Hair of the Dog
Gordon Carroll
Copyright © 2019 by Gordon Carroll
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For the three waiting for me in the arms of the Three…
Chimmey
Gabriel
Noah
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
1
June, two years ago.
* * *
Jerome’s ears blanked to a high pitched whine that hurt, and his head swam woozy from the smell of cordite and Sulphur. But at nineteen he was already an OG (Original Gangsta) at gunplay. Neither he, nor the two hitters with him, had expected the man to be there at all. Let alone for him to be armed and ready to come out shooting. But he was and he was and they might all have been gunned down except for Jerome’s quick reflexes and natural ability to point and click without missing. The forty-five semi-automatic looked childish in Jerome’s giant hand, but the sound of its big heavy grain bullets exploding from the barrel were anything but. The brother took the first round in the throat as he came off the bed, naked and scared and in a rage, his own gun pointed at Lil’ Grill, his finger jerking back on the trigger as Jerome’s chunk of lead threw off his balance causing him to miss his mark and saving Lil’ Grill from an eternal headache. Blood sprayed in a tight arc, splashing the walls and ceiling in what the CSI techs would later term high velocity spatter, as Jerome’s second and third shots ripped into the john’s right side, bi-laterally transecting his lungs and heart and dropping him instantly.
The woman, also naked, with the sheets pulled almost comically up to her nose and staring over them with wide terrified eyes, started a scream that never made it past her lips. Jerome shot her in the forehead… once… and that was that. The job was done.
Lil’ Grill and Bad Man were still trying to jerk their guns out of their pants while practically peeing on themselves.
Bad Man gaped at Jerome and slapped Lil’ Grill on the shoulder. “See man, didn’t I tell you Jerome was all that? Ain’t you glad I signed him up on this gig now? Ain’t you?”
Lil’ Grill was all grins and he nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammered, his pot soaked brain still calibrating the fact that he had come a hair’s width from greeting God Himself. “Sorry I spoke against you, Jerome.” His gold-plated teeth sparked in the pale room’s light
Jerome just looked down at the two of them, his expression the same as always, calm, serene. Some people, upon first meeting him, thought him dumb, but he wasn’t, not exactly, just… slow.
Jerome’s mother, long since dead from an overdose, stayed high through most of her pregnancy with him. He came into the world addicted to heroin, his thick baby fingers clenched into convulsing fists, his feet and toes curled. He survived and grew up on the mean streets of Chicago. School didn’t work for him. He was bigger and stronger than kids twice his age, but numbers and letters made no sense to him. He’d miss an equation or stumble over a word and someone would laugh and Jerome would silently walk up and smash them in the face, and so by age eleven, the same year one of his mother’s ‘clients’ murdered his five year-old sister, Clair, his mother and him parted ways and neither tried very hard to reunite.
Baby Clair had been the best thing in Jerome’s life and he loved her more than the puppy he had for a while when he was six. He’d been breaking into an auto parts store with two teenagers when the man killed her. He’d finished with the mother, done another hit of crack and decided five-year-old Clair would do for seconds. Clair tried to run and he crushed her skull with a full beer bottle, leaving her lifeless body crumpled on the floor next to her passed out mother for Jerome to find when he came home with the stolen goods.
The police never found out who did it, his mother certainly didn’t know the man’s name. And what was one more dead little black girl killed by a black man in the most ghetto of ghettos? No, the police never found him, but Jerome did. And it only took him three days. Jerome was slow, but in some ways…in street ways…he was fast.
They were about the same height, but eleven-year-old Jerome was already stronger and faster and Jerome never touched a drug his entire life outside his mother’s womb. The man, Tyree Jefferson, felt the shakes from coming off his high as Jerome walked up to him outside the crack house he planned on scoring. Two in the morning and all the roaches were swarming the streets pimping, drinking, smoking, whoring. People were everywhere.
Jerome walked up to him and said, “You killed my Clair.”
Tyree, cranky from the loss of his high, slipped out a butterfly knife and tried to drive its tip into the eleven-year-old’s belly, but his wrist was caught in some kind of clamp and he felt the bones snap. Before he could yell, Jerome punched him in the jaw and he went to sleep.
A few onlookers oohed and aahed, but no one did a thing as the boy hoisted the fully grown man over his shoulder and tossed him in the trunk of a stolen car he’d obtained a few hours earlier.
Jerome took his time with Tyree Jefferson, not because the man’s suffering brought him pleasure, Jerome really didn’t feel much at all in the way of emotions most of the time, but because he thought Clair deserved this man’s pain. So he did very bad and painful things to Tyree, who was strong at first, but not for long and certainly not at all by the end, and when he was done he realized he had improved vastly in his technique since the incident with the boys who had killed his dog.
