Jane's Baby

by Chris Bauer

  One of the movers looked at her funny while she unloaded the shrubs. More than a look, a leer.

  “From the community’s homeowners group,” she said to him, her chewing gum cracking. “Gifts for the new resident.”

  He smiled at her, his beaming white teeth contrasted by his pleasant, cocoa Caribbean face, but he said nothing. “To welcome her,” she added. More smiling but still no acknowledgment, only the vacuous look of someone who didn’t understand a word of what she’d said. As a last resort, she’d try her Spanish.

  “Gift. Un regalo. Welcome. Bienvenida.”

  More leering. When she showed him a twenty-dollar bill, a miracle happened. “Si,” he said.

  She pointed and spoke, making hand gestures to direct the potted trees to where they should go. “El portico, el lado, puerta trasero…” Her directions delivered, she handed him the money.

  He hefted one of the pots up the steps. His back to her now, she added a box from her SUV to the city of stacked cardboard already strewn about the sidewalk.

  The movers’ unloading continued, Larinda watching from inside her car, the long front porch filling up, the truck nearly empty. She flipped off her flashers and u-turned through the front gate.

  In her rearview at a traffic light, for the second time in two days she watched two unmarked Ford sedans and a cop car proceed down the street toward the community’s gated entrance, this time at the speed limit. A man exited the first sedan, read from his phone as he punched numbers into the keypad. All three vehicles entered the community.

  Some pieces had fit in place just like she’d wanted, she mused. Others could have only been left to chance. If she’d spent two minutes more out front of the judge’s residence she might well have been in a gunfight, and all could have been lost. A reminder that this life and everything in it would always be on God’s terms. God’s plan, not man’s, always.

  Ecclesiastes 3:1. To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.

  She needed to make it happen tonight. She wouldn’t get one more day to kill her.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Deputy Marshal Hugh Abelson stood outside the gate to the community, one of two marshals wanding vehicles before they entered, a large security floodlight over his shoulder. He wanded the undercarriage of Judge’s van with his mirror-on-a-stick, then he returned to the open driver’s side window, a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. It was dusk.

  “Gotta look inside too, Mister Drury.”

  “Be my guest, Mister Abelson. But be careful of the bomb-sniffing dog back there.”

  Judge opened the back door for him to peek inside the cargo area. His German Shepherd growled from inside in his crate, snapped once, then relaxed.

  “You’ve got more shit in here than I have access to,” he said. He crawled inside, did an investigative pirouette, then climbed back out. “This looks great. For an assault vehicle. I can’t let this thing inside the gate. Park it up the street. And if either you or Mister Wingert are carrying a weapon, you’ll need to keep it locked up in the van.”

  They parked around a corner. Judge’s Glock went into the glove box again.

  Marshal Abelson wanded them both, then the dog, then entered the code to let them into the community. They walked back on freshly paved blacktop, the asphalt crew one block over working the night shift. They reached the justice’s place and climbed the steps to a long porch with white rockers. It was seven thirty-ish by the time another agent completed yet another pat down. The agent raised his binoculars when he was done, to continue surveilling the surrounding rooftops.

  Judge’s dog deputy stopped short on the porch, skittish about entering the house. Not the case with Owen, who possessed a Texas-sized swagger fresh from the compliment Judge had given him. A hard tug on J.D.’s leash and they were all inside.

  Edward, U.S. marshal number three, greeted them. His tightened jaw said he was still smarting from this afternoon’s excitement.

  “You okay, Marshall?”

  “Tonight’s my last night for this assignment, Mister Drury. A new marshal reports for duty tomorrow morning. Madam Justice Coolsummer respects my decision.”

  “Wow. Okay. How many other marshals here tonight?”

  “Six, if you include Mister Abelson at the front gate, who’ll be joining us shortly. Two more downstairs, one at the rear patio door and the other at the side door. Come in. Madam Justice is on the deck, working on her barbecue.”

  Inside was a large living room, a den/entertainment center, dining room, and a luxurious eat-in kitchen, all with the furniture haphazardly placed but looking like it had at least made it to the right rooms. Cardboard everywhere, some boxes open, some closed, some already flattened, ready for the trash. Justice Coolsummer had a lot of unpacking ahead of her, not much of which she’d get to tonight.

