by Eric Beetner
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Linda yelled. Bitch.
Drug guy tossed Brent to the ground and climbed back into his car. His tires squealed as he pulled away.
68
CLYDE
I tried to catch my breath. My nose was swollen from crying again. Not my manliest moment. I was tired of it. Tired of being scared, tired of feeling helpless. My kid was in danger. My baby girl.
An old man stepped out from the woods. “Goddamn, son, stop your whining.” For a minute I thought he was talking to me, but then I noticed that the fat guy was on the ground, clutching his leg. “I got shot up worse than that in ’Nam, and I didn’t make a peep. Now get up and shut up.”
The old man strolled over to me. “Now who the hell are you, son?”
“I’m Clyde.” At least that’s what I think I said. I was watching as two women crossed the bridge and joined us on the other side in the pull off. “They have my baby.”
“Ernie, are those men dead?” Two women had crossed the bridge and stood now with us in the pull off.
“Son of a bitch, Betty. I told you to stay at home. And you,” he glared at the woman with her. “What the hell are you doing with my rifle? Son of a goddamn bitch.”
“Sean, are you okay?” The younger of the two women knelt beside the man on the ground. “I told you it hurts.” She pulled a cloth out of the enormous bag she had slung over her shoulder and pressed it to his lower leg, where blood dripped at a sluggish rate onto the dust.
“You’re Griffin?” I asked the old man.
He shook his head and nodded at the fat guy on the ground. “That’s him. I’m just along for the ride. And you . . .” he spoke to the older woman, grabbing her by the elbow and dragging her out of ear shot.
“You fucking asshole,” I said, kicking the guy in the gut. “You fucking, fucking asshole.”
“Fucking asshole,” Brent was there, on the ground, his foot wrapped in a bloody rag. He giggled. “Griffin is a fucking asshole.”
I ran a hand over my face. It was hot and getting hotter. And there were two bodies on the ground. A bus rattled over the bridge and curious tourists peered from the windows. They seemed to be more focused on Brent’s bloody foot and the bloody fat guy on the ground. But the bus was speeding up as it crossed the bridge and I knew there were probably all sorts of people on board punching 911 into their cell phones.
“That’s it, time to go,” the old man said.
I picked up the brief case with the drugs inside. In his hurry to leave, Skeeter dropped it on the ground. He would no doubt be back.
I looked at the car I had arrived in, started toward it.
“Nope. Not that one,” he said. He gestured to the Tahoe. “Climb in. Everyone in.”
“We brought the minivan,” the old woman said.
“Goddamn it, Betty. Where is it?”
“Down the road a ways. In the trees.”
“Get it. Meet us back home.”
“Oh no. I’m coming with you. I’ll follow you into Williamsburg. We can leave the van in a lot there.”
I could see the wheels turning in the old man’s head. He didn’t want her to tag along, but she likely had him over a barrel. Women were like that. Trouble makers.
He gestured to me. “You. Bring that here.”
I stood where I was. He could shoot me. He could leave me out here for the fish to eat. But he wasn’t going to get the briefcase without a fight.
“Fuck you,” I said.
Mrs. Griffin helped her husband into the Tahoe. She looked annoyed for a minute, but the pair exchanged a small smile as she closed the back door. I moved toward the sedan again.
“Son,” the old guy said to me. “Seems to me that young drug addict is going to be coming back for what’s in that briefcase. Maybe you won’t want to be in possession of it when that happens. How’s about you give it to me?”
“They’ve got my kid. My daughter.”
“It’s a girl,” Brent said from the ground. “Congrats, man. I’m happy for you. Seriously, man, that’s really great.”
The women stared at me for a minute and then disappeared down the bank and across the marsh toward where they had hidden their car.
The old man’s face fell for a minute and he appeared to be thinking. I eyed the sedan and wondered if the driver had left the keys in the ignition or if they were in his pocket. I didn’t want to turn a dead guy over and search him. “Well then,” he said after a minute. “Let’s go get your baby.”
