The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels)

by R. O. Barton

  My place was not easily approached without detection. I had a pretty good security system, a Catahoula hog dog named Razor. If Razor didn’t know you, you didn’t get on the property. Even if he did know you, you might not get on the property.

  I also have two black labs. Buck, my 13-year old male who’s blind in one eye, the result of surviving blastomycosis. The other eye had cataracts so bad the vet said he saw only dim shadows, and he’s deaf as a post. I couldn’t determine if his deafness was the product of having too many shotguns go off next to him over the years, or if it’s selective hearing due to his age and general contrariness. Buck was retired from duck hunting and with his blindness, arthritis and deafness, his quality of life was kept high by eating, catching up on his sleep, and occasionally putting his big graying head in my lap for some petting.

  My other Labrador is a 14-month-old female named Tuesday. She was born on Tuesday Sept. 11th, and I named her Tuesday as a reminder that a little joy came into the world on that day.

  Labs don’t make good security dogs, unless you have one with a poison tongue, that kills on contact. I’m training Tuesday for field and trial and hunting. I’m afraid she may be a little spoiled, but she’s extremely bright and is a fast learner. She’s an exceptionally beautiful dog, and her sweet disposition is truly a joy to be around. I’ve had three Black Labs since I was 19, and she’s my first female. I’m afraid I am smitten.

  After I fed the inside dogs and stopped Miso’s meowing by putting fresh dry food in his bowl, I fed Razor on the flagstone patio, poured a Makers on the rocks and cleaned my Colt.

  There’s a certain satisfaction I received from cleaning a gun. I looked at the gun and realized it had never killed anyone, I had. The gun was just a tool.

  I liked a gun that was functional and deadly in its simplicity. Like a good tool should be. I don’t like all guns. I’m not one of those gun geeks you saw walking around gun shows in fatigues and jump boots. They gave me the willies.

  Many guns had no place in my life. Guns were ultimately designed for one thing: killing.

  Sure, you’ve got your target guns and your target shooters; nothing against them, it’s a great sport. I was once quoted in a magazine as saying, ‘Some guns are designed just for sport shooting. These sporting guns are so accurate, I can’t imagine one missing just because it’s aimed at a human’. I was told by the magazine’s editor, it didn’t go over all that well with the sport shooting community.

  For me, when I practiced, it was to hone my killing ability with that particular gun. Even if the gun was designed for killing game, all guns would kill a man.

  Some guns were designed to just kill humans. One of these and the most deadly in its simplicity is the Colt 1911 A-1 .45 caliber semi-automatic, designed by John Browning. It’s strength and simplicity in itself suggested death. The semi-automatics expanded in moving parts from that design on. It was my experience that the more moving parts there were, the more room for error there was, which usually translated into a malfunction. In a gunfight, that malfunction most often translated into the one holding said malfunctioning gun, as dead. Other than design, metal quality was the next most important aspect, and the Colt 1911 was made of the finest Argentine steel, mined prior to the embargo.

  When the time comes for me to need one, I’m most comfortable with this gun in my hand. I’m not actually holding it, it’s a part of me.

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday was standing at the door, her demeanor saying ‘haven’t you forgotten something.’ Buck stood beside her, his graying face swayed like Stevie Wonder at the piano. He knew if Tuesday was standing there, I’d come and let them both out. Buck didn’t cotton up to Tuesday at first, but now he seemed to love her. She’s his seeing eye dog. His nose was still in good shape, and if he couldn’t see her, especially at night, he could sure smell her.

  “Alright, guys,” I said.

  I wiped off what little oil I had left on my hands with a rag, and stood to walk over. This always got Tuesday spinning in circles with anticipation which made Buck back up, so he wouldn’t be knocked over. He does this with a blowing sound humans make when exasperated over something a child does.

  I opened the door, and Tuesday immediately attacked Razor, which he tolerated, then they took their gladiator practice off into the dark, with a stiff, limping Buck not far behind.