  Judge stopped to absorb this gathering of packed cardboard, assessing the possibilities. His look was telling.

  “It’s all been either scanned or opened by the techs,” Edward said, sensing the concern.

  French doors led to the deck at the rear of the home, off the kitchen. Outside, Justice Coolsummer, in tapered jeans, a light-colored zippered workout jacket and an Oklahoma Sooners barbecue apron in cream and red, stood in front of her barbecue, smoking her meats. Not how Judge had pictured his probably one and only social event with an associate justice on the Supreme Court.

  “It’s not how I see her either,” Edward said on the sly, reading his mind. “She gave her clerks an extensive urgent shopping list and had help unpacking the necessary tools. It seems she takes pride in her barbecue.”

  In her one hand she held a long pewter barbecue fork, in the other a pewter spatula, the two tools rotating Texas redhots, baby back ribs and burgers on the grill.

  “Don’t be afraid of the apron, Edward,” she said, speaking above the sizzle. “Being schooled in Oklahoma doesn’t make me any less a native Texan. Not every Sooner is a mortal enemy of the Longhorns. Beer and wine in the cooler, gentlemen. Kibble over there, Mister Drury,” she said, pointing to the far corner of the immense deck. “Please make yourselves comfortable out here. Let me know how you like the deck furniture. Damn it, where are the tongs?”

  Judge offered Geenie’s regrets. He got to hear how the madam justice had no deck at her Austin condo, and how she was intimidated by the size of this one. These furnishings, even the barbecue, which the movers had set up for her, were all new. “But I’m not a novice. I had a beautiful brick barbecue when my husband Reed was alive, many years ago, before I decided to downsize. Y’all will need to taste my barbecue sauce. From scratch. A Native American recipe. No road kill, but that’s the only thing not in there.”

  They ate, they drank, they talked, they heard “I’m sorry” and “Please forgive me” and multiple thank yous, the four of them on the deck swapping Texas and Oklahoma and Philly and D.C. tall tales and humor, Judge’s canine partner there as well. Owen behaved, refrained from any boner references, even had a civil discussion with her regarding minority rights. And one shocker: he refused alcohol. “I need to cut down,” he said when the madam justice asked what he was drinking. “This is as good a place to start as any.”

  Judge gave the associate justice a pass on her earlier behavior. This was a strong woman, someone who had suffered through a stressful patch, and who deserved a second chance. Something, maybe Edward’s request for reassignment, had shocked the bitch out of her.

  It was nearing nine o’clock, the light from the kitchen doing a poor job of illuminating the deck. Edward stepped inside the French doors long enough to accept a package from Mr. Abelson, a flat but colorfully gift-wrapped present in the shape of a picture frame. He returned to the deck with it.

  “They scanned it, Your Honor, so it’s clean,” he said, and handed it to her.

  She opened it. Her eyes welled at seeing its contents: her Oklahoma School of Law diploma, reframed under glass, this afternoon’s massive gash repaired. She stood to
give Edward a hug where he sat, which he begrudgingly accepted.

  “A rush repair job, Your Honor. You would have regretted not having it later, ma’am.”

  She kissed him on his cheek. “Thank you, Edward.” Even in the poor light Edward’s eyes betrayed that he’d been moved by her response, much the same she was by his. This surprise show of affection sealed it; time for Judge and Owen to make their exit. They said their goodbyes.

  Judge crouched to check on his dog deputy. J.D. was where he’d been all night, loose but with his leash still attached and sitting under the window, close enough to the grill to enjoy the lingering smells, and able to snap up any stray barbecue.

  “Is he good with strangers?” Justice Coolsummer asked, hovering. “I mean, can I…”

  “Not especially good, ma’am, but after this much time seeing you and I together, off the clock and relaxed, and after all the grilled meat you dropped for him, I’d say you bought your way into some face time. Just no quick moves.”

  She crouched down and let him sniff her, scratched behind his ears some. She stopped.

  “Edward.”

  “Ma’am?” Edward arrived alongside them.

  “That box…”

  An unopened cardboard box the size of a milk crate had her attention, left of the French doors, against a railing; the only box out here. She stood over it, read aloud what was written on the top flap.

