Warpath

by Ryan Sayles

  Petticoat’s office is locked. Deadbolt. I pick it as well. One desk, two visitors’ chairs. Window behind the desk. Blinds closed. More bragging material on the wall. One file cabinet. I search it. Filled with real estate contracts, form packages ready to be filled out, an open bag of candy, a canister of coffee, some rubbers. Ahhh. What an animal Petticoat is.

  I sit down behind the desk, fire up the computer. It comes right on; no security password to boot up. Good. As far as security goes, I hope he has all his faith in the two locks that precede the room. Makes my job easier. I’m not very good at cracking passwords.

  The desktop loads up and I start combing through everything. File after file, document after document and download after download. He has four video games installed on the thing, enough pirated music to open his own record store and of course, so much porn it would take an entire forensics team working in shifts to view them all, searching for underage participants.

  In other words, his computer looks like any middle management’s PC except Petticoat doesn’t have a boss to answer to about any of it.

  But nothing that screams next Monday or rape case.

  I open up his Internet browser and look at his bookmarks. I look at his search history and there’s a lot of stuff I’d relate to his job, plus the porn. There are several maps provided by search engines. I click on one. Satellite photo. Just another brownfield waiting to be developed. There are several like this. Some are full constructions, some not. I assume he’s looking at the surrounding area, checking to see how good a location it is.

  Some are here; some are in Three Mile High. All told, there’s a shit ton. I highlight, cut and paste them in an email to myself, then go back to the search history and delete that one page. I’ll comb through them later. Something tells me Petticoat is going to Three Mile High today to conduct business. I go back to the most recent Three Mile High listing he’s been looking at. Brownfield. Huge, huge brownfield in the middle of nowhere.

  Email. No password protection. Nothing except an icon on the desktop. I click it, it sends and receives. I sift through the folders and un-emptied trash can.

  Now here’s something. Clarence T. Petticoat is being blackmailed.

  12

  CP—the usual time and place next week. The price is up to thirty K to buy silence. I strongly encourage you to make the right decision. Failure to do so will result in the police discovering your immense culpability; meanwhile I walk away scot-free.

  God bless.

  Scrappy-Doo

  Rapist. Usual time and place. The price is up. Petticoat’s been paying him for a while, and some good chunks of change if it’s gone up to thirty thousand. Buying silence and immense culpability. I walk away scot-free. If it is the rapist, he’s already walked away scot-free. Why come back now and risk it all? Greed. Simple greed. Scum rob each other every day for enough pennies to make a cover charge and dollops of low-grade dope, let alone hefty sums like these. But what culpability does Petticoat have in his wife’s rape? Surely he didn’t arrange for the sexual assault to occur. Especially with him being present.

  It could be that when it went down Petticoat didn’t fight and instead just let it happen. I can see him being a pussy like that. Or maybe he didn’t want to help. He might have, essentially, thrown her to the wolves. Or maybe he hired a hit man for his wife who didn’t kill her. Instantly, anyways. However it shakes out, this sheds a lot of light.

  The email is from a cheap domain email server that could be run by anyone, anywhere. I do a search for any others. None. Deleted. I right-click the email itself and select options. I find the IP address the email was sent from. There are websites that trace IP addresses as far back they go. True hackers and other savvy folks have ways to run the address around enough to effectively disguise it beyond the layman’s capabilities. I’m not a PC genius but I have some tricks.

  I run the IP address through a couple of tracing sites and they all show up with the same registered telephone number. Could be a Smartphone, but any blackmailer who has the playbook down before he steps foot in the game will use some anonymous third party hardware to do this. Using one’s own phone—except a throwaway—will be traceable. Any blackmail sent from an email address that isn’t something like John@Brand X Mail is suicide.

  I plug the telephone number into a search engine. It comes back to a business. Net café. Corner Bistro. I call it, if for nothing else just to make sure it’s not a front. Blackmailing for this much money doesn’t put something that extensive out of the realm of possibility. One only has to register the number to a name and put it on a search engine. No one says it has to exist.