  By the time I cleaned up after myself, took a shower, and got ready for bed, Buck and Tuesday were inside and getting ready for bed themselves. This usually consists of jockeying for possession of one of the two dog beds on the floor at the foot of my king-sized bed. One is for dogs with arthritis, very thick and plush. Tuesday usually steals it before jumping on the bed with me, surrendering possession to Buck.

  By this time Razor is off patrolling the perimeter. I don’t often see him sleep. I know he does; he’s just sneaky about it.

  I sat on the edge of my bed. Tuesday was laying on Buck’s bed.

  “Come here little girl,” I said, patting the bed next to me. She looked up and shot me a ‘Do not disturb me’ look.

  I was relentless, “Come’re little girl. Come on, up.”

  She slowly unwound her lanky puppy frame and jumped onto the bed. I had to quickly slip under the covers to establish my territory. She always lies right next to my legs to the inside of the bed. If I don’t hurry, I ended up with only a fraction of the edge.

  I was quick enough to claim a comfortable tract before Tuesday finished making her bed next to me. She immediately started her groaning and grunting, sounding like a little pig. I called her Miss Piggy when she did this. If I moved during the night, she’d start her Miss Piggy talk.

  I lay on my back with one hand under my head, the other one on Tuesday’s head.

  This was not my favorite time of the day. It was my lonely time, bedtime. The time I missed Margie most of all. After twenty years, you’d think I’d be over it. It’s not always, not every night, that I miss the scent of her, the weight of her body next to mine, but when I do, there’s a hole inside me where my heart should be that can’t be filled. The depressing futility of that fact, was not lost in the energy it took not to cry and not to feel sorry for myself. As I looked up at the ceiling, I could acknowledge the romantic in me.

  Not long ago, I rented the movie “Serendipity.” A movie about love, destiny, and soul mates. Two people met and an unmistakable connection was made. They lost contact and the rest of the movie was about how years later they found each other and lived happily ever after.

  Happily Ever After. One would tend to believe that after these movies were over, the couple lived together for the rest of their lives and both died in their sleep, at the same time, at the ripe old age of a 120. It’s what I’d wanted to happen.

  My time at ‘Happily’ had come and gone. I was happy. I was complete. I didn’t want for love or a place to put my love. Then, in the space of a quick breath, it was taken away. The ‘ever after’ sucked. I’d like to believe it could happen again. But, after 20 years, the likelihood of that happening looked painfully slim.

  I had tried a few times. Tried being the operative word. The trying was what was not right. If it was right, it would just be. If it was right, the trying would be the little arguments about whose turn it was to take the trash out, or where the remote control for the TV was. This would only come after years of being together, meaning we got along so well, that these were the only things we could find to argue about. That’s how it was for us. I wanted that again.

  With the women I had been involved with, involved enough to qualify as trying to be a couple, I was looking to find that same love, that same connection, and I indecorously compared them to her. Of course, they could never measure up. If they had, that would mean all that I had suffered wasn’t vindicable. Talk about your catch-22.

  Accepting where I’d gone afoul with my post relationships didn’t lessen the ache of missing her, of being lonely, or the hopelessness of finding it again.

  I turn
ed off the bedside lamp, pulled a grunting Miss Piggy up close to my pillow, and wrapped my arm around her. She put her nose up under my chin, lovingly nuzzled my neck with her puppy softness, and licked my ear.

  “I love you, little girl,” I said, and closed my eyes.

  Chapter 19

  Nashville, Carr’s Mansion- December 11th, Present Day

  George Carr sat at his desk, alone in the private office of his home, the only room that was not designed by his wife, Jean. His heart ached for her. With all his money and power, he couldn’t bring her back from the dead. For 30 years they had loved one another, and now she was gone.

  She was killed in a car wreck in Houston, where they owned another home in River Oaks. Only, he didn’t believe the wreck was an accident. His gut told him she was murdered. Carr’s gut had never lied to him. He’d made a lot of enemies on his road to wealth and power, and couldn’t shake the feeling his wife’s death was aimed at him.

