He had purchased the pistol from a black man named Blue who lived in a shack on the outskirts of Huntsville, just a couple of miles from the Ellis Unit which had been his home for the past eighteen months. The cheapest ”Saturday Night Special” that Blue had to offer for what was left on Arlen’s debit card was a Jennings Model 25 with a clip full of 50-grain Winchester Full Metal Jacket rounds.
“Is it hot?” asked Arlen as he dubiously examined the pocket gun sans the clip, which Blue was holding onto until the deal was done.
“Well,” drawled Blue, who stood on the other side of a screen door, a big, shirtless man who filled the doorway “if you’s wantin’ a ‘cold’ piece you best have a couple Benjamins stashed somewheres. Least it ain’t a deuce deuce. Beggars can’t be choosers, and neither can ex-cons.”
“That obvious, huh.”
Blue nodded, flashing a big grin.The screen door’s hinges screeched in complaint as he put his left hand out. It held a Verifone credit card machine.
Arlen inserted the debit card. “How much?”
“Oh dat burner’s free.” Blue held up the clip in his right hand. “Dis tic-tac pack gonna cost you seventy-seven.” Once the transaction was done, Blue said, “So you must like it in the can, huh.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’s out less than a day and you’s buyin’ a piece, man.”
“I just have some business to settle.”
Arlen was zipping up the duffle when the motorcoach came to a stop with a jolt that bounced him between the narrow walls of the lav. He slipped the loaded Jennings in a back pocket and didn’t unlock the lavatory door until he heard the whoosh of the Greyhound’s compressed-air brakes over the hubbub of the other forty-odd passengers. He let all the others precede him in exiting the bus and gave the driver a “thanks” before stepping out.
It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening. The ride from Huntsville had taken eight hours and some change. Beside the sliding glass doors leading into the station was a sign with Lone Star flags flanking the words WELCOME TO WAYLAND: DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS.
Walking straight through the station he exited via the front doors and stepped to one side. An empty WPD cruiser was parked at the curb. He had seen the cop inside the station, keeping an eye on things. The uniform made him slightly nauseous.
The station was located in Wayland’s business district. The town square was two blocks north. A public parking lot, a half-block in size, was directly across the street. Next to it were several old three-story buildings dating back to before World War II, or maybe even World War I, he wasn’t sure. One of the buildings looked empty. The one on the corner, the old Piersall Building, had been renovated during his absence and now housed law offices.
Arlen watched a man leave the parking lot and cross the street at the intersection to his right, a tall, slender, dark-bearded man. It was the beard, thick and long, that caught his attention. The man turned right and approached the bus station. He was about to enter the station when he stopped, turned and smiled faintly at Jackson.
“Arlen Jackson?”
“How did you know?”
The smile broadened. “You locked onto me before I got across the street.” The man extended a hand. “Bill Kline. Preacher sent me to meet you. Welcome back.”
Arlen shook the proffered hand. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’m here to help out. Where can I take you?”
“Home. 77 Ridgeline Street. I want to see my wife. It’s been a couple years.”
Kline’s ride was a blue, late-model Expedition. He plugged the address into Google Drive as Jackson stowed his duffle in back. A moment later they were on their way.
“Long ride from Huntsville, huh,” said Kline, making small talk.
“Yeah.”
“Were you born here in Wayland?”
Arlen shook his head. He was drumming his fingers on the passenger door armrest. “Nah. Denton.”
“How did you end up down here?’
“Katie—that’s my wife—was born here. We met at Texas Tech. She got pregnant. We got married and then she miscarried. She wanted to come back home so we did. She got a job at the bank. I got a job with a farmer. He was growing marijuana among other things. But he paid well and I needed the job.” Arlen glanced at Kline. “Maybe you’re wondering why she couldn’t pick me up.”
Kline shook his head. “Nah. Not my business. Like I said, glad to help. How did you hear about Second Chance?”
“Someone in Ellis told me to call you when he found out where I was from.”
“Right. We’re based up the road in Tyler. Ex-cons helping ex-cons, you know? Preacher started it. His name is Milam Roe. He offers career and drug counseling for ex-cons, among other things.”
“Is he an ex-con, too? What was he in for?”
“Preacher believes that doesn’t matter. You do the crime, you do the time, and then it’s all in the past.”
Ridgeline was in an older neighborhood, with homes built in the Sixties and Seventies, some of them renovated, some of them gone to seed. 77 Ridgeline was one of the former. The house was dark and the yard had been long neglected. There was a Community Bank foreclosure notice on the door.
“That fucking bitch!” muttered Arlen, standing at the front door staring at the notice.. He began banging on the door. Kline, who had accompanied him up the sidewalk, stopped him.
“It’s late, man. Don’t want to wake up the neighborhood!”
“How could she do this? She let the fucking bank foreclose on our fucking house? The bank she fucking works for?” Enraged, Arlen tried to kick the door down.
