The Last Everything

by Frank Kennedy

  “Shit. No. No. Shit, no.”

  Ben drew close and saw at least three bullet holes in the chest.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. Should have been here. You warned me.”

  In that instant, Ignatius gasped, his eyes wandering. Ben jumped.

  “Betrayed,” the deputy said between bloody coughs. “Walt right. Thought they try this.”

  “J. Where is he? Did they kill him?”

  “Ran. Has gun. Heard when they came back. Still looking for him. Thought I was dead. Tossed me here. Buy time. Chancellors don’t die easy.”

  “Who?”

  “Rand. Agatha. More? Find him, Ben. Give him a chance.”

  “What?”

  “Third option.” Ignatius took rapid breaths. “Give him third way out. Deserves. We hurt him. All of us.”

  “I want to, but it won’t work. And it won’t stop the inevitable.”

  Ignatius used what strength he still had to grab Ben by the arm. “Remember your father. How he looked at you like a stranger when he threw you out. Ben, there’s nothing to lose …”

  Ignatius held his stare as he died.

  Ben fought off another wave of nausea and focused. He had little time, few resources, and only one man to trust. He summoned all the cold-hearted, rigid principles he learned from the parents he came to despise. The same parents who, fifteen years earlier, robbed him of the life of his dreams on the world of his birth.

  5

  J AMIE EMERGED ON the other side of the woods into a soybean field. The world dropped into utter silence, and he found his bearings. He saw the First Baptist Church to his south next to Pine Grove Cemetery. He recognized Morry’s Lane, tracked it north, and saw a night light over the distant outline of McNally’s Gas n’ Grab at the corner of Morry’s and Coverdale Street. He formed a plan.

  If he got to the phone booth outside McNally’s, he’d call 911; they’d send help. Only when he thought about the police did he feel the loss of Ignatius Horne. Iggy had been a true friend after Jamie’s parents died. It was Iggy who made the quick capture of his parents’ killer and offered daily support to both the Sheridan brothers during the trial, which Jamie insisted on attending despite everyone’s advice to the contrary. Iggy motivated Jamie to return to running after a long absence.

  The field was muddy, and his feet sank, but Jamie pushed on like an athlete, relying upon instinct and training. He flew as if running cross country, handling the challenges of changing topography at a steadied pace. The gun felt light in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

  Jamie regained his senses as he reached the intersection and crouched in the ditch. To the east, Coverdale Street disappeared into the countryside, winding past fields and farmhouses on the way to the interstate. Jamie knew his pursuers would likely be coming from the west, where he saw the first of Albion’s street lights, illuminating entry into the town. Just beyond, he saw a jumbled mess of cars and pickups at Autry’s Body Shop, followed by a short bridge over Alamander River, and a towering wood frame at Albion Mills Flour Co.

  Jamie took a deep breath and sprinted across Coverdale, avoided running beneath the nightlight at McNally’s, and reached the phone booth. He punched the first key then slammed against the inside of the booth when he heard a familiar voice.

  “The problem, my sweet child, is that I should have kicked in ten years ago. Your subconscious was still malleable. That was the whole purpose of my program, you see.”

  The woman in the smart business ensemble stood against the open door. Jamie froze.

  “What? How did …”

  She sighed. “My challenge is to make your remaining hours one of reconciliation with your destiny. This will be difficult. After all, when you die, so will I. Fortunately, I am not burdened by petty emotion.” She reached out her hand, but Jamie backed away. “The program refers to me as Mentor. But that seems shallow. So I have decided to borrow the name of the sweet lady who lived next door to your parents. Call me Lydia.”

  He closed his eyes, figuring this delusion would go away if he wished hard enough. When he opened his eyes, she was still there, twirling a finger around her pearl necklace.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what loony-tune factory they let you out of. But if you can’t help, get the hell out of my face, lady.”

  Jamie dialed 911. He didn’t know how to respond to the dispatcher when she asked the nature of the emergency.

