“Give me your hand, girl,” he said. “Now, or you’ll be sucked under with the car.”
Incredibly, Angela hesitated. “I lost my gun, damn it. I’m not going back, understand. I won’t go back and I won’t go to jail. I know what jail does.”
“Just give me your hand,” Hannibal said, pleading rather than ordering. But both her hands were on the door, trying to push herself out of the car. Then the Torino shifted, sliding on the muddy river bottom, and she reflexively reached out. Hannibal had a good grip on her wrist and yanked hard. Angela slid free of the car, splashed up through the water, and scrambled to her feet. In less than a minute she and Hannibal were kneeling on the ground beside the bridge’s railing. Tiny tears started in her eyes, but her mouth was set in a defiant line. Hannibal leaned forward and Angela’s forehead fell onto his shoulder.
“I’m not going back,” she whispered.
Hannibal took her shoulders in his hands and held her at arms’ length. “There’s no more need to run, girl. Please believe me. Everything you know is a lie. Everything you dream is true.”
The Tempo made more noise than its earliest relative, the Model T, but it carried Hannibal and Angela back to the house where it all began. He stared at the peeling paint and missing shingles, and saw the house’s abandoned appearance as an analogy for the lives it had contained.
Hannibal climbed out of the car and helped Angela out through his door, the other being jammed shut. He held her by the arm as they marched slowly up the porch steps. More than her waterlogged clothes weighted her down, he knew. She was burdened with a lifetime of resentment, a load almost as difficult to put down as it is to carry. Exhausted, he pushed the door open and took three steps inside before he realized something was wrong. Cindy and Malcolm shared the love seat on his far left, their faces twisted in horror.
“You come right on in.”
Hannibal turned right toward the voice, and stared into two wide gun barrels. Johnson stood at the base of the stairs, aiming a long double barreled shotgun down at Hannibal’s head. His yellow teeth shone triumphantly. Hannibal looked close, confirming what he knew must be on the back of the man’s left hand. Then he gently pushed Angela toward the others and turned to face the gun.
“If you put that down, all the evil can end right here,” Hannibal said.
“Put it down?” Johnson almost laughed. “I ain’t putting shit down. Not till I’m done rid of that bitch.”
“You mean Angela?” Hannibal asked. He waved the girl toward the sofa without turning, and was rewarded with the sound of her footsteps moving away. “I don’t see the point of that. I’m taking her back to the States and out of your life for good. Why kill her now?”
“It’ll make me feel good.”
Hannibal stepped farther into the room. The shotgun pivoted to follow him, leaving the others behind. “I can’t believe you’d kill your own daughter. But then, she isn’t yours is she?” Another step forward. “In fact, there’s not a drop of your blood in her, is there?” Another slow step, but he still faced the gun. “If I’m right, I dug up her father’s bones in a cellar in Baltimore.”
“Guess I got to kill you too.” Johnson took one menacing step forward.
Hannibal faced him squarely, stepping back slowly toward the kitchen. “They used to call you Killer, didn’t they? You are Killer Nilson, right? And Scooter, she used to be Barbie Robinson. Figured that out when I saw those old scars on the backs of her legs. Doctor Lippincott told me about them when I asked about the young girl who took Jacob Mortimer away.”
“Oh God,” Cindy moaned behind him. “She didn’t have any more imagination than Jacob did. He called her Dolly, as in Barbie doll. And Barbie’s best friend was Scooter.”
“I figure you met her in your bar, Killer,” Hannibal said. “She’s the girl Detective Dalton told me about, the one you and Pat Louis fought over. I guess you won, eh?”
“We was married,” Scooter said from the sofa. “Long before my baby we was married.”
“Sure,” Hannibal said. “You got married, then you went to jail. Scooter, Barbie, must have met Jake Mortimer while you were in stir. They fell in love and she got pregnant. From what I’ve heard they were pretty happy until you got out.”
“She was my wife,” Johnson shouted. “She belonged to me.”
“Right, and you were the well known Killer,” Hannibal said. “So how much of that was hype? Were you really so dangerous? Well, we know you killed one man. Angela’s father.”
