Jackboot

by Will Van Allen

  “She won’t return any of my calls.”

  “Jesus Christ, John. Really? Who’s the fucking parent, here? Just come get her. She’s driving me crazy.”

  “Can’t be that bad.”

  “I caught her with an older boy in her room the other night.”

  “What?”

  “Josh Lyons. Snuck through her window.”

  “What?”

  “He’s sixteen. They were smoking pot.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Oh. Daddy finally upset?” she baby-talked.

  “Did you have a talk with her?”

  “No, I beat her with a spoon and locked her in the cellar. Of course I had a talk with her.”

  “What the hell’s going on over there?”

  “She’s a teenager who needs her dad. You know what it’s like to be a teen without a father.”

  He did. He just never imagined his daughter being one, too.

  “Well…what about Jerry?”

  “Jerry has his own kids, all grown and gone. One’s a meth-head with dentures at twenty-three, the other has three kids by three different losers at twenty-two. You really want him giving advice to our daughter?”

  “If he’s so horrible then why’d you marry him?”

  “Because he has lots of money and a big dick. Jesus. I don’t have to answer to you anymore.”

  “Not like you ever did before,” he said with bile.

  She drew in breath, shook her head, bit off her retort. “Let’s not. You have my check or not?”

  “It’s in the mail.” She wasn’t buying it. “It will be.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Then catch me up for July too. Katie’s soccer uniform fees are due.”

  “That’s good. She’s still playing soccer.” Something positive at least.

  “She got kicked off the team. I’m trying to get her back on but she hasn’t been much help.”

  “Why—”

  “Cussed out her coach. They tend to frown on that in the thirteen-U division.”

  “I’ll call her tonight.”

  “What you should do is just stop by and pick her up.”

  “I don’t want to pressure her. I’ll call her. Promise.”

  Carrie softened. She usually did when she got what she wanted, especially when that pertained to money. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s been better.”

  She gave him the up and down again.

  “There’s no girl,” he said.

  She snorted dubiously. “At least you finally shaved off that fugly beard. Got a dog, huh?”

  “He was Sean’s.”

  That caught her off-guard. She sighed, hesitated, gave him a hug. “I’m sorry, Johnny. I know you two were close, in your way.”

  He shrugged it off. “How is ol’ Jer?”

  She looked down her nose at him. “Ol’ Jer’?”

  “Old enough to be your father, isn’t he?”

  She let out a sigh of exasperation. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “Why? Isn’t ol’ Jer your boss?”

  “We’ve had an almost amicable conversation. Are you sure you want to ruin it?”

  He blew out his cheeks and shook his head. He watched her click back to her SUV. Nice legs but that top heavy thing would be her ruin.

  That evening after he hit the hill, then the punching bag, he checked the laptop on his way to the shower.

  “Shit.”

  Mitch had come and gone.

  “Hello? You there?” read the first message. Then: “You must be busy being an asshole to someone else somewhere. Open the attachment. Be out here on the 20th. You owe me thirty-two K. American. L8er.”

  Thirty-two thousand dollars. That would take a huge bite out of his finances. A bridge for another day. He opened the attachment, a zip file. It contained dozens of documents; articles, emails, bank statements, receipts, affidavits and JPEGs. None of it related to his brother. It was all Alan Odom.

  Of course, for the hacker, Anj’s rape touched all manners of nerves. Mitch had loved her, and remedying her injustice would never be secondary. McConnell grabbed a cold beer and dove into the files.

  Right off the bat was a quashed L.A. Times article detailing the exchange between Stanford University’s campus security and the Palo Alto police department. Odom had been questioned and released for two similar date rapes during his sophomore year and security wanted the prick off their campus. One woman he had cut up, leaving her with some serious scars; it looked like money had been thrown at her to make her go away. What happened with the other victim was undocumented.

  Next, an unpublished British tabloid article in the mid-nineties that claimed Alan Odom was an avid bisexual. He had been caught on a beach with another man and there were pictures to boot. Had to love those Brits. His granddaddy had bought up the pics for a disgusting sum.

