Thunder and Rain

by Charles Martin

  Dumps said, “Me neither.” He led him to the truck. I extended my hand. “Hey, Mike. How you doing?”

  “Ranger Steele.”

  “Mike, you can call me Tyler or Cowboy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We drove to Myrlene’s, a diner in town. Mike sat across from us as we sipped coffee. He was quiet and kept staring at the walls and the space between them. Occasionally, he looked at the door and the fact that it was not locked. He ate a steak, five eggs, some biscuits, and drank a pot of coffee. Then he ordered ice cream. They brought him five scoops. He laughed. “One for each decade.”

  He looked at Dumps. “Been lonely since you got out.”

  Dumps nodded.

  Mike smiled. “All the rest of my cell mates snored. But, not you. You never uttered a peep.”

  I asked him, “Mike, you got any plans?”

  He laughed. “Hadn’t planned on getting out, so no, sir, I don’t really have any.”

  “Got any family?”

  “Yes, sir. Got a brother in California. He sent me a bus ticket. Asked me to come live with him. He owns a vineyard. Thought I might spend some time growing grapes.”

  I asked him, “You got any money?”

  He shook his head. “They wanted to give me a few dollars for my time served and hours worked but I asked them to send it to the widow of the man I shot.” He fell quiet. “So, no. I ain’t got none.”

  Dumps handed him five hundred dollars in cash. Jumpy eyed the money. He didn’t say nothing for a long time. Finally, he swallowed and said, “Thanks, Pat. I’m grateful.” Dumps passed him a box. Mike lifted the lid. Inside he found a new pair of boots. He nodded again, slipped them on his feet and smiled like a Cheshire cat.

  We ate a few more minutes, then walked across the street to the bus station. As the bus pulled up, he said, “Ranger?”

  I turned to him.

  “There’s word in the prison that Machete”—he cleared his throat—“I mean, Chuarez, well, he didn’t get his release like he was hoping. He’s downright mad. There’s talk he aims to manufacture his own release. And, if’n you’re asking me, he’s got the means to do just that. You best be on the lookout.”

  I extended my hand. “Thanks, Mike. You take care. And”—I smiled—“stay out of trouble.”

  He nodded. “I aim to do just that.”

  Dumps hugged him and he hopped on the bus.

  Dumps looked at me as the bus pulled away. “You know he’s telling the truth about Chuarez. He’s got no reason to lie.”

  “I know.”

  “What’re you going to do?” He glanced at the bell tower, then back at me.

  I raised an eyebrow and gritted my teeth.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m not as old and dumb as I look.”

  I scratched my chin. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  We walked back to where I’d parked the truck, and Myrlene came out of the diner and stopped me. She’d run that diner for as long as I can remember and always wore the same light blue dress and white apron. Sort of like Richie Rich but in a poorer, female version. She tugged on my sleeve and motioned me out of earshot of any passersby. She whispered, “That girl you brought into town, the one down at Georgia’s, what’s her story?”

  “Just a woman needing a break.”

  “Well”—she looked at me over the top of her reading glasses—“there was a man here this morning.” The skin started crawling up the back of my neck. “Big, muscular guy. Never seen him before. He had breakfast, showed me his badge and then a picture of the woman, asked me if I knew her. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  I turned quickly. “Thanks, Myrlene.”

  I had two thoughts. Hope and Sam and in that order. Dumps and I jumped in the truck and drove back alleys to school. Beth was in her office when I ran around the corner. She said, “Cowboy, you okay?”

  “I need Hope Dyson and I need her right now.”

  She flipped through a notebook on her desk, then said, “Follow me.” We walk-jogged down a hall, turned left, then down another. Hope was sitting at her desk. I felt myself exhale slightly. She saw me, smiled and then the smile left her face. I reached down, scooped her up and started walking toward my truck. Dumps followed close behind. She clung to my neck, looking at me. “Cowboy?”

  “Honey, I need you to hang on to me and keep your eyes peeled. You understand?”

  She started trembling and wet her pants.

