Boondocks Fantasy

by Jean Rabe

  On both sides of the river the dire enemies, briefly unsure, awaited a sign.

  For what seemed like hours Sally Jean Stone and Ernie Joe Hopper wended toward each other across the half-frozen river from opposite directions. They hopped and slid and crawled, inching closer to each other, and the upthrust branch and whimpering dog.

  The two were very close now, their eyes fixed more on each other than the dog, as their hands stretched out to touch the dog while also brushing each other.

  On one side of the river Grammy Hopper’s corncob pipe darted around in her mouth. On the other Pa Stone clenched his toothpick. For just a moment the corncob pipe happened to swivel in the direction of the toothpick, and just as Ernie Joe Hopper and Sally Jean Stone appeared to share a mental telepathy, so it seemed, if only for a moment, that corncob pipe and the toothpick communicated.

  “Now!” hollered Grammy Hopper even as Pa Stone yelled, “Blaze away!”

  This prompted an explosion of pistol and gunfire from both sides of the river. The dog was blasted from all sides and blown to smithereens, its fur exploding into the air and wafting in the wind. Sally Jean Stone and Ernie Joe Hopper, eyes locked tragically, backed away in shock. The gunshots petered out, with stray shots from both sides taken at the carcass of the dog, followed by whoops and cheers.

  It wasn’t often the two sides got to collaborate on a fresh victim.

  Sally Jean Stone and Ernie Joe Hopper reached their respective shores safely, Sally Jean grabbed by Pa, Ernie Joe by Grammy. Then the feuding Stones and Hoppers began to pull back slowly from the half-frozen river, back toward their cabins. Sally Jean stared hard and tragically in the direction of Ernie Joe, but she felt warm and mushy inside to think of how the dog was killed so splendidly. Grammy let go of Ernie Joe. He pranced just ahead of her ironshod boot, chuckling to himself, feeling and thinking pretty much the same.

  The Stones and Hoppers hadn’t gotten very far in their retreats, however, when again the corncob pipe flicked toward the toothpick, and all stopped, turning back, hunkering down to watch the river, rare grins replacing usual fierce glares.

  A few miles upriver, on the outermost street of a new subdivision that had been carved along the edges of this densely forested area, a beleaguered mother slid her tearful nine-year-old daughter into the back seat of a shiny new crimson-colored SUV. Strangely, the boom of the gunshots had echoed loudly this far away from their source and sounded like some kind of weird winter thunderclap.

  “There, there, honey,” said the mother soothingly, as she hurried into the driver’s seat, gripped the wheel, and swiftly steered the SUV out of the driveway. Her daughter’s sobbing only increased with the loud booms and echoes.

  “Cookie’s a good dog,” she continued, as she drove away from the house. “She can’t have wandered far. Dogs love trees and wild things. We’ll drive a little ways and then get out of the car and follow the river and see if we can spot her.”

  THE DEVIL IS A GENTLEMAN

  Raymond Benson

  Among his twenty three published books, Raymond Benson wrote six original James Bond novels, three film novelizations and three short stories—all published worldwide. Three 007 titles are collected in the recent anthology, The Union Trilogy. A second anthology, Choice of Weapons, was published in 2010. His recent series of “rock ’n’ roll thrillers” include Dark Side of the Morgue and A Hard Day’s Death. As “David Michaels” he wrote two New York Times best sellers in Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell series. Raymond is also the author of two Metal Gear Solid novelizations and the and is the co-author, with John Milius of Homefront—The Voice of Freedom. Visit him at www.raymondbenson.com.

  The door’s exterior was emblazoned with the legend FYRE & BREEM-STOAN DETECTIVE AGENCY . . . BILL Z. BUBB, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. It was the only P.I. agency in a tiny town too small to really have such a business.

  The woman stood in front of it, hesitated, and then finally rapped.