Behind him, Hannibal heard Angela cry out “No! No!”
“I killed lots of men,” Johnson said. “Should have drowned that bitch in the tub when she was too small to cause trouble.”
Hannibal controlled his breathing, but he could not stop the sweat breaking out on his forehead through force of will. “Yeah, but you didn’t, did you? From what I’ve seen, I’ll bet her mother wouldn’t let you.”
“I begged him,” Scooter said from the sofa. “I swore I’d do anything he said if he’d spare my baby. I swore I’d never leave him if he’d just leave her be. He didn’t know who Bobby was but I told him he was Jacob Mortimer and his family was important. The police, they look for peoples what kills important people. So we come down here to get away from the police. But he always hated Angela, always mistreated her.”
Scooter was rocking now, fighting her grief. Angela held her arm with two hands. “Momma, why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you tell me my name was Patty?”
Scooter’s voice was a squeal now. “Your father named himself after two Black Panther leaders, Bobby Seale and Huey Newton. So I named you after the only woman black liberation leader I could think of. Angela Davis. When we got down here, Killer said we all had to have new names. Best I could come up with, only other woman revolutionary I knew was Patty Hurst.”
“Shut your face, woman,” Johnson shouted, “Or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
“And who you going to kill after that?” Hannibal asked. “Me? Angela? You only got two barrels. Malcolm over there’s young and strong. Once that gun’s empty, he’ll just get up and kick your big black ass.”
His heart had climbed halfway up his throat, but he was still focused, waiting for the instant of action. He knew it would be soon. The man he faced had stopped being Killer Nilson long ago, and Nelson Johnson was not nearly the same man. Hannibal could almost see Johnson’s spine being eaten away by years of paranoia.
“He ain’t going to do nothing,” Johnson said, but his eyes wavered. “He’ll sit there and watch me blow you in half.”
Hannibal stopped at the end of the counter. “You know something Johnson, or Nilson, or whatever the hell you call yourself? I don’t like your attitude. Now!” With the shout, Hannibal pointed toward Malcolm. And Johnson’s fear made him move the shotgun toward the sofa for an instant.
Knowing he had only a second, Hannibal relaxed his legs and spun, to drop behind the counter. He reached down under his left pants leg. A swarm of twelve gage hornets burst through the counter, leaving a hole the size of a man’s head inches above Hannibal’s back. But he had the little Colt Commander out of its ankle holster and in one smooth movement he swung his arm around the counter and fired. Johnson jerked as if someone had punched him in the left shoulder and blood burst up from his sleeve. He slumped against the wall, the shotgun’s barrels swinging toward the floor. Hannibal leaped to his feet like a berserker and charged through his own gun smoke. Johnson began to slump, but Hannibal held him up with his right hand around Johnson’s throat. He pressed his pistol’s short barrel into Johnson’s neck and breathed the hell fire of retribution into Johnson’s face.
“You murdering bastard,” he said through clenched teeth. “You killed him didn’t you? You stabbed the man you knew as Bobby Newton and dumped his body in the cellar.”
“Yes,” Johnson gasped. “I did him. I did him for her.”
Behind him, Hannibal heard Scooter burst into tears, wailing louder than ever. She probably never forgave herself for t
he tradeoff she made. Hannibal felt her pain. He felt Angela’s pain, and his swirling mind reached out to all those who had suffered because of one act of greed so long ago. The entire Mortimer family, who lost a son, a husband, a father. In some twisted way it also resulted in Nieswand’s corruption and his wife’s eventual breakdown. All their pain converted easily to anger. And he could dispel his rage with one bullet fired into Johnson’s hated brain. His finger tightened on the trigger. Johnson relaxed, as if he knew what was coming. Maybe he had been waiting for it for decades.
“Hannibal,” Cindy shouted. “You don’t want to.”
“The hell I don’t,” he screamed back. “He’s nothing but a cold-blooded killer.”
Cindy walked to within four feet of her man. “He is,” she said. “But you’re not.”
Teeth grinding together, Hannibal felt the anger boiling in his belly again. He must learn to control that.
