August Snow

by Stephen Mack Jones

  O’Donnell said she’d do what she could to calm nerves at the department and have the APB pulled. Realistically there was little she could do. At least without tipping the delicate balance of her single largest case.

  “You need to get out in front of this thing, O’Donnell,” I said. “You don’t, then I will flip the whole cart over and set it on fire.”

  “August, I’m trying to be your—”

  “I don’t have any goddamn friends.”

  I disconnected.

  Thirty

  I’d killed men and seen men killed before.

  Friends.

  In Afghanistan.

  I’d collected their bodies. Said a prayer over whatever pieces of flesh remained. I’d given sitreps to commanding officers on how men died. And I’d saluted as I watched C-17 Globemaster cargo planes lift into the cold grey air, flying the bodies home. Back to farming communities in Indiana. Fishing communities in Louisiana. The suburbs and ghettos of Chicago and Brooklyn and Detroit and Dallas-Fort Worth.

  And after saluting, I collected my gear, took my next assignment, put the enemy in the cross hairs and, between the slowed beats of my heart, pulled the trigger.

  I’d known men and women killed on the job in Detroit: Patrolwoman Denise Acosta, shot once in the head as she wrote out a parking ticket. Patrolman Lamont Morris, shot twice accompanying a parole officer to the house of a parolee.

  And Duty Roster Administrative Assistant Maureen “Mo” McKnight, killed during a convenience store robbery. She was buying a half-gallon of skim milk. One bullet, two lives. Hers and my unborn son’s.

  Danbury had known my father. Held him as an example of how good police work was done. When I came on the force, Danbury took me under his wing. Bitch-slapped me when I was wrong. Congratulated me when I was right. Taught me the greater value and nobility of serving a community that was constantly under siege from drugs and assault, rape and murder.

  He’d roused me out of bed on weekends and barked over the phone that I was to meet him in twenty minutes at this soup kitchen or that homeless shelter. I would stand next to his wife, his son and daughter, making sandwiches or serving bowls of soup to the legions of homeless. The disenfranchised. The forgotten.

  I once attended the northwest Detroit Baptist church where he and his family were members. The pastor had invited him to speak to the congregation where he was highly regarded even in the darkest days of the department.

  “You know who’s standing right next to Saint Peter?” he’d said from the pulpit. “A Detroit cop. And when Saint Peter asks you about your life he’s gonna turn to that cop and ask if everything you said is true. And don’t nobody know the truth more than a Detroit cop. So get right with your life! ’Cause God’s gonna know! Saint Peter’s gonna know! And that Detroit cop standing beneath the wings of Saint Peter will for damn sure know! Praise Jesus!”

  Now it was Ray Danbury standing beneath the wings of St. Peter. Right next to Denise Acosta and Lamont Morris.

  And Mo.

  Now it was my turn to get right with the Lord.

  But before I got right with God, I had to get right with Danbury.

  About thirty minutes out from the home of Vivian and Colleen, a call came through the car’s speaker system.

  “Mr. Snow?”

  It was Brewster.

  Instantly, my heart rate lowered. If I was going to take the shot, firing between heartbeats, I had to contain the rage I was feeling over Danbury’s murder.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “August Snow is out of the office at the moment. This is Mr. Snow’s secretary, Rosario Dawson. May I take a message?”

  “Undoubtedly, you heard of Detroit Police Captain Raymond Danbury’s untimely death this afternoon,” Brewster said. “Such a shame. He was a family man, am I correct?”

  “A wife and two kids,” I said, losing the battle to contain my rage.

  “Pity,” Brewster said. “Such a violent city, Detroit is. Even the police aren’t safe.”

  “The fuck you want, Brewster or whatever your real name is?”

  “An offer is still on the table, Mr. Snow,” Brewster said. “Though becoming less handsome. Still, nothing to sneeze at.”

  “Why Danbury?”

  “Do you have any idea how expensive college tuition is these days?” Brewster said. “Really a pity. So many parents, so many young people struggling to pay tuition. Especially if two siblings are in university at the same time.”

  I felt my throat tighten and my eyes flood with tears.

  “The money was made to look like scholarships, Mr. Snow,” Brewster said. “And when offered, your Captain Danbury took it. All he had to do was control you.”