  Inside the office, Bill snuffed out a cigarette in the ashtray on his desk and relished that final pungent dollop of smoke that wafted into his rather large nostrils. His sense of smell had actually improved since he assumed human form. Not only was he more aware of the scents around him, but it contributed to his greater enjoyment of dining and drinking. An earthly indulgence, to be sure, but a pleasurable one nonetheless.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The door creaked open and the woman stepped inside. She clutched a handbag under her arm. “Hello?”

  “I said, come in.” Bill stood for the lady. He had learned the various rules of etiquette eons ago. He knew that women appreciated it.

  He guessed this honey was in her late thirties. She was dressed in a daringly short skirt, wore high heels, and had bare, long legs that would have made Cerberus lick his six drooling lips. Her flaming red hair was shoulder length—Bill liked that—and her eyes were a penetrating green.

  He wondered if he could perhaps fudge a little on his jurisdiction.

  It had already been a busy week for such a tiny, tiny town. Two child molesters, three murderers, and one preacher who had raped a congregant. Bill went after only the truly despicable. It was his job. When the mortal law enforcement personnel couldn’t solve cases or were unable to prosecute perpetrators due to some ridiculous legal loophole in humankind’s sets of laws—that’s when he stepped in. Nevertheless, his employer had specific guidelines. Bill was not to step outside what he called his “jurisdiction,” which really only applied to the types of crimes he investigated. He had to turn away a lot of business because it didn’t fit the boss’ criteria. Unfortunately, Bill knew what the woman wanted before she had even knocked. It was too bad, because for a human female she was quite the filly.

  “Hi.” Her voice was a little shaky from nervousness. “Mister . . . uh, Bubb?”

  “That’s me. What can I do for you?” He held out his hand.

  She gazed at him a long time before stepping forward. Most women did that. Bill had insisted on an attractive human appearance, and the boss had obliged. For one thing, Bill was very tall. His black hair was wavy and shiny and on the verge of being too long. His dark brown eyes and ruddy complexion gave him a Middle Eastern quality, which was something he deemed strangely appropriate. Folks in these parts thought he had some Mexican in him. There was fire in his blood, all right, but not from chili peppers.

  She took his hand and held it slightly longer than a man might. “My name is Mary Sue Vickson.”

  “Mary Sue. Lovely name,” Bill said with a smile. “Have a seat.”

  She let go of his hand and sat in the chair in front of his desk. Only then did she take in the surroundings of the office.

  It was a humble space located in Limite’s dilapidated and empty downtown. It consisted merely of one room, a desk, a bank of filing cabinets, a drinking water dispenser, and the usual assortment of computer equipment, copier, and fax machine. There were two phones on the desk—one black and one red. There was one window, but the glass was black. An air conditioner sat in the frame, purring along nicely.

  She coughed, covering her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” Bill said. “Can I get you some water?”

  “Please. Thank you.”

  He went to the water dispenser and poured some into a paper cup. After handing it to her, he then moved to the A/C and increased the fan’s speed. “There, that should help. I know I should quit smoking. Is that better, Ms. Vickson?”

  “Yes, thank you. You’re a gentleman.” She took a sip of water as he sat in his chair behind the desk. She continued to study his looks, entranced by his darkly handsome features. Bill waited patiently for her to speak.

  “Your firm. Unusual names. Who are Mister Fyre and Mister Breem—?”

  “Breem-Stoan? They were the original proprietors. A long time ago. A long, long time ago. Back even before oil was discovered in the area. Mister Fyre was from Ireland. Mister Breem-Stoan was from England—you know, they often have hyphenated names over th
ere. They were a part of Limite’s original settlement.”

  The woman blinked. “Wasn’t that in cowboy times?”

  Bill’s eyes gleamed. “It’s still cowboy times around here, ain’t it?”

  She laughed nervously. “I guess it is.”

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  She cleared her throat and then came out with it. “It’s my husband. I think he’s cheating on me.”

  Bill groaned inwardly to himself. It was true—this wasn’t in his jurisdiction. Adultery, although a sin, was not something the boss deemed serious enough to warrant Bill’s attention. The other team usually handled adultery.

