“Fine.” Her eyebrows arched.
“What is it?”
“Found some stuff in the paper and on the Internet,” she murmured. “I’ll tell you more later.”
“Give me the upshot.”
“It all points to Wesley…”
18
TONY BADINO’S OLD BLUE Monte Carlo smelled like gasoline and roared like a stock car. Wesley was in the cold vinyl passenger seat up front, where he’d just burned his finger on a blistering pipe they’d used to smoke several chunks of meth in the parking lot of a White Plains bowling alley.
“Why don’t you get the heat fixed in this thing?” Brubaker rubbed his hands together in the backseat. Tony shot him a nasty look in the rearview mirror, gunned the Monte Carlo onto the street, grabbed a Marlboro, and lit it while steering with the insides of his elbows.
Wesley cranked up the stereo to the screams of AC/DC, which blared from two homemade speakers mounted in the rear window: “I’m rolling thunder, pouring rain. I’m coming on like a hurricane. My lightning’s flashing across the sky. You’re only young but you’re gonna die. I won’t take no prisoners won’t spare no lives. Hell’s bells…hell’s bells.”
In the blur of the rush, Wesley stared out the passenger window. Something about the winter made his brother’s death even more unbearable. Guilt cried out from the frozen ground. Wesley’s soul was barren. There was nothing to live for anymore, except getting stoned. And even that was killing him slowly.
What if he were to murder Everett Lester?
Maybe that was his calling.
Vengeance.
Nothing would matter once he did the deed. The cops could do whatever they wanted to him.
I’m gonna die, anyway.
Would the heaviness clear once he pulled the trigger?
If not, maybe he’d just turn out his own lights, as well.
Tony bounced the Monte Carlo into a plaza in the suburbs and jerked to a stop in front of a long, gray, one-story building called Shooters.
“Grab your toys, fellas.” Tony got out of the car and headed for the trunk. “This is my treat. All you can shoot, on me.”
Each of them hoisted a heavy duffel bag from the trunk and strutted into the shooting range as if they owned the place. A muscle-bound guy with a baby face and a gray T-shirt walked toward them behind the long glass case.
“Hey, Badino.” He held up a thick hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, Dennis.” Tony’s eye twitched as he spoke. “We need ammo and range time. You got lanes open?”
“Yep.” He turned to examine the small, closed-circuit black-and-white TV screen. “I only got one guy in there. You’ll pretty much have the place to yourselves.”
“Excellent,” Tony said. “Give us, let’s see, three boxes each of twenty-twos, thirty-eight specials, nines, and forty-fives. And I suppose Bru is gonna need some twelve gauge.”
The guy raised an eyebrow, wheeled around, and got busy gathering the ammo, whistling.
Wesley and the others dispersed like kids on a treasure hunt. Tony admired the wide assortment of knives locked in a showcase across the room. Brubaker wandered along the front of another long showcase, admiring the dozens of shotguns, rifles, and carbines that hung on the Peg-Board behind it.
Wesley went straight for the main display case, which was packed with several hundred new and used Taurus revolvers, Walther semi-autos, Cobras, Sigs, Colts, whatever you wanted.
“Okay.” The big guy clunked the last boxes on the showcase and pushed a clipboard toward Wesley. “If you guys will each sign in, you’ll be ready to go. You need eye or ear protection?”
Tony marched over and took the pen and clipboard. “Nah. We got all that.”
“If you’re going to be shooting a twelve gauge, be sure to use the rifle range,” Dennis said. “There’s a door beyond the regular stalls.”
Brubaker signed next and held out the clipboard. “Wes.” He set it on the counter.
Wesley, who had wandered over to the knives, approached hesitantly as Tony and Brubaker opened the white door that led to the range. I’m not signing that thing! It’s probably a background check or some kind of straight line to the cops.
“What’s this for again?” Wesley motioned to the white paper that awaited him on the clipboard.
“Liability release.” Dennis handed him the pen and smirked. “Basically says if you shoot yourself, it’s not my fault.”
