“I’m okay. Just worn out. Did you get the car reported stolen okay?”
It wasn’t about insurance. It was about having deniability of being at the scene. He hadn’t planned to get her car stuck making the distraction, but as they said in the army, “No plan survives contact with the enemy.” At least the part where she snuck in the back when there was a distraction had worked out fine.
She’d nodded and hadn’t stayed long, and was back for just a moment a few minutes later to drop off the box fan. The weekend brunch crowd was busy time, and there were new shifts of employees she’d wanted to bring up to date on current events. So he’d lounged and tended to his gear.
His gun had definitely needed attention. There’d been a lot of shooting and exposure to the elements. He’d also removed all the remaining cartridges from the magazines and given them a careful wipe and inspection. At the first opportunity he would replace them all, but for now they would serve. And while he doubted meaningful forensics would survive the fire, as soon as he had a shipping address to order new parts he thought it would be worth a couple hundred bucks to replace the barrel, firing pin and extractor.
Dixie had come back to him midafternoon and said she was exhausted as she flopped down on the bed. She probably really was with getting through the morning shift after the night they’d had, and she had wanted to talk to the evening workers as well. He had been definitely feeling low key himself. So they had sat against the headboard and turned on the television. When he’d looked over, she was asleep on his shoulder.
He’d decided to try and nap as well, but couldn’t. It had nothing to do with having slept so late. His body had been plenty tired, but his conscious was unsettled. He’d killed more men home in America in one week than he’d killed in four years on the battlefield. He’d decided he was okay with that. It wasn’t about how many. They’d all been violent thugs, keeping women against their will.
Deputy Garner was the one that bothered him. Dixie had lay sleeping beside him, having no idea he killed her boyfriend. Sure, she’d declared her loathing for Buck. But he reckoned if he confessed to her, she’d not react favorably. So he’d not talked about it.
A cop. That bothered him. Supposedly a good guy. Who’d shot at his dog. Chandler hadn’t condemned Buck for that, even after Azrael had done the sheriff a service. It was the why Kelton had done what he’d done. But it had also branded him a criminal. A nasty label with grave consequences. He’d be pursued with vigor and he would run for all he was worth. But he couldn’t run from himself. It was like he had this subconscious desire for someone to tell him that what he’d done was okay. But there was no one to tell him, even if they would tell him such a thing, because his mother and Mr. Hesp were dead. So telling it to himself had been the only option, and self-doubt thrived under the weight of the issues.
He’d become tormented and restless that evening. Unable to rest further, he’d gone with her to the diner for a few hours. His outer clothes, not fast drying synthetic, had still been slightly damp. Braxton and the other ladies had come in as well. Dixie had pitched her idea of intervening with the young girls at the back of the truck lot, and the two alumni, looking for new direction and purpose in life, latched on. When the three disappeared into the kitchen for a tour, Kelton and Braxton had time to exchange their respects.
Sitting quiet and listening to the locals had also given him the vibe of the town. Everyone had been abuzz with the spate of broken windows and dumpster fires. In addition, the deputy had been formally declared missing and search parties were underway. Put simply, the one-man sheriff’s office had its hands full without worrying about an old barn that had burned down that no one had bothered to report.
As far as either of them knew, no authorities had been to investigate the scene yet. Braxton had done a drive by, and told him not much had stood. The black ashes were still smoking, and only some steel appliances had any semblance of form. He’d mentioned some bikers had been in the parking lot walking over the scene, but then had mounted up and driven away. But they both knew it was only a matter of time before Sheriff Fouche came poking around and that meant Kelton would do well to move along. Especially before Buck’s body was discovered.
The final moment of truth for Kelton came later, back again in the tiny worn motel room. Azrael had been restless after being cooped up for a couple of days. Dixie had come to him, tired but still very much determined to make the business work. If he had stayed, and it would have been far from wise to do so, this is what life would be and it wasn’t the life for him or his dog. Even if he could live with hiding his secret guilt. And she’d known it wasn’t the life for him. And he’d known she’d known it so he wound up not making a move on her, even though she would have most likely acquiesced. The time for that had just somehow seemed past.
