by Charlie Cole
I gunned the truck and headed for the first of the structures. It was a tool shed. I clipped it with the front bumper of the truck, and the panels of the building gave way, collapsing the building. I spun the wheel and headed back into the yard.
“Come on out, Tom!” I yelled.
The man leading Grace was shocked to see me, so Grace took the opportunity to elbow him hard in the face. She managed to break his nose and escape. She came running toward the truck, so I pressed the gas and closed the distance.
The man raised the gun, but seemed unsure whether he should shoot her or not. I made the decision for him by cutting between them and clipping him with my side mirror. He spun and fell into the dirt. I backed up and let Grace get in.
“Hiya,” I said.
“Hiya back,” she replied. “Our son’s in there.”
I was driving in a circle to get a better view of the complex.
“Did he tell you that?” I asked.
“He did indeed.”
“Good.”
I floored the gas and we lurched forward, aiming directly for the front end of the Mustang.
“Wait, wait, what are you doing?” Grace screamed.
I hammered the tow truck into the vintage Mustang, crushing the front end. Glass shattered and metal crumpled and we kept on driving. The Mustang rolled backward into a utility building, punching in the front side and rolling out the back.
“Cool,” I said.
“You have a plan beyond that?” Grace asked.
“It’s kind of however the Spirit moves me,” I replied.
“You’re incorrigible,” she sighed in disgust.
“I’ve told people you say that,” I replied.
I smiled at her, and she smiled back just before we crashed into the vintage Porsche. I felt a little bad about crushing one of the fine vestiges of automobiles from Deutschland. The car went airborne and tumbled end over end into the garage area.
I screamed out the window in a battle cry, accelerating past the front of the building to gain speed before taking another go at the cars.
The front door was flung open and we turned to see who it was. I envisioned the worst. Tom. A gun. Bobby. A muzzle flash. The inevitable aftermath. Tears. Screaming.
But that wasn’t what happened. Bobby came running out of the house.
“Go! Go!” he was screaming. “He’s going to—“
I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I steered the truck toward him and slid to a stop with the truck between him and the house.
“Get down!” I yelled. I pulled Grace down with me on the seat.
The building billowed out with the force of the explosion. The blast blew windows out of their frames. The front door came loose from the frame and cartwheeled toward the truck. It hit the ground in front of my door and bounced off the cab in a glancing blow. Debris rained down on us. Flaming pieces of roofing and wood siding fell from the heavens.
Bobby stood beside the truck and shook debris from his clothes.
“What is wrong with this family?” Bobby said.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked.
“He took off out the back door,” he replied.
“Grace, get him out of here,” I said. “I’m going after Tom.”
“Let’s just go, Jim!” she pleaded.
Perhaps she was right, but I didn’t have peace about it. Every time I let Tom slip through my fingers, he came back harder than before. He wasn’t going to stop.
“I have to finish this,” I shouted.
I took off running around the wreckage, shielding my face from the fire burning inside. I crashed through the woods completely unaware of where I was going. I could have stumbled into the mangrove and the swamps for all I knew.
I burst from the woods and found Tom getting into a black 1965 Lincoln Continental. He had one of the suicide doors open to get behind the wheel when he heard me coming. He spun and raised a Heckler & Koch USP autoloader and fired at me. I heard the bullet pop as it missed my head by inches. I lowered my shoulder and crushed him between the door and the body of the car. His arm broke from the crush injury.
“Oh, you son of a bitch!” he howled.
I hammered his ribs and heard them snap.
“I’ll kill ya, Jimmy! I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!”
Tom lifted the pistol, murder in his eyes. I grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted it backwards, snapping his finger in the trigger guard. He howled in pain. I broke his nose with the butt of the pistol. He slumped back against the car. His knees buckled, and I let him fall.
I looked at him then, collapsed at my feet. The USP pistol was in my hand, and it felt so right. Contoured to fit perfectly in my grip. The weight of the gun felt solid and deadly. I aimed the pistol at Tommy’s head and caressed the trigger.
It would have been so easy. Pull the trigger. Finish him. Keep my family safe. Was I that kind of man? Could I kill without remorse? I didn’t know. Maybe I was. I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t a secret agent man. I was just his brother. And I wasn’t about to put a bullet in Tommy’s head.
I lowered the hammer on the pistol and set the safety. I picked up Tommy and slung him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I began walking and planning my story for when I called the cops. It was going to be one hell of a tale.
Rush Hour
I STEPPED THROUGH THE DOORS OF THE PRISON and followed all of the procedures required of visitors. I allowed myself to be searched with the metal detector. My knife was left behind that day. The only thing on me was the Bible in the back pocket of my blue jeans.
When the time came, the guard waved me forward, and I stepped up and sat at the glass. A moment later, the door on the prisoner side opened, and a guard brought in the men in the orange jumpsuits.
Tom saw me right away and made a show of rolling his eyes. His left arm was in a sling, and his nose was going to heal somewhat less than straight. He sat and picked up the telephone receiver. I did the same from my side.
“Jim, are you going to do this every week?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “Every week.”
“You know nothing’s going to change,” he said.
I smiled at that.
“You know that night you crashed into me, I told my friend the exact same thing,” I said. “Now I’m on this side of the glass and you’re on that side.”
“Do you honestly think these visits are going to change anything?” Tom asked. “I got to Ellis. I nearly got to you.”
“Tom, I’m not your enemy here. You are.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.
“Everything that’s happened along the way, man…people make bad choices. But it’s up to you to decide how you’re going to react to it. Ellis may have done some bad things. I may have made some horrible choices that ruined my marriage and fucked with your life, and I’m sorry for that. But you…you have free will, brother. You’re the one who decided to try to kill us.”
“And you seriously think God is going to judge me for that?” Tom laughed. “I have no doubt that God hates me, Jim.”
“That’s why I keep coming back, man,” I said.
“Why do you care?” Tom muttered.
“Because I am my brother’s keeper,” I said. “See you next week, Tommy.”
I stood and walked out. I heard Tom punch the bulletproof glass behind me, but didn’t stop to look back.
Outside of the prison, Bobby was leaning against his car. It was a red Mustang Mach I. It was far from perfect, but we’d been working on it together. I planned to stick around and see it finally come together.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“About the way you would expect,” I said. “You should pray for your Uncle Tom.”
“I’ll pray for him,” Bobby agreed.
Grace was in the back seat of the car.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Fine,” she smiled. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” I sa
id.
“I feel better that he’s in there,” she said, making a face.
“Honestly, I do, too,” I said.
I looked back toward the prison. On top of the barbed wire gate sat the black crow. I watched him and smiled. He regarded me with my family and, with nothing to add, took flight. I watched him go.
Discover more Charlie Cole books at:
http://www.amazon.com/author/charliecole