And he did. The red haze passed from his eyes and he heaved a heavy sigh of partial regret. For a moment he had wanted this man to die by his hand, but he had to face the facts.
“You’re not worth the bullet,” Hannibal said, lowering his gun. “You’re a hateful old man, an evil old man, a vicious old man. But after all that, you are still just an old man.”
When Hannibal released him, Vernon “Killer” Nilson, now known as Nelson Johnson, dropped to his knees and silently wept. He could never be punished enough, Hannibal thought, but fate had certainly made a good start of it.
-34-
MONDAY
Kyle Mortimer looked up from his bed into Hannibal’s hazel eyes. Kyle was shaved bald, emaciated and heavily sedated, but his eyes looked unnaturally clear and sharp. He was riding down a hospital hallway, pushed by an orderly, his mother Camille gripping his right hand as they traveled. His grandfather walked beside the orderly, watching the IV tubes and occasionally telling the orderly to be careful. On his way to surgery, Kyle’s concern was for those walking along with him.
“You don’t look too good,” he told Hannibal. “You getting enough sleep?”
“You kidding?” Hannibal said. “Never been more relaxed. Why, it’s been almost a week since anybody took a shot at me.” He knew the deep circles under his eyes contradicted his words, but how could he claim to feel bad next to Kyle’s weakened condition? When they reached the door to the operating room, Kyle said “I knew you’d come through. Thanks.”
“Thank me when it’s over,” Hannibal said. The wide, white double doors bounced open and Kyle disappeared into the mouth of fate. The small group stood for a moment, each with their own private thoughts, then they turned together and walked back to the waiting room.
The room was way too white, with a large screen television speaking softly at one end and a coffee urn gurgling at the other. In between was a collection of the most uncomfortable chairs and couches Hannibal had ever seen in the United States. Stuck among them in a corner, the biggest visitor looked no less uncomfortable. Scooter Johnson, now again known as Barbie Robinson, kept looking around like she was guilty of something and was sure someone would suspect. Cindy, seated beside her, patted her arm occasionally, in a reflexive comforting motion. Even at six in the morning her hair was perfectly waved and she looked professional in heels and a tan suit. And while a new dress and shoes could not hide Barbie’s girth, she clearly had worked at looking as nice as she could.
Malcolm Lippincott sat staring at the floor on the other side of the room. Hannibal was surprised to see Camille take the empty seat beside Barbie. He considered how much alike their bodies must have looked eighteen years ago, before Barbie left her own country and took up the most degrading profession she could think of. How much did she grow to hate herself, he wondered. Was that why she had gained so much weight? Or was Barbie Robinson hiding in there under the perfect disguise of Scooter Johnson’s obesity?
The way Camille looked at Barbie, it seemed clear she saw nothing except another mother in pain. “What your daughter is doing for my son, there are no words,” she said. “Thank you just seems so inadequate. It was pure luck that her blood and bone marrow matched his, even though Kyle would tell you it had to be. Still, she didn’t have to agree to the transplant.”
“Of course she did,” Barbie said. “After what she tried to do to you people. She knows how wrong she was. Just as wrong as I was for not telling her who she was. By keeping her away, I almost killed your little boy.”
Camille did not pull away, although she was obviously taken aback. “You never told her you were my husband’s…” To her credit, Camille stopped and started again as if she had not made a major gaff, as if she was correcting her grammar. “You never told her who her father was? Then by what miracle did she find her way into our lives? Were we right the first time? Did Mister Jones provide our salvation?”
All eyes turned to Hannibal who was drawing a cup of coffee from the urn. “My mother used to say the Lord works in mysterious ways,” he said. “Actually, Pat Louis should get the credit. True, he’s the real villain of this piece. He corrupted Gabe Nieswand, and drove Abby Nieswand over the edge. But he’s also the reason Angela came face to face with her grandfather.”