Kelton had given her the bundle of cash. It would have been too heavy for him to carry anyway. She’d sacrificed her car and he’d known she was strapped for some of the upgrades that the old fueling station would need. And even though it was drug money, he’d felt she was both entitled to it for the price her family had paid, and besides was trying to do something good with it. She’d kissed him in thanks, and then had talked excitedly about her evolving vision. Baylee Ann and Bambi would start work and they were going to give Braxton’s live music a try on the weekends when he didn’t have construction jobs. He sincerely hoped they made it.
And so, with one last leisurely breakfast, he and Azrael had gotten underway as Dixie and Baylee Ann argued in the kitchen about serving fried fish for breakfast. The doughnut shop was open, but despite the smells of fresh glazes the large meal of steak and eggs in him kept him going on by once again. He was sad to see sheets of plywood covering Mr. Butler’s barbershop window, but encouraged by the red spray painted sign “Re-opening Soon.” The small dumpster by the loading dock of the hardware store was blackened with soot and the plastic lid was warped and melted.
He took a right on Lowland Road to go north by the town square. Across the street, City Hall was dark for the weekend. But he noted a small crowd in front of the church, including some media. Standing in the middle of the circle was Sheriff Fouche, his uniform immaculate, and his wife in a crimson dress with white lace and matching hat. Kelton paused to listen, as the sheriff’s voice carried across the street.
“Doris Johnson was a predator in our community. I am proud to have brought her to justice and save our citizens from the dangerous drugs she pushed upon our children,” he said with his back straight and shoulders back.
A reporter thrust a microphone forward, interrupting Chandler’s rehearsed remarks, “Isn’t it true you took vacation in the middle of our county’s wave of violence?”
“Vacation is an entitlement. Negroes aren’t slaves no more. If you are going to interrupt my report of public service with racist questions, my time will be better spent in God’s house. Please excuse me,” said the old sheriff as he turned to climb the steps with his wife on his arm looking indigent.
Other reporters called after him in a flurry of indiscernible questions, but Chandler and his wife didn’t break stride. Kelton shook his head and kept on walking up to Smallwood Street. But instead of turning right toward the rescue station and the clinic, he turned left toward the railroad tracks. He was ready for a new direction, somewhere he hadn’t been before. After crossing the rails, the road meandered to the north northwest. Maybe tonight he would turn on his phone for a look at the map.
Within fifteen minutes he was well out of St. Albans and traffic continued to be a rare event. He knelt to let Azrael off his lead, and then began stroking his head and ears. Azrael looked up at him with expectant eyes, wondering what was next.
“Azrael, I need to tell you something. Mr. Bacharach said when you were a puppy that you only have about a hundred vocabulary words so I shouldn’t confuse you with idle talk like this. But the thing is, I respect you too much not to share with you what I’m thinking because you keep standing by me. That yo
u’ve no idea what I’m saying really isn’t the important part. It’s just eating at me, and I need to get it off my chest.
What it is, is that I need to apologize again. My actions left you out on your own and me powerless inside a cage. I was taught once upon a time to respect authority in terms of black and white. To be loyal and obedient, and obey lawful orders. That’s what was good and right. I’m a hypocrite maybe because it’s what I demand of you.
But I don’t see things that way anymore. People seem to have their own agenda and its mostly for power or money. They take idealism and try to manipulate it for their own ends. They try and coerce people by arguing it’s for the common good, even though it’s really just their own agenda. They could care less about me and you. I’m done with that. Their gleaming white panache is soiled.
I’m tired of being duped. I don’t care if they are a sheriff, a deputy, or a store keeper. A general, or a president. If someone tries to lock either of us up again for any reason what so ever, I’ll shoot them dead. No hesitations or regrets. I’ve made my peace with that.
The authorities won’t put up with that, will send men prepared to do violence to try and make us conform. They will try and tell us where we can go or what we can do. Rather than living to be old, it probably means a lot shorter lifespan for me. But Azrael, if I only live as long as you, it’s plenty long enough for me.”
And with that he petted Azrael’s head once more, getting his wrist licked by a darting tongue in the process and rose to his feet. The muscles in his legs still ached so he’d take it easy today. There wasn’t any reason to press hard to get anywhere. He just wanted to be underway again. Free as a couple of outlaws.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charles Wendt is a former United States Air Force Civil Engineering officer, who lives with his wife on a farm in central Virginia. He enjoys horseback riding, dog training and shooting. When not busy providing process engineering consulting services, he is working on Kelton’s and Azrael’s next adventure. Please visit him on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/Charles-Wendt-1073232879427462/?ref=bookmarks
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 29
