army Navy Surplus store in Tampa). My wife wants to be married to a dentist named Earl. Seriously, his name is Earl. I refer to him as the Earl of dentistry. She is not amused. My kids think I’m the antichrist. The latter is in large part due to my wife but if I had to, I would admit I had a hand in it also.

  Today I am in divorce court. What’s in dispute is how much it’s going to cost me and more importantly, how often the spoils of my loins and I will get to spend time together. The former is a lot (for which I have no means to pay) and the latter is turning out to be not much.

  I can’t really complain. After the incident, I began to drink… a lot. Which is to say that if it had booze in it and I was awake, I would be able to give you a pretty good description of the bottom of the glass, bottle, or jug I was drinking from at the time.

  I haven’t surrendered to a higher power yet, but I do attend meetings. What this really means is I show up on time, I’m relatively sober, but I don’t participate in a way that my on-again-off-again sponsor says is meaningful or helpful to others.

  I haven’t the funds for a good mouthpiece so I represent myself in court, which is part of the problem. My wife has the best lawyer a dentist can buy while I have chosen to throw myself on the mercy of the court and as it turns out, mercy is in short supply.

  My soon-to-be ex-wife, Lori, knows all about the incident but we have agreed it won’t factor into the divorce. What that really means is my character and honor will be freely impugned by counsel and I have no meaningful way to combat it without being forced into pleading the fifth.

  Her honor Judge Sandoval has done nothing but give me disapproving looks for the past two days while I just sit here giving sheepish looks of contrition.

&n
bsp; Take, for instance, my soon-to-be ex-wife’s mouthpiece, who has been pontificating for quite a while now about what an absolutely horrible human being I am. Most of it’s true, but I am happy to say not the vilest of parts. I had promised Lori I would not make this divorce difficult and then I turned around and made it very hard. Why? Well, I guess because when I said ‘I do’, I meant forever. So if she wants to be free of me she should at the very least have to face me before Judge Sandoval drops her gavel.

  Lori and I have two kids, one boy and one girl. The boy’s name is Thomas and the girl’s name is Cassandra. He is eight and she is ten. Thomas looks like me and Cassandra looks like her mother. Both of them are fairly normal as far as kids go. I love them to death, but my ex has done a rather masterful job of making me look like a daddy who is just a paycheck father/semen-supplier rather than the doting and loving father I am. When I have the actual time to spend with them I give them all the love and doting a father could give.

  “Your Honor, the defendant has repeatedly not shown up for his scheduled visitations and over the course of the last twelve months he has had contact with his children no more than a dozen times.”

  Feet carry me upwards and I feel the words coming, but am unable to stop them. “I object!” I screamed.

  Both the judge and Lori’s mouthpiece stop and turn to me. Now I feel silly standing here because I have the feeling this is not something that is done.

  “Mr. Walker, I know you don’t have the legal background that I would prefer you to have so I will give you a break just this once,” Her Honor says.

  “Okay,” I said

  “Now Mr. Walker, do you see that thin cylinder coming out of the table with the fuzzy black thing on top?” she asks me.

  As if it was just placed in front of me, I see it. A microphone is sticking out of the table I am sitting at. Now I know why both the judge and her lawyer had cringed when I objected.

  Clearing my throat, I answer her, “Yes your honor, I do.”

  “Are you familiar with how it functions?” she asks me.

  …And on it goes. I think you get the picture. Suffice to say I will be living out of a cardboard box for the foreseeable future and anytime I get with our kids will be from a distance and over the phone.

  Life as an insurance investigator isn’t bad if you’re single, but when you have a wife and kids it’s near impossible. Pay’s not bad, but you spend a lot of time on the road. Which is how the problem with the booze started – way too many nights alone in a hotel with nothing but the TV to keep you company.

  Like now, court and my marriage have both ended. She and the dentist took my kids and went home. I walk a few blocks until I find my way into a bar, which is where I am when my sister calls.

  I have to tell you now, if I had stayed with my instinct and not answered the phone, things would have turned out a lot better for me.

  Chapter 2

  A little after midnight on a clear and cold morning in March, Jimmy Dix parked his car three miles from the farmhouse. From here it would all be on foot. The sky, dark and overcast, would cover his approach to the farmhouse situated in the adobe desert, fifteen miles from the little town of Loma, CO. His target presumably would be asleep and unaware of his impending death.

  Big Max Benson had been clear in his instructions. The job had to be tonight. Jimmy hadn’t bothered to ask why. Fifteen thousand dollars had been more than enough to silence any idle curiosity he may have had. And the promise to convert all the red ink that bore Jimmy’s name in Big Max’s ledger to black had been the clincher. He had driven fifteen hours in a rental car he had picked up in a hotel parking lot just outside of Billings, MT. In the trunk, Big Max had left a cut down 12 gauge shotgun, an AR-15 and a 9 mm pistol. Each weapon had come with more than enough ammo to do the job. Jimmy had brought along his own set of NVGs for the nighttime raid.

