Like Lions

by Brian Panowich

  Vanessa remained unfazed by the foreman’s outburst and kept smiling.

  “I know exactly who I’m dealing with, Bob.” Her smile faded. “Just another soft, weak pig with a big mouth—most likely to compensate for his smaller assets.”

  “You bitch.” He lunged at Vanessa. She sidestepped, putting the bed between them, as the bathroom door opened. Bob barely had time to react to the noise, before a thin figure in a black hoodie stepped out and lifted a pistol with a long silver tube screwed onto the barrel. The man fired a single muffled shot, and the bullet entered Bob’s head right above his left ear. There was no exit wound, no momentum from the blast, and no blood, as the bullet bounced around inside Bob’s skull. The former shipping foreman just stood there, staring into Vanessa’s stormy blue eyes. He looked startled and confused, but completely unaware that he’d just died. Vanessa watched with wide-eyed fascination that quickly turned into disappointment when Bob’s body collapsed in a heap at the foot of the bed. The thin man with the compact .22 caliber pistol unscrewed the silencer and tucked both pieces of hardware into the pockets of his hoodie.

  “I’m not sure why you like to play these head games, Vanessa. You knew he wasn’t going to sign this.” The small man bent over and began to gather up the paperwork scattered across the carpet.

  “I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

  “People will let you down every time.”

  “You haven’t yet, Chon.”

  “The key word there, Vanessa, is yet.”

  “You’re such a pessimist, Chon.”

  “No, I’m a realist, and the reality is we just wasted a lot of time on this. I’ll finish up here, and toss the rest of the room to make it look like a bigger struggle. You should leave. Go home and let me handle the rest the way I wanted to in the first place.”

  “Goddammit!” Vanessa said loud enough to startle the little man. Chon fumbled for the gun in his pocket. He looked around the room and saw nothing. When he looked back at Vanessa, he sighed. She was focused on a small drop of blood no bigger than a ladybug that had landed on her thigh. “This is never going to come out. Shit. I said no guns and no blood for a reason.”

  “And that reason was your wardrobe?”

  Vanessa glared at him, and Chon just shook his head. She looked around the room and fixed her eyes on the open bottle of soda water on the counter. “Can you believe the luck?” She snatched up a bottle of club soda from the counter, and then limped toward the bathroom, as if she’d been the one to get shot, careful not to let that pebble of red break and soak in.

  “Vanessa, we need to focus here.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Vanessa, all due respect, I—”

  She turned in the doorway to face him.

  “That’s enough, Chon. I’m not going to tolerate someone else acting like he’s my boss. You work for me, so call those biker friends of yours, and make sure they are handling their end of things, and don’t worry about how I handle mine.”

  “The Jackals are on point, Vanessa. I can promise you that.”

  “They better be.”

  “I’ve yet to see Bracken and his people drop the ball on anything this big.”

  “The key word there, Chon, is yet.”

  Chon chewed his lip, but had no response.

  “Right,” Vanessa said. “Now make the call, and finish up this room however you see fit. I’m going to go in this nasty motel bathroom and handle this stain before I have a meltdown. Are we on the same page now?”

  Chon wasn’t pleased, but there would be no debate. He nodded. “Sure, Vanessa. Is that it?”

  “No,” she said, just to be combative.

  “What else, then?”

  Vanessa had nothing else. “I fucking love these pants.” She slammed the bathroom door behind her, and Chon stared at it with tempered amazement. A few seconds later, he pulled out a set of latex gloves and went to work.

  *

  Vanessa sat down on the commode. She poured soda water on another hand towel and blotted it down on the bloodstain. “These pants cost six hundred dollars. Fuck. I don’t care how much you have, six hundred dollars is a lot of money to just toss in the trash. Would you agree with that?”

  The petite, redheaded girl who sat half naked and puffy-eyed in the bathtub didn’t say a word.