Kline grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him back to the Expedition. Halfway there, Arlen jerked free, yanked the Jennings .25 from his back pocket and fired all six rounds into the plate glass window to the left of the door. He was disappointed that the glass pane didn’t shatter.
This time Kline grabbed him roughly, justled him into the passenger seat and ran around to the driver’s side. The Expedition roared down Ridgeline and went around the corner with tires squealing.
“God damn it!” railed Kline. “What are you doing with a gun?”
Arlen was slumped forward, head in hands. The pistol was in his lap. Kline grabbed it. He kept glancing in the rearview until they were well past the Wayland city limits.
Eventually Arlen sat up straight, wiped his eyes with a sleeve and said, with a dead voice, “I wrote her letters, but after a couple of months she stopped writing back. When I had phone privileges I tried to call but she never answered. Then the number wasn’t any good. Why? Why would she do this to me?”
“No idea. Sometimes they just can’t handle it. Sucks, I know. But why the piece, man? Were you planning to use it on your wife?”
Arlen sighed and said, in a dead voice, “I don’t know.”
“You do know that you can’t possess a firearm for five years after your discharge.”
“Want me to toss it?”
“Hell no. Give it to me.” Kline checked the rearview mirror a few more times then began to relax. “We’ll be in Tyler soon. You need food, some sleep. You have to be at the parole office at 9 AM sharp. Then you’ll meet Preacher. He’ll know what to do.”
They rode through the night in silence for a while. Then Arlen muttered, “Everything I did, I did for her. She promised she would wait for me. You get it? She promised!”
Kline didn’t say anything.
◆◆◆
Arlen met Preacher when Kline brought him back from the required meeting with his parole officer.
Second Chance was located in a renovated warehouse at a Tyler industrial park. The interior had been sectioned off into rooms, including a room with several iron-framed beds where Arlen had spent a sleepless night, showers that were not much different from those in the Ellis Unit, a canteen with a microwave, fridge and a few tables. There was also a counseling room and a small chapel. It was all very drab, except for the room where he was
introduced to Preacher.
That room was carpeted, with good furniture – a desk, leather chairs and sofa. Framed art like Dante and Virgil in Hell by Bouguereau and Sodom and Gomorrah by Martin, neither of which Arlen knew by name, hung on the walls.
Preacher was a big man, standing six foot six, wide in the shoulder, built like a wrestler in his prime. His brown hair, with streaks of gray at the widow’s peak, was thick and straight and shoulder-length. He came around the desk to shake Arlen’s hand. His grip was like a steel vise. When Arlen and Kline settled into the two chairs, he propped himself against the front of the desk, arms folded.
“Glad you’re with us, Mr. Jackson,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “My name is Milam Roe, but everyone around here calls me Preacher. I graduated from SMU Dedman College. I was going to attend the Wartburg Lutheran seminary in Austin but ended up doing eight years in prison instead. The Lord does work in mysterious ways. I would tell you why but that’s all in the past.”
Arlen glanced at Kline. “You do time, too?’
“Oh yeah. I was a legit juvie delink. Sent up for a smash and grab in Dallas eight years ago.”
“Where’s my gun?”
“It’s gone,” said Preacher.
Arlen was in a foul mood. He hadn’t slept and he was tired and pissed off. “I want it back.”
“I mean it’s gone. Literally. It – and your fingerprints on it – no longer exist.” The Preacher circled the desk and sat down behind it. “So you miss prison that much? You want to go back?”
“I don’t care.”
“All you want to do is strike back. Like a wounded animal. Then they take you down and lock you up. They feed your hate. That’s what prisons do. Take a dangerous man, make him even more dangerous, then set him loose on society.”
Arlen leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking at his hands, clasped and white-knuckled. “I loved her. She made me a promise.”
“That she would wait for you. Be true to you. Love only you.”
Arlen looked up bleakly. “Yeah. It’s what got me through.”
Preacher nodded. He opened a manila folder on the desk in front of him. “Katherine Cooper. Age 24. Employed at the Community Bank & Trust in Wayland. Personal secretary to the bank manager, a Jarrod Beck. The man she lives with now.”
“Still married to me,” said Arlen bitterly.
Preacher closed the folder, leaned back in his chair, and studied Arlen for a moment.
“You feel like a victim. But there's no reason to be one. What if I told you there’s a way to get back at them both. Ruin them both. Tear them apart. Make certain she pays for breaking her promise. And you walk away scot-free with plenty of money in your pocket.”
Arlen stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. And now I’m going to ask for a promise from you. Are you in? Before you answer, let me tell you something, son. This is a promise you better not break.”
Arlen shrugged dejectedly. “What have I got to lose? I’m in.”
The Mother of Broken Promises
is
coming soon
The Highways of the Dead (A Creed Crime Story Book 1) Page 8