A Dark Path

by Robert E. Dunn

  “What are you talking about?” Roland looked genuinely confused. “Who’s Elaine?”

  “Tyrell Turner’s mother,” I said. My answer didn’t seem to lessen Roland’s confusion so I said, “She was the one your father committed ‘race treason’ with. She was the one they gang-raped to make the point.”

  “I don’t. . . No. No. I. . .” Roland looked from face to face—looking for denial of the truth. He found none. He turned to his father. “Dad? Daddy?”

  “When the DNA gets looked at, I’m betting that you’ll find Tyrell was your half-brother.” I spoke to Roland, but I looked at Billy. “But there’s more truth isn’t there?”

  “More?” Billy asked.

  “Who actually killed Tyrell? And who killed Earl Turner when he was following Roland?”

  From out beyond the barn and the long drive, on the road behind the trees, rose the sound of engines. Loud pipes spit the roar of angry bikes.

  “He did,” Roland said. “Charlie Lipscomb killed them both.”

  Lipscomb and five other bikers rolled up the gravel drive, and stopped at the edge of the lot. The man right beside Lipscomb was the AB biker who had drawn me out—and into the hands of Johnson Rath.

  Chapter 19

  Lipscomb pulled and lit one of his cheap cigars, as he approached. He didn’t come too close. “Come on, Ro.” He said. “No reason for any mess. The Club has your back.”

  “You called them?” Duck asked his son.

  “I’m sorry,” Roland answered.

  “Hey, Duck.” Lipscomb took the cigar from his mouth. He tucked his thumbs in his armpits and flapped. “Quack, quack, quack.” Then he laughed—like it was the funniest joke ever. He was the only one.

  Roland took a step forward.

  Billy stopped him by putting one of his torn up hands on Roland’s chest. “If you go with them now—you’re never coming back.”

  “I guess maybe we do get what we deserve out of life.”

  “Deserve has nothing to do with it,” Billy told him, earnestly. “It’s a long song. No one knows all the words. But you can change your tune anytime.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Roland said, but he stayed where he was.

  I looked across the lot at the man I’d fought with in Moonshines. “Why don’t you ask your friend to come over here?” I said to Lipscomb. “I’d like to have a word with him.”

  “I bet you would.” He puffed a blue cloud up over his head. “I-just-bet-you-would.” He laughed. “Look at you. The big-assed Hurricane. But you’re still just a bitch in a man’s world.”

  Billy turned to face Lipscomb. He eased forward with his hands on his belt. The bloody knuckles and stitches were a clear sign.

  “You took on Rath.” Lipscomb said. “He’s a tough old bird. But old is the word, ain’t it?”

  “I’m not going to fight you, Charlie.” Billy put a hand on his weapon. “I’m going to arrest you.”

  I stepped forward. “But if it’s a fight you want, Charlie.”

  The other bikers got off their motorcycles. The AB guy pulled off the dark sunglasses he wore. He stared right at me with a second round look in his eyes. “I’ll dance if you want, sweetheart.”

  “You’ve got no one to run to this time.” I took a few more steps forward. “Really think you’re man enough, sweetheart?”

  “Man enough to break your back, bitch.”

  I stepped forward again.

  Charlie wheeled around and shouted to the other man, “I’m handling things here, Gordon.”

  I laughed. “Gordon? Your name is Gordon?” Two more steps brought me in line with, and in reach of, Charlie. “Not, Adolph?” I laughed again. “You look more like an Eva to me.”

  Charlie grabbed at me. He got his hand in my collar, then pulled. “I think it’s about time you shut your mouth.”

  I’d taken a risk and invited Charlie’s violence. It paid off exactly as it should have. While Charlie’s focus was on me, Billy moved closer.

  Billy took hold of the hand that gripped my shirt. His knuckles were so close to my face I could see the tearing of his stitches—as his fingers flexed and twisted. He pulled the hand. The force of his action turned Charlie and I inward—like spindles attached to the same lever.

