by Brom
Linda sat up, touched her busted lip, and looked at the blood on her fingers.
“Mommy?” Abigail stood in the hallway in her pajamas. She clutched her doll, her eyes confused. She saw Jesse. “Daddy? Daddy!” she cried, and dashed toward him. Dillard grabbed for her arm, missed, and caught hold of her hair, yanking her back. Abigail screamed, a sound full of terror and pain.
“Fuck!” Jesse cried, kicking and bucking, not even feeling the cuffs biting into his wrists as he fought to dislodge Ash.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Ash said and hammered a fist into the back of Jesse’s head. Jesse’s vision blurred again, but he could still hear Abigail crying.
Dillard, still clutching Abigail by the hair, dragged her over to a door on the far side of the living room and opened it. It appeared to lead down into the basement. “Linda,” he snapped. “If you don’t want her getting hurt, you’re gonna take her downstairs . . . now.”
Linda climbed to her feet and rushed over to Abigail, picking her up. Abigail clung to her neck, wailing. Jesse caught one last terrified look from Linda as she and Abigail disappeared down the stairwell.
“Dammit,” Chet said under his breath. “Didn’t I warn you, Jesse? Didn’t I tell you not to fuck with him?”
Dillard slammed the door shut and turned the bolt, locking the girls in. He stood there a minute longer, taking long, deep breaths. Slowly, he turned to Jesse, walked back into the hall, and plucked the Mac-10 back up. He squatted on one knee and grabbed Jesse by the hair, pointing the machine pistol into Jesse’s face. “Where’d you get this gun?”
Blood ran from Jesse’s nose into his mouth and down his chin. “Shoot me, asshole,” Jesse spat, and meant it. He knew he was done for, one way or another, and just wanted Abigail’s heart-wrenching scream gone from his head. He couldn’t bear to think what might happen to Linda and Abigail now. Dillard had been right, he was a loser. He’d not just failed, he’d made everything worse for everyone.
Dillard pressed the gun against Jesse’s temple, rested his finger on the trigger. Both Chet and Ash moved back. The foyer fell dead quiet and Jesse clenched his eyes shut, waiting.
“Ah . . . hey, Dillard,” Chet said softly. “General said we’re supposed to bring him in alive. Y’know? I’m just saying.”
Dillard didn’t move, seemed to be made of stone.
“Dillard . . . man. C’mon. None of us need the General on our asses.”
Dillard let out a long sigh, handed the Mac-10 to Chet, leaned over, and spoke into Jesse’s ear. “You fucked everything up. For me, for you, for Linda and Abigail.” A tremor crept into his voice, he sounded on the verge of tears. “I made you a promise last time we spoke. You remember? I told you what would happen if you set foot on my property again.” He grabbed hold of Jesse’s pinkie, gave it a quick twist, bent the finger all the way backward. Jesse felt a snap and a shot of pain rocketed up his arm. He screamed.
Dillard moved to the next finger, then the next. Twisting and snapping each finger on Jesse’s left hand, not just dislocating them, but breaking them. Jesse screamed and bucked, tried to understand how anything could hurt so bad. The world began to spin, all bright lights and the taste of the stone tile against his teeth. With a final twist, Dillard snapped Jesse’s thumb. Mercifully, Jesse lost consciousness and the world swam into darkness.
Chapter Nine
Blood Bath
From the rear seat of Chet’s Chevy Avalanche, Jesse watched the gate grind open along its rusty track. The rain had picked up, and the darkening sky painted everything gray. Chet pulled into the General’s compound and up to the motor bay followed by Ash in Jesse’s truck. The gate rattled shut with a clang that echoed in Jesse’s head like a death decree. Cinder-block walls, barbed wire, steel outbuildings, rusting diesel parts, and dirty snow—Jesse couldn’t picture a more desolate setting to meet his end. He watched the water drops gather and slide down the windshield, remembered how as a child he’d pretend they were eating each other, tried to pretend he was sitting in the back of his daddy’s car now heading over to Grandma’s for dinner. He fought to control his shaking, the fear in the pit of his stomach. The fear came not from knowledge of his impending death; he was more than ready for that. He’d lost everything, Abigail, Linda, and now the only thing he had left—his music. His left hand was utterly ruined; he would never play again. His fear came instead from knowing his death was going to be long and bad . . . very, very bad. He squeezed his eyes shut. Please God, make it quick. I don’t have the strength for this. You know I don’t.