  “Did he find us?”

  “I think so.”

  She started crying. “I knew he would. I knew it.”

  I placed her on the seat and Dumps and I jumped in. Dumps put his arm around her. We wound through the older brick streets of town coming up to the back of the Georgia Peach. I stopped two blocks away and turned to Dumps. “Drive her to my old office. I’ll call in, tell them you’re coming. She’ll be safe there.”

  Hope clung to me. “Cowboy, I don’t want to—”

  I peeled her off me. “Hope.” I looked at her in the eyes. “I need you to go with Dumps. I’ll be along with your mom directly. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, go along then.”

  Dumps walked around to the driver’s side while I grabbed my AR-15 and black tactical vest out of the box in the back of my truck. He drove off and I began the two-block walk down the alley that ran behind the storefront. While I walked I dialed. Debbie picked up after one ring. “DPS. Ranger Company C.”

  “Debbie, it’s Cowboy.”

  “Hey, Cow—”

  I cut her off. “Dumps is bringing in a little girl. I need you to keep an eye on her. Officially. And I need you to send whoever is close to the Georgia Peach. Right now. And tell them to come heavy.”

  “Roger that.”

  “I am en route. Walking up the back alley behind Smith’s Antiques. I don’t want to get shot by my own people so tell them to keep an eye out.”

  I clicked the phone shut just as a portly man I did not know walked backwards out of Smith’s. He was moving what looked like a bed. I cleared my throat. He saw my badge and rifle, set down the bed, and walked back inside.

  The Georgia Peach sat in a stand-alone brick building surrounded by grass and a parking lot out back. I crept up to the corner of the closest building, set my hat on the sidewalk behind me and slowly glanced at the back door which sat some forty yards away. All was quiet.

  Through a window I could see Georgia, but her posture told me something wasn’t right. She never stood still. At the moment, she looked to be barely breathing. She was quartering away from me. As was the lady in her chair. Neither looked very happy. I slid up the side wall in the shadows.

  About midway, the gunshot rang out.

  A second and a half later, I reached the door.

  TV shows often depict guys like me flying through doors in moments like this. And sometimes that’s needed. But so was a cool head. I didn’t know who’d shot or at whom. And flying through a door may mean they’d turn that same gun on me and shoot without thinking. I stood off to one side, turned the knob, and firmly pushed the door open. Using the muzzle as an extension of my hands, I peered around the door.

  Billy knelt in the middle of the room, blood streaming down the side of his face and neck, hands in the air. Most of his left ear was gone. Sam stood in front of him, holding Andie’s Les Baer just inches from Billy’s nose. The muzzle was shaking, Sam was crying, and her finger sat on the trigger. At that distance, I doubted she’d miss. Georgia stood over her shoulder pointing a Smith & Wesson .357 at the side of Billy’s face. She was calm, collected, and half of her face hung in an upturned smile. He may be one heckuva lawman in San Antone, but up here, he didn’t stand a chance.

  Four women sat in chairs to my left, flanked by stylists. Most of them were in some degree of shock and most were crying. All except Georgia who was whispering, “Pull the trigger, Sam. We’re all witnesses. You were just defending yourself.”

  I stepped into
the doorway and Billy glanced at me. He looked like he wished he was anywhere but right there. He’d definitely gotten more than he bargained for. He’d clearly not been expecting Sam to be carrying Andie’s .45. Sam never glanced at me. She was telling him what she thought of him and doing a pretty good job of it, too. I didn’t figure I had long before she torched that thing off again. If I set a hand on her, I was pretty sure she’d flinch and yank on the trigger, leaving Billy with little more than a canoe for a head. Yes, that’s what he deserved and yes I hoped he’d rot in hell for what he did to Hope but Sam didn’t need that on her conscience. Killing a man changes you. Even one that deserves it.

  I whispered. “Sam?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I leaned in closer. “Sam?”

  Still no answer.

  I brought the muzzle of my rifle up alongside her .45 and said, “Samantha?”

