by Aaron Saylor
The sheriff shifted his gun’s aim right into Boone’s forehead.
Boone froze.
“Is that what you want, Boone?” barked John. “Dad’s layin’ in a hospital bed, breathin’ through a machine, who knows when the fuck he’ll wake up, and you just want to take this piece of shit down to the jail?”
Boone stayed still. He didn’t think John would shoot him, but he didn’t want to test that theory, either.
Rogers slobbered, “I didn’t… didn’t do nothin’… to Walt…”
The sheriff turned his aim again. Without pause, he pulled the trigger and blew a fist–sized chunk out of his deputy’s skull.
“Sure you didn’t do nothin’,” said Slone.
Boone wiped a moist piece of something from his cheek and realized it must be part of Rogers’s face.
John pulled a matchbook out of his uniform pants and threw it at Boone’s feet. In a brief out–of–body moment, Boone saw it was emblazoned with the University of Kentucky Wildcats logo.
“Your turn,” said the Sheriff.
Boone stared at the matches.
“Pick ‘em up, Boone,” said John. “Unless, of course, you want me to start thinkin’ you ain’t as big a part of this family as you been tryin’ to let on.”
“I’m part of the family,” said Boone. “But this… Goddamn, did it really have to go like this?”
“What did you think we came up here for?” snapped the sheriff. “This is what happens when people fuck with us. You know it same as anybody. They want to come after us, then fine. Let them. But they come after us, we go after them. The shit works that way. Always has.”
He walked over to where Boone was still frozen to the porch, and picked up the book of matches that still lay where he’d thrown them. “Elmer’s got an alibi. Like you said, we checked his gun and it didn’t fire any shots. I bet you dollars to donuts that if we take the rifle out of J.T.’s car, it’ll match the bullets from Walt.”
“And that covers this up?”
There was a dull thnnnk as he kicked the corpse. “There ain’t no cover up. Rogers here died in a good old fashioned police shootout. I came up here to question him, he pulled a gun, things went south. I shot in self–defense. He took one in the face. His house burned down. Shit happens. You know how that is.”
Boone did know how that was. Such a story would even fly with the state police, who didn’t give a shit what really happened, anyway. The Slone family had enough troopers and detectives on their payroll to make sure any investigation would go quickly and produce whatever results they so desired. This would get covered up, the way everything that the Slone family did in Sewardville got covered up.
She stumbles through the bare night woods
She runs the best she can
They have their Daddy’s gun
She cries
She begs
She digs in the dirt
He digs in the dirt
The dirt
The dirt
The dirt
“To hell with this,” Boone said.
He walked off the porch, down the driveway, past the sheriff’s cruiser. The sheriff yelled at him – “Where the hell are you going? Get the fuck back here!” – but Boone kept walking. He heard the cock of a pistol hammer at his back, but he kept going. With each step he considered what it might be like to take a bullet to the spine. No bullet came, though. Not even John Slone could shoot his own brother–in–law in the back and explain that to his sister and his niece. So, Boone kept walking.
Behind him, the sheriff lowered his weapon. After a moment, he opened his book of matches, struck one, and dropped it on the dead chest of his former deputy. Then, he headed back to his police cruiser.
Fire spread across the porch, into the living room, and through the rest of the house. Before long, the whole wooden structure went up in orange and black plumes. Fingers of flame licked high into the Kentucky afternoon and overwhelmed the entire scene in less than thirty minutes.
Walking away, Boone felt intense heat on the back of his neck, but he looked straight ahead and kept walking. The sheriff’s car ripped by him, just a couple of feet away, close enough that it stirred a breeze in his face. Still Boone kept walking.
He wondered what he would tell Karen when he got home. How long would it be before they knew where he really stood? Not long at all. Then what? He had a plan.
HOSPITAL
Boone walked all the way back to Sewardville Medical. Scenarios ricocheted in his mind, possibilities that might confront him at the hospital, when he faced John Slone again. Would John already have told Karen everything that happened, that Rogers was dead and his house burned to the ground? And what kind of spin would the story have on it? Surely John would leave out the part where he went totally ape–shit psycho.
Rogers died in a good old fashioned police shootout. I came up here to question him, he pulled a gun, things went south. Shit happens.
It seemed a real possibility that the next time they saw each other, Boone and Sheriff Slone would come to blows. And if John convinced Karen that her husband had shown anything less than complete loyalty to the Slone cause, she’d get in a few licks of her own, too.
Boone reflected on the last few days. How foolish he had been. When Elmer had shown him Walt’s crate in his outbuilding, Boone thought he could play both sides against each other and walk away free through the middle. That plan had gone straight to seed. Now, Walt teetered on the sharp edge between life and death. Rogers was dead. Elmer was missing and probably dead. The sheriff bristled with righteous anger. Time would tell what Karen thought about it all.
Instead of getting out through the middle, both sides had collapsed in on Boone, and now he had to figure an escape.
And then there was Samantha.
Samantha.
Samantha.
He reached the hospital.