  “Well, it is,” Vanessa answered for her. She dabbed at the drop of blood with the towel. “The secret is to blot it, not wipe it, but blood is the absolute worst. I might as well have just set six hundred dollars on fire.” She did her best with the stain, and then pitched the towel into the sink with a huff. “Asshole,” she said, and shot a loaded middle finger at the bathroom door. The girl in the tub still said nothing. She tried to be still by squeezing her knees tight to her chest, but all she had on was a cheap baby-doll teddy and panties and she was freezing. The fear in her blood and the cold porcelain on her skin made it impossible to control the shivering. Her stomach cramped from trying. Vanessa rested her elbows on her knees and let her dark hair fall over her face. The sound of the girl’s teeth chattering filled the tiny room, and it brought Vanessa back to the moment. She pushed her hair back over her ear and then turned to the girl.

  “Penny, right? That’s short for Penelope?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Use your words, Penny.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was timid and soft. “It’s my grandmother’s name.”

  “Well, it’s a much better name than Penny—if you’re gonna be a whore, anyway.” Vanessa looked pensive. “In fact, Penny is probably the worst name ever for a girl who fucks for money.”

  Penny found a little more of her voice. “I’m not a whore, ma’am, I—”

  Vanessa put a finger to her blackberry lips and shook her head. “Listen, honey, I get it. Boys your age ain’t buying, and married men never ask how much. Every girl around your age, with a decent set of tits and half a brain, figures that out, and every one of us at some point considers taking the low road, believe me.” Vanessa sat up and pushed her breasts together with the insides of her arms. She looked down at her cleavage as if it was more of a burden than a blessing, and then hunched back over, resting her elbows back down on her knees. “But not all of us take that road. The smart move is to make them play by your rules. Show the boys you can do it without them. Open your own doors. Buy your own drinks. Pay your own way. It confuses them. It breaks their spirit and puts the power back where it belongs. You do that,” Vanessa said, and slipped a finger under the thin black strap of Penny’s teddy, “and you end wearing six-hundred-dollar slacks instead of shit lingerie from Target.” She let the elastic go, and it snapped down hard against the girl’s bare skin.

  Penny pulled her legs in even tighter and thought she might throw up.

  “Are you taking any of this in, Penny?” Vanessa leaned in to read the girl’s face, and sighed with disappointment. “No—I can see you’re not. Most whores don’t, but I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, here. I’m not completely jaded like my associate out there.” She softened her voice. “Look, do you want to be shivering in bathtubs your whole life while pigs like Bob Kane demean you? Is that really who you want to be?”

  The girl said nothing.

  “Answer me, Penny.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then consider this your opportunity to turn it around. My gift to you.”

  The girl looked at Vanessa, but only briefly, before staring back down at the tub.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen next. You’re going to sit in there for a while, while my friend in the other room sets the stage—for you. In about an hour or so, you’re going to use the motel phone and call the police. We’ll be listening, so I’ll know when and who you call. The gist of the story you’re going to tell the cops is that asshole you called your boyfriend—who, by the way, referred to you as a cooze and a slut within the space of eight minutes—was going to leave his wife, quit his job, and run away wit
h you into the happily ever after. But right after you checked in, three or four unremarkable men harassed you two lovebirds in the parking lot. Eventually Bob ran his mouth to the point that a fight broke out. That’s when you ran in here and locked yourself in the bathroom, afraid for your life. Before you even knew what was happening, one of these indistinguishable thugs followed you and Bob in the room and shot him. After that, they all got spooked and ran away. I’ll leave all the other details up to you. You’re a bright girl. You’ll be able to sell it to the idiot cops in this town, I promise.”

  “What if they don’t believe me?” Spurred by hope, Penny’s voice was more her own now.

  “Penny, I told my friend with the gun out there you could pull it off. So, can you? Can you pull it off, or do I go tell him I was wrong?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Penny was crying now, but her shivering had settled.

  “Good girl, because I hate being wrong. Now, after they let you go, you’re going to have to deal with the fallout that follows, and you’re going to get through it. Once everything settles down, the rest is easy-peasy. What you do after that is up to you.” Vanessa leaned in again. “But I suggest you finish your English degree at that Appalachian University you left back in North Carolina, and make your grandmother proud. She’s sweet, by the way. I love that little dog she has. Old women and their little dogs, right?”

