by Wells, Tobin
West Virginia had changed in the twenty years since Porter left. It now tolerated its openly gay Attorney General, even though that aspect of his life was just an open secret. In this culturally conservative state, few others could have advanced to the political heights Holland had with such an abhorrent sin ruling their lives, as the majority of voters professed on Sundays. But Holland’s deep political alliances and J. Edgar Hoover-like list of others' transgressions, allowed him to control the door to his sexual closet.
At 11:30p.m., Porter parked on MacCorkle Avenue, a few blocks away from Holland’s favorite haunt, the Black Curtain, and paid the $5 cover. Inside, he approached the aptly named Back Door, a dimly lit, quasi-reserved area for VIPs looking for a hook up with some discretion. The bouncers posted at the entry viewed Porter’s confident advance as one who understood the Back Door for what it was, and permitted him through without detention.
Bad Penny beer was not on tap, so Porter ordered a pint of Hell’s Belle and waited for his prey to approach. Half a pint later, a member of the Attorney General’s staff saddled up beside him to ask if he was looking for some company. “Sure,” said Porter. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” answered the noticeably offended aide. “My colleague would like to entertain you,” he huffed, as he pointed to Holland who was wolfishly eying Porter.
Feeling the rage well up within him as he stood to walk the 30 feet to Holland's table, Porter repeatedly reminding himself, Control your emotions. When he found a seat directly across from his progenitor of pain, all he could utter was, “Hey.”
“Hey there,” said Holland in what Porter thought was the most stereotypical gay accent he could have imagined.
The Boone County native continued, “You’re new here aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Porter. “Just in town for the holidays. Looking to play while I have some free time. Why? Are you a local?”
Shocked that Porter did not know him, Holland answered indignantly, “I’m more than a local. I run this state.”
“So you own this bar,” asked Porter wryly, hoping to further offend the politician.
“No. The State,” answered Holland with emphasis, “the State. You really aren’t from around here.” Speaking slowly as a condescending teacher does for a student with a low IQ, he continued, “I’m the Attorney General for the State of West Virginia. Nothing gets done here unless I say it does.”
“I thought the governor was the top dog?”
“Not here."
“Wait,” started Porter, “isn’t a Rockefeller one of your Senators? You’re telling me you’ve got more power than that guy? What’s he worth, a billion or so?”
“Jay Rockefeller?” Holland questioned in an octave higher than normal. “That debutant hasn’t shown his face in the state for years. He doesn’t even come in for elections. All he does is spend $5 million on tv ads that air on the 6 o’clock news and another $5 million to get the union vote and he’s done.” Pausing to give Porter a chance to take this in, Holland drove his inebriated gaze deep into Porter’s and proclaimed, “If you want power…you’re looking at it.”
Understanding Holland's double entendre, Porter asked, “So what are you looking for?”
A thin smile adorned Holland’s expression of dominance, “Well, why don’t we move to the quarters and see what you’re made of.”
“No,” said Porter, “I’m not going to an AIDS infested back room of some dive bar for a quickie with some arrogant prick who says he has more power than the governor and a senator who is the son of Exxon.” Holland was dumbfounded, but before he could retort, Porter continued. “Let’s roll back to your place where, one, we can take our time, and two, you can prove you're the real power in this armpit of America.”
Still dizzied by the loss of control and blatant disregard for who he was, the Attorney General paused ten seconds to consider the proposal. With a quizzical look still covering his face, Holland said, “Ok. I have a driver. I’ll have him come around to the front for us.”
“No,” said Porter a second time. “If I want to leave, I’m gonna have my own car when I’m ready to go. You tell me your address and I’ll meet you there.”
The alcohol and sexual rush of this young, confident stranger overrode Holland's caution and concern for his privacy. “835 Sanders," he offered quickly. "There’s a guard at the entrance. Let him know you’re my guest and he’ll let you in.” Attempting to regain some of the control he had lost to Porter, Holland ordered, “You go on over. I’m going to finish my scotch.”