  “You bastard—”

  “And all you had to do was abide by the wishes of an old friend to stay at home and watch sports,” Brewster said. “But your pride—your arrogance—got in the way. And now your friend is dead. It’s not too late to repair our relationship, Mr. Snow. In the process you would be saving lives—perhaps even the life of Paget’s lovely daughter—and allowing business to proceed in an orderly, non-violent manner. Is that too much to ask?”

  “You know what I think?” The rage that was brewing in my stomach boiled over. “I think I’m going to scoop out your left eye with a hot spoon, then piss in the socket. I think you’re dead and you just don’t know it yet. So pack fast and book a flight to wherever is the farthest place on this earth away from me and Vivian Paget.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Snow.”

  It was just after five when I wheeled the Caddy into the long gravel driveway of Vivian and Colleen’s Traverse City home.

  The house was a white shingle three-story Victorian with a separate four-car garage. Behind the house and garage was a large red and white barn-style shed. The estate rested on five acres of well-tended land with the shed near the forested eastern property line. About a hundred yards to the north was Lake Michigan, slate grey and preparing to swallow the pale fall sun.

  There was a flagpole near the meandering walkway leading up to the expansive white-railed porch. Three flags snapped in the wind coming in off the lake: The American flag was the most prominent. Beneath it was a smaller rainbow gay pride flag, then a white flag with a blue peace symbol. I mounted the wide steps leading up to the multi-colored leaded glass front door.

  Before I could ring the bell, the door opened.

  Frank was wearing a bright floral-print Tommy Bahama shirt and blue Billabong cargo shorts.

  “Jesus.” He stared at the wreck of my face. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me I should see the other guy.”

  “The other guy’s peachy,” I said. “I got the shit kicked out of me.” I eyed Frank’s outfit. “Circus in town?”

  Frank held his Ruger .9mm casually at his side. He quickly stashed the gun between the belt of his cargo shorts and the small of his back and ushered me in.

  The house was warm and smelled of nicely seasoned chili.

  Down a hallway from the foyer where Frank and I stood came Vivian Paget and Colleen. Vivian looked like her mother, the only differences being Vivian’s blue eyes were soft and the set of her mouth wasn’t hard. Her long blonde hair was unkempt in an alluring way.

  As opposed to Vivian, Colleen’s face was angular with high cheekbones. I took her to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her eyes were hazel and probing and her hair was dyed jet-black and cut in a short, spiked style. She was the type of woman young boys fantasized about and young girls wanted to be, preferably while wielding a screaming electric guitar and shouting Pink-style fuck-and-fight lyrics.

  Frank introduced us. Vivian and I knew each other from a different life.

  Seeing my face, Vivian brought her hands to her chest and in a soft voice said, “Oh, my God. You’re hurt.”

  “Looks worse than it is, Ms. Paget.”

  “Jesus, I hope so.” Colleen scrutinized my face. “’Cause that looks just god-awful.”

  I forced a smile that brought a sting to th
e right side of my face. “I’m actually much better looking than my current face would have you believe.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure you are.”

  Vivian gingerly touched my black-and-blue cheek and said, “I’ll get you some ice.”

  On beautiful bare feet, Vivian turned and walked back down the wide hallway to where I imagined the kitchen was.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, August.” Colleen shook my hand. It was a firm handshake. The handshake of someone who had worked the land and held a weapon. She nodded toward Frank. “Too bad you sent this douchebag. I thought you said you were gonna send a man?”

  “Screw you,” Frank laughed, to which Colleen replied, “Yeah, you wish.”

  “I’m glad you kids are playing well together,” I said, “but we need to talk and talk fast.”

  I told Colleen that this time Vivian needed to hear what I had to say. She’d been protected from the situation for long enough. She needed to know what was going down.

  Vivian returned from the kitchen with a large baggy filled with ice and a cup of herbal tea. I took the ice and politely waved off the tea.

  Colleen and Vivian led the way through the house, a beautiful nightmare of tall windows and multiple entry ways. Too many ways for bad things to come and go as they pleased. Frank made a few adjustments, including securing the exterior cellar doors and enhancing the alarm systems around first floor windows. He and Colleen had agreed on locking outer perimeter rooms save for the kitchen and the library. Locked doors never stopped bad intentions, but at least they slowed those intentions down.