  Female voice: “Corner Bistro, how may I help you?”

  “Hey,” I start, making something up on the fly. “You guys have hot sandwiches and wireless Internet, right?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Great. Where you at?”

  “Corner of Forty-sixth and Sweet Gum. Corner Bistro.”

  I hang up. Go back out to the car. Get a listening device and some computer software an associate gave me.

  Back inside I rig the listening device to the computer. There, it has a power supply and that won’t run out like a cell phone battery will and it conceals better. I install the software that will enable me to remotely have access to Petticoat’s desktop. Now I can fish through his emails without breaking into his office every time.

  I re-open the latest blackmail note and hit reply. I type:

  Scrappy-Doo:

  Let’s do it early. Got stuff to do on the usual day. I’m not meeting at the usual place, though. For thirty K you can adjust to my schedule. Thursday morning, 9a.m., the comic book shop on 20th and Grand. I’ll be at the city bus stop in front. Don’t bother trying to change it. You’re starting to not be worth it.

  CP

  That should do it. Hopefully this guy will take the bait. And be slightly pissed. Blackmailers—like most criminals—desire cooperation and respect over most else. Bank robbers might not be opposed to killing someone during a heist, but it complicates things immensely. They’d rather folks just pile money into a bag and stay face down on the linoleum. Same thing here. The blackmailer will not take lightly to his arrangement being changed. Complications. Sudden alterations leave little room for planning on his part, and control goes out the window. For all he knows Petticoat is luring him into a trap.

  And of course, it is.

  I pack up and go. Corner Bistro. Eyes peeled.

  13

  Stakeout.

  I’m parked across the street from the Corner Bistro in a shady spot. Here a gentle shadow rests across the vehicle and keeps the worst of the spring sun at bay. Windows down let just enough of a cool breeze inside. God is in the little things. I’ve sat in plenty worse spots on sweltering days for a week or more at a time, looking for something that never arrived. So this is quality.

  I have Petticoat’s email opened up on a tablet riding shotgun. If and when the bad guy replies, I’ll have it.

  I’m gambling on a few things here, just because they’re all I have. The bad guy can check his email from anywhere, but he’ll be more discerning when it comes to sending one. I’m gambling that he comes here to do it. If he doesn’t, I’m shit out of luck. Why this place is anyone’s guess. Our rapist might not drive and this is the closest place within walking distance. He might work here or is dating someone who does. He might just like their brew.

  It’d be nice if the rapist would just walk in there, read my reply and throw a fit. Come stomping out. Make a scene. But in reality, out here on the street, it is just a comfortable wave of face after face coming and going. I try and memorize them all so when the new meet comes at the comic book shop—assuming he shows—I’ll be able to ID him on approach and head him off. Take him someplace where we can talk.

  The hours pass this way. Shadows leaning heavier to one side than I’d like. I call a sandwich shop down the block. For a ten-dollar tip they exit their front door, walk six storef
ronts down and deliver to my car window.

  And more hours pass this way. No reply email. My lower back starts. I can feel my stubble grow into a full beard.

  I look at the clock as the bistro draws its shades and flips its sign from open to closed. I pull away, dreading the funeral tomorrow.

  14

  Wednesday morning

  The world overhead seems to know when a funeral is coming.

  It builds a fabric of gray, of disappointment and regret and stretches it from horizon to horizon. The breeze brings with it immaterial icicles; little shards just to nip and bite even now in warm weather. Rain cavorts in protesting masses, still swirling in the storm clouds above. Waiting for the bomb bay doors to open.

  Molly hugs herself and leans into Graham. “I swear this is the coldest Wednesday morning ever.”

  A single streak of lightning snaps in the mounting turmoil. It forebears a message from its brethren: we are coming...and in greater numbers.

  This rent-a-pastor better hurry.