Chet got out, came around, and opened Jesse’s door. He dug Dillard’s keys out from his jacket and uncuffed Jesse from the armrest. Chet tucked the cuffs away and hauled Jesse out, bumping his injured hand. A fresh jolt of pain shot up Jesse’s arm and he fought not to cry out.
“Get used to hurting,” Chet said. “ ’Cause you got a world of it ahead of you. As a matter of fact I can without a doubt state you are the very last person I’d care to be right now.” Jesse saw Chet meant it, caught genuine pity on his face.
There came a click, an electrical hum, and the bay door rattled upward, revealing first boots, then legs, and finally a row of men. The General stood, his arms across his chest, eyes set on Jesse, his face stone, staring so hard as to appear never to blink. Behind him stood close to a dozen men, all Boggses and Smootses, all the General’s kin of one sort or another. The whole clan turned out, Jesse thought. A family reunion just for me. And the reason why wasn’t lost on him. He knew the General meant to make an example of him, to show these men what happens when someone betrays Sampson Ulysses Boggs.
“Bring him on in,” the General said, his voice dry and dead as his face.
Chet and Ash each grabbed one of Jesse’s arms. “You’re in a world of shit, Jesse,” Ash said. “A world of shit.” They dragged him into the auto bay. The men moved aside, revealing a single steel office chair in the middle of the room. They sat him down.
The General plucked a roll of gray duct tape off the peg board, tossed it to Chet. “Make sure he can’t squirm loose.”
Jesse made to rise, and two sets of hands sat him back down hard, held him tight while Chet strapped his ankles to the front legs of the chair and his arms to the back.
Ash came in, carrying the Mac-10 Dillard had taken from Jesse. He handed it to the General along with the additional clips and cash they’d found in Jesse’s jacket.
The General looked the gun over, nodded. “You’re right, Chet. It’s one of mine.” He sat the gun down on a tool cart and began to count the cash.
“There’s eight hundred dollars there,” Chet said.
“Eight, huh,” the General said, scratching at his thick beard. “I believe that’s at least forty thousand short.” He looked at Jesse, wagged the cash at him. “Someone stole this out of my safe . . . without even opening it. Can’t wait to hear the secret to that trick.
“Ash. Shut the bay will you?”
Ash hit the switch. The bay door rolled down and Jesse watched the gray day slowly disappear from view, and it felt to him as though someone was closing the lid on his coffin.
Everybody stood in silence, waiting for the General’s next move. Jesse never felt more alone in his life. He heard a muffled train whistle from somewhere far off and wondered if Abigail could hear that same whistle, realized he didn’t even get to tell her good-bye, to tell her one last time how much he loved her. He could still hear that scream, his sweet little girl screaming with fear and pain all because of him, and it burned into him like a brand. He gritted his teeth, blinked back hot tears. He was ready, ready for it to all be done.
Chet rolled over a tool cart. An array of tools sat along the two shelves: saws, hammers, pliers, a hand drill, a nail gun, and even a blowtorch. Jesse did his best not to look at any of it.
“Don’t much care for the way Dillard’s treating Linda and Abigail,” Chet said, speaking to the General.
“Why, what’d he do?”
“Bloodi
ed Linda up a bit.”
“That so?” the General said.
“Yanking that little girl around by the hair.”
“I guess them girls is his business now.”
“Don’t make it right,” Chet growled.
“There’s a lot not right around here,” the General said and set eyes on Jesse. “A lot of shit needs getting to the bottom of.” He pulled a shop stool over and took a seat in front of Jesse. “Jesse you’re already dead. You know that and I know that. So you’re probably asking yourself why you should bother answering any of my questions. I think your answer depends on how bad a death you wanna have.” He pulled a silver snub-nose revolver out of his belt, leveled it at Jesse. “You answer my questions straight up, then I’ll take this here gun and shoot you in the head and it’ll all be over. You have my word on it. And you know I’m good for my word.” He sat the gun down on top of the tool cart, leaned over, and tugged something out from the bottom shelf. He held it up and Jesse found himself staring into the milky, dead eyes of the severed cow head. The General dropped it on Jesse’s lap; the cold wetness soaked into his pants, the stink saturating his nostrils.