  Alan Odom was something of a dilettante. Yale, Stanford, Oregon State, he had yet to obtain a degree let alone maintain any position in the family business for longer than six months. He was known to disappear for months only to turn up in some dirty part of the world needing to be bailed out of one failed and/or illegal venture or another. The family hated him. The family lawyers had managed to keep him out of the US legal system but Anj’s rape had been the last straw. Andrew P. had decided to put his black sheep grandson on a tight leash—if you considered a monthly five-thousand-dollar stipend tight. From credit card receipts it looked like Alan was still in Oregon.

  McConnell sat back in the La-Z-Boy. The hacker was thorough if nothing else. With all this information, he wondered if the hacker was giving him license. It felt like it. It also felt like it was time. He wouldn’t wait for the rifle. Odom was in Portland now—who knew when he might leave the country again? Waiting for the rifle was really procrastination, anyway. He was ready.

  A farmer never plowed a field by turning it over in his mind.

  He went into the bedroom, lifted up a corner of the mattress. There lay his father’s dormant Desert Eagle, snug in its black paddle holster. A Hollywood favorite, in real life the Israeli-made .44 wasn’t a common weapon of choice. Gas-operated, it featured polygonal rifling in the six-inch barrel to reduce obturation, allowing for better accuracy but requiring the right hand to be really effective. His dad had carried it on hunting trips as a safety for bear, cougar or the odd mountain lion. It had seen very little use and, most importantly, had never been registered.

  There were two clips, loaded. And the silencer that Sean had made in ninth grade metal shop.

  His brother had always had his eye on the pistol but it was John’s by elder right and he had held onto it, it was America after all, violence and home intrusion as prevalent as crystal meth and unflattering carbs. The McConnell’s were strong adherents of the principle better to have and not need and it was a good thing he had kept it because he needed it now. It was the only gun he owned, having given his brother his hunting rifles which were now likely lost. None had come back with Sean’s personal things.

  He checked the safety, locked a magazine and gave it a heft; not quite a boat anchor but not for the faint of heart, either. With the silencer it would be a bit cumbersome but manageable.

  “What?” he said to the dog watching him from the doorway, his head cocked.

  McConnell ignored him. He stuffed his leather travel bag full of clothes, tucking the pistol and clips and silencer between them. He took a shower, threw on shorts, cracked a beer and sat on the deck to watch the sunset. In between drinks he looked over Anj’s picture and that of her rapist.

  When in coaching mode for basketball or life Father D had been a big promoter of PMA—Positive Mental Attitude. He liked to espouse optimistic aphorisms to his young flock like an overzealous spigot: “make it happen,” “belief creates the actual fact,” “attitude not aptitude determines altitude” were some of his favorites. He had said it was far better to regret the things you did rather than the ones you did not. He also preached that sinning was sinning r
egardless of intent.

  Geronimo was still watching him from just inside the slider.

  “Sorry, buddy. You can’t go.”

  The shepherd woofed and gave John his back.

  CHAPTER 20

  JULY

  Spokane, Washington

  1:58 a.m. swore the serious blue LED beside the bed when Katie’s mother called.

  “Better be good,” he yawned into the phone.

  It wasn’t. He held the phone away from his ear as Carrie screamed that Katie hadn’t come home, wasn’t answering her cell and was probably with that damn boy and it was all his fault.

  “My fault?”

  “Wasn’t someone supposed to call his only daughter tonight?”

  Shit. “I got caught up—” planning murder. It happens.

  He threw on jeans and a T-shirt, laced up his Timberlands. Somewhere in between called and woke up his old coworker Steve who woke up his tenth-grade son, Tim.

  “Yeah, there’s a kegger. Tim doesn’t know the address but it’s near Longfellow and G St. Want some backup?”

  He imagined Steve trying to look fierce peeping over his shoulder. “Thanks, I got it.”

  The party wasn’t hard to find with the six cop cars parked in front. A corner house, the vacant lot next door was a haven for weeds, Big Gulp cups, Keystone beer cans. A rusted-out Nova was sleeping it off on blocks. Just the place you didn’t want to go looking for your eighth-grade daughter.

