Shotgun Mine

by Jim Heskett

  “Hey, boss,” said the man standing in the doorway. “I got your text. One of the old guys is telling Desert Storm stories next door. Want to come listen?”

  Beckett hooked a finger to bring Roscoe closer as he removed the wooden plank. The underling shuffled forward, holding a beer glass in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. Roscoe was a curious fellow, short and stout, but strong like a bear. Beckett had seen Roscoe pin a man nearly twice his size once. He had little round glasses and a patchy beard, but always a welcoming smile.

  “Did our man bring the suppressor options?”

  Roscoe nodded. “He brought three, if you want to test shoot them tomorrow.”

  “Three? I asked for ten options. How do I know which silencer I want unless I can try a bunch?”

  “Sorry, boss. He gave me three.”

  Beckett removed the bronze cigar cutter from his pocket and tossed on the table. When Roscoe frowned at it, Beckett said, “That’s for his index finger. Bring it to me, then send him back to Denver to get more options.”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  Beckett pointed at the telescope, and after a second of confusion, Roscoe bent over and looked through the scope.

  “What am I looking for?” Roscoe asked.

  “See the fancy SUV parked at George Parrish’s house?”

  “I do.”

  “Do we know who that person is?”

  Roscoe stood up straight and blinked a few times. “I was going to tell you about that. He showed up at the bar an hour ago.”

  “I already know that. Who is he?”

  Roscoe appeared momentarily wounded by the comment, but Beckett didn’t care. He had no time to temper his tone for this easily offended employee.

  “That guy’s Layne, George Parrish’s son.”

  Beckett sucked in a breath as all the pieces fell into place. He had heard of Layne Parrish. Plenty in his organization had. But Beckett had never expected to meet George’s son in person.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Roscoe shrugged. “We don’t know yet. He just rolled into town.”

  “Then maybe you should find out. If he’s here to cause problems with our thing, that’s not going to be okay.”

  “I understand, sir. You want me to send some guys? Layne is pretty buff, but sending three or four of them oughta do the trick.”

  “Not yet. Let’s find out why he’s in town first before we reveal our hand. We need to know if he’s going to be any trouble or not. That’s all I care about right now, got it?”

  Roscoe nodded and removed a Walther Q4 from a concealed carry holster. He ejected the magazine, checked it, then inserted the mag again.

  Beckett shook his head. “Not until we know why he’s here, okay?”

  Roscoe gave a humbled nod. He seemed genuinely disappointed to have been told he couldn’t shoot Layne. Beckett respected that. If it came to it, he might even let Roscoe be the one to kill him.

  “Info first,” Beckett said, “then maybe we kill him.”

  5

  Layne pulled back the door to the cabin to find his father sitting at the table. He’d stood outside and knocked, but the old man hadn’t budged. Layne had watched him at the table through the window, sipping a steaming mug of tea and poring over a newspaper. Layne had eventually let himself in, which was an odd experience. It no longer felt like his house, so this seemed like barging in.

  That square table had been too small for the four of them to eat at during high school. It hadn't mattered much then, because Randall had rarely been home for family dinners. He was always off with his friends or doing extracurriculars for the short number of years he’d lived in Shotgun. Normally, Layne and his parents would eat dinner together, usually with heads down, focused on shoveling the food in as quickly as possible. Layne’s mother would try a few times to inspire conversation, but most topics didn’t go beyond simple yes or no answers.

  George looked up but did not speak. His features changed into something that possibly resembled annoyed curiosity, with a hint of guile. He could be such an infuriating man with his unreadable expressions. Experiencing a stroke also hadn’t done anything to improve that, unfortunately.

  Layne marched to the kitchen and slid into the chair opposite his father. He did not break eye contact. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Like what?”

  “It doesn’t matter what it is, I can promise you I’ve faced bigger problems. If you’re in trouble, maybe I can help.”

  George sneered and went back to angrily browsing the paper. “I’m not in trouble. Stop pestering me.”