  “Please let me wake up,” he whispered. “Please let me wake up.”

  “Excuse me? Young man, what is …?”

  “I … uh … I’m in trouble. You see, I wasn’t doing anything, right? This guy … Rand … he shot me. He and my …” He knew how crazy the rest would sound. “I don’t know why. Please help.”

  “You’re going to be all right. Calm down and tell me your location.”

  He never did. As the dispatcher tried to coax anything out of him, Jamie saw the first sign of salvation. He looked through his tears, west along Coverdale, past the body shop and the bridge. Jamie saw a blue truck that looked exactly like …

  “Ben?”

  Jamie dropped the phone and ran through the intersection at a dead sprint and crossed the bridge. He didn’t care what he was doing to his wounds of if his pursuers were close, because he would get to safety before they reached him. Maybe this once, Ben would save him.

  He sprinted across the meager asphalt parking lot, leaped onto Albion Mills’ front loading dock, and opened his mouth to call for help. Then, as he prepared to round the corner, he heard the low hum of another car engine. He grabbed hold of the corner of the building and yanked himself back at the same instant he felt a sting in his heart.

  His pursuers’ car, its headlights still off, wheeled past the blue Chevy that did not belong to Ben. Jamie recognized the profile of Rand at the wheel. Jamie fell on his stomach and prayed not to be seen. He was exposed on the dock and didn’t dare move. He saw tall figures inside but not how many. The engine idled for almost a minute before it died.

  Jamie spied around the corner and looked for anyone who might be lurking. Pavement ended at the back corner of the mill and became gravel. The property slipped away in a steady decline toward the tiny river. A pale blue nightlight cast long shadows beyond a pair of delivery trucks parked at the base of the property under a spreading oak. Three men emerged from around the back of the mill, their faces obscured but profiles clear as they walked beneath the light. Each man carried a gun at his side. One of them pulled on a cigarette, surrounding himself in a smoky haze.

  He heard laughter and muffled voices. Seconds later, Rand Paulus emerged from the car and reached out to the smoker. He received a fresh cigarette, which he lit. Jamie could not reconcile this man with the one who had been so generous to the Sheridans in the months after their parents were killed. He brought sacks of groceries to their pitiful apartment each week free of charge and told a thousand of the world’s corniest jokes.

  The passenger door of the dark vehicle slammed shut, and a new shadow emerged into the blue light. This one, however, walked toward the mill, her face visible. She was an imperious woman with short, graying hair, narrow cheekbones and a protruding jaw that gave her cadaverous features. Jamie sometimes joked she could play frontcourt for the Los Angeles Lakers - but then, most of those gathered around this woman ranked among the tallest and most imposing in the county. Before Jamie knew true fear, he dreaded taking this woman’s English III exam.

  He watched her fire two bullets point-blank into Ignatius.

  “This ain’t happening,” he whispered. “No way. I am screwed.”

  Jamie did not hear the words of his intended killers, and he dared not risk moving closer. All the terror masked by adrenaline broke through. The reality that he was alone in the night, barely clothed, hearing imaginary monsters, listening to a crazy woman, and bleeding while people he knew hunted him in the shadows, overtook Jamie. The horror oozed through his blood and overwhelmed every thought.

  He fe
lt three years old, trapped deep underground in a coffin, buried alive. His teeth chattered.

  Jamie took stock of his location and thought of the only person he might still count on. However, she was three blocks away, and Jamie wasn’t sure he would survive long enough to reach her. He walked with as gentle a touch as possible until at last he cleared Albion Mills.

  He ran north of Coverdale Street. He cut through backyards, swerved to avoid dogs on chains, and limped zigzag in a crouch when next to a street. They’re gonna take me down like an animal.

  He was surprised when he reached his destination at 614 Truman Street and ecstatic to see a light from the first-floor bedroom window. He made sure he saw no movement among the shadows. Then he took a chance, believing this moment was meant to be.

  Jamie tapped on her window, and the curtain swung back.

