by J. D. Barker
There were two chairs at the table; one empty, the other occupied by Duncan Bellino.
The last time I saw Dunk was on television, five years earlier. Several men were loading him and his wheelchair into a Dodge Durango after making bail on multiple drug trafficking charges he would later beat. He had been thin, horribly so, a shadow of the person I once knew. He filled out since then. His arms looked like tree trunks. He wore a Mötley Crüe tee-shirt. A black tattoo inched out at the base of his neck. I couldn’t tell what it was.
“Remember when we came here? You, me, and Willy? We were what, ten or eleven?”
We had been twelve. About three months before the great chase down Nobles Lane. Willy slipped on one of the catwalks and got a nice scrape down his right arm. He spent the next month hiding it from his mom while Dunk and I tried to convince him the tetanus shot he got the previous summer was only good for two weeks and he’d have lockjaw soon.
As Dunk looked up at me from the table, I heard Gerdy’s laugh in my head, I heard Krendal shouting for me to bus table twelve. I thought about all the people who died the day of the diner fire, and I thought about the one who didn’t. I wanted to jump over the table, wrap my hands around his neck, and choke every ounce of life out of him. Squeeze until his eyes bulged and went cloudy. He shouldn’t be here, and I was the reason he was.
He stood, a little wobbly, but he stood. I hadn’t noticed the cane leaning against his chair. He gripped the handle in his right fist, supporting himself, favoring his left leg. Even through his jeans, I could tell the left leg was thinner than the right, perched at an odd angle.
Dunk slammed the palm of his hand down on the table. The smack echoed off the metal walls. “Look at you, my hero! He who cannot die! I told my boys all about you—shot at by robbers when you were what—eight, nine? Run over by your girlfriend’s SUV couple years after that, hell, you’ve even walked through fire. Every time, not a scratch! You can’t even drink yourself to death, and from what I’ve heard, you’ve been working hard at it. I can see that one in your eyes. Funny, after all you’ve been through, it’s the booze that leaves a mark. Can always tell a drunk by their eyes.” He shrugged. “We’ve all got our demons, I suppose. Turns out, I ain’t got so much luck, not like you. I’m a damn bullet magnet. That day at the diner, Alonzo plugged me five times—shoulder, chest, gut…the two to my leg did the most damage, though. One of ’em is still in there. The docs couldn’t fish the damn thing out, said removing it could increase my nerve damage, limit muscle mobility.” He waved a hand around. “They told me I’d never walk on this leg again. I told ’em they were wrong about that. Then I had to show ’em ’cause nobody believed me. Took a couple years, but no wheelchair anymore,” he said behind a grin. “We had a little party and pushed that thing over the side of Hot Metal Bridge.”
“Good for you.”
“Guess we’re both a little hard to kill, bounce back from adversity, and all that.” He dropped back down into the chair and lowered the cane to the floor. “Take a seat, Jack.”
“I’m fine right here.”
One of the men behind the table stepped toward me, but froze when Dunk glanced at him. Dunk reached behind his back and pulled out a small gun. He smiled thinly at it, then set the weapon on the table, gave it a tap with his finger so it spun in a half-circle. “Remember this gun?”
I did. His father’s .38. I think I memorized every millimeter of it the day I brought the gun with me to the bench in the cemetery all those years ago. The .38 seemed so big back then, like a cannon.
“I always figured my pops would eat this gun. Remember how he used to hide it? We’d have to climb up on chairs and boxes just to get it down. That last year, it got to the point where he just left it lying around the house. I found it in the bathroom once, on the floor next to the shitter. He’d been in there for over two hours before that, then just came stumbling out and dropped onto his bed. I figured he was shooting up. He’d been doing that. I wasn’t sure when he started. I went into the bathroom to make sure he didn’t leave his needles on the floor, because he had done that too, and I damn near stepped on one in the middle of the night when I went to take a piss. Didn’t find any needles that day, just this gun on the floor. I must have stared at the gun for an hour, wondering how close I came to finding him dead. I started hiding it, different places around the apartment, but he always found it. Then I’d find it again, in some weird place—the bathtub, in the refrigerator, in the microwave. Sometimes right out in the open on the kitchen table or the counter. This was around the same time I was helping you with your aunt. God, I loved that woman, closest thing to a mom I ever had. I thought about hiding the gun at your place, even did once, but I’ll be damned if this peashooter didn’t turn back up a few days later in the middle of the floor in my apartment. I always meant to ask if you found it and put it there…”
I shook my head.
