Piggyback
Page 8
“What stuff? What was worth all this?”
“The bags,” Paul answered, “the duffle bags with the weed in them.”
Linda stopped crying. She stood up, teetering on her pumps. She leaned over and took Shelly by the elbow, saying, “Come on, baby. Get up, it’s over.”
Shell-shocked, Shelly looked up with her own eyes blackened by mascara and struggled to get to her feet.
“Both you two, c’mon,” said Linda. Together they walked to the top of the stairs and descended back down to the scene below. At the bottom of the stair lay Damon Lafleur; upside down with feet pointed upward, head on the floor, a huge, dark, red bloodstain on his chest. Under him, there was a growing puddle of thick blood inching across the hardwood floor. Shelly gasped. The three tried to navigate over him. When they made it to the floor without slipping in the blood or tripping on the body, Linda turned toward her now ex-husband and gave him a quick kick in the forehead.
“Son of a bitch,” she said.
On the floor in front of the main entrance was Jimmy. He was flat on his back with his trusty .38 still clenched in his fist. There were two dark and burned-looking holes right over his heart. His eyes were wide open, still staring at the chandelier above him. Paul thought that he went out like a cowboy and noticed for the first time that Jimmy was wearing boots. He wanted to give him a kick too, but he was afraid that Jimmy might spring back to life and shoot him.
“C’mon,” said Linda again, getting impatient. “Let’s get Tristan and Becky.”
Paul knew that was as futile as it sounded. They’d all listened to the silencer. They’d all sat in the silence.
The door separating the house and garage opened with a creak. Paul held up his hand for the other two to wait while he checked out the garage. It was easy to be brave when there were only ghosts left in the room.
The first thing he saw was Tristan’s body, crumpled like a rag doll on top of the suitcases that were strewn across the back of the garage. Obviously dead, long dead. Then Paul noticed the streak of blood leading to the door from behind Jimmy’s shit-green Camry. This was the trail of Damon Lafleur’s will, a swath of red, a long and painful paintbrush stroke where he’d dragged himself toward his home. Paul followed the stain. When he reached its origin, he saw Becky sitting up against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head down, hiding her face. She looked like a scared child awaiting punishment. On top of her head was a meaty crimson hole. Paul could see brain matter and blood and didn’t need to see any more. He quickly strode back into the house and shook his head at the mother and daughter.
Linda’s lips tightened. She looked mad. She pointed toward the main entrance again and started toward it, not checking if the other two were following. They did.
It was still dark outside, but Paul could tell the sky had lightened just a little, letting him know that morning was on the way. The three walked to Damon Lafleur’s Mercedes C300, whose lights were still glaring into the garage door.
Linda walked to the rear of the car and said to the both of them, “I want to show you something.”
With the automatic key fob in her hand she hit the release and the trunk popped open. In it was one singular, large, black duffle bag. With an annoyed, I-told-you-so voice that only a mother can affect, she said, “Is this what you and your friends were looking for?”
Shelly stopped whimpering long enough to blurt, “I don’t know where the rest is, I don’t.”
Paul reached forward and unzipped the bag. In it were five fat, white plastic pillows. The coke. The piggyback.
“We really do have to go,” he said.
Linda clicked the doors unlocked from the key in her hand and they all got into the car. Linda in the driver’s seat, Paul riding shotgun, and Shelly, devastated by exhaustion, confusion, guilt and grief, flopped down in the rear.
“Buckle up, baby,” said Linda. She was talking to her daughter, who ignored her, but Paul immediately strapped himself in. They backed out of the driveway and drove carefully out of the neighborhood. The treasure in the trunk made them all feel different. It was like they still had a chance.
As they neared the freeway on-ramp, Paul thought about which direction they should go. He decided to say nothing and let Linda choose. She was in the driver’s seat, after all. Once they hit the road, they’d have plenty of time to talk. Plenty of time for her to tell them why she knew the blow was in the trunk, what her husband was doing with it, and why it was almost a relief for her to see him dead at the bottom of the stairs.
First, thought Paul, we all just need to focus on the road ahead and try not to think about the place they just left. Paul reached out and hit the power on the stereo. The throb of the disco station that Damon had left on got to exactly four beats before Paul spun the dial. He landed, as he always did, on the classic rock station. They were suddenly adrift in the endless solo from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird.
Paul looked over at Linda and said, “You mind if I smoke in here?”
About the Author
BIO INSERTED HERE
About Snubnose Press
Snubnose Press is the ebook imprint of Spinetingler Magazine.
The snubnose revolver dominated visual crime stories in the 20th century. Every cop, every detective, every criminal in every TV show and movie seemed to carry a snubnose. The snubnose is a classic still used today.
The snubnose is easy to conceal and carry.
The snubnose is powerful.
The snubnose is compact.
That’s how we like our fiction.
Snubnose Press Titles:
Speedloader
Harvest of Ruins by Sandra Ruttan
The Chaos We Know by Keith Rawson
Monkey Justice by Patti Abbott
Dig Two Graves by Eric Beetner
Old Ghosts by Nik Korpon
Gumbo Ya-Ya by Les Edgerton
Hill Country by R Thomas Brown
Old School by Daniel B. O’Shea
Laughing at Dead Men by Keith Rawson
Nothing Matters by Steve Finbow
The Duplicate by Helen Fitzgerald
Cold Rifts by Sandra Seamans
Pulp Ink 2
The First Cut by John Kenyon
A Bouquet of Bullets by Eric Beetner
A F*ckload of Shorts by Jedidiah Ayres
Blood on Blood by Frank Zafiro & Jim Wilsky
Choice Cuts by Joe Clifford
Ghost Money by Andrew Nette
City of Heretics by Heath Lowrance
Bar Scars by Nik Korpon
Herniated Roots by Richard Thomas
A Healthy Fear of Man by Aaron Philip Clark
Karma Backlash by Chad Rohrbacher
To Die Upon a Kiss by Craig Wallwork
The Jones Men by Verne Smith
Wild Child by Josh Stallings
Moondog Over the Mekong by Court Merrigan
The Subtle Arts of Brutality by Ryan Sayles
Dope Sick: A Love Story by JA Kazimer
Broken Glass Waltz by Warren Moore
Wake the Undertaker by Joe Clifford
XXX