  All the blood fell from Penny’s face, and it hurt to breathe.

  “Are we understanding each other?”

  Penny nodded—sharply—her eyes closed tight.

  “Open your eyes and use your words.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand.”

  “Good, because if you fuck this up—” Vanessa snatched Penny by the chin and twisted it hard, until their eyes met. “I don’t believe in third chances, or mercy for the undeserving. I know where you live, Pen. I know where your parents, Ron and Sabrina, live, too. I know where your little brother’s special school is, and how easy it is to visit. I’d hate to see any of them suffer for your inability to take solid advice.”

  “I understand, ma’am. I swear. I can do this.”

  “That’s good.” Vanessa let go of Penny’s face, stood, and tossed the neatly folded pile of clothes from the counter into the girl’s lap. “Now get dressed, and start practicing what you’re gonna tell the police. And remember—”

  Vanessa’s phone rang. “Excuse me a minute.”

  Penny gripped her clothes tightly to her chest, as Vanessa pulled a cell phone from her hip pocket and read the display. Vanessa looked ill. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She tapped the phone and held it to her ear. “What in God’s name do you want, Coot?”

  “Hey, Bessie May. Long time.”

  “I don’t answer to that name, Coot. I haven’t in over six years and you know it. So I’ll repeat myself. What do you want?”

  “You need to come home.”

  “I am home.”

  “Naw, Sis. You need to come on back to your real home.”

  “And why the hell would I ever wanna do that?”

  “Because JoJo is dead is why. He was drowned to death. Held underwater like a stray cat.”

  Vanessa was silent. She held the phone loosely in her hand and waited for the rest.

  “Bessie May. You still there?”

  “I told you that ain’t my name no more.” Vanessa’s North Georgia drawl slipped out so easily, she almost didn’t recognize her own voice.

  “Well, whatever the hell you’re callin’ yourself down there, it don’t matter. You need to come on home and I ain’t askin’. You see, somehow that boy and his dumb-shit friends got some hare-brain idea to rob some big dogs in North Georgia.”

  It was Vanessa’s turn to lose her breath and she gripped her phone hard enough to crush it.

  “The same folks in North Georgia you come around here talkin’ at Mama about a few months ago. Now isn’t that some interesting shit? You know that boy didn’t have the sense God gave a goat, much less the balls to knock over some heavy hitters, so I’m guessing he must’ve thought he was onto a sure thing. You still listenin’, Bessie May?”

  “I hear you, Coot.”

  “I wonder where he would’a got an idea like that from?”

  “What exactly are you trying to say, Coot?”

  “I done said it. Get your ass home. Pronto.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We’ll talk over the details when you get here.”

  “Fine. Give me a few days.”

  “The funeral is—”

  Vanessa ended the call. She stood silent and put the phone down on the counter. She looked up at the ceiling and watched the green light on the smoke detector blink at least twenty times, before she blew out a long, frustrated breath, and turned to look at Penny.

  “I don’t suppose you have any cigarettes?”

  6

  THE COMPOUND

  Forty-eight hours of excruciating quiet and tedious office work filled the McFalls County Sheriff’s office before the secondary cell phone Clayton kept for off-the-books activity finally rang. Mike dropped the news that his contacts in Florida had crossed the state line and were headed north. Clayton spent the remainder of the day staring out the window, and spit-polishing his sidearm. When the time came, he dumped the majority of his workload and paperwork on his sole deputy, Darby Ellis. He paused and looked at the office phone on his desk. He should call Kate. He reached toward the phone but picked up his Colt instead. He slipped it into his holster, grabbed his hat and jacket from the rack by the door, and left the office without a word to anyone.

  Cricket, the office receptionist and the county’s only dispatcher, watched from behind her desk as the door eased closed behind him. She turned to Deputy Ellis and whispered as if it wasn’t just the two of them in the room. “Do you ever think we’ll get him back? You know, like he used to be?”

  “I don’t know,” Darby said. “I honestly don’t know.” The muscular young deputy slid into an office chair next to Cricket. “He just seems to be getting worse. Did you catch a whiff of him when he came in? He’s drinking in the mornings again.”

