The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels)

by R. O. Barton

  As he walked by, I said under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear, “At least I don’t have to worry about getting rid of your body and car now.”

  His knees almost buckled, but I couldn’t hear him breathing. He made it down the steps and to his car.

  I walked slowly back into the house. I never looked back as he backed out of the drive and drove off.

  Once inside, I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the sink. I couldn’t make it to the toilet.

  Four years ago Boone had fallen off my 1960 Ford flatbed truck while I was going about 50 mph. In my rearview mirror, I saw him literally tumble head over heals. It looked like he broke his neck, but when I went back for him, he seemed fine. I never took him to the vet because there didn’t seem to be any reason to.

  Two months ago, Boone went down and couldn’t get up, so I took him to the vet. By the time we got there, he was back up and seemed fine, but my vet wanted to take some x-rays. When the pictures came back, they showed a curved spur on one of his vertebrae and it looked like it was touching his spine.

  The vet said the spur was most probably due to the fall years before.

  He said the next time he went down, he wouldn’t get up again. We’d have to put him to sleep, forever. The vet said it would just be a matter of weeks, if that.

  Two days ago, it happened. Boone went down while playing in the back with Margie. We had been pampering him and loving him since.

  I had been struggling with taking him to the vet, or putting him down myself. That’s what had been bothering Margie. She thought we should have the vet do it, but I was having a hard time with that, I believe Boone would have known what was going on if we took him to the vet. He would have sensed it. I didn’t want that for him.

  After talking to Barry on the phone four days ago, a plan had intruded my brain. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, what I was thinking. But, when, two days later Boone went down, it seemed like an omen.

  My plan was sketchy, and I really didn’t have any dialog worked out as to what I was going to say to Barry.

  As it worked out, he thought my tears and anger were because I didn’t want to kill him.

  The scary truth was, I would have rather shot him. I didn’t love him. And Boone was my little boy.

  I felt bad about using Boone that way, and Barry . . . well, ‘how ya gonna act’.

  I never told Margie the circumstances around Boone’s death. I just told her I didn’t want to do it when she was at home. She thanked me for it.

  I never told her the truth

  The next morning we drove Boone out to Catahoula Lake and buried him behind Uncle Roy’s duck camp. A place he loved.

  After a small ceremony, we drove back to Alexandria and picked up Shannon, our little girl. I wanted my family around me.

  I picked up my money from Allen, at 3:00 in the afternoon. Barry Johnson and I never spoke again. I saw him once, but he avoided me.

  Chapter 41

  George Carr’s Mansion, Present Day

  From a far off place, I heard a voice.

  I was slowly coming back.

  “Excuse me?” I said, not quite back in the room yet.

  “Your were going to tell us how you got the cop to pay you,” George Carr said.

  I looked at Rachael and saw the interest in her face.

  I never told Margie.

  Looking first at LeCompte, then George, I said, “No I wasn’t.”

  I never told her . . . and now I couldn’t.

  All three were quietly assessing me. George was the one to break the silence.

  “Okay, then,” he said, as he reached over and picked up the manila envelope.

  He opened it and dumped the contents onto the table; A cell phone, a credit card and some cash, two business cards and one printed page.

  “This cell phone is already programmed with my private numbers, here and in Houston. I want you to stay at our home in River Oaks.”

  Our.

  “I have a cell phone.”

  “I would like you to use this one. It never goes out of range. It works off special satellites, I think you’ll like it.”

  “Okay.”

  He picked up the credit card.

  “I thought it would be easier for you to use this for your expenses,” he said, sliding it across the stone table towards me.

  I picked it up, saw it had my name on it, one word, Tucker. I turned it over and saw the place for my signature was empty.

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” I said.

  George just nodded and picked up the money.

  “Here’s two thousand cash in advance of your fee and for any expenses you can’t put on the card.”

  He slid the money across the table for me to pick up.

  I left it laying and said, “We haven’t discussed my fee.”

  “What’s your fee for body guarding?”

  “Four hundred a day plus expenses, or a hundred and fifty an hour. But I won’t be body guarding anyone. I’m not sure how to charge for something like this. I’m not a private investigator.”

  “I’ll pay you the same by the day, and will give you a bonus if you find proof she was murdered, and another bonus if and when you give me the name or names of the killers.”

  With no more thought about how much to charge for what I was about to do, I said, “Starting when?”

  “The moment you leave for Houston. I can fly you down on my private jet, just say when.”

  I don’t fly well. Not after an Air Jamaica plane lost an engine, turned upside down, and dropped almost 20,000 feet before the pilot could get the nose down so he could restart the jet.

  “I’ll be taking my truck.”

  “I’d planned on flying you down. You can use any one of three vehicles still at the Houston residence.”

  “I’ll be taking my truck.”

  Carr frowned at LeCompte, then at Rachael, who was smiling at him.

  “George,” I said, “control is an illusion.”

  “What?” he said, again looking back and forth from Rachael to LeCompte.

