by Glenn Trust
It was…she squinted, trying to see clearly in the gloom. He held Lyn with one hand. The other held a shotgun. He had not been in time to save George, but Cy Purcell had ended Albert Stinson’s rampage.
Outside, Clay’s, truck slid in the dirt and came to a stop. He leaped from the cab and ran to the porch. The shotgun blasts, one following the other as he came up the drive, filled him with panic.
He looked in disbelief at his brother in the doorway. “What…”
Cy stepped aside. “She’s here. Take her. I’ll watch the other.”
Clay looked around the room, saw the shadowy form of Bain, and ran to Lyn.
In the corner, Bain held the shotgun, moving it back and forth, not sure what had happened or what to do. He hadn’t wanted to shoot the deputy…had been afraid to do it. But he had been more afraid of Albert…and the ghost of Clyde Stinson, waiting for Bain to do what he was told…and Bain had done what he was told.
“Drop the gun!” Mike Darlington had come across the clearing from the rear as soon as he heard George’s rush across the front porch. Running as fast as he could in the dark over uneven ground, it was not fast enough.
“Drop it!” Mike shouted again, his nine-millimeter pistol held out in front, steadied in both hands, ready for combat. He sighted at Bain over the barrel.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Drop the gun, now!”
Bain turned, the shotgun still in his hands. “I…”
The pistol in Mike’s hand bucked twice in quick succession, the cracks not as thunderous as the shotgun’s roar, but just as deadly. Bain Stinson, the youngest of Clyde’s little demons dropped to the floor, his finger reflexively pulling the trigger on the remaining loaded barrel of the shotgun as he fell.
The unaimed blast caught the five-gallon can dead center. Gasoline erupted in a fountain, spewing out onto the floor and over the walls. For a moment in time, all was still…silent…the odor of burnt gunpowder hanging in the air.
A second later, the fires of hell descended upon the old shack. The shotgun shell’s old fiber wadding had followed the pellets down the barrel. A sparking ember floated through the air, almost in hypotic slow motion. It landed delicately on the drenched floor and the gasoline burst into flame with a roaring whoosh that sucked the oxygen from the air.
Mike holstered and ran to the girl in the corner beside Bain. “Get them out!”
Cy and Clay, each took one of Lyn’s arms and dragged her from the burning house. Mike followed with Danny in his arms and sank to his knees, depositing her on the ground beside Lyn.
“George.” Mike beat at his pants where they were smoldering. “We have to get George.”
The brothers nodded. George Mackey had been part of their lives since that day in the mountains. He had saved their lives…twice now. They would not leave his body to the flames.
In the few seconds it took to return, the blaze had found his clothing. His pants sparked and disintegrated as they moved him. The odor of singed hair and skin filled the air. Taking him under the arms, they pulled him from the inferno.
In the corner, an animal shrieked and wept. It was Bain. He raised a hand, wailing. “Helllp meee!”
Mike ignored the howling pleas…for a moment. Then he looked at the brothers. “Get George.”
Cy nodded. “We will. You’re not going…” His eyes darted to Bain in the far corner. “…for him?”
Without speaking, Mike turned and crawled across the floor. As Cy and Clay made their way to the yard with George, he took hold of Bain Stinson’s ankle and began tugging him across the floor. He was near the door and safety when the smoke overcame him.
The old house where Clyde had created and reigned over his own personal hell blazed in a roaring conflagration worthy of the devil. The only survivors were a few rats, singed and smoldering, scurrying off to the woods before the timbers came down around them.
Lying in the midst of the inferno, the eyes of his oldest son stared unseeing into the fires until the vitreous liquid inside boiled and exploded from the sockets, turning them into empty black holes. Stinson blood drained, steaming from Albert’s wounds onto the old floorboards, boiling away as the hungry flames licked it up.
78. Epilogue
Regaining consciousness, Mike found himself on the ground fifty feet from the blazing house. The others gathered near, their backs turned to the blistering heat, sheltering Mike.
