by Scott Pratt
Pappy shook his head. “No, man, I didn’t know that much about him. Didn’t want to know.”
“Well, this brother was released from a prison in a place called Moundsville, West Virginia, six months back, and they think he might have been looking for revenge.”
“Moundsville, huh? Know the name of the joint?”
“Northern Correctional Facility.”
“What do you want me to do?” Pappy said.
“Just do your thing. Use your contacts. Find out if anybody’s talking, if anybody knows anything about it. You know how it is in prison. If he talked about this before he left, or even after, somebody’s going to know. He might have had an accomplice, too. Somebody who knows about explosives.”
“And if I find out it was him and that he had a partner?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d share that information with me.”
“And do you mind if I ask what you plan to do with the information?”
“Don’t mind at all. If I leave this to the system, they’ll probably eventually get around to arresting him and extraditing him back to Knoxville. He’ll sit in a cell, he’ll get three meals a day, he’ll play cards, have sex if he wants to, do drugs, and drink hooch. He’ll live a shit life, but he’ll be living, you know what I mean? Then they’ll either try him or he’ll make a deal, and he’ll get shipped off to a penitentiary, probably for the rest of his miserable life, and the good people of the state of Tennessee will keep him up. They’ll house him and feed him and give him medical and dental care. He’ll have a better social life in the penitentiary than he’ll have in jail. He’ll even get to exercise if he wants to. To be entirely honest with you, Pap, I’m kind of over the system right now. This guy probably blew my mother to bits, trying to kill me. If you find out he really did it, I’m going to hunt down the son of a bitch—and his friend, if he has one—and I’m going to blow their brains out.”
CHAPTER 10
For the next two days, while I was waiting to hear from Pappy, all I could think about was my mom. Had she been awake when it happened? Had she been afraid? Had she heard someone outside the house? Had she been about to call the police? Had she even heard the explosion? Had she felt anything at all? Had she been in pain when she died? And what if Sean had been there that night? He would have been killed, too. The thought of Sean dying along with my mother was almost too much to bear.
Finally, my cell rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I answered it, anyway.
“It’s me.” The voice was Big Pappy Donovan’s. “I’m on a throwaway phone. You trust yours?”
“There’s no reason for them to suspect me of anything,” I said, “but no, I don’t trust it.”
“Go buy a burner and call me back on this number.”
I drove to Walmart—by this time I’d bought another used junker, a compact car—and paid thirty bucks in cash for a prepaid cell. Back in prison, they’d gone for between $500 and $1,000, depending on how many minutes they had on them. The guards brought them in and sold them. It was their most profitable hustle. I walked back to my car, got in, and dialed Pappy’s burner phone.
“It was Donnie Frazier,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He’s been broadcasting that he was going to kill you since Dino whacked Bobby Lee in your cell.”
“Anybody with him?”
“Cracker named Tommy Beane. They grew up together in the same town, wound up at the same prison, and were released within two months of each other. Word is Beane used to blow holes in mountainsides for a coal company up in West Virginia, so he knows explosives. They’re your guys. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Any idea how I find them?”
“They’re both staying in a trailer with a woman a couple of miles outside of Cowen, West Virginia. It’s on Williams River Road. I’ll have the address tomorrow, but I think a better play if you’re really going to do this is to catch them outside a little bar called Sammy’s, which is on the east end of town on Webster Road. Donnie and Tommy apparently close the place down every Friday and Saturday. The parking lot might be a good spot.”
“I’ll check it out,” I said.
“Do you have a clean gun?”
“No. Everything I owned was destroyed when they blew up the house. Can you get me a gun? And maybe some ID in case I get stopped. I guess I’ll end up driving to West Virginia.”
“No problem. You need a car?”
“I just bought a junker, but it’d be nice to have something more reliable.”
“I’ll get you something. How are you doing on money?”
“Okay, but I’d rather not withdraw money or leave any kind of trail when I get ready to go.”
“I’ll put twenty grand in cash in the trunk of the car. The gun and the ID will be in there, too. You can pay me back later if you want.”
“Thanks, Pappy. Do I leave the car where I pick it up?”
“Yeah, leave it in back of the Flying J out where the truckers park overnight. There aren’t any cameras out there. When are you going?”
“I’ll figure that out as soon as you get me that address. If I can’t do them in the parking lot, I’ll go to the trailer.”
“Dangerous. So many people have dogs. They’ll probably have guns at the trailer. A lot can go wrong there. And don’t be in a hurry. Take your time and do it right. Make sure you do what you want to do, but don’t get caught.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Darren, are you sure about this? You haven’t ever killed anyone, have you?”
I took a deep breath before I answered. “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Big step to take.”
“I can’t stop thinking about what they did to my mom. They had to know it was her house and that she was in there. They didn’t give a damn about her. And it was pure luck that Sean wasn’t there that night. They would have killed him, too.”
“You don’t think the cops are up to the task?”