  Cricket pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Yesterday his pants and boots were covered in mud—pond mud. I spent most of the morning cleaning up what he tracked in, and he didn’t even seem to notice. I wish I knew what to do—what to say.”

  Darby put his hand over Cricket’s. “I know. I do, too, but the only person that can save him from what he’s going through is him. All we can do is be here.”

  “I talked to Kate the other day. I went out to see the baby. She said he’s never there, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her he’s never here either. Where is he spending all his time?”

  “Burnt Hickory, I suppose.”

  Cricket pulled her hand away and sat up straight in her chair. “Maybe you should follow him, Darby. I mean, maybe you can get through to him.”

  Darby tipped his hat back a little on his forehead. “Cricket, there was a time, I’d follow that man to hell and back. You know that’s true. I’ve done it. But wherever he’s going now, ain’t nowhere you want me to be. I can promise you that.”

  Cricket didn’t bother to hide her disdain for that answer, and went back to typing away at the report she’d been working on earlier. Darby sat and watched her for a moment and then stood up with a huff. He walked over to the door and grabbed his own coat from the rack. “I’m going to get some decent coffee. You want some?”

  “No.” Cricket didn’t bother to look up from the computer screen.

  “Well, then I’ll see you later?”

  Cricket didn’t even bother to answer that time. Darby shook his head and put his jacket on. “All right, then.”

  *

  Clayton climbed into the Bronco, pulled out onto Main Street, and drove north to the summit of Bull Mountain. He chain-smoked the entire forty-five-minute drive and tossed each fresh butt out the window onto the pavement and then onto the dirt where the pavement
stopped—the road that led to his father’s house, or the compound, as it was called now. His last trip up here ended pretty badly when Halford instilled in him with his fists how unwelcome he was. Now he was here by invitation.

  The king was dead. Long live the king.

  Clayton had just put another cigarette between his lips when static burped on the radio followed by the timid sound of Cricket’s voice. “Sheriff? Come in.”

  Clayton lit his smoke and waited for Cricket to call for him again before he grabbed the handset.

  “What is it, Cricket?”

  Static.

  “We got a call about a rancid odor coming from a trailer on White Bluff Road. House number 1128.”

  “A rancid odor?”

  “Yes, sir. The caller said it smelled like ammonia and—cat piss—her words.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “Reba Brown, sir. She said the smell was so bad from the road it made her eyes water.”

  Static.

  Goddammit. Clayton rubbed the handset against his forehead to push back the headache. After Cricket called for him again, he tossed his smoke and keyed the mic. “Give it to Darby.”

  Static.

  “Sir, 1128 White Bluff is the Cole house.”

  “I know that, Cricket. What’s your point?” He knew her point.

  “Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound combative, but if Sonny Cole is up there, do you think Darby is ready to deal with something like that?”

  “He’s a McFalls County Deputy, ain’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  Clayton could see the compound up ahead. “Cricket, I ain’t paying the kid to work out every day and sit around the office and flirt with you. The boy needs to earn his keep. Now give him the call.”

  Static.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clayton listened to Cricket call for Darby over the radio before reaching out and turning the unit off. The wood around the dirt path had broken into a clearing, and a bone-thin kid in a red flannel shirt, and a long, stringy goatee, the kind that forms before you can grow a real beard, stood from his post at the main gate and spoke into his two-way radio. The kid let his automatic rifle hang loose over his shoulder by the leather strap as the eight-foot-high automated aluminum gate began to crank open. Clayton nodded at the kid as he waited to pull his county-owned vehicle through the huge chain-link fence that surrounded the epicenter of criminal activity in all of North Georgia—his childhood home. The fence had been put up recently. It wasn’t there the last time Clayton was this high up the mountain. The thin young man waved him in, and tipped his ball cap to him as Clayton crept his Bronco past him, and parked it in the dirt lot. The man at the gate, who was really no more than a boy, hollered out as Clayton cut the engine. “You can go right on in, Mr. Burroughs. Everybody is waitin’ for you.”