Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

  My father nods. “This here’s the perfect size for you, and we can practice more this weekend.”

  Dad and his good friend, Doc Hogue, have been working with her for the past few months, using my old bow—the same one I’d started out with when I was her age—and Willow has really taken to it.

  Willow clutches the new compound bow as if it’s made of gold. “Thank you so much!”

  “Isn’t she amazing?” I murmur to Deacon. I commit her face—so animated and alight with happiness at this moment—to memory. This is one of those times I know I’ll remember for years to come.

  Straightening when I suddenly realize what I forgot in the car, I turn to my husband. “I forgot the cookie cake in the car. I’ll be right back.”

  “You want me to get it for you?” Deacon offers.

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a sec.” Before I can take a step, Willow hurls herself at my waist, hugging me tight.

  I smooth back her silky hair and smile down at her even though her face is practically buried in my middle. “Thank you so much for my bow and arrow, Mama.” Her voice is slightly muffled.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie pie. I’m glad you like it.”

  She finally raises her head and smiles up at me. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” I lean down to kiss her cheek. “More than the whole world and universe.”

  She grins wider. “I love you most.”

  I squint at her playfully. “One-upper.” She giggles and moves aside to hug and thank Deacon. I walk over and snag my car keys from behind the display case but I don’t get far before Dad stops me and pulls me aside, out of earshot of Deacon and Willow.

  He lowers his voice, his expression sobering. “I want you to be extra careful and aware of your surroundings.”

  I study his face, searching for clues, but come up empty. “What’s wrong?”

  He glances over at where Willow’s with Deacon a few feet away, helping her arrange her arrows in her new quiver. “I already talked to Deacon. I didn’t want to worry you, but…” He scrubs a hand over his balding head.

  Unease prickles at me, and I edge closer. “Worry me about what?”

  “Some men have been nagging me about letting them”—he falters, as if choosing his words carefully—“use our shop for some of their business. Said they’d offer an incentive if we agreed.” His features harden, voice turning steely. “It ain’t the kinda business we want around here. So, I told them no. Again.” He draws in a shaky breath, blue eyes churning with worry. “But this time ain’t like the last. They told me I’d regret saying no.”

  My chest feels like a trio of elephants decided to take up residence on it. A million questions pop into my mind. “But who—”

  Casting a concerned glance at Deacon and Willow before centering his gaze on me, he leads me back behind the counter. He reaches down and withdraws the iPad that’s strictly for monitoring the shop’s video surveillance system. Tapping the screen, he pulls up the footage from yesterday, then presses Play after muting the volume.

  He always prefers to open by himself first thing in the mornings, saying he enjoys the quiet time. But now, watching the two men stride into the shop while my father is alone unsettles me. Each of them wears dark sunglasses, not bothering to remove them once they’re inside.

  One man wears a cutoff shirt, the arm holes ragged, and a blue NC State ball cap concealing the color of his short hair. He has one of the neck gaiters men sometimes wear when hunting to keep their necks warm pulled up to cover the bottom half of his nose and mask much of his jawline.

  The other man wears a similar ball cap with NC State embroidered on it and a white undershirt that’s seen better days, the short sleeves frayed at the edges. I squint at the screen, noticing the tattoo of a star and some lines peeking out beneath his shirt near his neck.

  They hold themselves like they don’t have a care in the world, relaxed and cocky as they stand at the counter opposite my father. Yet the one with the neck gaiter positions himself at an angle, ducking slightly so only his profile can be seen. I find myself wondering if he’s trying to hide a trademark feature. It strikes me as odd that only one of them conceals his face.

  Within a moment, the one in the undershirt grows angry and gets in my father’s face, but before I can see more, Dad stops the footage.

  My eyes dart up to his, studying his tight, agitated features as he quickly slides the iPad back beneath the counter. Expelling a sigh, he levels his gaze on me. “Just…be aware of your surroundings. We can talk more later.” Somber expression etched on his face, he grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Please be careful, baby girl.”

  “I will,” I whisper back.

  Clouds of worry ease marginally from his features when he glances over at Willow, and his lips curve upward. “She reminds me so much of you.”

  My smile is tinged with pride and so much love for my sweet girl. “She’s the best.” Then I add, “I need to grab the cookie cake from the car. Be right back.”

  I turn, but something makes me swing back around and give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, Dad.”

  His eyes, with those fine lines fanning from the edges, soften. “Love you, too.”

  Before I make it more than two steps toward the doorway leading to the rear of the shop, the windows shatter. An instant later, a sudden cacophony of flashes and earsplitting noise assaults me before gunshots intermix with shouts from my father and Deacon.

  Pain sears my head, and when I dazedly reach for my temple, something hits me, and the impact hurls me back against the doorjamb. The linoleum floor is unforgiving as the side of my body slams into it so hard that my teeth rattle. Body riddled with agony, my left shoulder feels as though it’s made of lead. My arm is of no use, but nothing can stop me from crawling back to where my family now lies.

  “Willow!” I cry out, but my voice is drowned out by the gunshots. I’m barely able to focus amidst the confusing layer of smoke surrounding us and the obscene noise.