  Layne smacked the table with the bottom of his fist. Not hard, but enough to rattle the teacup. George flinched but didn’t look, and Layne took a beat to compose himself. No reason for this to escalate into one of their shouting matches, because Layne had nothing else to prove to this man. Smacking the table had been like the response of a doctor’s rubber mallet onto Layne’s knee.

  He reached across the table and put a hand on top of the Sports section, pushing it down. His father huffed, but made no attempt to stop Layne.

  “When I was a kid,” he said, “you were so big. Towering, muscular, like a superhero. You could have used that strength and power to protect us, but you didn’t. You used it to intimidate us.” Layne waved a hand at his own torso. “Why do you think I look like this? At some point, I decided that if I got big and strong, no one could push me around. But then, you know what? I found out physical strength isn’t the kind of strength you need to be an adult. I had it all wrong.”

  “Stop lecturing me,” George grumbled.

  “Have you joined the Disciples of the True America?"

  George looked like he'd been slapped across his jowls. He opened his mouth it took a few wheezing breaths before he responded. "No."

  Layne noted the indignant look on his father’s face, but there was no surprise or confusion there. He already knew who the Disciples were. Not many people did. Layne leaned forward and held his father’s gaze as he decided to push further.

  "But there’s something going on, isn't there, Dad?”

  George sat, staring at the leathery skin of his aging hands. For several seconds, he said nothing. Finally, he shrugged, one shoulder rising much higher than the other. His unreadable face sank down, pointed at a random spot on the wall.

  "Did you move a car out of the hardware store parking lot for some people?"

  George again shook his head, but he didn't seem as confident this time. He kept his face pointed away, not meeting Layne’s gaze.

  "Did you owe them something? Are you in debt to them?”

  George sat, saying nothing, but his leg jittered underneath the table. His jaw bounced up and down for a few seconds, as if chewing a tough piece of food.

  “Talk to me,” Layne said, his tone somewhere between demanding and pleading. This old and insufferable man made Layne want to tear his hair out and break a chair against a wall. “You did something to piss the Disciples off. Or you saw something you weren’t supposed to see, and it has to do with them. Help me out here. Did you move that car for them?”

  George's lower lip trembled, then he looked up at Layne. He gave a tiny nod of the head, barely a fraction of an inch in either direction.

  "Okay, okay," Layne said. "Let's talk about it."

  George, who seemed to have been on the verge of opening up, sat back and sneered. "It's none of your business. Leave me the hell alone and stop treating me like I’m a little lost dog. I’m a grown man. I’m your damn father.”

  Twenty-five years ago, a snarl and a cutting line of criticism from George Parrish would've angered Layne for days. But now, looking at the shell of a man who couldn't speak right, all those reactive feelings washed away. Layne felt no intimidation at all. Such a strange thing, not being afraid of him any longer.

  When Layne had pictured a reunion with his father before today, he foresaw the anger. Inevitable. But he hadn’t foreseen th
e pity. His reaction continually surprised him, and it made him distrust his own perception of the situation.

  "Dad, you have to tell me what's going on. I know people. I can help."

  George stared for a few seconds, and it appeared his snarl might break. Instead, he doubled down as he stood and pointed down the hall. “Your bed has gotten lumpy as shit over the years. Nothing I can do about that tonight.”

  He held his finger in the air for a moment, as if he might say more, but he didn’t. And then, George marched into the kitchen to do the dishes. As soon as the water came on, the old man started humming, and Layne knew all conversation for the night was now over.

  He watched his father struggle to scrape cheese from a pot as he considered the circumstances. George was probably doing something illegal. He'd been enlisted by the Disciples and had somehow agreed to help them disappear a car. Maybe willingly, or, just as likely, unwillingly. One possible scenario involved George seeing something he wasn’t supposed to see, and now the Disciples were threatening payback as a means to keep leverage on him.