“So, it’s not like a background check or anything.” Wesley stroked under his eye with his index finger. “You’re not gonna register my name or something…”
“That’s only when you buy a gun.” Dennis scowled. “You’ve shot here before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Wesley perused the form, looking for a place to sign. “I just…it’s fine…fine.”
“Bottom right.” Dennis pointed.
The instant Wesley entered the concrete vestibule, a loud, slightly muffled crack exploded, and he cursed himself for forgetting to put his earplugs in. Dropping his duffel bag, he unzipped a side pocket, found the plugs, put them into his ears, then picked up his gear and entered through the next door.
The place looked like a basement—dark with low ceilings, several chairs and tables scattered about, and eight stalls. It smelled like sulfur. Wesley set his bag on the stomach-high shelf at a stall in between Tony and Brubaker. He looked around behind him, up high. There it was: the small, bubblelike, closed-circuit camera that fed their pictures to Dennis. The only other guy in the range was in the stall at the far end.
The rattling blast of Tony’s Tech .22 startled Wesley. He leaned around the corner. The black gun spit fire out front and hot .22 cartridges out the side, several hitting Wesley as they ricocheted off the dividing wall and bounced to the concrete floor.
The surprise blast from Brubaker’s Mossberg—a long, black, gangster-looking pump action—shook Wesley’s lungs.
“Yeaaaaaaah,” Brubaker screamed.
The sound and vibration of the thing literally commanded that you pay attention to it.
“You’re not supposed to shoot that in here!” Wesley pointed to the shotgun and waved toward another door in the room. “There’s a range for long guns.”
The shooter at the other end leaned back out of his stall and eyed Brubaker.
Wesley stepped back into his stall, glad to separate himself from the nutcases on each side of him. He glanced back at the camera, then picked up the magazine for his Witness 9mm and began thumbing bullets into its spring-loading chamber.
“What happened to the Glock?” Brubaker ducked his head around the corner, laughing. “Isn’t that what your uncle used to kill that psychic, a Glock?”
Wesley nodded but didn’t look at him. “That’s why I got rid of it.” Then he slammed the magazine into the handle of the Witness with the palm of his hand. Fixing the big gun in front of him and aligning its front and rear sights with the target, hanging close to the thirty-foot marker, he squeezed the trigger. Crack! The gun jumped in his hands.
That’s Uncle Everett.
Crack—it jumped again.
I got him cornered.
Crack—jump.
You’re gonna pay for killin’ my brother.
Crack—jump. Crack—jump. Crack—jump.
Blasting away gave Wesley a rush. Each shot was loud, even through the earplugs, and seemed to rattle every bone in his chest.
Just think what it would do to human flesh.
BOOM.
The feel of the explosion. The shock of the recoil. The smell of burning powder. The downright authority he had when those burning cartridges ripped out the side of the gun.
Ecstasy.
Wesley unloaded the magazine from the Witness, hit the return switch, and looked down the dark lane as the white paper target floated back to him like a ghost on a wire. Not bad. Granted, he hadn’t formed any tight clusters around the guy’s heart or face, but he’d pretty much filled the paper with holes. Certainly enough to send
an uncle to his grave.
The guy at the far stall had packed up a blue shoulder bag and was leaving. “You shouldn’t be shooting that twelve gauge in here,” he said to Brubaker, voice raised, but he kept moving.
Brubaker cackled, pumped the Mossberg just as the guy reached the door, and fired from his waist, the gun exploding with light and smoke and recoiling more than a foot. The man flinched and flung the door open at the same time, glared at a hooting Brubaker, and took off.
Tony tapped Wesley hard on the shoulder. “Put another target up and try this.” He placed a big, shiny, black-carbon steel gun in Wesley’s hand. “It’s loaded.”
“What is it?”
“Para-Ordinance forty-five caliber! It’s got a laser. Here.” Tony took the gun back and hoisted it out in front of him. “Look down there.”