  “I get the feeling you’re trying to take the reins before the horse is saddled.”

  After a moment of silence, Rachael said, “It’s what he does.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Whatever,” George said, with a dismissive wave of one hand, as he picked up one of the business cards with the other.

  “This is one of the last known people to talk to my wife.”

  I took the card. It read, Ernie Miles, and under the name, Certified Advanced Rolfer, then a phone number and an e-mail address. There was an address written in a feminine hand along the border.

  “What’s a Rolfer?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Carr said, somewhat annoyed. “Some kind of body work, like massage or something.” Then remembering, said softly, “She was always going to get it done, said it helped her posture, which was perfect.”

  Must of helped.

  “Okay. What’s the other card?”

  He reached across the table and handed me the card. It read Harold Manske, Private Investigations, under that, a phone number and an e-mail address.

  I put both cards in the right pocket of my sport jacket.

  He reached over and picked up the typewritten page and handed it to me.

  It was a list of the times Manske checked in with Carr and what he had to say. Not much, until the last entry which referred to the maybe bad cops.

  Right. ‘Just had a feeling’.

  I knew LeCompte wasn’t telling me everything.

  I handed it back, and said, “I don’t think I’ll be needing this.”

  “I thought it might be useful, considering this bad cop angle. You might want to show it to one of your cop friends there.”

  “I won’t be pursuing that angle.”

  “What do you mean you won’t be pursuing that angle?” he said loudly. It was the first time I noticed his alcohol intake.

  �
��Yeah, whataya mean?” LeCompte echoed, obviously perturbed.

  Only Rachael remained quiet and watching.

  “I haven’t had much time to think this out, how to approach this investigation. But, it doesn’t take much to figure out that going to my buddies in the Houston Police Department, and telling them I think there’s a bad cop or two involved in a murder, is the wrong way to go about it.”

  These were smart people, and it only took a second for what I’d said to sink in.

  “Then how are you going to get information about it then, just out of curiosity?” Carr said, fully interested.

  “Just off the top of my head?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  It was obvious, to me.

  “I think I’ll go down there and investigate the disappearance of one of Houston’s retired finest, gone private.”

  George Carr said, “What about my wife’s death? I’m not paying you to find out what happened to Manske. I don’t give a shit what happened to him.”

  “Then send someone else,” I interrupted. I took the two business cards out of my pocket and dropped them on the table next to the phone, money, and credit card.

  That shut him up.

  I said, “I see you’ve thought this out and have an agenda. Maybe you should go down there and do it yourself, or find someone that’s going to follow your plan.”

  Carr looked like a fast-ripening tomato.

  I had to give him credit. Even when the color in his face looked like he was about ready to pick, he held his tongue. Probably between his teeth.

  Before he burst and lost his seeds, Rachael said, “Tell us why you want to find out about Manske.”

  Looking at Carr, I said, “One is that I’m sure to get more help from the police using that approach, and two, if his disappearance is linked to your wife’s death, I need to know that. So it doesn’t happen to me.”

  Carr’s color was returning to a normal.

  “He’s right,” LeCompte said.

  “Very much so,” Rachael whispered.

  I could see Carr wrestling with himself, beating himself up for not seeing such an obvious tack.

  “George, you and your people are too close to this to be objective.”

  “I should have thought all that out, at least one of us should have,” he said, staring at LeCompte.

  With their eyes following, I got up and walked over to the desk.

  I put my hand on the stack of papers that was my secret past, and said, “I think you’ve been preoccupied.” I said this with as little sarcasm as I could. I didn’t do very well.

  All three saw the truth of my words. That stack of papers was a multitude of investigative research.

  Carr responded with, “Okay you’re right. But, like I said before, I thought it best to know as much as I could about you, before hiring you.”

  “Yeah, or you might just be nosey.”

  That got a laugh out of the other two.

  Before Carr could retort, I said, “Then, there’s the distraction factor.”

  “Distraction?” Carr asked.

  I walked back over to the stone table. Standing next to him, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s not uncommon for a person that’s going through grief to be easily distracted from doing that very thing. Grief is a long, painful, arduous process. Sometimes the tools we use to distract ourselves become obsessions . . . or addictions. I was the master of distraction.”

  As my words hit home, his shoulders slumped and he lowered his head, as if to cry.

  I knew what he was going through. He couldn’t articulate it yet. His body was feeling the momentary release of the distraction, and that left only one thing, grief.

  Looking out the window, a poem by Aeschylus came to mind.

  I said, “In our sleep, pain which cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.”

  I walked back around and sat down on the couch next to Rachael.

  Carr was visibly shaken, his face was ravaged, his eyes full of pain and unbearably tired.

  Rachael’s and LeCompte’s compassion and individual pain were palatable.

  I didn’t know if Carr had heard me, then he said, “What’s it mean?”

  “It means you need to sleep.” I said.

  I leaned toward the coffee table and picked up the cell phone and put it in my left coat pocket so it wouldn’t bang on my .45, and put the cards and money in the right pocket.