Porter left the Black Curtain and hastily strolled to move his car from the driver's line of sight. With the car around the corner, Porter quickly searched for what he needed and hustled back towards the bar.
Holland's black, late model Suburban was idling in the alley just to the left of the entrance as Porter approached the driver. "Hey, I’m going to be the guest of the Attorney General tonight. Do I need to tell you, or can I just show up at his place?”
“Sure man. You got some ID?” asked the round-faced chauffeur. Porter reached in his wallet and presented his license through the driver's window.
“Jack Taylor,” read the driver. “Okay, I’ll call ahead so they’ll know you’re coming.”
“Great. Thanks,” said Porter. As he withdrew the license and moved to put it back in his pocket, he let it fall to the ground. “Shit. Too many beers I guess,” he said, still at the driver’s window. As he bent down to retrieve the laminated card, the gloved hand in his left pocket pulled out a tracking device and placed it on the SUV’s undercarriage.
Standing quickly, Porter announced, “Okay, got it. Thanks.” The driver offered a quick grunt and a nod.
When Holland stumbled into the SUV ten minutes later, his driver greeted him with a cordial, “Hey boss.” Holland grunted as the driver continued. “Your friend already headed to the house.”
“He came to the car?” Holland asked with slight alarm.
“Yeah. He said he was gonna be your guest and showed me his ID”
“What was the name?” asked Holland.
“Jack Taylor.”
“Jack Taylor,” responded Holland, running that name through his mind. “Nobody I know,” he concluded. The warmth of the car, the effects of the alcohol, and the comfortable leather seats assuaged any lingering concerns Holland had on his five minute ride home.
As his vehicle turned right onto Sanders Street, all seemed in place. The guard at the gate greeted Holland cheerfully. “Has my guest arrived?” asked Holland.
“No, not yet,” said the guard without concern. “Paul called me and said a Mr. Taylor was supposed to be headed over here, but he hasn't shown yet."
A bit puzzled at this news, Holland said, “When he gets here you know where to send him.”
Holland entered the house and went directly to his bedroom for a quick clean up. But thirty minutes of anxious waiting turned into an hour of sexual frustration. Concluding that his evening would be one spent alone, Holland put in a porn and attempted to entertain himself. But just like his no-show guest, Holland couldn't finish what he started.
Holland awoke the next morning with his head raging from both the open bottle rule he had at the Black Curtain and being power slammed by some stranger who had no idea who he was, nor cared. As he primped in front of the bathroom mirror, Holland assured his reflection that Jack Taylor obviously doesn’t understand how important he is. He paused to apply moisturizer and analyze what he knew. Jack Taylor? If that’s his real name anyway. From where? Out of town? Shit! I could find a thousand Jack Taylors in the tri-state area alone. Straightening his tie and with a final review of his ensemble, Holland quipped in disgust, “Let's hope we don't meet again Mr. Taylor. I'll show you my power until you walk with a limp.”
Chapter 7
Noble Predator
November 2011
Awaiting his prey, Porter recalled how he loathed deer hunting. However, a West Virginia c
hild in the early 1980s was not afforded the luxury of foregoing a free meal. From age 9, he had dutifully headed into the hills in all seasons and weather to bag a buck or a doe. His father needed his skill and the bounty, and his sister needed the protein. Family obligation far outweighed his disdain for killing the Odocoileus Virginianus. Still, those ventures into the thicket gave him perspective and an important life lesson…tracking and hunting wilderness prey is both difficult and predictable. The same is not true when hunting humans.
Life choices are overwhelming for the child who has known none. When the freedom of adulthood crashes in on one who has only known poverty and the limiting factors associated with it, choosing a career path, where to live, or whom to marry is debilitating. As Porter shivered from the cold on a dilapidated tree stand, deep in the hills along Hurricane Creek, he was freed from those multitudes of choices in place of an easy one. Would Mitch Frazier take a bullet in the shoulder or the throat?