“Another one of life’s great mysteries, I suppose,” Dunk went on. “When he started doing the heroin around the clock, I gave up on hiding the gun and I started leaving it right out in the open. Figured if he was going to kill himself, best to give him the opportunity to do it fast. He went with the needle, though, the sad fuck.” He leaned forward, his breath smelled of onions. “I’ve known a few to eat a gun over the years. I heard you joined the club, too. That crazy woman from across the hall a few years back, what was her name?”
“Leech, Elfrieda Leech.”
“Yeeeeeaaah.” He drew the word out, like an exhale. “Who’d a thunk it? Takes balls to eat a gun. Don’t know if I could go out like that.” He turned toward one of the guys standing behind the table, big enough to be a linebacker. “What about you, Truck? Think you could swallow a bullet?”
His head swiveled on his shoulders. Someone forgot to give him a neck. “Not me, boss. I’d go with pills. Maybe in a nice, warm bath. Take a handful and nod off. That’s the way to go, nice and peaceful.”
“Not so nice for the guy who’s got to pull your fat, naked ass out of the tub, though, huh?” Dunk laughed. “Gotta think about those you leave behind. Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’, into the future…” He sang this last bit, his eyes closed. “Great echo in here. Love me some Steve Miller Band.” His eyes snapped open, and he nodded at the empty chair again. “Take a seat, Jack.”
This time I did sit. The door seemed awfully far away.
Dunk retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. He placed it on the table next to the gun and smoothed it out.
My poster of Stella with the words Have you seen me?
A grin filled his face. “I found your girl. Wasn’t easy, but I found her. She hasn’t gone by Stella Nettleton since that house of hers burnt down. Probably used at least a dozen names since, wouldn’t you say, Reid?”
Reid nodded. “At least. Bounced all over the country, too.”
“Why are you looking for her?”
“Because you’re my best friend, Jack. That’s what friends do. They help each other.”
“We’re not…” The words trailed away, and I regretted saying them out loud the moment they left my lips. I caught a quick glance from Reid to the large guy Dunk called Truck.
The smile fell from Dunk’s face, and he slouched back in his chair. “You still blame me for the diner, don’t you? For the shit Alonzo pulled? I told you I had nothing to do with it. Alonzo wanted Crocket dead, simple as that. I took five fucking bullets that day and nearly died. He turned me into a fucking cripple. If that was all part of some elaborate plan, it sure as shit wasn’t a very good one. If I wanted to take out Crocket, I would have done it myself. I would have knifed him, I would have wanted to watch the life leave his face, up close. None of that cowardly Godfather’s tommy-gun execution bullshit. Killing innocent people, people I loved, my friends. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t sanction that. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Alonzo was a shit,” Reid muttered. “Not a smart one, either. He was screwing with Crocke
t, dipping into funds and lining his own pockets. Crocket found out, planned on going after him. Alonzo panicked and acted first. Acted stupidly.”
Dunk leaned forward, looked me directly in the eye. “I. Wouldn’t. Do. That.”
My stomach churned, and my mouth filled with the taste of Jack Daniel’s from earlier. I should have brought the bottle with me. I couldn’t look at him. My eyes dropped to the poster of Stella.
“Where is she?”
Dunk sighed. “Tell me you believe me.”
“I believe you. Where is she?”
“That didn’t sound very sincere, Jack.”
I shook my head, stood, and nearly knocked the table over with my knees. “I’m not doing this.”
Truck dropped a hand on my shoulder before I could take a step. He pushed me back down into the chair. “Sit.”