  Billy had Charlie’s arm locked in his right hand. As he pulled, he also pivoted. His left arm was raised and the fist pulled tight to his shoulder. All of Billy’s weight and twisting force met Charlie’s elbow at his forearm. As soon as contact was made, Billy angled the forearm down, leaning into it. At the same time, he pulled up with his right.

  Charlie screamed. It wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of his elbow snapping.

  Charlie Lipscomb, the Ozarks Nightriders Sergeant-at-Arms, hit the gravel, face first, wailing like a lost calf.

  Billy had his knee in the center of Charlie’s back. He still held the arm he’d broken with one hand, as he pulled his cuffs with the other. When he had the bracelets snapped tight, it looked like everything was over. It should have been.

  A gunshot boomed from the doorway of the barn behind us.

  Roland Duques stood with a huge, blued .44 revolver in his hand. It was smoking and still pointing at the splintered hole it had torn through the barn wall. He turned it to Charlie Lipscomb, and pulled the hammer back.

  “Get away from him,” Roland’s bellow was still thick with his tears, “I’m going to kill him.”

  Billy instantly stood with his weapon drawn. He kept himself between his prisoner and Roland.

  I pulled my own weapon. At the same time I looked for Duck, hoping he could calm his son. He was gone. As far as I could tell he wasn’t in the barn. A quick look around told me he wasn’t in the lot.

  “Get back,” Roland ordered again.

  “We can’t do that, Roland,” I explained gently. “He’ll go to prison.”

  “It’s not good enough.” Roland’s tears were flowing freely. He had to wipe his eyes with the back of his free hand.

  He looked so much like a scared child, I wondered again where his father had gone. “Where’s your father?”

  Roland took his eyes from Charlie—long enough to glance around the barn. He looked confused and hurt. “Dad?” When he looked back it was with a new, harder resolve. “Get out of the way, Billy.”

  “I can’t.” Billy looked stricken, but his aim never wavered. I knew for a fact it was set, center mass, right on Roland’s heart—just as mine was.

  “Roland.” I saw his eyes shift to me and back to Charlie. “Roland, this won’t fix anything.”

  “There is no fixing.” Roland took a step forward.

  Both Billy and I tensed even more—if that was possible.

  “But there is ending it.” Roland said. His voice was different. The tears were gone replaced by a chilled resignation. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Lower your weapon,” Billy shouted in a command voice.

  “Roland, don’t,” I pleaded with him.

  I saw the focus in Roland’s eyes change again. I realized that Billy and I had both focused on the danger in front of us and neglected the one behind. Before I could turn to see what was happening, there came the pop of a 9mm and Roland’s chest flowered with crimson. He slumped to the barn floor.

  As I turned. I saw Billy spinning as well. We both had our weapons out in two handed grips. Before we could bring them around, a second bullet fired. That one ripped through Billy’s ankle and he toppled awkwardly on top of Charlie Lipscomb.

  I took an instant’s worth of satisfaction in knowing the pain that had to cause Lipscomb. When my weapon came to bear on Gordon, the AB biker, he was close and marching closer. His gun was already aimed at me.

  He fired.

  I fired.

  The other four bikers, all advancing on us, fired to
o.

  I felt—as well as heard—the wasp buzz of Gordon’s bullet passing close to my neck and just under my ear.

  My aim was better but only marginally. A spray of blood misted up over Gordon’s shoulder—where my bullet nicked him. I kept firing as I dove for the ground.

  Gordon ducked sideways still shooting.

  Bullets splashed in the gravel around me—like pebbles tossed in water. From behind me, I heard more shots. Billy was shooting.

  The air filled with metal, jacketed rockets as the Nightriders poured fire on Billy. The barn echoed with the impacts. From the corner of my eye, I could see flakes of old wood, sawdust blood, falling from the weathered walls.

  I also saw Billy moving. He crawled quickly to Roland’s body. He fired back twice then tried to pull the kid out of the line of fire.