The General flipped off his hat and the overhead fluorescent gleamed off his bald scalp. He set the hat on the tool cart and picked up the nail gun. Held it in front of Jesse’s face. “Now, on the other hand, if you give me the runaround, lie to me even once, then things are gonna get real ugly, real fast.” The General pointed the nail gun at the floor and hit the trigger. A nail blasted out of the front and bounced off the concrete floor with a spark and a loud ting.
The General pressed the nail gun against Jesse’s kneecap. “Now, tell me, Jesse Walker. Just how did that there cow head come to find its way into my safe?”
Jesse closed his eyes, tried to prepare himself for the pain, because he knew whatever he said would be the wrong thing, that he’d never be able to convince them of the truth, and there was no lie he could possibly come up with that would make any sense. There was no way out, and no one to hear his screams, not out here, and if they did, they’d know better than to call the police about it. I’m fucked and that’s all there is to it.
“I got twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the General said. “I watched the tapes, and from the time I left till the time I came in the next morning, weren’t no one anywhere near this place, let alone in my office. That safe weren’t broke into and nobody knows that combination but me. So tell me Jesse . . . tell me how you done it?”
Jesse opened his mouth, tried to come up with something, anything.
The General tapped the nail gun against his knee. “Now think real hard before you answer, because you want to get this right the first time. Trust me on that.”
“I used the Santa sack.”
The bay fell dead quiet.
Chet let out a snort.
“Come again,” the General said.
“The sack. The fucking Santa sack. The one in my truck.” Jesse’s voice kept rising. “I used it to empty your safe. It’s magic, all right? All right!” he yelled. “You can fucking believe me or fucking not!”
The nail gun hissed. Jesse felt the kick as the piston drove the nail deep into his kneecap. A half-second later the pain hit. “Fuck!” Jesse cried. “Fuck!” The General bounced the nail gun up Jesse’s thigh, hit the trigger again, and again, and again, driving three more nails into Jesse’s leg. Jesse screamed, bucked, would’ve knocked the chair over backward had Chet not caught him and set him up straight.
The General grabbed the cow’s head by the ear, tossed it aside, shoved the nail gun hard into Jesse’s crotch. Jesse groaned.
“Jesse, do you really want to spend the entire evening doing this? I know I don’t. I just want some answers. Want to know about this gang you been running with. Who they are? Where they live? So here’s the place where I give you one more chance. You work with me here, and this can all be over. I can go home and watch some TV and you can be dead. Now tell me Jesse. How’d you get into my safe?”
“Look . . .” Jesse said, barely able to get the words out. “Just . . . bring me the sack. I . . . can show you.”
The General shook his head, pulled the trigger. Jesse felt the nail tear into his groin. “No!” Jesse screamed as the General punched two more into his gut, the nails penetrating deep into his lower abdomen.
“Oh, God!” Jesse screamed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stop! Stop it!” He swooned, almost blacked out. “Listen,” he gasped, trying to get the words out between sobs. “Listen . . . hear me out. You want your fucking money back, right?” He gritted his teeth, tried to focus through the pain. “I can . . . get it back. Your drugs . . . all of it. Right now. But you gotta hear me out. God, what the fuck you got to lose? Just hear me out.”
No one spoke; the only sound in the bay was Jesse’s groans. Jesse watched the blood darkening his pants along his leg and crotch. Tried not to think of the nails inside his gut, the holes they’d punched into his lower intestines. He’d always heard a gut wound was the worst way to go, slow and painful, he could certainly attest to the pain.
“Okay, son. Shoot.”