  Graveside. Clevenger and I stand ridged against the winds. The small strip of hair still clinging to Willibald’s otherwise nude head stirs in the breeze. Those flirty, miniature gales, running their distracting fingers through his remaining comb-over hair while his wife is interred. Bitches can’t even wait for Eudora to be in the ground before they play with her surviving husband.

  Willibald looks up to uncooperative weather, snickers. “I made arrangements for this to be fast. Only took a couple of days, you know.”

  Graham and I look at one another. For a murder victim, Eudora did get buried quickly. But, I guess it was cut and dry.

  “I also made my own arrangements,” Willibald says, giving a lifeless pat to Graham’s elbow. “Keep you from worrying about it.”

  “Grandpa—”

  “Quiet now. It’s your grandmother’s time.”

  An eternity passes by as the thunderheads loom and threaten. The pastor, part of the package deal with the funeral home, drones on and on like he knew anything about Eudora that Willibald didn’t tell him five minutes before the whole thing started. So fake, trying to sound so sincere. So deep and comforting. So plastic. He could sell rust buckets, crack-cocaine or condoms to toddlers with his line of spit-polished horseshit.

  Then all at once the funeral party clicks the ratchet that barks with a startling noise, lowering the casket. Each tick on the teeth of those gears puts a gulf between Willibald and his wife. I know that void.

  And people peel off. One by one. Small groups. Vanish, like ghosts who have fed to their fill on the sorrow here. Given their marching music by the descending ratchet.

  Pull up their collars. A dull mass of black coats and umbrellas being toyed with by incoming winds.

  Mumble. Look at the ground. Step over flowers that have fallen from a grave they adorned. Leave.

  I kneel, gently take the flowers. Put them back upright on the woman’s grave marker from where they fell.

  “She has the same name as your wife, right?” Clevenger, behind me.

  “Yes.”

  “Soft spot?”

  “I don’t like seeing people treat our dead like that.”

  “Some dead, you mean.”

  I smirk. “There is a difference between decent dead people and the dead people we see.”

  “Right.” Clevenger smiles some, looks back at his grandfather. His face relaxes into sadness. Another streak of lightning overhead races along on its electric highway, booming like a Howitzer.

  Willibald sits in a wheelchair, dressed nicer now than any other time in life. Still. Hands resting in his lap, comforting one another. Breathing in and out because that is all he knows how to do now. All but a few dedicated people have left him to his thoughts.

  Molly’s hair snaps in the wind; fingers from the wind playing like catty bitches trying to muss up the prettiest girl out there. She holds Willibald’s arm and rests her head against his shoulder. All I can see is that man as a young soldier, being steadfast for that French woman he avenged. I wonder if her head laid on his shoulder the same.

  I walk beside Clevenger, staring at that sight. “He’s strong.”

  “He’s lost.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he’ll be a widower long?”

  “No.”

  “I feel like a small man, or even a bastard for saying this,” Clevenger says. A deep breath. He rubs his eyes, looks away. “I don’t want him to be.”

  “He’s lived a long life,” I say. “He’s made his mark. His legacy. He’s fought evil, he’s saved lives. He’s made a home and a family. He’s passed on everything he’s learned. What he found when he arrived, he either left intact or better when he left. Don’t feel small. His circle is coming complete. When those two ends meet, be there to tell him to go. Anything else would be petty.”

  I put my hand on Clevenger’s shoulder. Squeeze. “And you’re not petty.”

  A long time passes as the storm clouds gather their troops overhead. “Thank you.”

  I look along the edge of the cemetery. Another funeral way off. Headstones scattered about. Acres of folks with nothing better to do than leave their families behind in this life. An occasional tree reaches up to the sky, calling out for a precious drink of water.

  I shuffle along, cars pulling out into the street. Across the way I see a young man standing there, hands in his pockets. Hat cocked off to the side; brim as flat as a carpenter’s wet dream. He stares on in our direction for a moment, then a crowd of mourners passes between him and my line of sight and he’s gone.

  I shrug it off. Punks and thugs are everywhere I look right now when I’m with Willibald and Graham.