Wesley saw a shaky red dot light up amid the black rubber plugs at the far end of the range. “You put your finger here, along the slide.” He pointed the gun straight up to show Wesley. “Hit this switch with your index finger, and the laser comes on. Wherever the light is, that’s where your round’s goin’.”
“Bad.” Wesley took it out of his hands. “How much did it run ya?”
Tony nodded with a grin. “Enough.” Then he disappeared around the corner.
Wesley clipped another target onto the metal plate hanging in front of him and sent it back to the thirty-foot range.
“What’s that?” Brubaker came from the other side.
“It’s got an internal laser.” Wesley aimed, turned on the laser, found the target’s head, and—boom!
Wow. Smooth.
He aimed at the target again—boom.
Again—boom.
Then, nothing.
He tried to pull the trigger repeatedly, but it wasn’t budging. Not wanting to break Tony’s expensive toy, Wesley took it around the corner to him. Brubaker followed. Even though they were the only three left in the range, they kept their ear protection on, which made everything seem fuzzy and muffled.
Wesley spoke loudly to Tony. “I thought you had this thing loaded. I only took three or four shots…”
Tony glared at him, snatched the gun, aimed across the lane at Wesley’s target, turned on the laser, and attempted to pull the trigger—nothing.
“What the heck did you do, Lester?” He tried to move the slide back but couldn’t. Pointing and attempting to fire again, the gun appeared broken. Pushing a metal switch, the magazine popped out the bottom of the handle. They checked it. Still loaded with at least six bullets.
Tony knocked the magazine back into the handle and bore down on the gun. With the strength of both hands, he tried to cock it by racking the slide. Wesley reached over to make sure the gun wasn’t locked, then pushed the laser button.
“What’re you doin’?” Tony winced.
“I dunno.” Wesley started to take his finger off the switch, noticing that the red light lit up the inside of his skinny wrist.
BOOM.
At first, Wesley thought his wrist snagged on something or was hit by a stray bullet casing. It was hot and hurt like a bee sting. But the unreal image in front of him screamed otherwise. Blood spouted everywhere. He moved his arm. The fountain was coming from him.
Tony stood frozen, his eyes bulging like marbles. Brubaker fled the room.
“Towels,” Wesley barked, trying to cover the fountain with his other hand and sending Tony into action.
Trying to swallow, stay calm, and get a grip on what was happening, Wesley knew his energy waned. The wrist was numb. Everything ramped down to slow motion. He was looking through a haze. His knees buckled. Confusion set in.
The door flew open, and the big guy, Dennis, ran in with a frantic Brubaker behind him.
“Let’s see it; let’s see it.” Dennis took charge, holding Wesley tightly at the shoulder and elbow. “Okay, okay, okay. We need to get you to a hospital. Paramedics are on the way. Let’s hold it high till they get here.”
Tony rushed in with two towels. Dennis pressed one firmly against the gushing wound.
“Let’s sit you down.” Dennis guided him to a chair and kept the arm up. “How you feelin’?”
He was hot, hot, hot. And spinning—the room was spinning. He was dizzy and nauseous and having trouble swallowing, breathing. Idiot! He couldn’t believe he messed up in front of Tony. Now his parents would have to get involved. And blood was everywhere. And his chest hurt bad. And there was meth in the car. And all these guns.
Blackout.
19
“WHY HAVEN’T THE POLICE gotten back to us?” Everett paced in the kitchen at Twin Streams Monday afternoon. “I should be practicing…I just can’t concentrate.”
“Maybe you’ve done enough for today.” Karen didn’t look up from the scarf she was knitting at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you go for a walk, get some fresh air?”
“I’ve barely done any work, and I’ve gotta have those new songs concert-ready for the prison show,” he insisted, not expecting any response.
With Rosey curled up at her feet and her long, pink needles weaving in and out like a machine, Karen seemed determined to lose herself in her knitting.