  The sound of gunshots echoes, causing my ears to ring painfully. A fraction of the smoke parts, offering me a glimpse of one gunman nearby Willow’s body. He turns his head when a second man approaches him, and through my shaken daze, I spot a tattoo near his neck.

  When my eyes dart to the other man wearing a neck gaiter, something about him strikes me as familiar. I wonder if I’m seeing things, but as soon as I squint in concentration at the area near his temple, the men turn and disappear from sight.

  As the smoke settles further, a wretched sob emerges from deep within me at the sight of my daughter’s body lying so utterly still, surrounded by a pool of blood. Her tiny fingers were clutching her new bow only moments ago.

  “Willow!” I scream again, willing my body to cooperate and move closer to her. As I drag myself inch by inch, my sole focus is getting to my daughter, but near-debilitating pain sieges, threatening to overtake me.

  The shop is decimated, appearing like a war zone with debris covering every inch. Deacon lies a few feet away from Willow, and when I call out his name and get no response, my panic increases. When my eyes lock on my father, just as my lips part to say his name, I freeze, all breath stuttering in my chest. Because in the center of his forehead is a hole.

  “No!” I cry out, my mind too numb to comprehend the scene before me. Tremors wrack my body violently, shock settling in so deep, that my teeth begin to chatter as I collapse flat on the floor on my stomach.

  “No, no, no.” I can’t look away from them, my body frozen in place. Even though a part of me knows it’s not possible, I will them to move. Will my daughter to sit up, to call out my name and tell me she’s okay. I need this all to be a nightmare I can wake up from.

  My vision grows hazy a moment before the pain overpowers me and darkness pulls me under.

  3

  Caitlin

  There’s something to be said for the human brain and its resilience. For its ability to heal and block out pain, whe
ther it be emotional or physical. To recall fine details of a memory you haven’t revisited in years.

  To identify clues so jarring that you question everything. Especially your own sanity.

  Waking up in the hospital, I inherently know that everything has changed. I know it deep down in my gut even before I open my eyes to find two men hovering near the doorway of my room, speaking in hushed tones.

  The pungent scent of antiseptic fills my senses, and I blink against the dim lighting in the room. My left shoulder is bandaged, and my entire body holds a stiffness to rival all those times Deacon tried to get me to go running with him in the mornings. The side of my head feels tight, as if the skin’s been stretched to the extreme. When I gingerly raise my right hand to investigate, careful not to disrupt the IV, I encounter a bandage on my head.

  The taller man in the suit steps inside. He looks to be in his late thirties but in good shape. Blond hair neatly trimmed in a cut that makes me wonder if he’s former military, his blue eyes appear sharp as though he doesn’t miss much.

  “Be careful, Mrs. Ashford. I’m sure you’re curious about your injuries.” He nudges his suit jacket aside to flash a police badge clipped at his waist.

  Addressing the slightly younger, dark-haired man with premature graying at the temples who appears similarly fit, he says, “Why don’t you get the doctor for us? He’ll want to know she’s awake.” The man nods before exiting and closing the door softly behind him.

  “I’m Detective Warren. I’ve been assigned to your case. The other gentleman”—he gestures with a tip of his head toward the closed door—“is my partner, Detective Clairborne. He was the first on the scene.”

  The detective studies me carefully, and I do the same. I’m painfully alone, now, but it’s my father’s voice that echoes in my head, serving to soothe me while simultaneously making my heart ache with loss.

  Always be aware of your surroundings.

  Anything can be used as a weapon.

  Never offer your trust easily.

  Detective Warren pulls up a chair beside my bed and takes a seat.

  “You were in pretty rough shape when they brought you in.” He leans his elbows on his knees, eyes boring into mine. “Ma’am, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss.” He pauses as though attempting to choose his words carefully. “We suspect that the Dixie Mafia was behind the incident, but I have to warn you.” He glances at the closed door before lowering his voice. “Anyone who’s tried to go up against them—eyewitnesses to some of their stunts—hasn’t exactly…come out of it unscathed.”

  Meaning, they’ve never come out alive. I’ve heard of the Dixie Mafia in news reports here and there. From what I recall, the farthest north they’ve been active in their “operations” has been Tennessee and Georgia. Vaguely, I remember hearing something about them being suspected of illegal activity down in South Carolina.

  “They’ve been allegedly bullying business owners into being a front for their…dealings.”

  “What kind of dealings?”

  “Money laundering. Drug smuggling. You name it, they’ve got their fingers in all the pies.”

  The door opens, drawing our attention.

  “Well, look who’s back with us.” A man in hospital scrubs enters the room, his lips curving up into a faint smile. He snags the clipboard at the foot of my bed and skims it before approaching me, opposite from where the detective sits. “I’m Dr. Humphrey.”

  I give a brief nod and instantly regret the action. Lord, how my head aches. Dr. Humphrey notices my wince and explains, “You’ve been through quite the ordeal.” Addressing the detective, he says, “If you’ll give me a moment with my patient, please.”

  Detective Warren nods before rising from his seat. “I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s all right with you, Mrs. Ashford.”