  I stood and looked at my watch. It was 8:36. It was time to think about Eddie Tuma, and how I was going to deal with him.

  “I’ve got a couple of things to do before I leave for Houston. I should be able to leave in a couple of days. I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.” LeCompte said, “When you do, I’ll give you the address of the River Oaks mansion and anything else you need.

  Rachael stood and said, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Carr made an attempt to look at me, but I don’t think he saw me. I remember wearing that face and what it felt like. A wooden mask you couldn’t see through.

  LeCompte stood, shook my hand and just nodded. His attention was focused on George.

  As Rachael and I were leaving the room, I heard Frank LeCompte say, “Come on, George, let’s go upstairs.”

  At the front door, which I was allowed to open, Rachael said, “I know what yesterday was for you. I don’t know if you know it, but I transcribed the investigation George did on you. There was a detailed police report that Brad Spain made available to me. I was surprised to see it was actually done by him, twenty years ago.”

  I stepped out into the night’s cool breeze and was surprised I wasn’t angry with Brad Spain. Through the flood lights that surrounded the entrance, I could see the riffling winter browned leaves of a red oak, but couldn’t hear their rustle.

  She was behind me and without turning, I said, “He was there.”

  She moved around in front of me. I was trying to see if there were any stars out, but the trees were too thick and the light too bright.

  “It must have been a horrible, horrible experience for you,” she said, looking up at my face.

  I was still looking up at something that wasn’t there.

  I looked down into her eyes and said, “It was an experience.”

  She blushed and looked down at the flagstoned space between us.

  She said, “I’m sorry. I apologize. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Still looking down, she moved even closer and said, “You must have loved her very much. It’s been twenty years, I can feel your love for her, as if she were still alive.”

  I was looking at the top of her head, feeling the full weight of her words.

  “Damn it,” she said, “I’m not usually like this. It’s just that I feel like I know you so well. But, I realize you don’t know me at all. How could you?”

  “I’ll always love her. But, it’s more than that,” I said.

  That brought her face back up. Her eyes asking me to continue.

  “She saved my life. Twice.”

  “Really,” she said. “How?”

  I looked over the top of her head and saw nothing, as I said, “I was a very angry boy when we met. Broken home, alcoholic parents, verbal and physical abuse from both sets of parents. The usual scenario that can turn out a bad boy. I was headed for jail. I would have eventually killed someone, probably by accidentally beating them to death. We met when we were twelve. My family moved across the street from hers. She actually went into her house and told her mother she had just met the boy she was going to marry. We started dating when we were thirteen and, well, I’m sure you know all that. Anyway, over the years, she literally tried to love the hate and anger from me. She was always trying to turn the bad boy into a good man.”

  “That’s very romantic,” she said.

  I said, “Yes, I suppose it is. She always th
ought so. She was still working on it when she was killed.”

  “She reprogrammed you.”

  “Yeah. She had some great software,” I said, quietly.

  Rachael looked shocked.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling I had said something inappropriate.

  “You just smiled. You’re beautiful.”

  Margie used to say that.

  “I’m not beautiful. Men can’t be beautiful,” I said before I had a chance to think. It’s what I always said to Margie.

  Rachael was quiet for a moment, her eyes still on me, then said, “And the second time she saved your life?”

  I looked down into her scarred face and said, “That was the night she died.”

  Her eyes seemed to enlarge to twice their size, making them all the more beautiful.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, timidly.

  “There’s no reason you should.”

  I was starting to feel that protective numbness that sometimes permeates my body when I recall that night.

  Still looking up at me, she said, “I’m sorry, Tucker, it’s none of my business. I don’t know what’s come over me. I just . . .”

  “We grew up driving in the days when there were no seat belts in cars. I used to think about what I would do if we were ever in a wreck while I was driving. I don’t know why I did things like that. Worked out scenario’s ahead of time, just in case. I still do that. I started driving when I was 15. So, I had years of driving and knowing what I would do if we were in a head on collision, if I had the time. My plan was to throw my body in front of hers, so she wouldn’t hit the windshield. We weren’t wearing our seat belts. Growing up without them, it just didn’t seem important. An under-aged drunk driver hit us and knocked the car off the road. I saw all these trees in front of us. After being hit I couldn’t control the car. I didn’t even think about it, it was a reflex. I threw myself in front of her, my back to the windshield, my head just under her chin. My side of the car was crushed down through the steering wheel by a telephone pole. The anchor wire that was attached to the pole cut off the top of the car on the passenger side. It actually skipped across the top of my head, hitting her at the base of her nose. There was a space about the size of a laundry basket in the front of the car that a human could survive in. I was in it. Part of the molding from the diver’s side was stuck in my mouth, through my cheek. I could feel it between my teeth, it didn’t even break one. I thought she was still alive, at first. The doors were welded shut by the force of the wreck. I was stuck there, under her, until the adrenalin kicked in and I tore the door off. So, you see, if she wouldn’t have been in the car, I would have been killed.”