I didn’t trust him. Why should I? But we were running out of time. The people on the bus had seen us. There wasn’t much else to do. We had to get moving. Fast. I picked Brent up off the ground and helped him into the Tahoe.
It was ten minutes to Old Town Williamsburg. We stashed the minivan in a public lot behind a church and the women climbed into the car.
“This is so exciting,” the old lady said. “Let’s all introduce ourselves.”
69
SKEETER
Okayokayokayokayoayokay. Stories straight time. These two big fuckers come out of the woods, blast the two drivers, try to kill me, so I bailed. Live to fight another day, otherwise we’ll never get your stash back, Mr. Corgan.
The whole goddamn thing must have been a set up organized by Clyde. He must have hired the fat man to take the Tahoe in the first place. This whole crazy shitbag of a mess has been a double cross from the start. More than likely.
Well, no mind, no mind. We still got what matters to Clyde. We still got chips in the game. And it’s win-win for me when Corgan sees that the same psycho fucks who killed two of his best guys couldn’t kill me ’cause I’m like a motherfucking cockroach, and I don’t mind sayin’ it. I admire the lowly cockroach. Sucker’s been around for millions of years and can survive the nuclear apocalypse? That is bad-ass, man. Wish that nickname had stuck before Skeeter. I’d be proud to be called Roach.
But, shit, I dunno. Maybe this is my cue. Maybe this is where I get off this crazy train and pull up stakes for green pastures. Someplace I can start over, get in with a new crew. Someone who treats me with some goddamn respect. Someone who calls me Roach.
70
BRENT
The face that came into focus wasn’t what I expected. She had to be in her seventies. How the hell did she get to be a part of this?
We were all crammed in the Tahoe like we were on vacation or something, Clyde and I in the third row of seats like were kids stuffed in the way back.
My brain started to come out of the cotton candy it’d been covered in for the past hour. With it came my foot pain, but I was okay with it now. I heard the old guy in the front talking with . . . was it Griffin? Jesus, it was. We’re in Griffin’s car, which meant this was our car. Our rental. The stupid car that started all this shit. I looked over Griffin’s head and saw the loose seam in the ceiling fabric.
They were discussing some sort of plan.
“I can get us in,” Clyde said. Christ, he looked shell shocked. Real PTSD stuff on his face. I saw that look from a buddy of mine when he got back from Afghanistan.
“Then it’ll be you and me,” the old man said. Who was the old man? “You can get us there?” he asked Clyde.
“It’s programmed in the GPS. This was the car that was supposed to bring the load in the first place.”
Griffin, in the passenger seat, punched the screen with his fat fingers and smeared blood on the GPS unit. Was everyone in here shot?
Before long I heard that robot woman’s voice telling us to keep on the highway for another thirty-five miles. I had a little while at least so I closed my eyes and tried to scrape off more of the cotton candy.
71
CLYDE
We pulled the Tahoe to a stop in front of Corgan’s house. A few days late, but we finally made it. I had the package. I hoped he had my daughter. I hoped she wouldn’t remember any of this, even deep down in her subconscious.
The old guy, Ernie, really seemed to be taking a leadership role, but no
w that we were here, it was my turn to deal with the top man. Ernie, however, insisted on coming with me.
“You don’t just walk in there alone and hand over his goods,” he said. “You need someone with you to show a little muscle. That’s what these guys know. It’s their language.”
I didn’t really want to know how exactly this old man knew what language an animal like Corgan spoke, but I wanted to get things moving to so I didn’t argue.
“Whatever, let’s just go.”
Ernie had more instructions. “Sean, you take the ladies and the rifle and stake out the bushes. I want you far enough away from any trouble, yet close enough to lend a hand if we need it.”
“Okay, I guess. But shouldn’t we—”
Ernie cut him off with a stare and a stern, “Do it.”