Hannibal sat in one of the plastic covered, sponge rubber cushioned chairs. “You see, when Killer Nilson went south across the border, his house became known as a hideout for thugs on the run from up north. All his old buddies from Baltimore knew that, for a price, they could get a room there until the heat died down. Years ago, Pat Louis went down. Killer figured he got rid of the competition for Barbie, but Louis still held a grudge. Now I figure anybody could see the way things were between them, so the most disruptive thing he could do was to tell Angela that Killer wasn’t her father. He knew who Bobby Newton really was and who killed him. So he came up with the scheme of scamming the Mortimers. He told Angela if she’d come to Virginia with him and do what he said, she’d get rich. Of course, he would too.”
“But Angela was gone a long time before she came up here,” Barbie said.
“That’s because on their way back to the states, Louis got busted,” Hannibal said. “That’s when Angela got herself adopted by a nice man in Corpus Cristi and got her education. When Louis got out he found her, and figured all she had done during that time was build herself a stronger back story. His scheme would go forward, even easier.”
Cindy nodded. “And to cement things, he seduced Abby Nieswand, got her to go to Atlantic City with him, and then called Gabe Nieswand to come get her. I guess it wasn’t that hard for him to get Mister Nieswand into the plot.”
“He had the poor girl masquerading as herself,” Camille said. “Never let on the truth.”
“He couldn’t,” Hannibal said. “If she knew she really was the girl she was pretending to be, she’d have no use for him. That would have done Louis out of any money. As it is, Nieswand cut him out anyway, permanently.”
Cindy checked her watch. “Afraid you’ve got to get a move on, lover.”
“Okay,” Hannibal said, “but I’ll be back in an hour at the most. Take care of Scooter, I mean Barbie, okay?”
Harlan Mortimer’s voice rumbled up from the seat by the door, and he stood to face Hannibal. “You don’t have to worry about Miss Robinson. I’ll make sure she’s well cared for. She’s family now. After all, she’s the mother of my granddaughter. My granddaughter who, right now, is in there sharing her blood and bone with my grandson. Can’t get any closer than that.”
“And I’ll take care of Angela,” Malcolm said from his corner. “I know she’s confused right now, but we’ll work that all out. Even if I have to fight my old man.”
“Don’t worry about Larry,” Harlan said. “He knows what’s in the girl’s heart. “He’s in there assisting with the operation, isn’t he? He’ll see her different after this.”
“We’re fine here,” Cindy added. “You just hurry back, lover.”
Hannibal crossed the room again to drop a kiss on Cindy’s cheek, then headed out. Downstair
s he was greeted by lark songs and the first rays of dawn. The cloudless sky was a shade of blue he had only seen once or twice except in dreams. He filled his lungs with a great gulp of air and jogged into the parking lot to his car. No one could tell it had ever been damaged. He would have to remember to send that repair shop a Christmas card.
He pulled his door open and peered inside. Jewel sat nodding in the passenger seat, looking fresher and younger than he had ever seen her. Her straight black hair gently embraced her dark face, the face of a Nubian princess, Nefertiti or Cleopatra. At first her face seemed incongruous resting above an oversize flannel shirt. But as he looked more closely, it seemed perfect there, much more natural than the leather and miniskirts he was used to seeing her in.
He sat without waking her, but she stirred when he shut his door. She offered him a relaxed smile which he accepted gratefully. “You ready?” he asked.
“I think so,” Jewel said. “Never thought I’d be nervous about a plane flight.”
He started the engine and pointed his car toward Reagan National Airport. “I wouldn’t worry. No one on earth has the capacity to forgive and forget like your mother does. Just keep thinking that tonight, for the first time in years, when you lay your head down, you’ll be home.”
Jewel leaned back and closed her eyes, conjuring a scene Hannibal could only imagine. “Home,” she said.
Author’s Bio
Austin S. Camacho is a public affairs specialist for the Department of Defense. America’s military people overseas know him because for more than a decade his radio and television news reports were transmitted to them daily on the American Forces Network.
He was born in New York City but grew up in Saratoga Springs, New York. He majored in psychology at Union College in Schenectady, New York. Dwindling finances and escalating costs brought his college days to an end after three years. He enlisted in the Army as a weapons repairman but soon moved into a more appropriate field. The Army trained him to be a broadcast journalist. Disc jockey time alternated with news writing, video camera and editing work, public affairs assignments and news anchor duties.
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