  He double-parked beside a patrol car, crossed the neglected lawn that led up to wide steps and an even wider concrete porch.

  Spokane’s finest were out in force; two bent a cuffed teen across the hood of a car hungrily rifling through his pockets for contraband while another postured over a group of too-young-to-drive-let-alone-drink teens in the yard. Doomed young souls dangled their Vans off the edge of the porch, looking like they would much rather be sitting on the dock of the bay (any dock, any bay) as another officer flicked his Maglite between each sullen expression and his new deck of IDs.

  McConnell entered the house, scowled at the stairs, continued to the living room. His daughter wasn’t among the acne- and fear-filled faces on the couch or leaning against the wall pretending to watch a muted TV like the police weren’t even there. A female officer with her own ID collection looked up. “Can I help you, sir?”

  He moved on to the dining room where two anxious boys sat rigid at a table, nodding in earnest as county deputies interrogated them. He pushed on, through a swinging door that led into the kitchen, past the keg and trail of red beer cups, hoping he wasn’t going to have to go upstairs where there were bedrooms because that wouldn’t bode well for anybody, not him, not Katie, and especially not for any boy who happened to be up there with her. The back of the house ended at a laundry room where three sneering girls leaned against a washer and dryer before a cropped-cut cop busily scribbling in his notepad. None of them were Katie, they were all at least sixteen. He frowned. He was dreading those stairs. One of the girls turned away as he turned to go—

  Wait.

  “Katie.”

  “Can I help you?” The cop didn’t hide his irritation. Must be damn important scribbles.

  “Do not test me, Kaitlyn Marie,” he reiterated.

  The girl in the middle slowly pivoted, glaring at him.

  Beneath the eyeliner, the rouge, the black cherry lipstick was his little girl. She was wearing—if you could call it that—black nylons, hooker boots, a short red skirt and a much-too-tight black T-shirt with green lettering that read VOLCOM. Whatever a VOLCOM was he didn’t want it on his daughter.

  “Move it.” He thumbed brusquely over his shoulder.

  Her eyes flashed defiance, flicked between him and the cop. Which was worse?

  “Now.”

  She rolled her eyes and stomped madly towards him.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” An assertive hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  “Take your hand off my daughter,” McConnell said.

  He was young, all muscle and no brain, another Aryan know-it-all. Just what the SPD needed.

  “I ain’t asking.”

  The cop swallowed, withdrew his hand.

  “You’re her dad? She’s going to be cited for possession of alcohol—Hey! Stop right there! Sir, I’m warning you—”

  “Go fuck yourself,” McConnell said, propelling Katie ahead of him through the kitchen.

  Which was worse, the law or her father?

  A no-brainer. At least tonight, because this was her father. Not the lazy, deadbeat fatty with the ugly beard; he had finally killed and buried that freakin’ thing. Had lost a ton of weight, too. A ton. He was looking good, a lot better than fat-ass Jerry but even as fat as her dad ever got he was a better catch than that asshole. How her mom could leave her dad for that gross pig was a fucking mystery.

  Funny what you think about when you’re drunk and up shit crick.

  Storm troopers. That’s what her dad called the Spokane police. This storm trooper, who couldn’t take his eyes off Andrea’s tits while pretending to write in his little book earlier, looked like he wanted to arrest her dad. Serve him right embarrassing her like this. The other girls’ dads hadn’t shown up, weren’t dragging them away in front of all their friends. She was so pissed off but didn’t want to stop and think about it because a part of her was happy to see him and that pissed her off even more.

  They were into the dining room now and her dad pulled her up short next to Josh and Jeremy who were being lectured by two more cops. You could see the dim hope in their eyes that their parents in Vegas might not be bothered by a phone call.

  “One of you Lyons?” her dad interrupted.

  “Dad!”

  “Shut it. Lyons?”

  “We both are, sir,” the younger confessed.

  “Which is Josh?”

  “He is.” The older eagerly hooked a thumb at the younger.