  I rolled to my right. The whole world kaleidoscoped around the axis of my weapon. I fired at Gordon as I moved. He fired at me as he crabbed in the opposite direction.

  My gun clicked on an empty chamber.

  My next heartbeat was cold, as though the muscle had only the frozen run off of all my hopes to feed my body.

  Gordon stopped scrambling and stood. He loomed with a hateful smile. The arm that extended his pistol at me was covered in blue jailhouse ink. The lightning bolts and 88 were mixed with skulls and the body of a naked woman. I had a second to understand that hate and misogyny were going to murder me.

  A shotgun blasted. The guns firing at Billy and Roland stopped.

  Gordon turned.

  I looked as I kicked my feet and scrabbled my hands in the gravel. As I got to my knees I saw Duck with the smoking twelve-gauge. One of the bikers, with most of his right arm and shoulder missing, hit the ground.

  Duck racked a new shell into the chamber, and fired at the closest standing biker. The man’s chest exploded.

  Gordon had his pistol up and aimed at Duck. I released a handful of driveway gravel at his face. He fired. I didn’t see what happened. I was looking only at Gordon by then.

  I hit him low, thrusting my right shoulder into the short ribs.

  Gordon’s pistol cartwheeled into the sky.

  I heard more gunshots, and the shotgun fire at least two more times. I couldn’t see what was happening. Gordon and I hit the ground together. He tried to hold me as I tumbled over him and clear.

  I made my feet and turned.

  He was up and ready.

  Gordon charged high. His thick arms closed engulfing my shoulders. He squeezed.

  Through my body, I could hear the shifting of my bones as he crushed my chest inward. The constriction pressed the air from my lungs and allowed no breath in. The pain was excruciating. My vision tunneled down to a tiny hole of perception. The black edges of closing consciousness sparkled with stars.

  For some reason my mind went to the stars that Billy had taken me to look at. Would I ever see them again? Is it possible that I could become a part of them?

  That was the terrifying thing. Not the pain or the threat, it was the acceptance that scared me. The longing.

  Without waiting for thought, I lunged forward with my head. Leading with my forehead, I crushed Gordon’s nose.

  He flinched. His grip lessened. Lessened but remained.

  Still, I caught a small breath. It was enough to inspire a harder fight. I kicked my feet.

  Gordon arched his back, lifting me.

  I kicked harder.

  He squeezed again. Then he lifted me higher. He pushed me up, and let me drop into an even tighter grip.

  Something in my ribs popped. Searing pain shot though my side. Again, there was no breath and no breathing.

  I didn’t wait for darkness that time. I reared back and head-butted his nose again.

  That time he was ready. He barely acknowledged the impact. In fact he grinned at me. The blood flowing from his broken nose stained his teeth.

  That told me what I had to do.

  I opened my mouth, stretching my lips back in a silent snarl. I bit his nose.

  Gordon screamed, but that was his only concession to the pain. His grip around my body tightened.

  I bit harder, digging my teeth deep into the flesh of his already damaged and bloody nose.

  Another pop in my chest.

  I almost opened my mouth to gasp. Instead I screamed through clenched teeth and twisted my neck.

  His skin ripped. The cartilage gave way and split away from bone.

  Gordon dropped me.

  I hit the ground on my back.

  He stomped backward, cupping his hand over the gushing wound that his nose had become.

  I stole a second to wipe the blood from my face with my sleeve. I charged to my feet. It hurt a lot more than I’d anticipated. Instead of running at Gordon, I limped with an arm clamped around my ribs.

  I managed to get my foot up, and thrust my boot heel into the front of his extended knee. It crunched into hyperextension. I could almost hear the ligaments tearing.

  Gordon released his nose to reach for the new source of pain. When he did, I saw the dangling meat and the hole in his face.

  I fought the urge to feel proud.

  Chapter 20

  It took time for my vision to open fully. It took longer for my hearing to clear from muted roar, to actual sound, to understanding.

  Duck ran past. In his wake, he’d left two men definitely dead. One was still writhing on the ground—apparently missing a foot.