While they waited Sunday afternoon for the police to call with forensic results from the baby Jesus figure, Karen and Everett had worn themselves out talking about what she’d found on the Internet, the Wal-Mart article, Madison’s description of Wesley’s activities—and how it all lined up perfectly with the meth horror stories Karen had found online.
The whole mess shook Everett’s very soul. He wanted so desperately to help Eddie and his family, but the mission was proving hopeless. Karen’s patience was waning, and so was his.
“I can’t wait around anymore and do nothing.” Everett snatched his car keys from a hook on the wall. “I’m gonna go pay that little weasel a visit.”
“No you’re not!” The scarf and needles collapsed in her lap as Karen jumped to her feet. “Not before we think this thing through…and find out more—”
“What more do you want?” He pointed toward the backyard. “Millie’s dead. The Yukon was here. We know Wesley hates my guts. He pointed a gun at you, and you know it! Now he puts the baby Jesus figure back with blood all over it… You just don’t want me to go over there.”
“Is that so stupid?” She approached him, reaching for the keys, but he yanked them away. “You need to cool down, Everett. Wait till we hear from the police. They’ll be able to help us.”
She turned her back on him, apparently having faith that he would stay, and she flipped on the gas burner holding the silver teakettle.
“What if the cops don’t come up with anything?” Everett dropped onto a chair at the kitchen table. “Then what do you propose?”
“Look, honey, this meth is a new animal.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “These people are so revved up on dopamine and adrenaline, you don’t know what they’re going to do. Rob you. Kill you. They don’t know themselves. They’ll do anything to get more of the stuff.”
She took a seat next to him. Rubbing her eyes, she leaned forward on the table with her hands together, covering her nose in the prayer position. “Part of me says you should sit down and talk with Wesley.”
She gazed straight ahead, out the bay window to the white acreage beyond. “Just be honest. Have a heart-to-heart. Tell him what I saw in the basement, what Madison told me. Talk about the journal and his feelings toward you. And confront him about Millie and the manger scene.”
“What about Eddie and Sheila?”
“They can be there, if you want. I will, too—”
“Great. I can only imagine that conversation.”
She slouched back in her chair. “Another part of me says to drop the whole thing.” Her eyes met his. “Act like nothing happened. Stay away from them. Ride the storm out.”
“How can you say that after—?”
“We’re discussing options, that’s all.” She leaned toward him. “We’v
e got a tour coming up. It’s something that’s going to lead who knows how many people to Christ—”
“You know that’s everything to me.”
“And I don’t want to jeopardize it!” Karen said. “I just feel like we’re dealing with Satan and his demons here, Ev. I know how much Satan hates the thought of it.”
The teakettle whistled. Karen poured two cups of instant coffee, grabbed her journal from the kitchen desk, and sat down. “It’s like Pastor Steve said yesterday.” She scanned the journal as she leafed through. “‘Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.’”
“But God’s bigger than Satan.”
“Of course He is, honey. But sometimes… Do you remember that verse we chose for the front of your memoirs?”
“‘In a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver—’” Everett said.
“‘But also of wood and clay…some for honor and some for dishonor.’”
“Yeah, but we used that to describe Endora and Zane Bender. I mean, they were into mysticism and witchcraft.”
“Just a sec,” she mumbled, turning the pages of her journal. “Here it is. Listen to this, babe. ‘The Lord has made everything for its own purpose, even the wicked for the day of evil.’”
“Wait a minute.” He shoved his chair back. “This is my brother we’re talking about, and his son. My own flesh and blood—”
“I know.” She inched closer and took his hand. “And I know how much you love them. That’s why we’re here.” She shook her head sympathetically. “And listen, I’m not saying we don’t keep reaching out. I just want us to weigh all the options.”
“I mean, let’s face it.” He moved his hand away. “When you quote verses like that, you’re making it sound like Eddie and Wesley were designed by God for evil. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Honey,” she shook her head, “I’m not God. I don’t know what He’s doing. I just remembered those Scriptures. They came to my mind and I wanted to share—”
Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) Page 15