  Although Layne didn't know why this was happening, he knew he couldn't call the police on his own father. And he knew he needed to stay in town until he figured it out.

  Interlude #1

  Oahu, Hawaii, United States | 9 Years ago

  Layne Parrish meanders along the beach, looking back at the resort. Sand squishes between his toes and the sun warms his face. This section of beach is clean and lengthy, but for resort guests only. Layne isn’t thrilled about the idea of a section of nature being reserved only for certain people, but he understands it. Guests pay good money to stay here, and they want an uncluttered beach experience.

  Here on the North Shore of the Hawaiian island of Oahu, Layne and his fiancée Inessa walk the length of the beach next to the spot where they will say their vows two days from now. She’s angular and lean, with long limbs and a slender neck that Layne thinks about kissing constantly. Her blonde hair is corralled in a braid, with wisps drawn out by the humidity here and there.

  "Do you think the waves will be too loud… louder than the band?" Inessa asks in her Russian accent. The same accent that could come across as sharp, or sexy, or sincere, often in the same sentence.

  Layne eyes the distance between the beach and the grassy area at the hotel resort. He shrugs. "Maybe we can ask them to play a song or two at the rehearsal dinner? Give it a trial run?"

  Inessa smiles and grips his hand as she kisses his cheek. "Good idea, baby."

  For the next few minutes they walk the beach in silence, feeling the breeze wick heat from their skin, smelling that particular ocean water smell, hearing chimes from the hotel's beach bar tinkle on the wind. He didn’t want to leave his sandals back in the room, but Inessa insisted. Now, he realizes she was right. There’s nothing like the feeling of warm sand between toes. The way the ground has extra give with each step. He reminds himself to jog here tomorrow morning; he doesn’t get the opportunity to beach run often.

  Layne watches a man, woman, and small child sit in the sand, working on a castle. The man has buckets of sand, the woman has buckets of water, and the toddler with them mostly giggles and roots around in the sand, without providing much actual team project support.

  Layne thinks on how challenging it must be to fly with a little kid. He’s time-zone-hopped enough that the jet lag is little more than an annoyance, but he can image it being a whole different ballgame with a teeny person in tow.

  "I want to talk to you about seating arrangements," Inessa says. And for a moment, Layne drifts away and thoughts about traveling with a child somehow lead him to ponder his mother. He replays their last conversation, when she said she would come see him get married, health problems or no. Of course, that didn't work out.

  Layne also wonders about his father. He wonders if the invitation arrived, if it arrived on time, and if George received it. Layne knows how difficult the mail service can be in that podunk town of Shotgun sometimes.

  He wonders if George will come see his son get married, or if an empty chair will provide the glaring evidence to the contrary.

  "Seating charts," Layne says. “I would love to talk about seating charts with you."

  "I can tell," Inessa says, giggling.

  Layne studies her. She's beautiful. One of the most beautiful women he has ever seen. He feels lucky to be standing here with her, in this gorgeous place, with this gorgeous woman, just for today. Just for today, no one is coming to Kill Layne Parrish. Today, he has no responsibilities to the nameless government team he works for. Just a celebration.

  “Which do you like better,” Inessa asks, “mountains or beach?”

  “Mountains, definitely.”

  “Wow. No hesitation.”

  “Not at all. I’ve spent my life living near the mountains in some form. There's nothing wrong with the beach, but it doesn’t give me the same feeling. I can stand halfway up a mountain, breathe deep, look at the trees, and be happy. Standing on the beach doesn't do the same thing for me. I can’t sunbathe. I get restless.”

  “Then we will have to alternate vacation choices. I like beach.”

  “Fair enough,” Layne says. “If I’m on the beach with you, then all bets are off.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Especially if it’s a private beach.”

  She snickers and they link hands as they explore the shoreline. They stroll past a couple of young and topless sunbathing women. They’re lounging on towels, shiny with sweat and suntan lotion. Layne’s not sure if nude sunbathing is allowed here, but he’s not going to snitch on them or anything like that. He’s mostly concerned with not staring, so it won’t make Inessa uncomfortable.