  “See a ghost?” Graham asks.

  I shrug. See Molly and Willibald stopped up ahead, talking with friends of the family. “Nah. I’m seeing things in the shadows.”

  “Yeah. You’re seeing ghosts.”

  “I worry they’re real.”

  A thunderclap rips across the sky. I see raindrops. Slow in a wide pattern. But they have intent. I nod to Graham, “Let’s get your grandfather before the sky does.”

  15

  Back at my place on the third floor and all the world melts away.

  I sift through the mail piled on the floor beneath the mail slot. Bills. Credit card applications. An appeal letter from Saint Erasmus, the Catholic parish I attend on Christmas and Easter. Needs money. Father leads the flock there. A good man. He’s done right by me.

  I sit back and take a breather. Later tonight Graham wants to meet up at his grandfathers and drink a few beers to his grandmother. Fine by me. Graham said he was even going to make his famous dip. I’ll pass on that.

  Weariness lays its hands on my shoulders in a gentle massage, and I lean my head back, close my eyes and exhale long. Every muscle in my body feels strained from the past few days. Just sitting in a car for hours has a toll. The numerous brands of tension borne from hunting people, the loss I absorb as I watch Clevenger fill with sorrow, the set of eyes in the back of my head as I do things like pick locks.

  This much exhaustion just means I’m not drinking enough to cope. I open a bottle of whiskey and savor the initial burn. That’s how you how you know it’s working.

  The smokehouse next door is hard at work getting tomorrow’s meats ready. The stale but pleasant lingering scent of tobacco in my place surrounds me, envelopes me. The aroma of the booze fills my throat and nasal cavity with its sweet spice.

  But still, a waft of gardenias trail through it all and with a loving embrace I have never found again, caresses my cheek and calls me to the bedroom. To the closet where I have kept my wife’s belongings.

  My beautiful wife, the only thing ever right with this world. Given unto the Great Hereafter, accepted with joyous blaring of trumpets and angels singing as she crossed untainted into the Kingdom of Heaven. How I ever won her I don’t know, nor do I spend any time dwelling on it. I did win her. And that simple fact alone tells me there is a God, and H
e does not hate me the way I think He would. A more bitter man would accuse God of giving my wife only to take her away as a cruel joke; an example of how much the Divine truly does despise me. But I do not.

  I know God cherishes my wife and would not use her as a joke against me. But moreover, He would not use me as a cruel joke against her.

  And then Death herself, that filthy cunt who spreads her wings all around me, all at once a beautiful but insidious dame, she came and ran her poison through my wife’s veins.

  I open the closet and am bathed in the ethereal traces my wife has left behind. Her wedding ring, twinkling in the light of the closet bulb. The way the sunlight danced across her eyes when she would look at me, seeing something no one, even my mother, ever saw. I take the ring into my hardened fist and hold it tight. So tiny there. Sometimes I can feel her nimble fingers explore the creases in my palm. I close my eyes.

  Four days.

  Four days between the wedding mass and her death. Four days personified as gently strolling poetry, scene after scene of her happiest days passing by like silk in the wind. Behind each simple glory there was a stain of death to be sure, but each stain was behind her joy. That much she was thankful for.

  She knew the blip at the end was coming; even before she said “I do” she had been to her MOPP regimen. After our first dance as man and wife she had to sit. Taxed beyond her limits. Stayed on the oxygen tank for the next three songs. Wheelchair bound for the rest to ease her burdens.

  She was both alluring and complex. Blonde, warm like dawning sunlight across gold. High cheekbones, emeralds for eyes. She never struggled with people. They loved her. Everyone knows one person like that; the easy magnetism, the pretty girl looks with the ugly girl personality. Genuine. Magic. Approachable and disarming, unintimidating even though, if she so chose, she could be untouchable. Sometimes she would fall quiet as she contemplated a shift in the leaves on trees, but only if it were autumn and the colors rustled just right. It was her favorite season.