“Damned crazy son of a bitch.” Cy knelt over him, loosening his shirt.
“I agree.” Mike nodded and coughed. “Did he…”
“Yeah, he’s alive…burned some, but alive.” Cy nodded at Bain lying on his back moaning a few feet away. “We dragged you both out. The way you had your hand clamped around his ankle, wasn’t much choice, or I’d have left his sorry ass.”
Mike managed to sit up with Cy’s help. He inhaled the damp, night air deeply, letting it cool the burning in his lungs. Still dazed, he surveyed the scene. It had only been minutes, but the house was completely engulfed in flames. Lyn sat up holding the hand of the other girl, while Clay knelt beside her, his arm around her shoulders.
Mike’s eyes moved to the edge of the small gathering. He saw his friend and pulled himself over to where he lay. Rising up on his knees, he looked down into George’s face. For once, the big deputy seemed at peace.
He brushed at the tears that formed in his eyes. It was unreal. George Mackey lay there on the ground, his body torn apart by the shotgun blast. Mike found himself in denial.
It could not end like this…not George…solid, steady, indestructible George. It couldn’t be him stretched out in the dirt. But it was.
He reached for the portable radio on his belt and lifted it to his mouth. There were things to do. He keyed the transmit button, prioritizing what was needed in his mind as he spoke.
“Dispatch, this is Pickham County Unit 2.”
“Go ahead Pickham 2.” The dispatcher sounded sleepy, ready for her night shift to come to an end.
“Dispatch, start an ambulance and the fire department…” He looked at Bain Stinson lying in the grass moaning and the two women. “Correction, start two ambulances. One will be a for a jail transport. Standby to take down the location.”
“10-4 Pickham 2.” The dispatcher’s voice had taken on a serious tone, all thought of shift-end and fatigue gone. “Go ahead with the location.”
It took a minute for him to give directions to the old Stinson shack, out in the backcountry near the swamp. Professional and fully awake now, the dispatcher read the directions back. After a few seconds, she came back over the air.
“Pickham 2, ambulance and EMTs enroute to your location.”
“10-4…” He swallowed hard. “Dispatch. Also need you to start the coroner and the GBI.” Mike stopped speaking, trying to gather control of his voice and emotions. Do the job…that’s what George would have said.
The dispatcher spoke quietly, waiting. “10-4.”
“Be advised that we have a homicide at this location...an officer down. Advise Sheriff Davies.”
This time the dispatcher had to gather herself to control the emotion and maintain professionalism. It was the call every member of the law enforcement community dreaded. “10-4 Pickham 2. Advising the sheriff, GBI and coroner now.”
It was strange…just the tiniest thing. In the scorching radiance of the house fire, it glimmered, reflecting the light in a weird pinkish-orange glow. Mike leaned close and then…son of a bitch.
“Dispatch start an ambulance and EMTs.”
“Pickham 2, ambulance and EMTs are enroute.” The dispatcher’s voice sounded harried. Apparently, the chief deputy was having a hard time concentrating, was losing it, forgetting that he had already called for the ambulance.
“Start another goddamned ambulance!” Mike shouted. “I’ve got an officer down! Alive!” He dropped the radio.
A startled “10-4” was all the dispatcher could manage.
Leaning over, he saw it plainly now, g
rowing larger even, like a tiny balloon in the firelight. The little bubble coming from the hole in George Mackey’s chest left by one of the shotgun pellets was growing. A few more bubbles appeared.
“He’s alive!” Mike looked at the others sprawled on the ground nearby. They gathered around George. “See!” Mike pointed to the tiny frothy bubbles coming from the hole in George’s chest. “The son of a bitch isn’t dead yet.”
Mike clasped a hand over the wound. “Check him. See where else he might be bleeding.”
They found six more wounds from the 00 buckshot pellets Bain had fired. The fact that it was dark, Bain was nervous as hell and George had been standing at an angle had saved his life. Even so, he had appeared dead…he might be soon if they didn’t get him help.