His wife kissed him on the cheek as she got out with her wounded daughter and wounded son-in-law. I knew they’d be no help at all and suspected Ernie was just putting them out of the way with a fake sense that they had a job to do. Fine by me.
“You,” he said to Brent. “Get behind the wheel. Be ready to drive. Are you good? Your head clear?”
Brent said, “Yes,” but he sounded a little hung over. He shook out his face, slapped his cheeks and came around. “I’m good,” he said.
I put out a hand and he shook it. “I owe you one, bro. For all this.”
“I’d say you owe me my job back, but I don’t want a goddamn thing to do with cars for a long time.”
“I hear you.”
I pressed the briefcase to my chest. The bullet hole in it stared out like an eye. Ragged, beaten and worse for the wear, I took Corgan’s dope delivery to his front door.
When the bell rang I heard a dog bark and my daughter cry. My hand went for the knob, but I stopped myself. I saw Ernie next to me giving me a hard look. The old man held a pistol in his hand.
“You gonna stash that thing?” I asked him.
“You ever been to an orgy, son?”
I scrunched my face at him. “No.”
“You show up some place and you know there’s a decent chance you’re gonna get fucked, best for you to walk in showing everyone what you’re packing.”
I bet this guy had been toting that analogy around since Vietnam.
The door opened. One of Corgan’s henchmen stood there looking beefy and mountainous. He gave us a silent look, noticed the gun in Ernie’s hand down by his hip. He stared back at the old man and they had a little contest. Ernie didn’t blink.
“Come on, man,” I said. “I got the stuff, let’s get going. Where’s my daughter?”
The guy stepped clear of the doorway. I moved to go inside but Ernie put a hand on my arm. “We’ll wait here.”
“What? No. I want to see my daughter.”
“Tell him to bring her here. We do the trade and we leave. Simple as that.”
The henchman smiled at the brass balls on Ernie. I felt like he was making a huge mistake. When the henchman turned and walked back into the house I turned to Ernie.
“You don’t want to piss this guy off. Haven’t you been paying attention to anything in the past twenty-four hours?”
“There’s no reason we need to go inside. He’s got the advantage in there. Just settle the fuck down.”
He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. This guy had some sort of history and I’m sure I didn’t want to know it. Corgan approached the door with an extra henchman to make bookends around him.
“Mr. McDowd,” he said. “Better late than never, right?” He smiled and pointed to the case I was still hugging to my chest.
“I hope you know this was all beyond my control, Mr. Corgan.” I held out the case and one of the guys next to him reached out to take it. Once again, Ernie’s hand came up to stop us. Only by gently resting a palm on the other man’s hand did the entire transaction come to a halt.
“First the girl,” he said. Jesus H. Christ I would kill him if he fucked this up for me.
Corgan studied Ernie intently. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”
“We’re not here for pleasure. We’re here for the child. You see what you want, let’s see what we want and then we can all be on our way.”
Corgan smiled and gave a miniscule nod. His right hand man lowered his hand away from the case. I was left holding it out at the end of my tired-growing arms.
“That’s the thing about the older generation. No time for bullshit, am I right?”
Ernie gave him a stone-faced nod. Corgan snapped his fingers and the crying sounds got louder as a beefy man dressed all in black brought my infant daughter to the doorway. Instantly tears rained from my eyes. I thrust the case out farther, both for them to take it and be done with this and to free up my hands to be able to hold her.
“Okay,” Corgan said. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Clyde. Children should never be involved.”
I was too choked up to agree with him. The same henchman reached for the case again. Ernie stayed put this time but a rifle shot rang out from behind us in the yard. It smacked the side of the house somewhere up near the second floor. Corgan took a step back into the house, his two guards flanking him both had pistols in their hands before I could blink. The man holding my daughter pulled her closer to his chest which made her cries intensify.
Corgan stepped up and put a gun to my child’s head.
“No,” I called. I knew I’d never be able to burn the image from my memory.
“The fuck is this, McDowd?” Corgan said.