“Let’s go gets our money,” said Lil’ Grill as he started for the door.
And then the little girl walked out of the back bedroom. She was about three, with curly black hair, nut-brown skin and sleepy eyes she rubbed at with one pudgy fist. She saw the men and her eyes went wide, much like her now deceased mother’s had just before she was shot.
Bad Boy shook his head. “Crap, almost forgot about her.”
Lil’ Grill echoed the movement. “Too sad for you girly.” He pointed the gun he’d finally managed to remove from his waist band and pointed it at her bare chest. She was wearing only a soggy diaper.
Jerome gripped his wrist and twisted till the gun pointed at the ceiling.
“Whach you doing, man?” cried Lil’ Grill, his bones on the verge of breaking.
“She’s just a little girl,” said Jerome.
“Never know what anyone can or can�
�t do, brother. ‘Sides, the man said everyone here dies, no exceptions.”
“Nobody said anything about a little girl,” said Jerome. It was maybe the longest speech he’d given in a year.
“Not to you,” said Bad Boy. “The man said there’d be a baby here and she had to go with the mom.”
Jerome’s brain took this in and did the type of calculations he was supremely capable of. He shot Bad Boy through the upper lip and then, still gripping Lil’ Grill’s wrist, put three rounds into his chest. Lil’ Grill’s body went limp and only the strength of Jerome’s arm kept him from slumping to the floor.
The baby girl, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands pressing tight over her ears, started to cry. Jerome picked her up and patted her back, just like he used to do with his sister, Clair, so many years ago. He didn’t know the little girl’s name so he patted her back and whispered “Clair” gently into her ear as he took her away from the blood and death he had brought to her home.
2
Current Day
* * *
I finished the last brush stroke through Pilgrim’s fur and blew a puff of fluff away from my face as it tried to settle on my nose. A blanket of undercoat lay scattered around the two of us like velvety snow.
I shook my head. “You know,” I said to him, “I could probably make another you out of you here.” He muzzled my palm and rolled on his belly before lightly nibbling on my wrist in response.
“You goof,” I said, scrunching his neck fur in my fingers and checking the shaved section along his belly and flank where the bullet had torn through him. I nodded and smiled. “It’s looking good, boy. I think you’re going to be okay.” He pinched at my thigh with his front teeth looking like he was smiling, as if he understood what I just said. Who knows, maybe he did. Pilgrim’s always been wicked smart…goofy… but smart. He was my partner for years when I worked a patrol beat back in the day…back before I got canned…back before my wife and daughter were murdered.
Suddenly the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention as if a cold breeze had slithered past…only there was no breeze.
I turned my head and there sat Max, staring at me. Max is kind of like a scary version of a vampire. First he’s not there… then he is. Spooky. Sometimes he sports little flecks of blood on his muzzle or chest, leaving me to wonder if the villagers, armed with torches and pitchforks, might not be giving chase from down below. If he left any of them alive that is. He’s a two-year-old, ninety-pound, Belgian Malinois that acts like he’s maybe as old as time. Pilgrim, on the other hand, is a fourteen-year-old, one-hundred twenty-pound, German shepherd that acts like he’s a kid.
Spring had truly sprung here in Colorado and the sun soared high overhead. Not too hot yet, maybe seventy-five up on the top of my hogback that overlooks C470 and Hampden and all of Denver far to the East. But at ten in the morning there remained plenty of day for things to heat up.
Being a Saturday, I decided to spend the day taking it easy. After all, Pilgrim isn’t the only one nursing wounds. Our last case still haunted us. People died, others were hurt, and the three of us were no exception. The bullet wound that started in my upper trap and ended on the outside of my left biceps still stretched and pulled every time I activated my elbow, feeling like the skin was tearing open. And that was nothing compared to the hole in my chest and the collapsed lung. But, like Pilgrim, I was healing. At least on the outside. And the dreams had stopped. Thank the Good Lord for that.
I caught movement out of my peripheral vision and saw Max’s head snap to the side and up, his nose scenting. Pilgrim still chewed playfully at my thigh, but he was old and hurt and a mere shadow of his working days. Looking down the winding road that twists and turns coming up my mountain I listened and, like Max, sniffed. My nose paled to Max’s, of course, but decades of living and training working dogs has its effects. K9 handlers live feeling, tasting and smelling the wind, its direction, humidity, speed. Understanding the wind can often make or break your chances of finding the bad guy or the drugs or the bomb. It is often the difference between life and death in the battlefield. So yes, I may have looked silly to the rest of the world, but I smelled and listened and watched, just like Max. And a few minutes later I was rewarded. I’m sure Max knew the scent of everyone in the three-car caravan of shiny black SUV’s that finally rounded the last bend and stretched out in procession on the far end of my driveway long before I ever heard or saw them, but still I think I had them pegged before most people would.