Dunk waved a hand at him, and the large man released my shoulder. “Fine, Jack. You don’t have to say it right now, but think about it. Spend a little time on it, and you’ll figure out the truth. You’re a smart guy, and you know me. You know me better than anyone else.”
At one point, that was probably true. Not anymore, though. This wasn’t the kid I grew up with. He became some kind of thug. I followed enough of the local news to know he took over all of Crocket’s endeavors, just like the detectives said he would. He ran the local drug trade, probably prostitution and gambling, too. Even if what he said were true, and Alonzo Seppala had killed Crocket on his own, only Dunk benefited. More importantly, Gerdy, Krendal, and the others would still be alive if Dunk hadn’t gotten wrapped up in this world in the first place. Whether or not he pulled the trigger, their deaths were the result of his decisions and actions.
“You look like you need a drink,” Dunk said. “Somebody get him something.”
“I’m fine.”
His grin returned. “Like I said, we’ve all got our demons. You can either hide from them or embrace them. Either way, though, they’re right there, one step behind, maybe, but always on our heels.”
“Cut the shit, Dunk. If you know where she is, tell me. If not, I’m leaving.”
Dunk placed both hands on top of his father’s gun and folded his fingers. “We’re going to try a little experiment first.”
Dunk popped out the .38’s cylinder with his thumb, then turned the gun to the side. The bullets spilled out onto the table. He replaced one, gave the cylinder a spin, and locked it back in place.
“You can’t be serious.”
Dunk’s grin narrowed. “You want that drink now?”
Truck was smiling, Reid was not. The other guys were unreadable, stone statues.
Dunk set the gun back down in the center of the table. “He who cannot die, my hero.”
I glared at him. I wouldn’t look down at the gun. “Not a chance.”
“Crocket taught me many things before he died, but you know what my first lesson was? The very first thing he told me? Everything is a commodity. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, girls, gambling. If somebody wants something, you can attach a price tag to it. That price may vary by consumer, but everyone will pay. He also told me information can be one of the most lucrative commodities because it can be gotten for very little and offered at top dollar, to the right buyer, of course. Unlike some of the other items I mentioned—booze, drugs, cigarettes, girls—the core of Crocket’s original business, I took something else away from that conversation. It’s extremely difficult for the law to charge you with the purchase, possession, or sale of information. I knew at that point, at the ripe old age of sixteen, information was the future. I knew if I ever had the opportunity to run this business, I would shift the focus, find a way to deal in this unique commodity above all others.”
“If you know where she is, just name your price. I’ve got it. I can have cash to you within an hour.”
“I heard about your good fortune. Gave me another reason to like that woman. Your aunt wasn’t just tough, she was smart to set you up like that.” Dunk picked up one of the bullets and twirled it between his fingers. “I don’t want your money, though. I’ve got plenty of money. I want information.”
“What could I possibly know that would be of use to you?”
He set the bullet back down on the table, standing it up. A little tower of brass. “I want to know why you’re alive, after all you’ve been through, and I want to know why everyone who gets close to your little girlfriend is not.”
“You said it yourself, it’s blind luck. Or maybe stupidity, for putting myself in those situations in the first place.”
“I don’t think it’s either of those things.”
“What else is there?”
He nudged the gun toward me. “I want you to put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger.”
“No way.”
“You can spin the cylinder yourself, if you want.”
“No.”
“You’re drinking yourself to death. Why waste time? That’s all my father ever did. He dragged it out. This would have been so much easier on everyone.”
“I’m not suicidal.”
“Reid.”
At the mention of his name, Reid pulled a 9mm from a pancake holster in his jeans and pointed it at me. His thumb clicked off the safety.
“If you don’t do it,” Dunk went on, “Reid here will. He has one shot in the chamber, always does. He’s a Boy Scout like that. He’s got thirteen more in the clip. I’ve seen him hit guys running from twenty yards. From three feet away, he’s got zero chance of missing you. So, I’m giving you a choice. He shoots you, or you take a one-in-six chance with the revolver. Either way, we get to see how lucky you really are. Information. Valuable information.”
