by Thomas Scott
A quiver ran through Virgil’s jaw and he was surprised and ashamed at his inability to control its movement. But something else was happening along the way, and when it did, his breathing became more regular and his heart began to slow. If he was at his end, if this was his time, Virgil vowed to himself that he would go with as much courage as he could muster. His regrets were few, though significant. When he closed his eyes he saw Sandy and how they were just beginning their journey, a journey she would have to continue without him. He saw a faceless child and though he could not tell if it were a boy or a girl, he knew it was his and Sandy’s. The thought of how he would never know a child’s love or the joys of being a grandparent in the later season of his life filled Virgil with a sense of loss greater than he’d ever known. Then he saw his dad and Virgil suddenly realized that any pain he was about to endure would be immeasurable compared to the pain his father would suffer at the loss of his only son. When he spoke again his voice was strong, and for a moment showed no fear.
“No matter what happens to me here, I’ve got people in my life who won’t rest until this is squared. Do you hear me? Whatever you think would happen to you if you walk away now is nothing compared to what it will be if you don’t. You won’t be caught and convicted. You’ll be hunted like animals and someone, somewhere will flip your switch. You won’t even see it coming. Samuel Pate isn’t worth what you’re doing here, don’t you see that?”
The taller of the two men walked over and picked up the roll of duct tape from the table. He took the cloth they had used to blindfold him and forced it into Virgil’s mouth, then tore a foot-long piece of tape from the roll and placed it over the cloth. “Samuel Pate? You think this is about Ol’ Sermon Sam?” He looked at the shorter man and said, “You hear that?”
The shorter man shook his head. “Come on, let’s get going, already,” he said. “I don’t want to be here all night.” He then stepped closer and pressed the stun gun against the side of Virgil’s ribcage and pulled the trigger.
The shock of the stun gun locked his body in a rigid arc against the restraints and caused Virgil’s bowels and bladder to let go, the air rife with the odor of waste. He felt his heart stammer in his chest and the shock roared through his body like a double-header locomotive steaming through an electrical storm in the middle of the night. Both men jumped back away from Virgil’s incontinence and the short man said, “Ah, Christ, look at that. Why don’t we just park one in his squash and be done with it?”
“You know why,” the tall man said. “We’re supposed to do it slow, make it last. He’s supposed to suffer before he gets it. Now grab that hose over by the wall and rinse him down. I ain’t gonna work standing in his shit.”
Virgil was numb from the shock they had just given him and when the water hit he couldn’t tell if it was hot or cold. The short man sprayed the fecal matter and urine from the floor while the tall man took pictures, the flash of the camera momentarily lighting the darkened corners of the room.
The short man dropped the hose then picked up the mallet and beat Virgil repeatedly across both thighs, his stomach and chest. One of the blows struck him square on the shin of his leg and the bone cracked like a dead twig yanked from the branch of a tree. He tried to cry out but the rag held in his mouth by the duct tape prevented all but the smallest of sounds from escaping his throat. The tall man shocked him repeatedly with the stun gun and it took no time at all before Virgil lost all control of his body. His heart beat in an irregular fashion from the electrical charge and he was unable to draw even the most ragged of breaths through his nose. His nostrils flared wide as he tried to find his dying purchase of air.
His body hung limp now, his head low on his chest, its weight more than he could manage. His eyes watered without shame and in his quest for air Virgil had swallowed part of the rag and it now blocked his airway completely.
The tall man took another picture then ripped the tape from Virgil’s mouth and pulled out the rag. A mixture of blood and drool ran down his chin and dripped across the flat of his stomach before it hit the floor and Virgil knew he was bleeding on the inside. The pain was unbearable, but with the rag out of his mouth he was able to get enough air to remain conscious. Virgil looked at the tall man once again and when he did he saw something behind him that gave him hope, not just for himself, but for all the things he thought he might never experience.
He gathered what little remaining strength he possessed and lifted his head to speak. “Murton Wheeler is going to square this.”
“I doubt it. Undercover fed’s have a way of falling off the map sometimes. We’re going to take care of him just like you. Your time here is up, Bub. Like I said, nothing personal, but you went and rattled the wrong cage.”
Virgil felt his chest getting heavy and knew he was drowning in his own blood. He spit more blood from his mouth and lifted his head for what he was sure would be the last time. “I know where he is. Wheeler.”
The short man had moved over to where the tall man stood and they were now standing side by side, no more than a foot away. “Okay, I’ll bite, tough guy. It’ll save us the trouble of finding him. Where is he?”
“Right behind you,” Murton said. When he raised his arms in front of him, Virgil saw he held two chrome plated semi-automatic thumb busters, one in each hand. The light reflected off the .45’s polished finishes and danced around the enclosure like shards from a broken mirror. He pulled the triggers on both guns at the same time, his arms flying high with the recoil of the massive weapons. The two men flew backwards as if they had been tied to a catapult and yanked from the room. Murton ran past and Virgil saw his lips move but the gunshots had temporarily deafened him so he couldn’t hear what he said. But he did hear two more shots behind him, one right after the other and when Murton walked back around in front of him, Virgil eventually heard him, though his words seemed slow and sluggish, like someone had pulled the power cord to an old LP record player, the music of his voice getting slower and deeper as the record spun to a stop.
