by Wells, Tobin
The Hand of Mercy
A Porter Brown Journey
Book 1
Tobin Wells
Text copyright © 2013 Tobin Wells All Rights Reserved
Chapter 1
Cowards and the Innocent
November 2011
"I'm sorry.”
Mitch's cryptic text confused Laura. Now six hours after she had received it, and less than two hours until her family would arrive for Thanksgiving dinner, Laura replaced her confusion with irritation. The turkey was his responsibility. Undercooked was unacceptable; overdone would send him over the edge…and she knew how that would end.
As she reread his text, the phone rang. For a fleeting moment, her mind raced to the conclusion that the sheriff was calling to deliver tragic news. “Hello,” she answered.
“Hi honey, it’s Mom,” rang out Pam Taylor's syrupy sweet greeting. “So how’s it coming? You just about ready for the chaos?”
“Not quite,” responded Laura. “I’ve got the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole almost ready and I'm just about to start the mashed potatoes, but Mitch isn’t back yet and I’m not sure how to get this turkey ready. You know what he’ll be like if I don’t get it right.”
Pam knew about Mitch’s temper. She had witnessed countless minor irritants which had caused him to verbally lash out at Laura, but was unaware of the abuse her daughter had suffered at his hands.
“Not back yet, huh?” asked Pam.
“No,” answered Laura, “And what’s strange is he sent me a text just after 6 a.m. that said ‘I’m sorry’.” She paused. “Mom, he’s never said I’m sorry…ever.”
Hearing a bit of alarm in her daughter’ voice, Pam reassured her only child, “Oh I’m sure it was just him saying sorry ‘cause he knew he was going to be late. You know how long it can take to track a buck if its been gut shot.”
“Yeah," responded Laura uncertainly. "That’s what I was thinking. But I figure it must be a big one for Mitch to track it. And heaven help us if he did get a ten point or bigger. He’ll have bragging rights for the year,” she chuckled, imagining what Mitch would be like. “I can already hear him telling Jack and Don about every detail of his hunt."
“I'm sure he’ll be awful to live with," offered Pam, unaware of the truth in her statement. "So, hey, why don’t I come over and just help you finish it all up. My pies are done and they can cool at your house the same as mine.”
“That’d be great Mom,” Laura said, as she pulled the phone from her ear to see who was calling on the other line. “Hey Mom, someone’s calling in. So I’ll see you in a bit?”
“I'm coming right over,” answered Pam.
“Hello,” said Laura, as she clicked to the other caller.
“Laura?” asked her friend, Deputy Sheriff Bill Bannister.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Bill.”
In an instant, she knew the call was a harbinger of death, but her mind refused this reality. As her world slowed, she answered meekly, “Hey Bill. Is everything ok?”
“I’m afraid not Laura. We just found Mitch over off Hurricane Creek. Somebody shot him. I'm real sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s gone."
Laura slumped to the floor. The numbing sensation that pervaded her body blocked the sound from her ears and the focus from her eyes. All she felt was the tile floor beneath her and the tingling at the tips of her fingers similar to the effects of paresthesia.
“Laura? Laura?” asked Bill.
Her moaning and quiet sobbing reassured the deputy that she was still on the line. Her next words were a whimper. “Was it another hunter?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it wasn’t no accident,” Bill said emphatically. “We got everybody down there right now; EMS, State Police, everybody. We’re working as fast as we can to figure out what actually happened. And I promise you Laura, we’ll find the som’ bitch who did this. I’m sending over Sarah Blake from our Grief Counseling department to be with you.”
As his words reached her ears, Sarah opened the front door.
*****
Porter Brown was gone from the crime scene three hours before Bannister had arrived. Mitch Frazier was Porter’s 184th avenging act and his 22nd kill. Experience had given him ample practice on how to leave little, if any evidence at the crime scene. He knew only the experts from the FBI’s lab, located a few hours to the north in Clarksburg, West Virginia, would have the expertise to determine where he fired the first shot, but Porter left nothing to chance. Unlike most who end another's life, Porter never fled from the ground which held his victims. Instead, he took great care to collect his shell casings, wipe down any surface he may have touched, and correct any other oddity that could connect him to their untimely deaths.
Planning and control were Porter's best friends. While hunting Mitch in the pre-dawn darkness, Porter had worn shoes two sizes too small and placed rain slippers over them to mask the tread marks. During his face to face encounter, he had not touched Mitch, though his knife had come within inches of doing so. His parked car was alongside many other hunters’ trucks at the edge of the woods just off state route 35. The two mile buffer between the kill zone and his escape vehicle, through numerous creeks and over several hills, allowed him substantial real estate to frustrate the nose of any bloodhound attempting to pick up his scent.
After a quick change of clothes in the car, everything but the weapons he had used were placed in three separate Goodwill donation bins one county away from where Mitch took his last breath.
Porter's native Putnam County had grown substantially since he last called it home. And while not every new face in town drew attention any more, he donned a Marshall University ball cap and Oakley sunglasses as he shopped at the Kroger supermarket for his contribution to lunch later that day.