Porter knew patience was key when collecting both man and deer, but more so with the evolved. Forest animals are predictable in their daily patterns. Eat, reproduce, avoid predators; follow well-worn trails, eat similar types of vegetation, and choose the best bluffs in which to evade captors. Humans too, follow daily routines of work, grocer, temple, restaurant, and pub, all with their noses deeply buried in a smart phone or tablet. Most have no concern for predators, much less one who stalks them. When confronted with such danger, the humans’ choice of protective maneuvers should be more random than the numbered balls of the lottery. Mitch’s inattention to his predator and his absence of protective measures would crown him the winner of today’s death jackpot.
Experience also taught Porter that disturbing a prey’s natural setting often ended in a missed kill, as the hunted notice the subtle changes in its environment and take evasive action. The differences might only be recognized at a subconscious level but Porter neither knew, nor cared. The kill was all that mattered. Causing little, if any disturbance at the kill site ensured better odds for taking the game and more importantly, escaping the authorities’ detection.
The toes and fingers are always the first to succumb to nature’s effects. Having placed himself in the tree an hour before dawn, Porter’s toes were the first extremities to feel the numbing sensation caused by this 25 degree day. Toes do not pull triggers, fingers do, he reminded himself. His primary concern was that his body not shiver when the time came for his fingers to do their work.
Though cold, the sky was clear with the slightest breeze coming from the East, pushing to the North. If this were a normal Thanksgiving Day hunt, Porter’s foreign odor would likely have altered a deer’s path to avoid the muzzle flash of his 300 Weatherby rifle. Human senses, however, are far inferior to those of deer. With eyes on the sides of their heads and satellite-like ears, deer have nearly 360 degrees of vision and hearing. Their wet noses, with 297 million olfactory receptors as compared to five million for humans, is their first alert system allowing them to use a top speed of 30 mph to evade predators. Mitch has none of these abilities, as he is Irish.
He does, however, have more than two decades experience as a hunter thanks to Principal McCoy of Winfield High School, who afforded his star athletes a great deal of leniency in attendance during hunting season. As an all-state selection in football beginning his sophomore year, Mitch used his celebrity status to skip school the entire first week of deer season.
The days of high school importance are long past as Mitch, covered from the neck down in an insulated blaze orange jumpsuit, unknowingly shared the woods with one who only regards him as a pariah. His wool-lined camouflage hat kept his head warm, but the flaps over his ears reduced his hearing by half. Relying almost solely on his vision and tucked behind a 200 year old oak tree at the edge of a cornfield, Mitch was certain the ten point buck he had observed for weeks would emerge from the creek bed at first light.
Porter too was an experienced hunter, but the thrill of stalking the four-legged variety had long since passed. His training regime for the last 20 years of martial arts, cardio and weights, and weekly trips to the firing range had shaped him into a lethal weapon. Chewing on ice, however, as his assassin model Simo Hayha did when he killed 505 Russians in three months during World War II, was not a normal part of Porter's daily discipline. Porter's hunting routine was to focus himself by listening to a Dan Carlin 'Hardcore History' podcast and have a large pinch of Skoal in between his cheek and gum. But like all masters of their trade, Porter adjusted to his environment. This frigid morning required him to have full function of his ears and ice in his mouth to cool his breath, lest it condense and display his position through the trees.
Late Fall sunrises in the West Virginia hills are exquisite. The sky softly disperses a glow of egg shell orange through the leaf barren trees, and a feeling of being enveloped by the light pervades the senses. A calm owns Porter's soul as he is fortunate enough to enjoy Creation at this time of day. While the calm is welcomed, the diminished visibility is not. Adjusting his night vision to the now crisper images of early dawn only blurs Porter's eyes; and blurriness of sight or his mission are never welcomed in Porter’s world, regardless of the prey.