  “I’m sorry, Mary Sue, but I don’t take marital cases.” He reached for his Rolodex. “I can refer you to an excellent private investigator in a nearby town, and I know that—”

  “You came highly recommended. I was told you were the only one who could help.”

  “Oh? And who told you this?”

  She blushed and looked down. “I . . . well, it’s . . . no one, really. It just came to me. You’ll think it’s silly.”

  “No, I won’t. Please tell me.”

  “Well, it came to me in a dream.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She looked up and met his eyes. “I dreamed about you. Really. And a voice in the dream told me to look you up. It was so vivid. I woke up and remembered everything. I immediately went to the computer and Googled you. Sure enough, there was your name and agency. I couldn’t believe Limite had a detective agency—a little town like this—I know it sounds strange. . . .”

  “Not at all,” Bill said. In fact, it wasn’t unusual. The other side often referred mortals to him through that very method of communication. It was a cooperative arrangement. They wanted to rid the world of the truly evil just as much as Bill’s boss wanted them for his collection. Still, there was the problem of jurisdiction. It wasn’t a matter he took lightly.

  “Tell me, Mary, is there something else bothering you? About your husband, I mean.”

  She bit her lower lip, as if pondering whether to reveal a secret she had. Bill fantasized for a brief moment what gently biting and tasting that lip might be like.

  This creature is too tantalizing to send away, he thought. Damn it.

  “As a matter of fact,” she began. “Well . . .”

  “Go on. Anything you say stays in this room.”

  “It’s . . . it’s nothing I can prove. Just a feeling. You know. A wife knows these things.”

  He waited patiently.

  “All right. I don’t think he’s cheating on me, in the sense you might think. It’s not that at all. In fact . . . well, we’re separated. For over a year now.”

  “So what is it, Mary?”

  She clenched her mouth and finally opened the handbag which she had been holding close to her torso. The woman dug into it, pulled out a newspaper, and handed it to him. Bill took it and opened it to the front page.

  The Limite Herald’s headline glared: TRAILER PARK MONSTER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM.

  Bill quickly scanned the article. He was familiar with the case. Two—now three—young women had disappeared from Limite’s seedy trailer park community. The local police had no clues except that clothing belonging to the first two women had been found in a dumpster not far from the victims’ turf. Foul play was suspected. A predator was on the loose.

  “And why are you showing me this?” he asked.

  “Because . . . because. . . .” She started to cry as her voice broke. “I think my husband is . . . is .. .”

  Suddenly, the red phone on Bill’s desk rang. The loudness startled the woman, but she was even more bewildered by the stream of fumes that slowly drifted out of it.

  Bill answered it. “Yes?”

  The voice was deep and dark. “Take the case.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bill smiled. Good. He hung up and inhaled deeply.

  “Your . . . there’s smoke coming out of your phone,” Mary said, pointing at it as she wiped the tears from her face.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” he answered, dismissing the object with a wave. “That’s the hot line. Now, I think maybe I can help you.” He handed back the newspaper.

  “You can?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, thank you! You don’t know what this means to me.”

  “I’m sure I do.”

  “Mister Bubb?”

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . I don’t have a lot of money. I was afraid to go to the police, I don’t have any proof of anything, and I . . .”

  Again, he waved his hand unconcernedly. “Don’t worry about money. I take pro bono cases.”

  She frowned.

  “Pro bono. That means I do it for free.”

  “Really? You do?”

  “I do. All the time.”

  She sighed with relief. “Thank you. You really are a gentleman.”

  “Thank you. Now, please tell me everything you know. Everything.”

  Bill could have requested being stationed in one of the big cities like New York or Chicago. Instead he chose rural West Texas. Legend had it that the Mexican workers who helped build the railroad named the town of Limite, as it had been a boundary of sorts set by the railway owners. For several years, the line ended at the site—the railroad had reached its “limit.” Indeed, many Texans and Spanish-speaking residents pronounced Limite properly—“LEE-mi-tay.” Others ignorantly pronounced it “Li-MEE-tay.” There were those around the state that pronounced the word in English, “Limit,” but the majority of people, and the residents themselves, called it “Li-MEET.”