Immediately he saw a small, impromptu press conference happening near the revolving entrance door. Carla Haney, WTVL–TV Live on Your Side had already sprung into action. Sheriff Slone fielded her rapid–fire questions with an expression that had all the emotion of unpainted drywall.
Boone could see Karen, too, just inside the building, watching. She looked agitated and immediately he knew that she hadn’t yet spoken to her brother.
As he made his way towards the hub–bub, Boone made short eye contact with the sheriff. John squinted a little, but betrayed no other thoughts in front of the reporter.
Boone heard the questions as he entered the revolving door.
“Do you have any suspects yet, Sheriff?” Carla asked.
“No,” said the sheriff.
“What about forensic evidence?”
“Some.”
“What can you tell us about Mayor Slone’s current condition?”
“Not a whole lot.”
“Is he conscious?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What about reports that witnesses saw a man pointing a rifle at Mr. Slone from a gun dealer’s booth?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you heading this investigation yourself, given your personal relationship to the victim?”
“Yes.”
Inside the hospital lobby. Boone found Karen by the window, watching the interview, in the same position as she’d been when he saw her from outside. She looked with a blank expression, showing utter disinterest in what went on outside between her brother and the reporter from Lexington.
He shot a quick glance around the room, looking for his daughter, but didn’t see her. “Where’s Samantha?” he asked as he stepped towards his wife.
“She’s asleep,” Karen said without turning towards him. “In Dad’s room.”
“They let her stay in there?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
Finally she turned to face him. “How did it go up there?” she asked quietly.
“Up where?”
“You kno
w where,” she said. Not even a Slone could speak in public about a crime that hadn’t yet become public knowledge, though with Carla Haney in town already it would no doubt become public knowledge soon.
He pulled a gun.
Things went south.
Shit happens.
“Right.” Boone stalled. He felt certain that any word he spoke could be twisted back in his face by the sheriff. He couldn’t give her too much information right now. Better to wait it out and let the story fall into place once Boone could get a better view of his current situation. Besides, if he was wrong – if Karen had already spoken with her brother about the events of that afternoon – then she could be feeling him out, trying to see if his story matched her brother’s, thinking maybe she might catch Boone in a lie. If his facts didn’t match John’s, then one of them had to be lying. Period. And of course, there was no way Karen would ever believe that her brother could be the man on the wrong side of the truth.
He saw that outside, Carla Haney was exasperated, throwing up her hands as her camera man turned off the camera and took it down from his shoulder. The sidewalk press conference was over.
And John Slone was coming inside now.
It occurred to Boone that perhaps he should go and check on Samantha.
“So are you gonna tell me what happened, or not?” Karen asked. Before Boone could come up with his answer, the sheriff was in the building.
“I’ll you exactly what happened,” Karen’s brother sneered, as he hurried towards them. He yanked his sunglasses off and threw them at Boone; they hit in the middle of Boone’s chest with a soft thud, bounced to the floor, bent to one side now. The sheriff’s anger was rising already. “You want to know what happened? This dumb fuck husband of yours happened!“
Karen stepped back and extended an arm, trying to calm her brother, with no effect. “John, I don’t think we should do this here –“
The sheriff kept coming. “No, we should. We should do this here!”
Two steps later, he grabbed a tight hold on Boone’s shirt collar, threw him onto the slick hospital tile, and pinned him down by the shoulders, before Boone could put up any fight.
He turned a forearm into Boone’s throat, and leaned in close, almost nose to nose. “How big you feel now?” the sheriff sneered, and Boone felt his angry breath hot in his face. “How big you feel now, you stupid motherfucker?”
Karen saw that the hospital workers in the lobby were staring directly at them now. She pleaded quietly, hoping to avoid any more of a scene, “Get up, John. Get up. Get up. Get up, John.”
Beads of sweat popped out on Boone’s forehead, dribbled down into his eyes. His face turned dark and darker hues of red as the sheriff choked off his air.
“You’ll kill him,” said Karen to her brother.
“You think I give a fuck?” he responded.
But he did. He did give a fuck. He knew that he did and he hated that he did, but no matter. He did give a fuck. Even in the raging moment, even when such fury clouded his judgment, John Slone had enough control of his senses that regardless of whether he wanted to kill Boone, he remained aware that he couldn’t do it here. Not even John Slone could get away with murder in broad white daylight, in front of a roomful of innocent bystanders. Not even in Sewerville.
He eased up with the forearm, just enough so Boone didn’t suffocate.
Boone gasped, took in some air. The color in his face slowly receded back towards a lighter shade of red. He stopped, took another breath. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
The sheriff came in further and now the tip of his nose did brush against Boone’s. As he spoke, his voice lowered, so low that it became hard for even Karen to hear and she was standing only a few feet away. He took on a calmness that to Boone was more intimidating than anything else the sheriff could show him.
“Do you know who you're talking to?” said John.
“Stop it, John,” said Karen.
He didn’t stop. His eyes stayed locked on Boone. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who you are?”
“Please, get off him––”
The sheriff growled, “I’m a Slone.”
“John, stop,” Karen begged.
The sheriff smacked the back of Boone’s head against the floor. “You think you’re one of us? You ain’t shit.”