“Don’t you die on me, Jonesy. I’m going to get you out of here. Just like before, remember? Hang in there man. Jonesy? God damn it, Jonesy, don’t you die, you hear me? Jonesy?”
In the distance Virgil thought he heard a siren, but he didn’t know if it was real or imaginary. When Murton cut the ties that held him against the steel beam and lowered him to the floor, Virgil was sure he saw his mother. She stood behind them, her face radiant, the room somehow brighter with her presence. She shadowed Murton’s efforts, her hands over the top of his as she directed his movements and though he tried to reach out to them both, Virgil was too weak to move his arms and once again he slipped away, uncertain of his fate, his body warm in the embrace of his past.
21
Jenny Anderson needed something. Trouble was, she just didn’t know what it might be. She was bored. Not in the moment I’ve-got-nothing-to-do-right-now kind of bored, but bored with her life. She had no children to care for, she and her husband Bob found out long ago they would never conceive a child—her anatomy, not his—but it never bothered them enough to look at radical methods of child bearing like having someone carry a child for them. That just didn’t seem right. “Might as well adopt a kid,” Bob had said one evening about ten years ago. So they talked about that—twenty minutes all told—before they decided they didn’t want the fuss and bother of the paperwork, not to mention the expense.
She didn’t work. No, Jenny was not a worker. She was a stay at home wife. Yawn. Had nothing against work, really. Work was a tool. You used it to earn income to provide for yourself and your family. The problem with work was, if it wasn’t a career, a real love-what-you-do kind of thing, like a doctor, or lawyer, or in her husband Bob’s case, Air Traffic Controller, what was the point? It’s not like they needed the money. The economy sucked anyway. Let someone else trade their time for cash minus taxes, thank you.
Friends? Sure, there were a few, but nobody she’d take a bullet for. The truth of
the matter was, Jenny was sort of stuck between good ol’ Mr. Rock and Sir Hard Place. She liked her solitude, but it sometimes bored her right out of her goddamned gourd.
And why in the world had she just knighted Hard Place?
Jenny walked outside to the pool with only one thing on her mind, the one thing that kept her from losing her mind.
Sex.
Yes sir, if there was one thing that got Jenny through her days it was good old-fashioned sex. She’d knock one off with Bob before he left to play his video games at the airport, and usually hit him up at night before bed, but Bob was, what? Worn out? No, that wasn’t it. Fact was, it wasn’t about big Bob at all. It was about her. She just couldn’t get enough. She’d had a few guys on the side from time to time—one had even been a co-worker of Bob’s—but that had fizzled like all the rest when they found out how insatiable her desires were. So most days she did what she liked best. Herself. Then, not long ago, she discovered something that killed her boredom like a big ol can of Bore-B-Gone.
An audience.
She stuck her big toe in the water of their built-in pool, more of a ritual than a gauge of temperature. The gas heater kept the water at a perfect eighty-five degrees throughout the season. A glance at her wristwatch told her the time, and a slow, almost wicked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She undid the tie that held her robe closed and let it fall open, the front of her naked body exposed to the expanse of the back yard and the tree line beyond. When she was sure he was out there—she’d caught just a hint of movement at the corner of the tree line, she let the robe fall to the ground and stood nude, her body his to admire.
As K.C. and the boys would say, Jenny was puttin’ on her boogie shoes.
The Sids were in place and ready, Junior with the rifle at the edge of the tree line, Senior back near the van, covering the road in case anyone from the cell company showed up. It was unlikely, but it paid to be thorough. When the woman came out to sunbathe, Junior would take care of business and they’d be out of there.
Nothing to it.
Jimmy Hamilton had a situation. One of those genuine you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me situations. His house—okay, his parent’s house—sat on the other side of the access road from the Anderson’s. A tree line, much thinner than the one on the Anderson’s side separated his yard from the narrow gravel road. You could cross the road in two quick steps, nothing to it. He’d done it twice a day for the last month since school let out. Sometimes three. Both his parents worked, so he was alone during the days. Weekends sucked because Mr. Anderson was home, as were his own parents. But the weekdays were his. His and Mrs. Anderson’s.
Jenny.
Jimmy was naked from the ankles up; the only clothing that covered anything at all on his body of sixteen years was a pair of New Balance sneakers. He had his back and butt pressed tight against the chain link fence that bordered the cell tower’s base and it was starting to hurt. He cursed himself for the foolish, even perverted bravado he had displayed. His shorts were on the other side of the road, his side, where he’d left them before crossing over and into the thicker trees. He should have kept them with him, but over the last month he’d grown more and more daring as he looked for ways to increase his level of excitement.