  Her dad leaned in close. “You come near my daughter again I’ll cut your goddamn balls off.”

  Both went white.

  She was so embarrassed.

  “Jesus, McConnell, you can’t say crap like that to kids these days, they’ll shit themselves,” a big cop with a moustache said. He was older than the others, old like her dad.

  Her dad’s eyes narrowed. “Anders. Didn’t see you there.”

  They shook hands. Whoa. This was a storm trooper her dad actually liked?

  Tit-cop bravely appeared.

  “Good, you stopped him. This girl was drinking. I need to write her an infraction—”

  Anders gestured her over. She looked to her dad who gave her a nod, so she went.

  “You remember me?” Anders said to her. She shook her head. He snorted. “How old are you now?”

  “Fourteen,” she supplied boldly.

  “Thirteen,” her dad amended.

  “Almost fourteen,” she snapped.

  “I remember when you were five,” Anders said to her, “you had that same look then, when your dad wouldn’t let you ride a quad by yourself, as you do now.”

  “Hey!” Tit-cop wasn’t getting the attention he deserved. “She’s being cited for—”

  “You got her ID?” Anders asked him.

  “She didn’t have one. She—”

  “Well, I guess she ain’t here then.”

  Tit-cop was city, wore dark blue. The one her dad liked wore the sheriff’s tan and green.

  “No. I was writing her up for—”

  “Right. You were. But she ain’t here now.” Anders shook his head. Tit-cop just wasn’t getting it. To her dad he said, “Take her home, McConnell.” And to her, “Young lady, knowing your dad the way I do, I wish you the best of luck.”

  She muttered several nasty things as they paraded in full view of everyone on the porch.

  “Watch your mouth, Katie.”

  “What are you going to do, embarrass me some more?” The audience on the porch cheered on her insolence.

  One of the storm
troopers paused smushing Tyler Jordan’s face into the hood of a patrol car. “Hey, where you taking that girl?” Were any cops left in the city to fight real crime, like rape and murder, or was teenage partying now ranked with terrorism?

  “Stop and identify yourself.”

  “Fuck off,” her dad said. Incredible. Twice in less time than it took Amy Jones to lose her virginity her dad had told two cops to ‘F’ off.

  “Hey asshole, turn around and step away from the girl!”

  “Get in the truck, Katie,” her dad ordered.

  “On the ground! Now!” The cop drew his Taser.

  “Fuck you.”

  What came next happened unbelievably fast.

  The Taser fired and in one motion her dad stepped aside, grabbed the wires mid-air and yanked backwards like he was hooking a fish. Launched from the cop’s hands the Taser took flight, wires trailing after it into the night.

  The cop’s jaw dropped, his hands fumbled for gun and nightstick, coming up stick first. He took two steps forward and swung downward at her dad who lunged forward. The cop’s outstretched arm smacked against his shoulder, nightstick harmlessly pointing up in the air, and faster than she could say that’s my dad he spun the cop around, placed him in a wicked-looking hold, wrist bent inwards towards the elbow. The cop squealed like a pig, the nightstick dropped and he followed it down to his knees.

  The audience on the porch was now cheering even more raucously. Not so the cops, who were all running over, drawing their weapons. Whether Tasers or revolvers or laser pistols she couldn’t see in the dark.

  “Dad!” she screamed.

  The cop yipped as her dad jerked him up, holding him like a shield as the charging cops slid to a halt, weapons pointed, shouting all manners of violence they would visit upon him if he didn’t drop to the ground.

  Her dad dared them with his icy stare. The porch was near riotous. Katie herself was screaming, any moment the bullets would fly—

  “KNOCK THAT OFF! NOW! All of you, holster your side arm! I said holster your side arm! That’s an order!”

  Everyone froze. Even the cheerers went silent mid-cheer.

  Anders lumbered down the steps from the porch to stand between her dad and the gang of dark blue, barking again to put their guns away. They refused and he barked at them again. Slowly they complied. When the last one had, her dad shoved the immobilized cop away with a boot in his butt. He fell on all fours with a grunt before popping up and rubbing at his wrist.