  But, a few steps past them, Inessa pokes him in the side, leans in close, and says, “Nice, huh? I hope they appreciate the perkiness while it lasts.” Layne shrugs, and Inessa laughs. “Sure, as if you didn’t notice.”

  He pulls her close and kisses her. “Only you. That’s why we’re getting married, right?”

  “It is about time you made me an honest woman.”

  “Honest?” he says in a playfully incredulous tone. “I don’t know if I’m that powerful.”

  She smacks him on the chest. While her face wears a smile, Layne can’t always tell what she’s thinking. Inessa fake-smiles and fake-poses for a living, so sometimes it’s hard to divine her true expressions from the false.

  But he knows there’s something on her mind, something they talked about extensively before wedding planning took over their lives: kids. Inessa wants to have children, and she’s broached the topic with Layne several times. At her age, she’s worried about complications, so she doesn’t want to wait any longer.

  But Layne isn’t sold on the idea. He has nothing against children, and he’s enjoyed spending time with Harry Boukadakis’ small child during visits. But Layne doesn’t know if he can be a father. His day job takes him from one end of the globe to the other at a moment’s notice. How can he be a responsible dad if he can’t ever see his child? Plus, he’s heard all the horror stories about lack of sleep in that first year, and Layne doesn’t do well on limited sleep.

  But it’s important to Inessa. So important that he’s willing to compromise. Inessa speaks often about having two kids, so maybe Layne can negotiate her down to a maximum of one. That seems a lot easier to manage.

  But they’ve agreed not to discuss children again until after the wedding. So far, they’ve both kept up that arrangement.

  He points toward a set of steps leading back to the restaurant area at the resort. He’s been thinking about tapas for the last few minutes. If there is one advantage of coming to an all-inclusive resort like this, it has to be the sanctioned drinking and eating to excess. An asset that always needs to be leveraged in situations like this.

  She nods, and he escorts her while his stomach now begins to grumble in earnest. They ascend the steps to the Mexican restaurant, the host waves at them. She probably remembers them from lunch yesterday. He’s
6’4” and she’s only a few inches shorter, so Layne and Inessa tend to stick out when they go places together.

  "Table for two, sir?”

  Layne nods, and then catches something out of the corner of his eye so unpleasant, he instantly forgets the question. Like seeing a flying saucer appear, he doubts his own vision. His brain scrambles while he tries to think of what to say.

  When he doesn’t immediately respond, Inessa leans forward and engages with the hostess. She gathers two menus and looks at them expectantly. After a pause, Inessa also looks at Layne expectantly.

  "Go ahead, baby,” Layne says. “I’ll be right there.”

  Inessa frowns, but she puts up no argument. The woman leads her away, and then Layne waits to the right of the awning shielding the restaurant’s front. He waits because he sees a sultry brunette walking toward him. A couple of years older than Layne, curly brown hair and deep red lipstick.

  "Hello, Boy Scout," says his boss Daphne Kurek.

  6

  Layne thundered down the mountain. His legs churned and his hands swung, with a sloshing soup can gripped in each palm. In high school, Layne used to jog with dumbbells, or sometimes a weight vest. But George had tossed or sold all the old exercise equipment. Soup cans would work just fine.

  This was the same route Layne had run most mornings during the few years he lived here with his family. From the cabin, along the winding road’s edge as it twisted down into the foothills. Past the cemetery, past Keegan's house, down into the cluttered valley town of Shotgun.

  Two mountains flanked the town. One to the east and one to the west. Each contained a mine, and both were closed for business due to safety issues. But one was still accessible while the other was fully closed after repeated tunnel collapses. Long before Shotgun became associated with ice climbing, it was a mining town full of swarthy, blue-collar mountain hippies. But now, it wasn’t even an ice climbing town anymore. Shotgun now seemed like a terminally ill patient, and everyone was waiting for the death rattle.