  There was something about the endless flat desert-like plains cluttered with pumpjacks and other remnants of the productive oil decades that appealed to Bill. He enjoyed the heat of the summers and the 180° sunsets, and he also found favor with the distinct odor of petroleum that permeated the air, especially in the summer months.

  It reminded him of home.

  Some said that the three main interests in Limite were oil, religion, and high school football. The place was ultra-conservative, as was many a small town in Texas, but that didn’t prevent the people from sin. In fact, in Bill’s experience, there was always more sin in such narrow-minded backwater communities than in the big cities.

  Stephen Vickson’s office was located in a strip mall in the middle of a four-mile stretch of highway dotted with bars and honkytonks. There were cowboy joints, oil field roughneck dives, teenage hangouts, couples bars, and even a strip club. Apparently Vickson was a bail bondsman for the county, specializing in clients of a dubious lower class. Bill knew the type. While most bail bondsmen were necessary and honorable members of the community, there were many who were not much better than the men and women they represented. Some of them were downright sleazebags.

  The sun had set hours earlier. The night life, such that it was, was in full swing, but the strip mall was dark and quiet. Bill parked his 1999 Ford pickup at the edge of the lot and got out. The truck was on its last legs with 112,000 miles on it, but he preferred junkers over spiffy new automobiles. No one noticed the older vehicles. Bill didn’t like to be noticed. At least the Ford still ran.

  He sucked on his ninety-sixth cigarette of the day, dropped the butt and stepped on it, and then approached Vickson’s storefront. The place was closed, as expected. The door was locked, of course. Bill scanned both sides of the road before slipping in the lock pick. He twisted it sharply and heard a loud click. Worked every time. After all, Bill’s lock picks had been forged from a mineral not found on man’s plane of existence.

  The private investigator opened the door and stepped inside the office. The foyer was partitioned from the rest of the place by a security door and a bulletproof window for a receptionist. Bill shut the front door behind him and then worked the second lock. He was in Vickson’s inner sanctum in five seconds.

  The office was dark, so Bill switched on a flashlight he’d brought with him. His duster covered the all-purpos
e tool belt that contained the various instruments of his trade. Bill didn’t carry a gun, though. He didn’t think it was essential. While the physics of breaking and entering had to be conquered with man-made contrivances, Bill never worried about his safety. He didn’t have to. Nothing scared him.

  The main room contained all the accouterments of the business and a desk for a secretary/assistant. Vickson’s private office was through yet another locked door. Once again, the lock pick provided Bill easy access.

  The first thing Bill’s sensitive nostrils picked up was the smell of alcohol. Bill sat at the man’s desk and opened the drawers, one by one. The bottom drawer held a half-empty bottle of vodka and a recently-opened bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Vickson was obviously a drunk. The guy appeared to have demons of his own.

  Bill smiled wryly at that thought. He ain’t seen nothing yet.

  A Browning 9mm handgun was in a locked drawer that Bill had to open with the pick. Not surprising. Most bondsmen kept a weapon handy.

  Nothing else interesting. Bill frowned. He guessed he’d just have to visit Vickson’s home next. Mary Sue had told him where it was.

  He rummaged through the papers on top of the desk and came across a bill from a U-Store-It company. Bill raised his thick eyebrows. Mary Sue had said Vickson kept a storage unit somewhere, but she didn’t know its location. Bill noted the address on the bill.

  Bingo.

  The U-Store-It was three miles from the strip mall, located near the trailer park where Vickson lived. It was a moderately secure establishment, well-lit and surrounded by a chain-link fence. Customers renting units were able to come and go as they wished, so there was no problem driving into the parking lot. Bill slipped his Ford into a space and cut the headlights. He got out, wrapped his duster tightly around him, and entered the three-story structure. Stephen Vickson’s unit was on the second floor. A bulky padlock secured the door. No problem. Bill opened the unit, stepped inside, and shut it behind him. There was no overhead light in the ten by ten storage space, so he was forced to use his flashlight again.