  “She’s a helluva shot,” Frank said of Colleen as we entered the sunroom. “We’ve gone to the range twice, and fired off a couple boxes of ammo on open ground a couple times. Viv gets a little jittery, but she’s pretty much okay with it.”

  “She just might have to get a lot okay with it real fast,” I said. There was that itch at the back of my brain again—that claw scratching on black glass—as I watched Vivian take a seat on a rattan sofa.

  The sunroom was long and filled with all manner of greenery. The glass roof arced down from the second floor into the side window panels, allowing a spectacular view of the lake. Just outside and beneath the tall windows were low shrubs, two willow trees and several cherry trees. There were a variety of sculptures on the grounds; some were Vivian’s, the others she had purchased from local artists. Classic sculptures chiseled from marble or granite. A carved and hand-painted wood totem—maybe Potowatami or Sauk. Modern sculptures of welded metal designed to rust and ultimately decompose. Even a chainsaw sculpture of an eagle.

  It was a beautiful room with an extraordinary view.

  It was also a trained killer’s dream come true.

  I gave Frank a hard look.

  “I was gonna close the room off after you got here,” Frank said sheepishly.

  “What’s going on?” Vivian Paget said, her legs tucked beneath her. Colleen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. I sat in a high-back cushioned rattan chair across from the two. Frank stood in the doorway of the sunroom, scanning the grounds with eyes trained by the US Army.

  “Vivian,” I began, “I believe some very dangerous men are coming here to make a point.”

  “What point?”

  “That they can hurt you to hurt me.”

  Vivian nodded without understanding. I explained about her mother, about the people doing everything in their considerable power to take over the bank. The people who had been hurt since her mother’s murder. Everything except Ray Danbury’s murder. That was my burden, not hers.

  “My mother—did they—”

  “I believe they did,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it was a man named Dax Randolph who’s employed at your mother’s bank as a security guard.”

  “When—when are they coming?” she said hesitantly.

  “Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “My gut tells me soon.”

  “But they might not come at all, right?” I could tell Vivian instantly recognized the false hope she had voiced.

  “That’s a possibility,” I said. “But in all probability they are coming or are already here.”

  “You keep saying ‘they,’” Colleen said. “Who are ‘they’?”

  “People whose plans for the bank are very illegal and very dangerous,” I said. “So far I’ve dealt with both amateurs and professionals. I’ve taken care of the amateurs. We’re into professionals now. Highly trained ex-military. Private contractors, some employed at your mother’s bank.”

  “These guys would goose-step straight into hell and not give it a second thought,” Frank said.

  “So,” Vivian began as she looked at Frank, “you’re not really Colleen’s cousin?”

  “No, ma’am,” Frank said. “Sorry.”

  I gave Vivian a long, hard look to make sure my words and Frank’s words were having the intended impact. My right eye was starting to open and the vision was good.

  “If what I think is going to happen does in fact happen, I need you to know something,” I said, leaning closer to her. “It’s gonna get loud and ugly and people will be killed. It’s the responsibility of everybody in this room to make sure that nobody here is killed.”

  “Can’t you just—talk to these people?”

  I sighed. “These people don’t talk. They obey orders. They come in hard and leave counting their pay.” I took a pause for effect. “There’s three of us in this room that can handle ourselves. Four would be better.”

  There was that itch again … that claw on black glass …

  “You knew about this?” Vivian said, desperately searching Colleen’s eyes for answers. “You knew about all of this?”

  “Viv,” Colleen began tenuously. “I didn’t want to—”

  “Didn’t want to what? Upset me? Scare me?”

  “Viv—”

  “I’m not a child, Colleen!”

  “No,” Colleen said. “You’re not. You’re the woman I love. You’re my life. You make me better than I ever thought I could be. And I could never forgive myself if something—anything—happened to you.” Vivian’s eyes began to flood. “If you want August and Frank gone, they’re gone. Right now. We’ll take our chances with the cops. Or maybe just—we’ll just leave. Today. Wait for things to cool down. You tell me what you want to do, Viv, and it’ll be done. I swear.”