  She had been burned beyond recognition, and at the funeral the urn containing her ashes was somewhat ironic. She’d always said she wanted to be cremated after she passed, ever since they first knew each other, over 30 years ago. He just never imagined he’d be the one to take care of it.

  There was a light knocking on the door.

  “Come in, Frank,” he said.

  The door opened and a tall lean man, with salt and pepper hair cropped close to his head, stepped into the office.

  “Mr. Carr, Dennis is here. Would you like to see him now?” he asked, his clear blue eyes showing concern and care.

  George Carr stared at his long-time body guard, head of security, and friend, Frank LeCompte.

  “Mr. Carr. . . Dennis?”

  Frank had worked for George Carr for almost 12 years, ever since he’d left SEAL Team Six at the age of 38. He was considered the old man of the Team. Instead of staying in the Navy and training new SEALs, he took the job offered by Carr. Carr was only a few years older than Frank. He was now like the big brother Frank had lost to the Vietnam War.

  “Mr. Carr, should I have him come back later?” he asked, seeing the far away, grief-stricken look that could still take over his employer.

  “No, bring him in. And Frank, stick around.”

  “You bet,” Frank replied, as he turned to fetch Dennis James, one of the security team he headed up for Carr.

  James and two others had been sent on a mission earlier in the night. A mission Frank thought was an unnecessary risk, but he couldn’t talk George Carr out of it.

  George stared at the door until it opened, and Frank entered followed by Dennis James. Dennis closed the door behind him. They walked over to his desk and stood, almost at attention, reminding Carr of how when he allowed Frank to do the hiring, he had hired almost exclusively ex-military personnel.

  Frank LeCompte said, “Go ahead, Dennis, tell him what you told me. Just the way you told me.”

  Dennis James, considered small by those who didn’t know him, cleared his throat as his face took on a pained expression, and said, “Mr. Carr, Frank was right about this not being a good idea. We pretty much let him know we were following him, ya know, like to scare him a little.”

  “What happened, Dennis? Get on with it,” Carr said

  “Well Mr. Carr, this Tucker fellow doesn’t scare worth a damn. To tell you the truth, he scared the Bejusus out of us.”

  “How did he accomplish that, Dennis?” he asked, with a wryly curious tone.

  “Before we got the chance to pull up next to him and scare him with the shotgun, you know. . . like the plan? Well, sir, we had to stop behind him at a red light, and, sir, he was out of his truck and had us covered with that Colt of his before we had a chance to do anything. He’s very fast and, well, sir, it just seemed like the best idea for us to, ah . . . get out of there.”

  “Well, I’ll be God damned!” Carr yelled, smacking his hand down on his desk. “I like this Tucker, I really do,” he said with a small laugh. “You were right, Frank.”

  Dennis Jame’s worried look was replaced by perplexity.

  Carr looked at Dennis James and said, “He called. He’s coming tomorrow.”

  “Really? He didn’t look scared at all Mr. Carr,” James said, then looked at Frank. “Not at all.”

  Frank walked Dennis to the door and, as he opened it, said, “Thanks, Dennis, you and the boys did alright. It went better than I’d expected. Take the rest of the night off and go drink a couple of beers.” He patted James on the back on his way out.

  As he closed the door, Carr heard James mutter, “More’n a couple.”

  Frank walked back to the desk and sat in the chair across from Carr.

  Frank said, “That could have gone differently. Tucker is fast at killing. I would have hated to lose three good men tonight just to ensure something that was going to happen anyway.”

  “Do you really think he could’ve got all three?” Carr asked.

  “I saw him shoot tonight. I have no doubt.”

  “So, he’s that good?”

  Frank LeCompte was very still when he said, “I’ve never seen better, anywhere.”

  “Coming from you, that’s remarkable,” Carr said.

  Carr nodded at a stack of files and papers over a foot tall on his desk. “But I’m not surprised. After reading this investigative report on him, I would’ve been disappointed if he wasn’t that good.”