  Billy was dripping blood onto the floor. His eyes were bouncing between Sam’s muzzle, Georgia’s, and mine. Sam looked at me. I spoke softly. “You have every right to do what you’re wanting to do, and he deserves it. I won’t stop you. But it won’t help you sleep any better. Won’t take the hurt away. Won’t fix all this.”

  She spoke through gritted teeth. “What will? Permanently.”

  I couldn’t blame her. She knew now he’d never have stopped until he found them.

  I’d had a pretty good feeling she’d had it all along. If I were her I wouldn’t want folks looking at pictures of me or my child doing stuff, or having stuff done to them, that shouldn’t be on video. Ever. And she didn’t need to explain that. Didn’t need to justify it. She was—she thought—protecting Hope. She had reasoned that if she could get away, disappear, brush it under the rug, that the problem would disappear, too. But motivated men like Billy don’t brush away easily. Especially when their entire life is at stake. I said, “The thumb drive.”

  She shook her head, pressed the muzzle to his forehead, and held it there, thinking. After a few seconds, she thumbed the safety up and on and then swung it as hard as she could across his face, sending him to the floor. When he rolled over, his nose had been spread horizontally across his face. Sam returned Andie’s Les Baer to her backpack—the backpack she never let get very far from her. She unzipped the front pocket, pulled out a thumb drive and a small, portable hard drive. Billy’s one unswollen eye grew Oreo big. She set both on the table next to me and then sat down at her pedicure station and started crying. I turned to Billy. “On your stomach. Keep your hands where I can see them—behind you.”

  He did as instructed. I pulled a Glock 23 off his hip and a 27 off his ankle about the time three officers came in through the front door and two more through the back followed by my captain who looked curious to see what kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into. He looked at me, assessed the situation, and said, “So, this is what retirement looks like?” He nodded. “I like it. Maybe I’ll retire, too.” He tipped his hat to Georgia who was still standing over Billy. “Georgia, how you doing this fine afternoon?”

  She never took her eyes off Billy. “Just fine and, no”—the silver weapon flashed in her hand—“I’m not putting this back where it belongs till Cowboy tells me I can.”

  Captain nodded. “Good call.”

  Twenty minutes later, Billy sat handcuffed in the back of an unmarked car after having been read his rights. He was quiet as a church mouse and bleeding into a towel. I leaned against the car and explained the situation to my captain. He glanced inside the car. “She dang near shot off the side of his head.”

  “Yeah, a hearing aid won’t fix that.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “I’m not sure anything’ll fix that. That looks like it hurts.” He tapped on the window. “Does that hurt? It looks right painful.” He edged closer to the window, squinted and pointed to Billy’s face. “I think your nose may be broken.” Captain has a strange sense of humor.

  About then, Sam stepped out of the Peach, backpack over her shoulder. She walked up to me, and captain tipped his hat, “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She looked up at me, arms crossed. Tapping one foot, she looked like she had something she wanted to say. I tried to break the ice. “You shot most of his ear off.”

  “I was trying to hit his face but I was shaking so much…” She trailed off, crossed her arms, looked away. “I owe you an explanation.”

  “You don’t owe me any—”

  She jerked her head toward me. “Would you just—I want to.”

  I listened.

  “I did lose the thumb drive in the A/C vent, but once I got the car started I got so angry that I ran back and about tore the place apart trying to get it out. I knew we had to have it and I wasn’t about to leave it for that sick son of a—.” She glanced at him in the car. “Then I stole the hard drive for good measure just as he was coming out of the bathroom. I didn’t tell you I had it because, firstly, I don’t want pictures of me, of my little girl, used as evidence. We are not evidence. We are women, or Hope will be one day, and I don’t want people studying us in a courtroom. We’re not circus freaks. It’s painful enough without all that.” She looked away. “And secondly, I was gonna tell you at the Ritz, honest, but, I—” Her foot began tapping faster. “After you, well, I wanted you to have a reason to keep us around. A reason to not just drop us off at some police station. Thought if you didn’t, you’d, well, drive off into the damned sunset and leave us. Leave me.” She put her hands on her hips. “I never, in a million years, thought you’d drive down there. All the way back to Billy’s. What kind of a man does that?” She shook her head, pushed the hair out of her eyes and pursed her lips. The tears were coming again. “I know it was selfish, but I’m not sorry.” Another glance in the car. “Not one bit.” She turned, and walked back into the Peach as Dumps and Hope walked through the front door.