There was no discernible pulse, and if Mike had not seen the tiny bubbles, they would not have known that he was breathing. But he was, and somewhere deep inside his heart continued to beat, weakly, but it was beating.
The first ambulance arrived. Everyone, except Bain Stinson, agreed that George had the first ride. The paramedics worked quickly, quietly, and were not inclined to speak about the severity of his wounds. No one had to be told that they were serious and that George Mackey clung to life by the thinnest of threads.
*******
White hot and burning, the light sent its cold fluorescent rays streaking like lightning bolts through his pupils to lodge in the retina behind. The glare seared the optical nerves, sending piercing, agonized signals to his brain. He clamped his eyes shut. It was his only defense.
A hand touched him, soft and cool. It seemed distant, a calm breeze blowing down from the mountains on a hot day. The hand shaded the light; he could see its shadow through the inside of his red-veined eyelids.
Another breeze touched his face, this one soft and warm, fresh and clean, blowing in off the ocean. It whispered to him.
“Hello, Mackey.”
His eyelids fluttered. He knew the voice…the whisper…Sharon. He forced his eyes open a little, careful not to let in too much of the cold, burning light. Leaning over him, she shaded him with her hand and her face. She kissed him softly and smiled.
“What…”
Sharon touched a finger to his lips. “Not now. We’ll talk later.”
He nodded and closed his eyes, drifting under the cool touch of her hand.
*****
“I wanna make a deal.”
Pickham County District Attorney, Harvey Edwards looked up from the case file and stared across his desk at Bain Stinson, seated between Sandy Davies and Mike Darlington “A deal implies that you have something to trade…a barter of some sort.”
Bain shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under the gaze of the district attorney. His mouth opened and then closed. The look of uncertainty in his eyes would have infuriated his brother, but his brother was no longer able to torment him. “I mean…I just…you know, a deal…like on TV.”
“This is not television, Mr. Stinson.” Edwards smiled and folded his hands under his chin in amusement. “I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of your situation. First of all, we don’t have any reason to make a deal with you. Three witnesses saw you shotgun George Mackey. The only reason you are not being tried for felony murder is that Mr. Mackey survived his injuries.”
The district attorney leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Even so, criminal attempt to commit felony murder, kidnapping, aggravated assault…and the list goes on…I’m pretty sure we will be keeping you in prison for the rest of your pathetic life.”
“But…” Bain looked at Sandy Davies who nodded. “I know things.”
Edwards had taken the meeting with Stinson because of a request from the sheriff. It had taken Bain a month to recover sufficiently from the bullets Mike Darlington had pumped into him to come to his office. In truth, the DA would have been happy if Stinson had not recovered. He assumed there was a good reason, but he was not inclined to roll over for the defendant, no matter what he knew.
“Go on.” Edwards nodded. “Please tell me what you know.”
“I know…a place…”
“A place?”
Bain nodded, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. He looked over his shoulder as if his dead father and brothers might be watching. “Where someone was killed…a long time ago.”
Harvey Edwards sat up in his chair and pulled out a pad of paper and pen. “Tell me.”
“But the deal.”
“It works like this.” Edwards spoke quietly, a fatherly smile on his face. “You tell us what you know. We check it out. If it’s true and we think it’s worth making a deal then maybe, I will consider reducing the charges somewhat, but don’t think you are not going to prison Mr. Stinson. You will be tried and if I have anything to do with it, you will be convicted by a jury of your peers.”
Edwards and the lawmen smiled at that. Finding twelve people who considered themselves the same as…peers with…Bain Stinson was laughable.
“But that’s not a deal...I don’t…”
“May I explain?” Mike looked at Edwards.
“Be my guest.” The district attorney put his pen down and sat back, folding his hands over his belly.