“I saved your life,” I said.
“You did, and I’m forever grateful for that.”
I looked down at the gun.
Dunk was serious. Reid, too. I think Reid was itching for the chance to put a bullet in me.
My fingers wrapped around the gun’s grip. I took the .38 in my hand and picked it up. “How did you find her?”
“I have people everywhere. Nobody can hide from me. She was tough, but I’ve found tougher.”
The gun felt cold to my touch, lighter than I remembered. “Cammie Brotherton, Jeffery Dalton, Jaquelyn Breece, or Keith Pickford.”
“Who?”
I looked up at him. “I do this, and you help me find them, too. Cammie Brotherton, Jeffery Dalton, Jaquelyn Breece, and Keith Pickford. They went to Penn State with my parents.”
Dunk smiled again. “I think I can—”
Spinning in my chair, I pointed the .38 at Reid’s chest and pulled the trigger.
There were two audible clicks.
The first came from the .38 in my hand as the hammer came down on an empty cylinder. The second click came from the gun in Reid’s hand as the 9mm failed to fire in return.
I jumped up from the table and slammed the .38 into his hand, smashing his fingers. This time, the 9mm did go off. The bullet went wide and clicked off metal somewhere deep in the shadows.
Dunk was up too, his bad leg shaking under the sudden weight. “Holy shit! Did you see that! Did you see that?”
I stepped back from all of them and pointed the .38 at Reid’s face. “Drop it!”
“Holy shit. I can’t believe that!” Dunk said. “Do it, Reid. Drop the gun.”
“I’ve got him dead center.”
“It won’t work.”
“Bullshit.”
I pulled the trigger—the .38 hit another empty cylinder.
Reid fired again, too. A hollow click.
“The .38 is empty, Jack,” Dunk said. “I palmed the bullet, see?” He held up a brass casing. “Holy shit. I didn’t think you’d really do it, but just in case you did, I couldn’t let you shoot yourself!”
Reid and I both stared at his gun.
Dunk’s eyes landed on the 9mm, too. “That one, though. I didn’t touch. Holy shit. Put it away, Reid. Holy shit, is my ticker racing right now!�
��
Reid reluctantly lowered the gun, thumbed the safety back on, and placed the 9mm back in his holster. His face flushed with anger.
Dunk steadied himself with his cane and came around the table. He took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. “She’s here. I don’t know for how long, though.”
I took the note and studied the address. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do on those other names. You’ve earned it. My boys will take you back to your car.” He started toward the two Escalades parked outside. “Holy shit,” I heard him say again. “My boy, Jack Thatch. Can’t believe you actually pulled the trigger.” He laughed. “He who cannot die pulled the trigger, my hero.”
3
Dewey Hobson had eluded him.
David Pickford was willing to admit that.
To grow as a human being, it was important to understand your limitations, your mistakes, and even your failures. And he had failed to find Dewey Hobson in the four years since deciding to do so. In his defense, the Charter files on Hobson were thin, not like the others. There were false leads, too. When Elfrieda Leech graciously told him Dewey Hobson was hiding in Tennessee about halfway between the Great Smoky Mountains and the Cumberland Plateau outside of Mascot, she fully believed he was there. She wasn’t wrong about that. Dewey Hobson had been there, for nearly six years. He called House Mountain his home. But when David and his team arrived four years ago, in April of 1994, he had moved on, leaving nothing behind but an empty two-room cabin, some old dishes, and a few burnt out logs in the hearth.
Hobson learned to live off the grid, and this was largely to blame for Charter’s inability to locate him for nearly twenty years.
Even if someone uses false identification, they leave recognizable patterns behind.
A man who loves to eat tuna sandwiches doesn’t stop loving tuna sandwiches just because he changed his name once or twice. Spending patterns were like fingerprints, and an analysis of spending patterns through bank records and credit histories was a fairly simple process for Charter. This was how they found some of the others.