  Dr. Humphrey flashes a stern look at the other man. “She’s been through a lot. She’ll need to be cleared medically before being bombarded with questions and undergoing more distress.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I protest. “Tomorrow’s fine.” The detective nods at me and exits the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  The doctor checks my pupils and asks me basic questions, like my name, age, and what year it is. He clicks off the light and rests a hand on the bed rail.

  “You got lucky with that one bullet just grazing the side of your head. Another one pierced your shoulder, but it didn’t hit anything crucial.” His eyes fill with sympathy. “It’s quite a relief to see you awake and coherent.”

  “Doctor…” I will my voice not to crack when I ask, “What happened to my family?”

  He averts his gaze, drawing in a deep breath before releasing it slowly. “From what I understand, they didn’t suffer.” His eyes lift to mine, and a part of me is pleased that someone in his position isn’t completely numb to death. Clearing his throat, he says, “They were pronounced…when paramedics arrived.”

  I clamp my jaw so tight, pressing my lips thin to hold back the anguished cries threatening to break free, it takes me a long moment before I manage to force out the words. “How soon can I be released?”

  The doctor considers my question. “As long as your vitals remain stable, we should be able to get you out of here in a day or two.” He hesitates before asking, “Do you…have someone you can call to come get you?”

  My mouth parts before I snap it shut, realizing the two people I’d rely on in a moment like this are gone forever. I could call Deacon’s best friend, but he’s likely mourning the loss of him nearly as much as I am.

  My best friend, Sara Jane, is in Los Angeles attending a week-long art curator conference and marketing workshop. She planned to make a mini vacation out of it, and I know she’s been looking forward to it for a while. Sara Jane’s been eager to take her small shop to the “next level.”

  Once I get out of here and her conference is over, I’ll call Sara Jane. I vow this even as I worry my bottom lip nervously, knowing she’ll be angry as hell that I didn’t call her sooner. I’ve always hated relying on others and am especially terrible at asking for help, primarily when it requires the other person to go out of their way for me. But I can’t bear to ruin this opportunity for her.

  There is one other person I can call, though.

  Looking up at Dr. Humphrey, I answer, “Yes.”

  4

  Caitlin

  Early the next morning, the detectives visit my hospital room once again. Settling into the chairs nearby my bed, they get right down to business.

  Detective Warren speaks first. “Mrs. Ashford, did your father ever mention anything about the Dixie Mafia?” Seeing his features intense and determined provides me with a fraction of comfort.

  “Did anyone approach you or your husband?” Detective Clairborne poses the question quietly, dark eyes watchful, a pen and pad in hand.

  I slowly shake my head because I’ve never been approached, and Deacon certainly hadn’t mentioned anything to me.

  “No, sir. Nothing ever—” I stop, suddenly bombarded by the memory of the last conversation I had with my father that night.

  “Some men have been nagging me about letting them use our shop for some of their business.”

  “They told me I’d regret saying no.”

  Then the surveillance footage he showed me.

  “Wait.” My voice fills with urgency. “My dad did mention something but didn’t say any names.” I relay the conversation back to them, being sure to inform them of the surveillance footage, and the men exchange a quick look before both jotting down a few notes.

  “This footage, it’s possible to retrieve it to view again?”

  “Yes. It’s also saved on a cloud backup.”

  Detective Warren nods and writes something down. “Can you describe the men in the footage? As many details as you can provide will help.”

  Frowning, I shuffle through my memories, attempting to ignore the throbbing that lingers near my temple as well as the debilitating hea
rtache as scenes from that night flash in my mind. I stamp my lips together firmly against the anguish threatening to overtake me before I’m finally able to speak and describe what I saw on that iPad.

  The detectives’ attention is laser sharp as they hang on to every word. “Do you recall seeing anyone the night of the shooting? Anyone you could identify?”

  My breathing grows choppy, and I close my eyes to will my lungs to drag in oxygen. As if the entire scene is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, I speak without looking at the men.

  “I only saw two men.” My eyes flare open with a dawning revelation. “I believe those were the same men from the surveillance video. The ones who threatened my father.”

  “Was there anything else you noticed?”

  Wracking my memory from that night, I feel my heart rate increase as agony pulses through me. I try to concentrate on any glimpses I had of the men amidst the distracting flashes of light, the sound of the gunshots, and the flare from the muzzle of their guns.

  I look at Detective Warren, my mouth parting as I realize I recognize the guns the two men had. Lord knows, after being raised by a former Marine who’d taught me how to respect and handle guns from an early age, I’ve become quite familiar with them. Especially since we sell—sold—a variety of guns in the shop.

  “I believe they each had an H&K SP5K. They looked like they were just under six feet tall, but the one with the neck tattoo was slightly shorter than the other man.”

  Detective Clairborne jots down a note in his pad before exchanging a quick look with his partner. He turns his attention back to me, his tone tentative as he asks, “If we had a lineup of possible suspects, would you be willing to come down to the precinct and see if you can identify anyone?”

  “Yes.” My tone is resolute, firm, and far more confident than I truly feel. But if this is what it takes to put the people who took my family from me behind bars, then by God, I’ll do whatever it takes.