  Vivian said, “This is our home. I don’t want anybody scaring us out of our home.”

  Frank ejected the clip from his gun, ratcheted the remaining bullet from the chamber and knelt close to Vivian. He held the gun out for Vivian to take.

  “Here,” he said softly. “It’s just a dumb, useless piece of metal now.”

  Tentatively, Vivian took the gun from Frank. She stared vacantly at the weapon.

  “Good,” Frank said. “Like holding a hammer or screw driver or—you know—a paint brush, right? Just a tool.”

  Reluctantly, Vivian nodded.

  “Viv, this tool is the only thing between you being alive or you being dead. The only tool that can help you protect Colleen. It’s that simple. And you’ve got to be able to use this tool. We’ve got to know you can use this tool. ’Cause whatever’s coming for you, Viv, is coming for us, too.”

  The weapon began trembling in her hand and she shook her head. “No. No, I—I don’t think …”

  Frank sighed heavily. Then, using his thumb, Frank slowly popped the bullets from the clip, each landing on Vivian’s lap. Her eyes widened and body stiffened.

  “Frank—” I began.

  “No, man!” Frank said, glaring up at me. “Seriously. She’s gotta know how she’s gonna die—how Colleen’s gonna die—if she can’t hold a gun and pull a trigger. If she can’t pull her own weight to save her own life.” He looked back to Vivian. “If these guys are pros you’ll probably be dead—Colleen’ll probably be dead—in four to six seconds. That’s the merciful way this goes down.”

  “That’s enough, Frank—” I started.
r />   Frank glared up at me. “Oh, I’m just getting started, man.” He quickly turned his attention back to Vivian. “The not-so-merciful way is these guys pop August and me then decide to have some fun with you and your wife. Making you watch each other get raped.” Vivian’s cheeks were stained with tears. Her body quivered. “Then you can watch them zip their pants up before they put a bullet in each of your brains. And you’d better pray it’s your brains.” Frank thumbed out the last bullet from the magazine, then stood. Vivian looked up at Frank, tears flowing from her eyes. Before I could say anything, Colleen was on her feet. She brought a solid right cross to Frank’s jaw. It rocked him. But it didn’t stop him. He snapped his gaze back to Vivian and said, “You wanna die like that—fine. Me? I’ve seen this horror show before, only with a woman who actually fought for her life. You ain’t gonna fight for yours? No sense in me putting it on the line for you. Fuck you.”

  He walked out of the room.

  Colleen grabbed a fistful of the bullets from Vivian’s lap and threw them at Frank before wrapping her arms around the weeping Vivian.

  “I want you and Frank outta here,” Colleen growled at me. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Your choice,” I said. “But I’ll give you fifteen minutes to think about it.”

  I walked out of the sunroom.

  I found Frank outside leaning against the back of the house staring vacantly at the shed and smoking a cigarette.

  “Two tours in Afghanistan,” Frank said, “three combat commendations. Don’t hardly seem to add up to my last two years nailed to a desk job in Fort Benning, does it? Last tour in Afghanistan, we took a village maybe twenty clicks southwest of Kandahar. Drove out a few Taliban. Villagers loved us. Pomegranates, grapes, roasted lamb. Good people, man. Two nights later, one of my guys—Vicks—goes twitchy. Tries to rape this thirteen-year-old girl. Me and Hammond—this skinny black kid from Oklahoma; good kid—we try to talk Vicks down. Vicks ain’t havin’ none of it. Tells me and my man Hammond to join in the fun. The girl’s struggling. But he’s got her pinned down. She finally scratches the hell out of his right cheek. He grabs his service pistol. Before he can shoot her I shoot him.” Frank crushed his expended cigarette with the toe of his shoe, and then lit another one. “Got my ass fried for wasting a hundred-fifty-‘G’s of government property. But they didn’t want none of that shit hitting the PR fan. I mean, how’s it gonna look word gets out we’re acting just like them stinkin’ Taliban ragheads? So the unit gets broken up, I got hitched to a desk stateside with nothin’ to do ’cept count paperclips.” Frank drew in a deep lungful of his cigarette. We let the chill of a fall wind wash over us for a moment.