  In that moment, she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and Jamie prayed she could save him.

  6

  2:40 a.m.

  A GATHA BIDWELL SLAMMED shut the passenger door of Rand Paulus’ fifteen-year-old Toyota sedan, produced a tissue from her purse, and dabbed at her lipstick. She approached her four compatriots with a purposeful gait, her unblinking eyes staring through each of them like long knives. She lifted the tissue for all to see.

  “The conclusion that must be reached,” she began, “is that my lips have made a considerably greater impression upon this tissue than upon your collective psyches. Yes?” She offered a crooked smile. “You are intelligent men of considerable foresight and moral complexity; yet I felt the need to resort to a visual analogy to make my point.

  “We had a simple plan, gentlemen, with carefully constructed objectives. However, here we stand, in the parking lot of a flour factory, without which the locals would be unable to prepare country ham biscuits. My pride swells, gentlemen.”

  The youngest of the four men snickered.

  “Good one,” he said, taking a puff from his cigarette.

  Agatha snatched the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it. She raised a sharp index finger and tightened her jowls.

  “Christian, I have repeatedly warned you about those despicable instruments of death,” she said. “No more.”

  “Come on, Mom. I only got a few more hours. There won’t be any cigs where we’re going. Bad enough I won’t be able to walk at graduation.”

  “And I will not see the wreckage wrought by my finals. We will survive. Do I now have your absolute attention?”

  Christian Bidwell, wearing a black t-shirt bearing Albion County School’s blue rams head logo, tucked his gun into his pants. He crossed his broad, muscular arms, and the all-sport star who doubled as Student Council President nodded to the others to listen to his mother.

  She revealed a cell phone that was not her own.

  “Young James left this behind at his flat,” she said. “We have only this limited evidence because of a heavy-handed approach clearly fueled by a desire to favor savagery over rational diplomacy.”

  “In other words,” Christian told Rand, “you blew it.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” Agatha hissed.

  “Just saving time, Mom.”

  Rand took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose.

  “I can speak for myself, thank you. Ignatius drew. I know we agreed to avoid extreme measures, but the way I saw it ...”

  “You did not follow my explicitly detailed guidelines,” Agatha interrupted. “Consequently, we found ourselves hiding the remains of a Chancellor with whom we might have reached detente.”

  “I beg to differ. The kid was right there. We had him. Might be dead as we speak. And your son is right. You could stand to trim a bit of fat from your imperial English.”

  Christian reached for his pack of cigarettes. “What I’ve been saying for years, Mom. Cut to the chase. Less is more.” He grabbed a cigarette and stuck it between his lips then turned to the others. “She’s been called the Queen Bee around this town for so long, I think she likes it.”

  Agatha stepped back. She watched as her son lit another cigarette despite her express orders. Instead, Agatha massaged her left temple, the very place where every teenager-induced headache began.

  “Enough,” she announced. “Killing young James was never going to be that simplistic. However, I have studied the boy’s phone. He was communicating with Michael Cooper, his friend, for the past several hours. The final text came shortly after 1 a.m. I believe a visit to Mr. Cooper’s home would be strategically prudent. Christian, I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Cooper?”

  Christian laughed after a puff. “Sure. Coop’s an ass, but an easy mark. Face to face, he’s a tool.”

  “Let us hope you are correct,” Agatha told her son. “He needs to turn over James, and you will convince him.”

  “What about me?” Rand said.

  “An opportunity to redeem yourself,” Agatha smiled. “Benjamin has been repeatedly texting and calling James. He is on his way back to Albion from his usual late-night indulgences. I suspect by now his conscience and his inebriation have left him in a dire strait. Intercept him at his apartment, Rand. Interrogate him.”

  “If he fights back …”

  “Understand, I do not wish injury to come to any of our people. For all our considerable disagreements, we are Chancellors. We came here in united cause fifteen years ago. I want all of us to return home and be welcomed into the fold of those who value our choices. Three of us have already fallen.” She paused for a moment of silence. “Diplomacy first, Rand. Remind him of the morality of our case. Yes?”