  “It says ‘Back deck.’ That’s not my handwriting.”

  “Ma’am,” Judge asked, “maybe one of the packers?”

  “I didn’t decide on this place until after they packed me. I didn’t know I’d have a deck.” She leaned down, reached for a box flap.

  “Ma’am, no,” Edward said. “Mr. Drury?”

  Judge pulled J.D. the few feet from the barbecue to the box. “Check it out, boy.” The command put the dog back on the job. He sniffed at each corner but gave no indications. He returned to his master’s side.

  “Ma’am,” Edward looked at her expectantly, “if I may?”

  “Yes, Edward, please open it.”

  Edward split the top and lifted out a handful of pamphlets, handing some to Justice Coolsummer. He read aloud from one of them. “‘The American Life Allegiance exists to protect innocent human beings from pre-birth to death.’”

  Justice Coolsummer shook her head. “Literature with an agenda. I get it all the time, from both sides of the debate.”

  Judge turned, looking for his dog, found him sidled up next to a small, potted evergreen near the French doors that led back inside. The dog lifted his leg. “No, boy. J.D., no!”

  Edward again read aloud, this time from a handwritten post-it note stuck to the back of the pamphlet. “‘This pro-life protection does not include you, Justice Coolsummer. BANG.’”

  The dog didn’t pee on the shrub, instead sniffed then grunted then sat on his hindquarters next to the clay pot in his I-just-discovered-something mode, waiting to be rewarded.

  “Bomb…!” Judge said.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Larinda, on the roof of a low-rise Georgetown apartment building: black hair, a dark ball cap, black pants and athletic shoes, and a black Kevlar vest, all of it adding to the camouflage of nightfall. Seven seconds to the rooftop exit from this vantage point near the ledge, four seconds if she ran.

  She lifted the 5.56 smart rifle and leaned its tripod on the ledge chest-high, snugged up the precision-guided tracking optic. She had no business owning this weapon. Too cost-prohibitive for an itinerant carpenter, and affordable only with funding from a hugely popular religious non-profit. Thank you, Christian Charismatic Ministry of Wisdom and Light. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.

  Something she hadn’t counted on, but it would work in her favor: her target was entertaining on the townhouse’s raised deck, fully visible. Hanging with the target were the bodyguard, the bounty hunter, his dog, and his midget. Very tempting alternative targets. They were all complicit; she had no compunction about making them all pay.

  She positioned herself behind the rifle and found her target with the optics.

  The large bodyguard moved into the line of fire.

  “No!” she said, gritting her teeth, “move!”

  Larinda couldn’t tell if the Supreme Court justice was still behind him or had reentered the house. Seconds passed, Justice Coolsummer still not visible. A helicopter made a wide turn, its searchlight scanning distant rooftops south of the community. She had maybe forty seconds before it would make a return sweep in this direction.

  “Okay, original plan,” she thought aloud, which was explosions and fire at each of the home’s exits, with bombs in each of the potted evergreens to be detonated by rifle. They would flush her target outside, where Larinda could cut her down. She re-sighted the tracking optic to the edge of the front porch, to where a shrubbery pot peeked out from a corner.

  Tovex sausages surrounded by jars of Tannerite exploding binary rifle targets, bundled together at the bottom of each clay pot, delivered to the side door, the corners of the back deck, the basement patio, and the front porch. All four exits of the townhouse.

  Time was a-wastin’.

  She pressed a button on the gun. The scope tagged the front porch shrubbery pot, aligning the gun’s reticle with the tag; she squeezed and held the trigger. The tracking system delayed the release, waiting for the optimum conditions, its can’t-miss technology good for up to five hundred yards. From here it was much less than that.

  One second, two seconds…pffft…BOOM. The front corner of the porch exploded in a ball of fire, and one flaming, suited body tumbled down the slate steps to the curb. She re-sighted the gun, aimed at the box on the slab next to the side door of the home. One second, two seconds…pffft…BA-BOOM. The front and the side of the house were now in flames.

  Larinda re-sighted the gun to the rear patio, under the deck. The helicopter did a compact turn from half a mile away and sprinted toward her rooftop. One second, two seconds…pffft…BOOM, the patio area underneath the deck was now orange and red, another agent in flames. She raised the barrel of the rifle slightly, re-sighted it.