  About then Georgia walked up to the car. She was wearing her apron. I could see the bulge of her revolver in the front pocket. She looked at me square. “Cowboy?” It was posed as a question but she was only getting my attention to tell me something.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She glanced in the car, judging the distance. “Is he going to prison?”

  “I believe so.”

  She stepped closer, looking in the car. Her tone changed. “You believe so… or you know so?”

  She slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron. I stepped between her and the car. “Georgia?”

  She looked up at me.

  “We got this.”

  She raised her chin, stared at me, not backing off an inch. “You promise?”

  I nodded. “I can promise you that what is about to happen to this man in prison is a lot worse than being shot by you.”

  She nodded, half smiled, and walked back into her salon.

  Three hours later, we’d finished the mountain of paperwork required in an incident involving a shooting. The captain cut me loose and I drove to town. To the apartment.

  I knocked on the door. Hope and Sam were packing. Or rather, Hope was watching Sam pack. I poked my head inside. Hope eyed me from the couch. Turbo, with all her youngins, lay in a shoebox on her lap. They were nursing. Turbo looked tired. I whispered, “What’re you all doing?”

  She glanced toward the sound of loud noises in the bedroom. “Packing.”

  I nodded and knocked on the bedroom door. She called from inside. “What!”

  I pushed it open. She saw me. “Oh.” Her face was flush. Mascara had smeared. “Where you going?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  She plopped down on the bed, started rolling one thumb over the other and shook her head once.

  “You can’t leave.”

  She turned quickly. “Why? They don’t expect me to stay here so they can put Hope on the witness stand? I’m not about to subject her to—”

  “I’d never let them do that and you know it, so why the pack and dash?”<
br />
  She threw some clothes down on the bed and crossed her arms. Shielding herself. “I thought maybe it was just best if we left. That we’d overstayed our welcome, that you were ready to be rid of us. That you were tired of women lying to you about stuff that matters and maybe it was best if I closed the last page on this fairy tale I been living here with you and Brodie and Georgia and Dumps and this Mayberry town. That maybe it’d be best if I just woke me up from the dream I been dreaming. That maybe this train wreck of a woman would just do you a favor and—”

  She was rambling. She needed reeling in. I tapped the face of my watch. “Twenty-six hours.”

  She looked confused. Exasperated. “What?”

  Another tap. “Twenty-six hours, and counting.”

  She threw up her hands. “I’m not staying here another twenty-six minutes—”

  I interrupted her. “Two important things happen in twenty-six hours: my divorce will be final and we have a date. Remember? The river? And, I don’t mean to put words in your mouth, but you said something about a surprise.”

  She took a deep breath, tried not to smile, and said, “You still want to take me out? Even after the—” She ran her finger in a curlicue circle.

  “Ummm, yes, but you might want to wash some of that black stuff off your eyes. You look like a raccoon.”

  She laughed. Palmed the tears away from her face, smearing it worse. “You’re sure?”

  Now she looked like a member of an eighties rock and roll band. I stepped across and kissed her on the forehead. “Yes.”

  She hooked her index finger inside my belt loop, pulling me toward her and resting her forehead against my chest. “Thank you for today.”

  I kissed her again. “I told you, it’s what I do.” I walked toward the door, turned, and tapped my watch. “Twenty-five hours, fifty-eight minutes and thirty seconds.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Dumps took Brodie to a local rodeo, which gave me about an hour to get ready. I shaved, ironed my clothes, polished my boots, and combed my hair, twice. Which I don’t ever remember doing. I even stole some of Brodie’s hair gel. It wasn’t Dapper Dan but it’d do in a pinch.