While planning and control had accompanied Porter in the woods, neither traveled well with him on this first trip to see the family in two decades. His plan to arrive at the grandparents’ house just before turkey dinner, stay overnight on the property, and then leave, was still open for revision. He knew that sleeping on the sheets which had held a more innocent version of himself might open doors he had long since closed.
*****
In his Mason County motel room, Porter cleaned any lingering evidence that could tie him to Mitch. As he was readying himself for the 1p.m. reunion, Porter called Connie Lazarus from the new burner phone he had purchased.
“Oh, hey kiddo,” she responded. “The number didn’t come up on my phone, so I figured it must be you.”
“Yeah, same area code but now it’s 469-9043,” he said. Connie scribbled it down hurriedly as she sensed some urgency in his voice.
After each kill, Porter’s soul needed confession. Over the years, Connie had grown used to these calls. The first one, ten years before Mitch, was the most troubling. She could still hear his voice, emotionless, something he'd never lacked in the decade she had known him.
“Connie,” came Porter's stilted greeting that day, “I just killed a man.”
“What?” asked Connie, uncertain how to process what she thought Porter just said. “Did you just say you killed someone?” After a long silence with no response, Connie asked more urgently, “What are you talking about Porter? Did you honestly just murder someone?”
That word snapped Porter to respond, and in one breath, the words flooded from his mouth. “No, it wasn’t murder. It was self-defense...sort of. I had just gotten to a pimp’s farm in Enid, Oklahoma after I found out he was running young Mexican girls. I followed him to a mobile home he was using on the back acreage of the farm. Three guys went into that trailer where I knew
there was just one girl. And Connie," the hurt and anger surging through his voice before he paused, "she couldn’t have been more than 12 years old." A longer pause, this time with more pain being relayed. “I stayed hidden for about five minutes, but all I could think about was the torture that little girl was going through. I couldn’t take it,” he said, his voice raspy from retching.
“So I came running from the woods where I was hiding. All I had on me was my Glock and it shook loose ‘cause I was running so hard. When I hit the door, I busted through it like it was made of paper. That piece of shit pimp was just sitting on the couch while those other guys were in the back with the girl.” Porter paused, recounting the images of that moment. “He pulled on me first, Connie. When I went for mine, I realized it wasn’t there and panicked. I dove towards him just as he shot and I must have knocked him off balance ‘cause he didn’t fire again before I was back on my feet. I then lunged at the gun and somehow knocked it out of his hand. I hit his chin with my elbow and he was out cold.” A final pause as he gathered his words of admission. “Then I beat him to death,” he said with tears Connie knew were streaming down his face. “I just started whaling on his throat and face until I couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from.”
Both stayed silent. Connie’s mind raced to find solutions to the myriad problems Porter now faced. Her next audible question was far simpler than those which remained unspoken. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah. My left hand has gotta be broken, but other than that I’m okay,”
“What about the others?” Connie asked anxiously.
“The first John came out of the back bedroom as I was beating the pimp.” Porter inhaled deeply, “I grabbed the gun and could hardly get a grip on it because my hands were covered in blood. But I still managed to point it at him, hoping to back him off. But he was packing too. So when he went for his gun, I shot him in the throat. I was aiming for his head but when I squeezed the trigger, the pain in my hand made me flinch and that pulled the barrel down. The bastard was on his back clutching his throat when the other two came running out of the bedroom, the last one still pullin’ up his pants.
The second John had already drawn his gun when he rounded the corner. I switched the gun to my right hand and fired again. Since it’s my off hand, I went for his chest. It hit him in the heart and he was dead before he hit the ground. The last one must have been on an acid trip or something because he was still messing with his zipper...even with his two buddies dead in front of him. Seeing him do that did something to me. It’s like it transported me into the room with those guys and the terrified girl. One with his pants around his ankles abusing a helpless child while the others watched and waited their turn. My adrenaline took over and I went into a rage. I wanted him to suffer.
I leapt over his cohorts, and barreled my shoulder into his chest. When we hit the floor, I pistol-whipped him across his nose several times. Then I stood up and watched him feel the pain. He wasn’t looking at me until he heard me cock the gun. Then he froze, and his eyes never left mine. Without a word, I lowered the gun, put it on his jammed zipper, and pulled the trigger.”
Porter paused a bit longer to catch his breath, as Connie waited patiently. “I’d be lying if I told you I felt any remorse watching him lie on the ground writhing in pain; his hands covered in blood, clutching his junk. I looked through his eyes, into his soul, and all I saw was terror…then I put the barrel in his mouth.” Connie heard nothing but more sobbing and retching.
“I wasn't exactly sure these guys were the only ones in the trailer, so I slowly moved the ten feet from the last man to the bedroom door. Nobody was in there but this little girl. Renata's her name.” With more emotion than Connie had yet heard him offer, Porter continued, “Her dress was on but it was crooked like she had just slipped it over her head before I entered. And she was shaking,” he moaned. “I mean really shaking; like her little body couldn’t handle the stress. Her hands were covering her face and they were twitching a mile a minute. And she’s the tiniest thing you’ve ever seen,” his anguished tone pouring through the phone. “I can’t imagine what those pigs were doing to her.” After a minute more of weeping, Porter’s next words came in a calm, steady tone. “I’m glad I killed them.”