Jesse raised his head, tried to blink away the tears, tried to hold the General’s gaze. “Your drugs . . . are still under . . . fuck . . . under the front seat of my truck. Exactly where your dumbass nephew . . . left them. I can get your money back . . . but I’ll need the sack. I know you think I’m full of shit. Look . . . look at me. Do I look like I’m fucking around?” Sharp pain made Jesse squeeze his eyes shut, he let out a deep grunt, opened them again. “What the hell do you have to lose? Just bring me the goddamn sack and I’ll show you.”
The General paused, seemed to mull it over, and Jesse dared to hope that he just might have a chance. The sack was open to the church, the money was there, but more important, so was the rest of the General’s guns.
“Chet, go get that stupid sack.”
“What? Really, I mean how the fuck can a sack—”
“Shut up and just go get the damn sack.”
“Ash,” Chet said. “Go get that damn sack.”
“No, Chet,” the General said. “I told you to get it. I’m the one that gives the orders around here.”
Chet gave Jesse a dark look, then headed toward the side door.
“And the drugs,” the General called. “See if the drugs are there.”
The men waited, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking at the tools, at the overhead fluorescents, at the flickering Christmas lights over on the stairs, anywhere but at Jesse, at the nails protruding out of his leg and gut.
Jesse fixed on the sack, trying to push the pain from his mind by thinking about what he’d do if he could just get a hold of one of those guns. God, if you were to grant me a last wish. Please, give me the chance to send as many of these motherfuckers to Hell as I can.
“Praying ain’t gonna save you, son,” the General said.
Jesse started, wondered for a second if he’d been thinking out loud.
The General sat the nail gun down. “The truth. That’s your only salvation.”
Chet came in, carrying the sack over his shoulder and the packet wrapped in duct tape. “Well, I’ll be damned. He weren’t lying about the drugs. Here they are.”
The General’s brow tightened. “That don’t make no sense. Why—” He paused. “Shit, ain’t nothing making sense. Here, hand me that blasted sack. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this nonsense, and right now.”
The General held the sack, seemed to weigh it. “Not much to it.” He laid it on the floor, stepped on it, watched it slowly reinflate. “Tell me that ain’t strange.” He pulled it open. All the men stepped forward, leaned in, trying to get a look. “Can’t really see nothing.” He pulled the mouth of the sack open as wide as he could, tried to angle it so the overhead fluorescence would illuminate the insides. “Kinda smoky, huh?” The General looked up and the other men all nodded.
“Chet, here. Reach in and make sure he’s not hiding nothing in
there.”
“Are you fucking nuts? I ain’t sticking my hand in there. No telling what’s in there. That smoky stuff could be some sort of poison.”
The General scratched his beard and looked around; there were no volunteers. “Well, it is a bit creepy I guess.” He held the sack upside down and shook it. Nothing fell out. He took the sack and pushed the air out of it, folded it once, started rolling it up, tighter and tighter, until it was as tight as a bedroll. “Don’t think you could hide any sort of weapon in that. Couldn’t hide much of nothing.” He set hard eyes on Jesse. “This better not be a game. If it is . . . I can guarantee you’ll regret it something awful.” He dropped the sack on the ground in front of Jesse. Everyone watched as it slowly regained its shape.
“Now, tell me how to make it work.”
“Can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“No, it won’t work for you. It’s like a magic hat, you have to know the trick. I have to show you.”
The General squinted at him. “You’re trying to tell me you used a magic trick to steal from my safe.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bunch of bullsnot,” Chet put in. “He’s just trying to make us look stupid.”
“You’re telling me if I let you stick your hand in here,” the General continued, “you can pull out my cash?”
Jesse nodded.
“Well,” the General said. “That’s one magic trick I wouldn’t miss for the world. Cut his arms loose.”
Chet let out a disagreeable grunt but slipped his knife out from the holster on his belt and slit the tape. Jesse freed his arms, cradled them to his chest, careful to avoid touching his lap or leg.
“Don’t you try nothing,” Chet said and pressed the knife against his neck.
“Hell, Chet,” Ash said. “What’s he gonna do, get blood on your shirt?” Ash snickered. “Christ, if you don’t sound like a little girl sometimes.”
The men chuckled and Chet turned red. “Fuck you, Ash. Hell, if you don’t sound like a little bitch when you’re choking on my goddamn pecker.”