Ernie held out a hand, keeping his gun low and pointed at the ground. “Calm down. That was nothing. If I’m correct, it’s my dumb-as-shit son-in-law making a really stupid fucking mistake.”
We all held out breath while we waited to see if Corgan bought it.
“Sorry about that,” came Griffin’s voice from the far reaches of the yard. “My bad. Gun just went off.”
Ernie’s wife shouted in a scolding tone. “I told him I could hold the damn gun.”
“See there?” Ernie said. “Just one dumb-ass doing what he does best. Sooner we do this swap, sooner we leave and take all dumbasses with us.”
I could only focus on a tiny window in my view where the barrel of Corgan’s gun touched my daughter’s bright pink head. Nothing ever looked so ugly. “Please,” I whispered.
Corgan looked from me to Ernie, past us into the yard. Satisfied that no other shots were coming, he put the gun down. “Give him the kid.”
The case was snatched out of my hand and replaced with my daughter. She felt so soft and so light. I pulled her close, kissing the spot on her head where a tiny ring of redness had risen from the barrel of Corgan’s gun.
“That’s that,” Ernie said. “Good day to you.” He tugged at my arm and I followed him back to the SUV, never taking my eyes off my little girl.
72
BRENT
It was kinda convenient that we had to go to the hospital for Clyde since me and both Griffins needed a doctor anyway. One stop shopping.
I felt like shit and driving was hard. About half way there I had to pull over and let Ernie take over. I went back to the third row seat and tried to shut my eyes. Clyde’s little girl kept crying off and on, but he did a pretty good job of keeping her calm and quiet. I watched him and he never took his eyes off her for a second.
We were far from scot-free, but we escaped with our lives, which is more than I thought I’d get out of this. We looked like we’d just come off the front lines—all shot up, bleeding, exhausted. There would be questions at the ER. Ernie started running down our stories. Hunting accidents, all of them. As long as we all stood by our stories and didn’t press charges on anyone, what could the cops do? It’s not illegal to get shot, only to do the shooting.
As ragged as we all were, that tiny pink bundle was like a shining star in our midst. As badly as we had all fucked up in this past week, maybe in our whole lives that led us here, that little kid was hope in a blanket. Unsullied, untarnished. Sh
e’d never have any idea she spent her first day of life so close to death.
I looked at that bundle in Clyde’s arms and I knew we’d be okay.
73
CLYDE
Agent Stu Trumble glared at me as I walked into the maternity ward with my baby girl. I was vaguely aware of police officers reaching for her, wanting the nursing staff to check her out. Ernie was there to keep them at bay.
Trumble knew nothing about the drugs, nothing about what I had been doing the last few days. As far as he was concerned, this was a kidnapping, plain and simple. Someone had targeted my shop, when I wasn’t there. They went after my family. It was a strange situation, but they must have seen stranger. For now, I had just solved his case, had just brought back my own daughter, had rescued the victim. Sure there would be questions, but I would field them when they came in. I didn’t know how yet, but I’d do it.
Madeline was up and dressed in sweats and a baggy shirt. She looked beautiful. She burst into tears when she saw me. I placed our daughter in her arms. She stared at our baby for a few minutes and then she looked up and noticed Brent and the Griffin family.
She nodded once at Brent, then looked the Griffins over from head to toe. “Who the hell are all these people?”
Trumble was there too and didn’t give me a chance to answer. “I guess you’ll need to answer some questions,” he said, his hand on my arm. Keep calm and act dumb, I thought. Keep calm and act dumb.
Madeline met my eyes. She was still trying to make sense of the crowd of people I’d brought with me: Brent with his bloody foot, Sean with his bullet wound to the gut, me in scrubs with two black eyes, a fat lady, and an old couple. She was angry and bewildered and I couldn’t tell if she was willing to listen to anything I had to say.
“You can’t all be in here.” It was the angry nurse. Her opinion of me hadn’t changed much in the last day.