The first time he’d seen her laying nude by the pool he was just out exploring the area, looking for a nice quiet place to spark a doob. He crossed the access road and ventured into the tree line, sat on a log and lit up. When he heard the music he walked a little deeper into the trees and that’s when he saw her. She was completely naked, just floating around in the pool on a couple of those foam snakes, one under her arms and one under her knees. Jimmy dropped his doobie, then his shorts. It didn’t take much, six or seven tugs before he came and when he did, he let out a moan that caused Mrs. Anderson to raise her head and look at the tree line.
Jimmy froze, an honest to God deer in the headlights freeze. He didn’t know if he should run or not. But then something happened, something that made Jimmy hard again almost immediately. Mrs. Anderson got out of the pool, looked toward the trees, right where he was standing with his Johnson in his hand, and waved at him.
Jimmy had to hold onto a tree with his free hand to keep from falling over.
Over the next few weeks he watched Jenny swim, he watched her exercise, he watched her lie in the sun, he watched her masturbate, and once he watched her blow her husband when he came home early from work. That had been the best.
This was only the third time he had ventured over nude. The last two times he had actually stepped out from the tree line and into her backyard and when he did she immediately started pounding away at herself. When he took a few steps forward toward the pool though, she held up her hand, palm out indicating she wanted him to stop. He guessed it was because of his age.
He guessed right. The next time he showed up there was a hand written note stuck in the branches of the tree he always leaned on. It wasn’t addressed to him, but it was for him. It simply said: You’re too young. I can’t allow anything more. But please keep visiting me. I love to watch and be watched.
Jimmy couldn’t believe it. Sure, he was disappointed that he couldn’t have her; she was hot, hot, hot. Perfect, in fact. But the please keep visiting me part? He’d take that in a heartbeat. For now anyway. If he could keep her going for another two years, really only a year and a half, he would be old enough to cross the backyard and go all the way.
But right now, today, he had a problem. A genuine OMFG, shriveled up nut-sack sort of problem. He had no sooner begun to cross the road, naked as a jaybird as his grandma would have said, when he saw the white van creeping along through the turn. He just managed to duck behind the cell tower’s shack—there wasn’t enough time to turn around and dart to his side—as the van came around the bend in the road and made a U-turn right in front of the tower’s perimeter fence. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t go forward. For the moment, he was trapped.
Naked.
With a boner.
Junior was close enough she could hear the naked bitch moaning someone’s name. Johnny, or Joey, or something. Couldn’t quite make it out. Not that it mattered. Jesus, she thought as she watched the woman masturbate. What was it with people these days? Every last one of them nuttier than a squirrel turd. She thought about parking one right in her biscuit.
Needed a death shot, though.
Took it, too.
Jimmy couldn’t take it anymore. He was just about to say to hell with it and make a run for his side of the fence when he heard a rustle in the trees to his left. He saw someone moving through, just a shape in the shadows. Then, when she came out of the trees, he peaked around the corner of the fencing and saw her. A woman. A good-looking woman at that, and an older man. Not real old though. His dad’s age, maybe. Fifty-ish. The woman was carrying a rifle. When they got in the van and drove away, Jimmy realized he’d been holding his breath. He memorized the plate on the back of the van and wondered why the woman held a rifle? Was it hunting season? Jimmy didn’t know anything about hunting laws, but surely no one would hunt in the suburbs, even ones as secluded as this.
What Jimmy did know about was nature’s law. With his boner still long and strong, Jimmy headed for the edge of the Anderson’s property line. And why not? The van was gone.
Plus, he hadn’t heard a shot, so what was the problemo? Jimmy thought he’d spray some DNA and be on his way. He was aching for it.
The problemo was, when Jimmy saw Jenny’s dead body and the puddle of blood that leaked from the hole in her head and into the pool, Jimmy sprayed some DNA all right, just not the kind he’d hoped. He vomited all over his New Balance sneakers, which coincidentally, did not live up to their name. He fell to the ground and tried to convince himself what he saw wasn’t real. When he finally managed to stand, covered in puke and leaves and dirt, he started toward his own house. He walked at first, and then he started to run. Kept repeating the plate number of the van over and over in his head.
Sid, Sr. drove them out of the suburbs and into town. Junior looked out the window and thought about her lover, Amanda. They had one more shot to take…this was the big one, and then it would be over. She and Amanda could be together at last. They already had their place picked out down in the Keys. With the money Amanda had siphoned off over the last few years, they’d be able to live comfortably, though not extravagantly. But that was all right. Anything to be together and out of Indiana.
“Are you listening to me?” Senior said. “How are we doing on time?”
The governor was holding a press conference to announce his intentions to run for reelection. The media would be there and the entire thing would be captured on television.
“We’re doing good,” Junior said.
“Keep your head in the game. We’re almost through.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Junior said.
“Don’t get all mystical on me now. This is it. After we pop fly boy we’re outta here.”
“You never did tell me where you’re going.”
Senior laughed a wicked little laugh. “I’m going to hell, darling. But I’ll be going via Mexico. You and that crazy cunt still going to the Keys?”
Junior wished she’d never told him where they were going, but she had, so… “Yeah. Leaving tonight. And don’t call her that. We’re in love.”
“That right? Well, that was something about Sermon Sam, though, huh?”