  He sat in the car, staring out the windshield, thinking about the three mile hike he had in front of him. The car heater was cranked up to high. The dashboard clock read 12:02; the hike would take him about an hour. He thought about the task at hand. After he arrived, he would need probably thirty minutes to scout his final approach plus maybe another fifteen to twenty minutes to get set up. Maybe another five minutes to carry out the job. Jimmy did the math in his head and figured that worst case scenario, he would be back in the car no later than 4 a.m. This would leave him more than enough time to get clear of the area. Jimmy smiled at the thought of coming in under the cover of darkness, killing someone and then leaving under the same veil before any cops showed up.

  Jimmy Dix cut the engine and stepped out into the cold high desert air. Using the key fob, he popped the trunk and started taking the ordinance out. The 9 mm and cut down were in a gun belt designed for quick access, Jimmy Dix had put it together himself. He took the AR-15 and placed the sling over his shoulder like he had been taught, then checked the action of all three guns to ensure the slides worked smoothly. After that, Jimmy Dix went through the mechanical motions of dry firing each weapon, listening to the action of each one as the hammer fell on the firing pin. When he was satisfied, Jimmy loaded each weapon and then snicked the safety on. Finally, he placed the extra magazines into his combat fatigues, pulled all of the zippers closed and velcroed the pockets shut.

  Jimmy turned on the NVGs and pulled them across his shaggy brown hair and over his eyes. The black night now bathed in the dayglow green light from the night vision goggles, the landscape of the adobe desert seeming to be even bleaker through them. He hated this part of the country and by extension, he hated the man and woman he was tasked to kill because if it weren’t for them he would still be at home, comfortably ensconced in his lazy boy recliner as the weed and booze he did nightly worked its way through his system, depressing it until sleep would finally overtake him.

  He flexed his upper torso muscles, forcing the blood to move to his extremities. He worked the stiffness out of the gloves to make sure that when the time came the soft leather would not bind or hinge at the wrong moment.

  The cold night air worked its way through the layers of clothing he was wearing.

  “This is it,” Jimmy said aloud. “Time to boogie.” His voice sounded strangled because of the damage done with a ball peen hammer years ago.

  He had planned the three-mile hike through the desert to take a little more than an hour. His plan called for him to be at the farmhouse no later than 1:30 in the morning. He knew it would take about thirty minutes to scout the farmhouse for all good fields of fire and to identify any impediments he might face.

  It was a good plan until he misjudged a depression in the adobe floor, resulting in him turning his ankle. In football parlance, this would be called a high ankle sprain. And then there were the two coyotes who took an interest in him. He didn’t want to kill them but since they decided he was a target of opportunity he was forced to do so. His hour-long walk turned into two hours. But the real problem was going to be getting back to his car after the job was done. He was no longer walking like a trained killer but more like a lame duck. Jimmy decided right then that when he got to the farmhouse he wouldn’t waste any time with scouting or planning. If he had to, he would just walk up to the front door and start shooting. After it was done, he’d steal the keys and drive back to his car.

  By the time Jimmy got on site the pain in his right ankle was overwhelming. He cursed Big Max and the people inside the little farmhouse for complicating his life. On top of that, his NVGs were starting to flicker indicating the batteries inside were beginning to lose their charge. He almost fell to the ground twenty yards from the house. This will just have to be good enough, he thought. From there, he took a minute to survey the house for life or indications of potential problems. Finding none, he decided now was as good a time as any to start that old-time rock and roll.

  Ronald Jacobs and his wife Jessica Walker-Jacobs loved to have a few cocktails before bed. In fact, they both professed neither could sleep at night unless they�
�d had at least two cocktails. Ronald also loved bourbon neat and Jessica enjoyed red wine. You could classify them as alcoholics by the technical definition but if you were to ask them about their nightly consumption, both of them would respond the same way: “Nobody loves a quitter and quitters never win”.

  That night, however, their two drink minimum stretched into a full bottle of Malbec for her and almost an entire bottle of some of Kentucky’s finest bourbon for him. Ronald, at least by his own definition, never drank to excess and this night was no exception. However, if pressed he would admit he would fail the most liberal of roadside sobriety tests on any given night. Jessica, on the other hand, would never admit her nightly habit would ever interfere with the ability to function at the highest levels.

  Around 10 p.m. that night, after having a dinner of quail and French fried potatoes, they both agreed that since it was the end of the week and neither of them had to get up in the morning, a few extra glasses of their preferred booze wouldn’t be out of line.

  After Jess had consumed the better portion of her favorite wine and was sleeping comfortably on the couch using his lap as a pillow, Ronald continued sipping his fourth bourbon and watching Sport Center. He had the sound turned down low, the images running across the screen in front of him having no connection with the images of his past playing out behind his eyes.

  He went by Ronald, not Ronnie or Ron or any other hybrid concoction of his surname. At forty, Ronald Jacobs’s six-foot frame had not changed even by half a pants size. His stomach, which used to be as flat and hard as the adobe floor he had built his house on, had gone a little soft around the middle. However, thick muscular arms and shoulders were still a constant fixture on his frame. The close-cropped hair was the single biggest feature that had changed over the years. His eyes were like looking into deep pools of clear green water that seemed to have no bottom. He radiated power. His intensity beamed off of him like the heat from a fire. When they passed him in a hallway or an elevator other men would naturally give ground, reflexively moving back or to the side, their eyes averting and avoiding contact.