“I think my attitude toward Donnie Frazier’s and Tommy Beane’s constitutional rights has changed. As far as I’m concerned, they don’t have any. I’m going to kill them, Pappy, I’m going to get away with it, and I’m not going to regret it. I really only have one concern.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’m afraid I might enjoy it.”
CHAPTER 11
That night, as I lay in bed with my eyes closed, listening to Grace’s rhythmic breathing, I kept seeing my mom’s face on the inside of my eyelids. It was as though she was being projected onto a screen. The face would be calm, and then it would smile, and then her mouth would open as if she were screaming, and then it would explode, only to return to the screen, piece by piece, an explosion in reverse. It became haunting after a while, and I opened my eyes and sat up on the side of the bed. I got up and went into the bathroom, drank some water, and tiptoed back into the room. I glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table near Grace. It was two in the morning, but I knew I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. And even if I did, since my mom’s death, the nightmares and the thoughts of killing whoever had bombed her house had increased in frequency and intensity. I’d gotten to the point where I would rather stay awake.
I went into Grace’s den and picked up a book I’d bought from Amazon, Man’s Search for Meaning. It had been written in 1946 by an Austrian of Jewish descent named Viktor Frankl. Frankl was a trained psychologist and had been imprisoned in three different Nazi concentration camps during World War II. It was during his imprisonment that he’d also turned toward philosophy as a means of trying to survive the terrible conditions under which he was being held. His message was largely positive, but there were sections of the book that talked about the depersonalization of inmates who had been liberated and who were so numb they were initially unable to understand what freedom meant or how to emotionally respond to being free again. It was probably the first academic, intellectual approach to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
although he hadn’t used that terminology. I had gone through many of the things he described when I was released from prison, and that’s why I’d wound up in the same room with Dr. Benton. It took me a while to get my “free legs,” as I called it. I couldn’t comprehend pleasure. Everything was so surreal that I was simply unable to enjoy simple pleasures and deal with the lack of constant restriction.
Frankl wrote that a second stage began after the mind initially accepted the person was again free, and it was during that stage that a very real danger of mental illness presented itself. Many former concentration camp prisoners became obsessed with dispensing the same kind of violence that their abusers had dispensed. When I was first released from prison, I’d had some of those thoughts, but I’d been able to put them out of my mind because I had my mom and Sean and Grace. I’d had nightmares constantly, and while I’d occasionally thought about violence and murder, I hadn’t been obsessive. But after what happened to my mom, I found myself in a state of mind that I knew wasn’t normal and was definitely dangerous. All I could think about was killing the two men who Big Pappy said were responsible for her death. I knew, at some level, that what I was thinking about doing was wrong and could land me right back in jail, but I’d made up my mind that I was going to kill them. If I was caught and they tried to imprison me again, I would find a way to commit suicide.
As I turned a page in Frankl’s book, I noticed movement in the hallway. Grace appeared, wearing a sheer, black nightgown that was backless and had spaghetti straps. She looked incredible wearing it, but I hadn’t had any desire to touch her since the day my mom was killed. She sat down on the couch next to me and snuggled in. “Can’t sleep again?”
“I tried. Didn’t work out.”
“How’s the book?”
“I don’t think it’s helping much, to be honest. I mean, I’m trying to accept this guy’s message that life is about loving others, that love should be the ultimate goal of any meaningful life, and that if I’ll just open my heart and give myself to others, my life will have real meaning, and everything else will work itself out. But I’m not feeling it. I mean, the night my mom was murdered I had just offered to give myself to you for the rest of our lives. I told you I loved you, I showed you I loved you, and every bit of it was sincere. And then what happens? Mom is murdered.”
She put her hand on my arm. “You’re grieving, Darren. You’re going through a period of denial and isolation. It’s perfectly normal, and it will pass. When it does, you’ll probably become angry.”
“I’m already angry,” I said.
“Okay, then you have every right to be. You’ve been through a lot over the past few years, and this is completely over the top. But we have to be careful. We have to make sure you don’t become self-destructive. You need to go back and see Laura, and you have to be open and honest with me. I’ll help you through this, Darren. You still have me, and you still have Sean. I know it just seems like talk right now, but all we really need is time. Time and love will get you through this terrible thing.”
“Thank you, Grace,” I said. I reached over and caressed her cheek. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do.”
I wondered what she would think or do if she knew what I was planning. Would she shun me? Try to talk me out of it? Ultimately, it didn’t matter. I’d made up my mind.
“Would you like to come back to bed?” she asked. “Are you ready to make love to me?”
“I want to,” I said, and I was sincere. “I really, really, want to. But I just don’t think I can right now. I don’t think I could let myself go.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’ll be ready soon enough.”
“Go back to bed. I feel guilty keeping you up.”
She stood, bent over, and kissed me on the forehead. “I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I love you, too. Good night.”
As soon as she disappeared into the darkness of her bedroom, I closed Frankl’s book, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.
The image of my mother was gone. It was replaced by a faceless man lying on the ground. He was faceless only because I didn’t yet know what Donnie Frazier looked like. I was standing over him, straddling him, with a pistol pointed at his forehead.