Porter inhales the slightly sour smell of leaves as their decomposition has begun. He tastes this early rot mixed with an abandoned crop, as the faintest breeze blows dust from a dried and brittle corn field. Looking past the farmer’s field just as the early morning light crested the hill, Porter caught his first glimpse of Mitch, dead ahead at 225 yards. “To your left,” Porter whispered as he urged Mitch in front of the oak tree. Peering through the scope atop his bolt action rifle, Porter again quietly coached, “Come on you shit. Move!”
For three months, Mitch had made weekly trips on his ATV to scout this field and the game he was certain would be there. Porter had followed him for his final two visits. Mitch knew that the two miles from the nearest county road made it unlikely the game warden would venture this far in the backwoods to see him replenish his illegal corn feeder and salt licks. Equally unlikely were others to hear him scream.
“Remember who you are,” were the words Porter’s father said each time a circumstance tested his or Jennifer’s character. When others displayed poor sportsmanship during his childhood games, his father would remind him, “Remember who you are." When his sister attended unchaperoned school dances, “Remember who you are.” As Porter traversed the wilderness of adolescence into manhood with no parents, those words were his guide. And now, “Remember who you are,” was Porter’s mantra before every kill. Peering at Mitch through his scope, he quietly uttered, “Remember who you are,” as he gently squeezed the trigger.
Mitch’s left shoulder exploded in a violent wave of blood, bone, and muscle. Knocked on his back by the force of the bullet’s impact, Mitch screamed with such powerful intensity he felt as if his lungs might explode.
With the same precision of the shot he had just placed, Porter strapped his rifle on his back, descended the tree, gathered his supply bag, insured that his Glock was firmly on his hip, and ran as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.
Struggling to both understand what had just happened and to sit up with only one useful arm, Mitch surveyed his surroundings. Unbeknownst to him, Porter had intentionally placed the shot so that death would linger. Rocking back and forth and tightly grasping his left bicep to alleviate some of the throbbing, Mitch focused on the pain's intensity and not Porter's approach, until there was only 30 feet between them.
When Mitch's eyes did register the stranger, they were wild, like those of a deer immobilized by a gut shot; unable to focus or comprehend what had happened. His agony clouded his thoughts and he mistakenly presumed the stranger had both accidentally shot him and come to his aid.
“Man, you got me in the shoulder!” Mitch said, spitting his words venomously at Porter as he sat up slightly to show the damage. With blood running down his right arm, Mitch extended his left hand to Porter. “Help me up. My four wheeler’s rig
ht there.”
With his head covered in total by the neoprene mask and his eyes disguised by black Oakleys, Porter assessed the ATV for a moment and then slowly looked back at Mitch. Twisting his head to the left, Porter’s movement communicated that he had not come to help.
Only two feet separated the men when Porter said slowly and clearly, “I know what you do to Laura.” The ice now gone from his mouth, Porter's condensed breath poured over his victim as if Hell's vapor had begun to envelop its newest resident.
Puzzled and alarmed, Mitch wriggled from his seated position trying to get to his feet and over to his four-wheeler. Like the fox that has wounded a rabbit but withholds the death strike to observe its victim, Porter placed his sunglasses on top of his head and unsheathed his hunting knife. The blue grey steel was six inches from the wounded man’s face when Mitch pleaded, “Hey man, come on. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you do,” offered Porter in a low growl. “And you know that I know.”
Mitch froze.
“You and Laura came into the Village Grill two weeks ago. I remembered your face and the bully you used to be. When I noticed that the make-up didn’t fully cover the bruises on Laura’s neck, I realized you were still a bully,” Porter calmly stated. “So I had the bartender buy you a round; then another, and another.”
“Bullshit,” said Mitch, clearly defensive.
"Bullshit?” retorted Porter. “Here you go. Steve is the bartender at the Grill; early fifties, real nice guy with a huge smile and all business. He had your Coors Light and Laura’s Jack and Coke waiting on you when you sat down. His partner behind the bar is Brandon. He’s full of tats, and more subdued than Steve, but friendly in his own way, and he has a voice that’s a mix of Louis Armstrong and Robert Deniro. Is that enough?” Porter defiantly asked Mitch, who offered no response.