He yanked his pistol out of its holster. Stuck the barrel in Boone’s mouth. “Do you like this? Do you? Maybe you ought to be the one on the other end.”
A stunned murmur shimmied through the onlookers.
“John!” Karen screamed. She didn’t know what all this was about, but she’d seen all she wanted to see. She stepped forward and pushed the sheriff with both hands, hard enough to knock him off of Boone.
That gave Boone a small opening, all the opening he needed to get back up on his feet. When he did, the first thing he saw was Carla Haney, standing next to her cameraman outside the hospital’s revolving door, both of them with mouths agape.
Now, it was Karen’s turn. “What are you doing?” she railed at John as he stood back up. “Something’s going on here. Do you want to tell me what it is?”
John was still on full boil. He tucked his weapon back into the holster, jabbed one finger in the air at Boone. “He went against us.” He paused. “The motherfucker went against us.”
Karen looked confused. “What are you talking about?” she said, turning to Boone. “What’s he talking about?”
Boone’s eyes went from his wife, to her brother, and back again. But he didn’t say anything. He knew it was useless to get into what happened with Rogers earlier that day; if he could just get Karen away from here for a little while, he could maybe give her the story the way he wanted her to hear it.
“Don't you fuck with me,” said John, staring at Boone while Karen stood between them without a clue as to what either of them were talking about. “Don't you think you can fuck with me, you weak piece of shit. Nobody gives a damn what we do up here. That's the way it works, that's the way it's worked since before you or me either one came along. This is our business. It’s all there is here anymore. If you don't fucking like that or you can't fucking do it, too bad.”
The sheriff’s words hung in the air and, after some agonizing moments, vanished under a descending blanket of stark silence. John, Karen, and Boone didn’t move. The hospital staff stood by waiting for more action, but when nothing else happened, soon went back to their normal business.
Without saying another word, the sheriff took Karen by the arm and led her away.
Shit, thought Boone. ShitshitshitshitSHIT.
He’d lost his moment.
He watched them walk away, the brother and the sister, talking to each other quietly, with only occasional backward glances in his direction. Boone couldn’t hear much of what they were saying, but he didn’t really need to hear it. He knew: the sheriff was telling Karen what happened with Rogers. Boone would not get the chance to tell the story his way. And once John told the story from his point of view, it would be the gospel so far as Karen was concerned.
He pulled a gun.
Things went south.
Boone pussied out.
Boone went against the family.
Shit happens.
Boone Sumner found himself in a tight squeeze. Before long, Karen would be convinced that he’d acted against the family, which in the mind of the Slones was the very worst act a man could commit. There would be comeuppance, sooner rather than later. Boone had already seen the sheriff’s state of mind enough today that he felt sure he didn’t want to see what form that comeuppance might possibly take. So, he took the opportunity and got the hell out of there.
FAMILY
Boone didn’t have much time. The sheriff’s hospital outburst was only the beginning of their confrontation. When or where they would next meet, Boone could only guess, but it was certain that they would meet again. Somehow, somewhere, some way, the two men would settle up, now that their differences were out in the
open.
By now, John would have already told Karen what happened with Rogers. Boone knew this. He also knew the rest of John’s story: how Boone had tried to thwart the comeuppance of Rogers and in so doing, keep the Slone family from having its vengeance over Walt’s shooting. Not exactly true, but no matter. Karen would believe that story, no questions asked. It came from her brother, didn’t it? Of course she’d believe. No matter that Boone was her husband and father of her daughter; John was family. Real family.
Boone’s plan had gone one hundred percent straight to shit. There would be no more playing the two sides – the Slones and Elmer’s crew – against themselves. Driving away from the hospital, Boone realized that was a stupid dream, a fever plot from a thousand cheap crime novels. Now he had to forget the dream. Now he had to save himself. And Samantha.
And Samantha.
And Samantha.
Random, desperate thoughts crissed and crossed in his head like too many fireflies in a jar. How long before he faced John Slone again? He didn’t know. How long before Karen called? He didn’t know. What would he say to her? He didn’t know. How could he get back to his daughter? When? He didn’t know, he didn’t know, he didn’t know.
Where was all this headed?
That, he knew.
The sheriff suspected him now. The situation could only go one way. The longer it went the more violent that way would be, but the unpleasant reality held: there was only the one way. Violence awaited them.
Prob’ly won’t be long now, Boone thought. What about it.
Night fell, but brought no comfort for Boone. The world shrieked in his ears as it crumbled down the valley. Farm machinery, mobile homes, people, life, everything.
He still felt some solid ground beneath him, but knew that it couldn’t last. He wanted to go back to his own house and think his position through, but no doubt that would be the first place the sheriff would come looking for Boone. And John would come looking for him; the question was when, not if.
Boone understood his spot. He couldn’t go home, didn’t have anybody to whom he could reach out. The only people in Sewardville who might help were either already dead (Jimmy, J.T. Rogers) or about to be (Elmer). People like Harley Faulkner who had helped in the past were too close to the Slones, or too scared of them, that they would never do anything to oppose the family’s interests.