  She told Rand to return on foot, and he obeyed. Agatha turned to the twin 6-foot-10 Cobb brothers, Jonathan and Dexter, who ran a small auto-body shop on the outskirts of town.

  “Begin reconnaissance across the southern perimeter. Follow our coordinated grid approach and report to me every ten minutes. Unless James has fallen into Walter’s hands, we must assume the boy is desperate and wounded. Monitor all police transmissions. We took care of the matter of those gunshots. I contacted Sheriff Everson, told him the Marlette boys had gone firecracker mad and that he might visit them in the morning. He seemed satisfied. That spineless man does not work after sunset. However, I suspect there will soon be concerns about a certain deputy’s radio silence.”

  “What about Walter?” Jonathan said. “Shouldn’t we deal with him?”

  “I am. I rerouted Arthur Tynes and Arlene Winters from escape preparations in order to observe Walter’s residence. They should arrive shortly. If James finds his way there, we will have sufficient response. But we know the dangers of a frontal assault against Walter and that family.”

  “If Walter hadn’t been so damn stubborn,” Dexter said, “all this would be over by now.”

  “True. But he has been our guiding light for most of this exile. He kept our morale in place during those first critical months. I prefer he have a final chance to come around to our vision.” She turned to her son. “You, Christian, have a classmate to torture. Put out that odious cigarette and drive.”

  Christian took a long, final puff. “Go Rams!”

  7

  2:45 a.m.

  J AMIE CLIMBED THROUGH the window and tumbled forward onto pure white shag carpet. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the sensation of a deep, soft floor and an air-conditioned room with a friend he trusted kept Jamie on solid ground. He pushed himself to a mirrored door that hid a walk-in closet and got a look at the monster he’d become: Muddy, sweaty, blood-stained, with tangled hair sufficient to pass for a wolf boy.

  Samantha Huggins rested on her knees beside him, her eyes scattered between Jamie and the mess he embedded in the carpet.

  “Oh, Jamie. The blood. And a gun? What have you done?”

  His heart slowed. He never saw her dressed like this, wearing only an oversized, dark blue t-shirt. She wasn’t the little girl who used to beg that he play dolls with her. She filled out well beyond even the freshman who he once thought would be the so
lution to his virginity. She became tall and lanky, like him. More important, she was his savior.

  “They killed him,” he whispered. “They killed him, Sammie.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Iggy Horne. They shot him.”

  “The deputy? He’s …?”

  “Dead. I was there, Sammie. It was … you won’t believe me. Hell, I don’t. It was Rand Paulus. Ms. Bidwell. They did it. Wanted to kill me too, but I ran. I shot at them, but I was scared. I am royally screwed.”

  Jamie rambled, recounting every detail from the moment Ignatius interrupted his burglary, to his adventures in the river, at the Gas n’ Grab, with the smartly-dressed woman who followed him around being no help whatsoever, to the flour mill. He didn’t look Sammie in the eyes. Rather, he shifted his eyes around her room, taking in the shelves of antique dolls, the canopy bed overloaded with pink ruffles and stuffed animals. He smelled cinnamon potpourri. This bedroom hadn’t changed in the years since he was last allowed in: soft and comfortable, how a home should be.

  “Hold on,” she said. “You tried to rob Jack’s?”

  Jamie didn’t realize he was sobbing until he looked through the veil of tears into Sammie’s stunned, disbelieving eyes. He knew the look – she tilted her head ever so slightly, her right eye squinting. Sammie possessed a keen sense for Jamie’s tall tales, of which he’d sprouted many. She caressed him as if calming a small child.

  “Jamie, have you been sleepwalking again?”

  A single mocking laugh broke through his anger. “You kidding? Look at me, Sammie. It’s not like those other times.” He held up the gun. “How you think I got hold of this?”

  He took to sleepwalking through town since his parents died. Jamie confided to Sammie last summer at her father’s lake house.