I’d already worked out, very lightly due to the aforementioned injuries, and showered and eaten breakfast. I was dressed in a green tee, blue jeans and running shoes. The front of the tee-shirt was printed with a logo of a fist holding a fragmentation hand grenade, stamped with the standard Marine eagle, globe and anchor that read “Hand Grenades, because sometimes close is good enough”. A compact Glock 42 rode high on my right ankle underneath the pants and my belt buckle knife sat snugly in place. Other than that and my two dogs, I was unarmed.
Standing up, I eyed the first Escalade as the doors on both sides opened and four men wearing black suits with ties and sunglasses and ear pieces stepped out. Government, obviously. The only question was local or Federal. I guessed Federal.
Four more suits stepped out of the back SUV, keeping tabs on their six, and finally, two men stepped out of the middle car while the driver and front passenger stayed inside. The first man out of this car was also wearing the standard suit, which was about as black as his skin, and maybe as tall and wide as your average mountain. The second man, the man they were all obviously guarding, was tall and thin, in his early fifties, also black like all the agents, but wearing a golfing shirt, shorts and one of those little visor hat thingies that golfers like to wear. Think Morgan Freeman’s character “Red” in Shawshank. The big man opened Mr. Freeman’s door and waited patiently until he finished with a cell call that he must have been engaged in as they were driving up to my house.
I looked at Max. He watched the men. I looked at Pilgrim. He was still on his back, his tongue flopped back and out the side of his mouth waiting for me to play. The three of us waited patiently, just like the agents for “Red”, to make a few last jokes and then laugh heartily before saying bye and hanging up and then deigning to acknowledge my presence.
He held out his hand. “Mr. Mason,” he said, and sure enough, his voice held the musical intonations of a classic stage actor, deep and resonating. “I’m Senator Alvin Marsh, from the great State of Illinois. Nice to meet you.”
I took his hand, his grip was firm. He gave me exactly three pumps, like it was practiced, which I suppose it was, and then let go.
“Sorry for the surprise visit here at your residence,” said the Senator, but I would prefer to keep our meeting somewhat under wraps for now. No media, if you understand my meaning. Not yet anyway.” He made a slight hand gesture toward my house. “Might we talk inside?”
I’ve had some interesting and diverse people up to my house over the years, some friendly, some not. But I have to admit, this was my first United States Senator, let alone Morgan Freeman.
I said, “Sure,” and held out my hand for him to lead the way.
The mountain pushed past me as if I wasn’t there and started for the door.
Max suddenly appeared in front of him and he stopped…fast. Max didn’t growl, he didn’t even show his teeth. He just sat there…watching…like a statue…straight into the mountain’s eyes. I saw the man’s hand slip into his jacket and I instinctively touched his wrist. His head slowly swiveled toward me. He looked down at my hand as if to say; move it or lose it. I gave him a little smile, just a twitch. I’d only just met him and I already didn’t like him.
“Don’t shoot my dog,” I said. “It’d make him mad, and you wouldn’t like him when he’s mad.” I let my hand drop.
His expression never changed. Mountains are stoic that way.
“Wouldn’t think of it, sir,” he said. His voice matched the res
t of him, slow and dark, like boulders crushing against each other under the crust of the earth, only when he said the word “sir” he put a little spin to it that made it sound like a pejorative. Like when I was in the Marines and we had to address a new boot loui who thought he knew everything. We would say the word “sir” which everyone knew was code for “maggot.”
“Max,” I said, and gave him a head nod. Max’s eyes stayed on the mountain, then slowly looked to me, then back to the mountain. Finally he raised up and walked over to a patch of grass not far from Pilgrim.
“You’ll have to excuse Clyde,” said the Senator. “He’s been with me from the beginning and he takes my safety very personally.”
I held back the ever classy response I know he is but what am I? and instead said, “Consider him excused.”
The mountain walked into my living room and did a quick safety check, maybe expecting Inspector Clouseau’s assistant Kato to be hiding inside, just waiting to attack. When he didn’t find him he came back out and held the door for the Senator.
The rest of the detail took up positions around my house.
I thought about grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge for everyone and tossing them around, but decided against it.
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