Mike turned to Bain. “It works like this. You talk. If we like what we hear, it might convince us to recommend to the judge that he send you off to some nice work camp…you know the kind with trustees, outdoors, farm work, fresh air and sunshine. You don’t talk, we make sure that you get sent to a maximum security lockup where you’re sure to end up some bubba’s girlfriend, worried about bending over in the shower to pick up the soap.” Mike smiled and sat back.
Edwards nodded. “Thank you for the clarification, Chief Deputy. Your explanation sums things up nicely.” He looked at Bain with a smile. “What’ll it be Mr. Stinson.”
The wrinkles in Bain’s forehead showed the effort of following Darlington’s clarification. After a few seconds, the meaning made its way through the fog. His eyes opened wide in dread.
“Y-you wouldn’t do th-that.”
“Yes, in fact we would…we will.” Edwards’ smile broadened. “What place are you referring to, Mr. Stinson…the place where someone was killed?”
For the next hour, Bain spoke and told them his nightmare. Old Clyde had seen to it that his youth had been full of nightmares, but this one surely was the worst…the one that haunted him.
They sat quietly, listening intently to his story. When Bain had finished speaking, Edwards nodded, looked up from his notepad and spoke.
“That’s an interesting story, Mr. Stinson. If it proves to be true, I think we can arrange for some…uh…change of correctional facility, as the chief deputy described.”
“It’s true,” Bain said, his head nodding up and down repeatedly like a little child telling Santa what a good boy he has been. “God Damn me to hell, if it ain’t true.”
It was true. Mike Darlington arranged the search party. They took Bain along in shackles. He showed them the place where Clyde Stinson had put a bullet through the head of young Will Tandy.
It took several weeks of searching, but eventually a diver found a belt buckle in the creek running near the tree. They theorized that an alligator had dragged Will’s body under water, wedged it under a log and then ate off it until there was nothing left. His clothing had deteriorated, but the buckle had remained, buried in the mud just a few feet offshore.
Tom’s father recognized the buckle. It had been awarded to his son for showing the prize hog at the county fair when he was in the 4H Club. It was all they had left of their son, but after two decades without any sign of his passing, the buckle embodied everything that Will Tandy had been.
Other than their memories, which were fading with age, and a few photographs, his entire life was represented by a belt buckle. They placed it in a box that his father carved. It would sit on the mantle of their home in Pickham County until they passed over to join him.
George Mackey was consulted and agreed that th
e charges could be reduced to attempted manslaughter, instead of felony murder. The defense wanted them dropped further to involuntary manslaughter. District Attorney Edwards remained firm and Bain Stinson was tried for kidnapping, aggravated assault and attempted voluntary manslaughter.
During the trial, the defense made the case that Bain was under the influence and direction of his older, controlling brother. They also made note of his delusions about the ghost of his father speaking to him. Clyde’s ghost raised a few smiles from the jurors, but no sympathy. Bain Stinson was found guilty on all counts.
He was sent to a work camp near Macon. Summers were hot, winters uncomfortably cool. The work on the prison farm was physical and far more taxing than the auto parts thefts and other criminal activities he and his brothers had participated in to gather up beer and whore money.
Most days when the staff came into their dormitory to roust the inmates out for the day’s work, Bain could be heard muttering profanities at Albert and Carl. He always thought a curse towards his father as well, but Clyde’s ghost hovered near and Bain never dared mention him by name.
*****
“Did you see this?” Granger Henderson pushed the newspaper’s front page across the breakfast table.
Darlene lowered her glasses on her nose and looked down. “I’ve seen it.” She pushed the glasses up and returned her eyes to her laptop, taking a sip of coffee as she reviewed the activity schedule sent out by the girls’ school.
“That’s it?”
“That’s what?”
“He almost died, Darlene.”
She turned from the laptop and placed her glasses on the table. “I know that, but he didn’t die.” She smiled. “I’m not sure what you are getting at, Granger. Nothing has changed. He is still George Mackey.”
“That seems cold.” Granger regarded his wife thoughtfully. “He rescued two women and saved a young man from being murdered.”