  Frank shook his head. “I told you he’s the same guy I heard about during my SEAL training. He was only 19 then.”

  Carr reached over and patted the stack of papers. “Tucker’s had an interesting life, to say the least. I believe I may know more about him than he does about himself.”

  “I don’t understand why you spent so much money having him investigated. Spain said he was the man for the job, and our preliminary investigation here showed Tucker’s reputation was sound.”

  Carr reached over to a humidor on the right side of his desk and took out a Cohiba, clipped it, and with a lighter smoldered the end as he rolled it between his fingers.

  “The last man we hired disappeared. He may have been bought off, and if he was, I just don’t want to make the same mistake. Captain Spain said that, if Tucker took the job, he’d stick to it until the end and that he couldn’t be bought. Hearing it is one thing, but I wanted to know more about the man, his background, his pattern of life.”

  Frank LeCompte didn’t miss the ‘we’ in Carr’s statement. LeCompte didn’t miss much, period. It was like his employer to include him, even though he had no money invested, just his time. Just one of the reasons he loved the man.

  Looking at the investigation stack, Frank grinned, “Well, you should be able to get a sense of the man now.”

  “Frank, you should really take the time to read all of this,” Carr said, again patting the pile warmly. “It’s amazing the man is still alive and was never arrested.”

  “Mr. Carr, when do I have time to read?” Frank smiled. “Besides, I feel like I know him. Don’t forget, I compiled most of that file, and I heard all about him during my SEAL training. Every time we would be learning something or shooting at something, Levanda would say ‘Tucker this . . . Tucker that.’ Hell, to hear Levanda talk, the guy was a legend, one bad-assed fucker. And he was only 19.

  ”

  Chapter 20

  Lyles, TN-December 12th, Present Day

  I was under a bridge, the water was rising, getting deeper by the second. It was now up to my knees.

  I crawled up towards the safety and dryness of the road that crossed the bridge. I could hear the roar of the fast rising water, like the growl of a dog. I could hear the whine of wheels on the road, like the whimpering—of a—of a dog.

  I opened my eyes. Tuesday was sitting next to my head, facing the window above me, whining. The little girl was afraid. I could hear Razor’s low growl. He was just outside my bedroom.

  Razor barked at deer, chased rabbits and raccoons, hid from skunks, and growled at people.

  I
rolled over onto my stomach, reached under my bed, and pulled the Mossberg 590 12-gauge assault shotgun from its slip-free fasteners attached to the frame. It held eight in the magazine and one in the chamber. It also had a side saddle attached to the nonworking side of the receiver, that held another six shells.

  Leaving my Colt under the unoccupied side pillow where it slept, I crawled across the carpet to the atrium door. As I started to open it, I felt Tuesday’s cold nose on my bare butt. I jerked and bumped my head lightly into the door’s glass.

  “Tuesday, sit,” I whispered. It was a moonless, cloudy night, and I could just make her out in the darkness. I could see a dark hole behind me, shaped just like a standing dog.

  I sat down and pulled her close to me as I scanned the patio. I wasn’t too concerned about anyone being on the patio. Razor wouldn’t let anyone get that close without doing more than growl, which he was still doing.

  I pulled up on Tuesday’s collar, put my mouth close to her ear and said, “Sit,” hopefully sounding forceful and loud.

  She sat down and cocked her head, questionably.

  “Good girl,” I said. We’re still training.

  I opened the door and crawled out onto the patio with the shotgun in the crook of my elbows. It was cold. I was totally nude and shrinking fast. Razor was backing around towards me. I crawled over to the corner where there were no windows that might silhouette me against the night, and stood just as Razor came all the way around the corner. He never looked up at me, but kept his attention up the hill towards the gate, some 800 feet away. He stopped growling once his body touched my leg. The hair was raised on his back, his body leaning forward on high alert. His lips were pulled back and I could see his teeth.