Connie had known of Porter’s lust for punishing abusers, especially those who preyed on young girls. She had heard his numerous tales of broken knee caps, cracked skulls, and shattered eye sockets, but she never thought he would embrace killing. “So where are you now?” she asked.
“We’re about ten miles away from the farm.”
“We?” asked Connie.
“Yeah, Renata’s in the car. I just stepped out to talk to you. She speaks a little English and she told me she was kidnapped from Mazatlan, Mexico. Now don’t fight me on this Connie, but I’m going across the border to take her home. I’ll call you when I get back,” he said hurriedly to keep Connie from objecting.
"Wait!" said Connie, her momma bear instinct ignoring Porter’s last statement. “Did anyone see you at the farm?”
“No,” said Porter, “At least I don’t think so. That single wide was way back on the property.”
"Did you clean it up?"
Realizing that in his haste to get Renata to safety, he had left four bodies that would certainly draw the attention of Oklahoma's best investigators. "Shit!" Porter exclaimed, "I never even looked for my gun.” He immediately jumped in the car and turned it back towards the grisly site. “I’ll clean it up and then I’ll get her home.”
Connie slowly offered her reassurance, “Porter, you did the right thing.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice emptied of emotion. “I know I did.”
Chapter 2
Criminal Reunion
October 2001
Porter was in great shape, but moving the fat pimp’s body, was the hardest workout he had ever done. While he hated to ask little Renata to help dispose of her abusers' mangled bodies, he had no other choice. Despite her silence thus far, except to provide her name and home town, Renata quickly answered, "Sí, I help you." Slowly, but without hesitation, she gingerly exited the car to aid him. Porter fought back his tears as he watched her painfully will her legs to the rear of the car. You bastards, he thought. I should have fed you your balls.
With more power than he believed could come from her tiny body, Renata helped Porter wrap the bodies in the bed sheets that were her former prison and hastily move the corpses into the trunk. He found a couple gallons of gas in the barn and doused the interior of the trailer. Although not the cleanest fix, Porter hoped few, if any, law abiding citizens knew of this place, or would be concerned with its torching. As he ignited the flames around the trailer, he felt a fire in his soul also spark. He had just killed in defense of the innocent and he liked the burn.
*****
As dusk engulfed the Lone Star state, the unlikely pair approached the Laredo border. Few words had been exchanged on the drive as both were reeling from the events of the day and Renata had slept through most of Texas. The sight of the border guards produced a cold sweat on Porter's brow and caused his mind to grow confused. His hastily drawn plan to dump the bodies deep in the deserted areas of Central Mexico now seemed tragically foolish.
Fate provided them a border guard with a kind face. His smile was genuine and welcoming as he asked Porter for his passport. In the fifteen seconds it took the Mexican national to look at Porter’s ID and then glance disapprovingly at his young companion, Porter knew his trunk was going to be opened. As the officer motioned for another to assist him with the inspection, Porter’s mind erupted in various escape scenarios. And then Renata spoke.
Porter spoke passable Spanish and understood it even better, but the rapidity and authority with which she spoke to this guard were well past his comprehension level. Instantly, the guard smiled at her and gushed with praise for someone named Don Mario. Renata asked for the guard’s name and thanked him for his assistance. “Dios te bendiga,” were the guar
d’s last words as he tapped the side of Porter’s car with his palm, indicating they were free to drive on.
“God bless you, right?” Porter asked.
“Sí,” she said, as a weak smile crossed her face for the first time that day.
As they passed into the Mexican landscape that Renata recognized, the trickle of tears which had slowly started down her brown cheeks, exploded into uncontrollable rivers; her sobs of grief taking her breath. Porter grieved with her as he considered how horrific her captivity must have been, as well as the care-free emotions she had to suppress in order to survive her ordeal. He hoped the reunion with her family and the familiarity of her homeland would free her to be the little girl she was, or had been.
*****
During the eleven hours it took them to drive the width of the country to her Mazatlan home, Renata detailed her kidnapping, imprisonment, and abuse. “I was at the escuela and we were playing at the swings. Mi padre had two guards there to protect me. Then three big trucks drive by real fast and shoot the guards. We all scream and run. That’s when they grab me and put me in the truck. It is dark and smell bad, like they not take baths.”
Renata paused and began to weep again before she continued her saga. “I cry very much. I not know what they are doing or what they will do to me.” Through her tears she continued to detail her imprisonment as her mind exorcised the memories of the last three months.
“We drive for a very long time. When we stop, we are at a big river.”
“The Rio Grande,” interjected Porter.
“No sé,” answered Renata. “But when we get across the river, we are in United States. Then we drive some more until we get to the place you find me,” her face, now ashen and somewhat catatonic as the thought regurgitated hellish memories. As her next words escaped her lips, Porter watched Renata clasp her hands together to control their shaking. “And then Saul hurt me.” Her voice trailed off as Porter felt the stabbing injury in her words.