I pulled the trigger, and the blood sprayed.
CHAPTER 12
I decided to take Big Pappy’s advice, so it took me a couple of weeks to get things arranged so I could make the trip to West Virginia. First, I had to pick up the car and the extras I needed. The car was a white Chevy Monte Carlo. Georgia plates. In the trunk was a backpack that contained $20,000 in hundred-dollar bills, a couple of prepaid cells, and two Georgia driver’s licenses with my photo on them. One of them had been photoshopped to make it appear as though I wore a beard and glasses. They both said my name was David Wilkes and that I lived in Atlanta. There was a matte-black, Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter pistol with a box of ammunition and two fifteen-round magazines. There were also two eight-by-ten, glossy mug shots of Donnie Frazier and Tommy Beane with the address Big Pappy had told me about written on the back of Donnie’s mug shot. I immediately went to a gun store in Maryville and bought ten more boxes of ammo. Then I went to a Walmart in Surgoinsville and bought another ten. I wanted to put at least a thousand rounds through the Beretta before I aimed it at Donnie Frazier and Tommy Beane.
I parked the Monte Carlo in a StorageMax facility not far from my law office. The space was ten feet by thirty feet and cost more than $200 a month, but thanks to Pappy, I had plenty of money. I paid cash and used one of the false IDs Pappy had provided, the one without the bearded face in the photo.
The next thing I did was call an old law school friend of mine, Marty Henley. Marty and I had graduated at the same time, had taken several classes together, and had done some fishing together. I knew Marty was also an avid hunter and his family leased a couple of hundred acres northwest of Knoxville just outside of Petros—not far from the old Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary—on which they hunted deer. I told Marty I’d decided to get into shooting and asked whether he’d let me go up there and practice. He was more than happy to oblige. His family had a shooting range all set up, he said. He gave me directions, and I spent several evenings there over the next ten days. I was getting behind at my law practice, and I could tell Grace was wondering what I was up to and where I’d been each night when I came home. But she didn’t push, and I didn’t offer any explanations.
In the meantime, I was talking to Pappy. He had a guy on-site in West Virginia, making sure nothing had changed. Frazier and Beane were still living with the woman in the trailer on Williams River Road just outside of Cowen. They were still frequenting the bar called Sammy’s. They were sleeping during the day and breaking into cars and houses at night.
As a final touch, and at Pappy’s suggestion after seeing the second photo ID he sent me, I went into a costume store in the Old City downtown district and bought a realistic-looking fake beard and some adhesive. I also bought some nonprescription glasses that made me look like Clark Kent.
On the night before I left for West Virginia, a cold drizzle started to fall just as I left the range where I’d shot two hundred rounds through the Berretta. It was a Wednesday, and I showed up at Grace’s apartment just after dark and walked in. I could hear classical music playing—probably Beethoven—and smelled garlic sautéing in a pan. I walked into the kitchen, and Grace was standing at the stove, wearing a red apron over her jeans and button-down blouse. There was a half-empty glass of red wine on the counter behind her.
“Hungry?” she asked.
I nodded. I wasn’t hungry, but there was no point in hurting her feelings. “What’s cooking?”
“Chicken parm.”
“The garlic smells fantastic.”
“It’ll be ready in about forty-five minutes. Would you like some wine?”
I’d stayed away from alcohol since my mom’s murder, afraid of how it might affect me, but Grace was smiling an
d the mood was so pleasant that I accepted. “Sure. Just half a glass, though.”
“You should loosen up just a little.”
“I’m trying.”
She turned down the heat on the garlic, poured a half glass of wine, and walked over to me. She set the wine down on the counter and draped her arms around my neck. “You’re the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, you know that?”
“And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Do you still want to marry me, Darren? It hasn’t come up since . . . well, it hasn’t come up.”
“Of course I still want to marry you. I just need a little time. I remember the night I proposed to you, while I was kneeling, and told you I know I bring a lot of baggage but I’d work hard to overcome it. I have more baggage now, which means I have to work harder. I’m working, Grace, I swear I am.”
“Is that where you’ve been every evening? Working on your baggage?”
“You could say that.”
“Don’t be coy with me, Darren. Are you seeing someone on a regular basis? A counselor or psychiatrist?”
“A grief counselor,” I lied.
She smiled a smile so genuine it made me feel even more ashamed for lying. Then she kissed me gently on the lips and turned back to the stove. “I’m proud of you.”
“Grace, I need to tell you something. I’m going to go away for the weekend.”
“What? Where?”
“I’m just going to get out of here for a couple of days. I’ll be back by Monday, maybe even Sunday evening. I’ll probably fish a little and camp. I just want to try to clear my head.”
“You don’t want some company?”
“I’d love some company, but the counselor says I need to try to sort a few things out on my own, and that’s what I plan to do. You won’t be able to reach me. I’m not even going to take my phone.”
Grace reached around for her glass of wine and held it up. “To peace of mind.”
“To peace of mind,” I said, and we both took a drink.