  “There you are, Madam Justice.”

  The bodyguard enveloped her target, his gun drawn but with nowhere to point it. He hustled her toward the back door, toward cover inside the house, but they needed to first pass the last potted evergreen.

  One second, two seconds…pffft…BOOM.

  THIRTY-NINE

  A chunk of the deck next to the French doors was blown away, the deck floor flaming up and advancing. Judge yelled at Owen to drop himself onto the grass a full story below them. Judge lobbed his dog over the railing; J.D. hit the ground okay and backed away from the blaze, then barked up at his master. Behind Judge on the deck Edward was on fire, lying atop a screaming Naomi Coolsummer. He rolled off her, pleaded with Judge…“Lower her down!”…then rolled back and forth against the deck flooring, his chest and back flaming up. The rear of the townhouse was ablaze, the flames nearing the second floor windows. Judge ripped Justice Coolsummer’s burning apron off her, lifted her into his arms and wheeled, his Tourette’s now kicking in, sapping his breathing…

  “…Motherfucker cocknobbin’ MOTHERFUCKER!…”

  A metallic pffft grazed Judge’s neck from another shot. He jumped off the deck with Judge Coolsummer in his arms. Owen was down there looking up, his arms open, wanting to break their fall. His eyes got big as they came slamming down, nearly crushing him. Above them a weaving Edward leaned over the deck rail, stripped off his burning jacket revealing body armor also on fire. He ripped it off and prepared to jump. Another sniper shot. Edward’s shoulder jerked forward, freezing him in a silhouette against the fire. He groaned then was airborne, landing awkwardly on the grass.

  “Edward!” Justice Coolsummer tried to stand, her ankle buckling. Repeating shots rained down, chipping away at the burning deck, now in the way of the sniper’s line of fire, the angle shielding them, the deck still standing but not for long. The
floorboards started snapping from the advancing flames.

  “We gotta move!” Judge yelled, sirens gathering in the distance. Neighbors poked their heads out of their townhomes, some exiting their back doors, moving in their direction.

  The wounded marshal hauled himself up from the grass, lifting Justice Coolsummer over his shoulder. “My truck,” he shouted, panting, “bulletproof…”

  The black diesel monster was visible between two townhouses the next street over, thirty yards away on the other side of the common space. Edward lumbered toward it, Justice Coolsummer bouncing against his shoulder as he ran. Judge scanned the rooftops. No gunpowder flash, but a reflection as good as one caught his eye, on a not-too-distant rooftop, city lights mirroring off something metal or glass, the object moving along a ledge. Simultaneous to the reflection Edward’s other shoulder jerked forward; he dropped to his knees. The advancing neighbors backed off, returning to the protection of their homes. Both Edward and Justice Coolsummer groaned. Edward struggled, got up, and kept moving.

  The gunshot was a tell as bad as a mirror in a desert: a rooftop two blocks away, an apartment house six stories high. Another marshal, Abelson, saw it too. He was now outside on the ground-level patio and talking into a mouthpiece. A helicopter swooped in closer, hovering above the community, its searchlight scanning nearby rooftops. Abelson assumed the position and fired repeatedly, emptied his gun, slid in a new clip, took aim again. A burst of semi-automatic rifle fire took out the copter’s searchlight then hacked out chunks of Abelson’s thigh like red cabbage cleaved by an axe. Judge’s TS kicked in full throttle.

  “…motherless motherfucking motherfucker…!”

  Judge and his dog and Owen reached the street, huddling together behind concrete step risers; they could see the pickup. Its idling engine roared once from a heavy foot while still in neutral, its interior lights on, Edward draped heavily against the steering wheel, Naomi Coolsummer in the front seat next to him. The truck peeled out, drove erratically, banging off parked cars, semi-automatic rifle fire from the roof tracking it, punching divots into the covered cargo bed before finding the rear tires. The bulletproof tires smoked from the hits but didn’t deflate, the truck careening forward, headed into a live road paving scene illuminated by two-story work spotlights. There the pickup fishtailed, slamming sideways into the rear of a tar truck, trapping the driver’s side against it. The tar truck bucked. Judge and Owen saw the horror materializing, helpless at this distance.