  I didn’t make the same mistake I’d made in Moonshines. I cuffed Gordon. That time though, I was sure it was overkill.

  Billy was kneeling over Roland’s body keeping pressure on the wound in his chest.

  Duck dropped his shotgun to sit beside his son. I could see him whispering to Roland. I hoped that they were finally able to talk honestly.

  I did not reflect on my own failings in honest communication. Not then. I pulled my phone and called dispatch.

  * * * *

  It took hours, long into darkness, to clear the scene. If the sheriff hadn’t put his foot down, every deputy we had would have been at Duck’s farm to help. Honestly, I think that was more because of Billy than anything else. I couldn’t begrudge him the care of so many friends. It was clear how wrong I was—even if my own reasons for thinking so weren’t clear—Billy Blevins would make a great sheriff.

  Over the next few weeks, things about the case shook out. Duck was right. It’s the old feuds that carry the most weight in the Ozarks. DNA showed that Duck was indeed Tyrell’s father. A pile of letters that Elaine Turner had written, but never sent him, detailed her pain and fears after the assault—by men who claimed what they did to her was for the good of their own race.

  She had been in love with Donald. In the letters, she never called him Duck. Not only her body, but her spirit was damaged. She needed Donald, but never found the courage to tell him the truth. She never sought counseling. She never told anyone but her father, a man who shared the fear and damage inflicted by the same men.

  It was a miracle that Tyrell had grown up as strong and normal as he had—which spoke volumes about the tenacity of that family.

  Cherry Dando recovered from the beating that Johnson had given him.

  Johnson, however, wasn’t as fortunate. Someone, I believe it was my mother, Carmen, passed word to the AB about his scheme to defraud them of drugs and inform to the DEA. The Aryan Brotherhood is, at heart, a prison gang—with a long reach behind bars. Their justice is not that of courts and lawyers. Johnson Rath was murdered in prison.

  Johnson’s death made things even murkier for the standing of his Nazi church. Landis Tau stepped in. Making a deal with the federal government, he took over the nonprofit organization upon which The New American Covenant–The Word and The Sword was built. It was expected to be essentially valueless, with the graveyard as its on
ly asset. It turned out that the AB had deposited some cash to fund the compound construction. To protect themselves, it had been listed as an anonymous donation. The “donation” was a good start at funding the work to preserve the graves. Doctor and Agent Carter remained with the organization. They turned—what had once been—a place of desperate burial into a monument to forgotten lives.

  I visited their daughter’s school. I thought I went to talk to the girls. In my mind, I had it all planned out. I would tell them to be anything they dreamed of, and to dream big. I did say that. I did talk about being a woman in the military and law enforcement. At the end, however, I realized I was there to talk to the boys. I told them to forget everything they had ever been taught about being gentlemen, or treating girls special. I told them to remember everything they learned about playing fair. I asked them to treat everyone with kindness. I informed them about the many ways they shape the world, and the many chances they had to make it better—not by treating girls as different or even better—but simply by understanding the equality of all people.

  I don’t know how much good I did, but I felt a lot better for it.

  Agent Darion Birch caught hell from the DEA about the implosion of his operation. I understand he gave as good as he got.

  Roland Duques survived. It was no miracle. It was Billy. He applied pressure to the wound—even while bullets were still winging past him. He maintained pressure and soothing words until the kid was loaded into the ambulance. It turned out that Roland was the one who burned the shack in the woods. He’d also been the one to call and tell Charlie Lipscomb he was waiting at the barn. He’d planned all along to kill the Sergeant-at-Arms, and escape the Nightriders. It just wasn’t a good plan.

  Duck still looked like two fat Elvises stuffed into one sheriff’s department uniform, but he looked like a different man to me. After that day, he was my friend. I made a greater effort to be his friend.

  I didn’t get away with my sins—not that we ever do. The sheriff added another full year requirement to my mandated counseling. For the first time, I didn’t see that as a punishment.