Not Forgotten

by George Lee Miller

  “Bad dream,” I said.

  “Anything to do with this?” She touched the scars on my forehead.

  “Everything,” I said.

  It was the first time she’d mentioned them. She waited for more explanation. I’d shared the experience with very few people. Grandpa was one. Skeeter knew part of it. And Sylvia. More than anyone, Kelly would probably understand the guilt I felt.

  “I brought coffee and breakfast,” she said when I remained silent.

  Someday I might tell her, but today wasn’t the time or the place.

  Skeeter stirred. “What’s up?”

  “The Marines have arrived,” I said, finally managing a smile.

  Kelly handed me a cup of coffee. She was wearing Wrangler jeans, black tactical boots, and a green fatigue T-shirt. Her straight blond hair was pulled into a short ponytail and tucked into a red-and-black Texas Tech baseball cap.

  “I know you’re hungry,” she said.

  I opened the bag and found a dozen fat, warm taquitos wrapped in foil.

  “You are definitely on my Christmas list,” I said.

  “We in England?” Skeeter asked.

  “England? Y’all must have had a hell of a night,” Kelly said. She opened the passenger door of her dark-red 4x4 Dodge Ram pickup. The grill was plastered with bugs she’d picked up on the quick drive down from Lubbock.

  “I’m just glad the sun came up,” I said and stood to stretch. A pink tint lined the cotton ball clouds on the eastern horizon.

  “Drink the coffee. Eat breakfast. Then we’ll talk. We can’t stay here.” She grabbed a Walgreens bag from the seat. “We’re not going anywhere in a Jetta. Where did you get that thing?”

  “From ‘Billy Goats Gruff,’” Skeeter said and smiled at me.

  “Where?” she asked, puzzled.

  “We appropriated a vehicle to elude capture,” I said, for Skeeter’s benefit. She seemed satisfied with the explanation. Skeeter rolled his eyes.

  “We’ll leave it. Let’s go. Get in my pickup,” she said. “We’re too exposed here.”

  I knew she wasn’t completely sure what was going on. She had told me on the phone about the state-wide bulletin. I had given her my side of the story. She must have believed me, because she was here alone with a bag of taquitos and a cup of coffee. Had she any doubt, the hand that woke me from my nightmare would have been attached to a highway patrolman.

  “Hi, I’m Skeeter.”

  She opened his door and helped him shuffle to the rear seat of her pickup.

  “Nice to meet you. Pull off your gown.”

  Skeeter chuckled. “I like her already.”

  “Where’d you get the name Skeeter?” she said, helping him struggle with the hospital gown. The material was stuck to the dried blood on his chest.

  “I was scrawny as a kid. My cousin gave me the nickname.”

  “I guess you had a growth spurt.” She pulled out a pair of surgical scissors from the Walgreens bag and cut the garment from his neck to his waist. She helped him sit up straight and pull the gown free.

  “Sixth grade. Put on fifty pounds and grew seven inches,” he said.

  More dried blood caked the patch on his chest. Kelly pulled a roll of gauze, hospital tape, and rubbing alcohol from the sack. She opened a bottled water and soaked the bandage until it pulled free. She kept him talking to keep his mind off his pain.

  “So, why do they still call you Skeeter?” she asked. Her hands worked constantly, pulling off the old bandage and inspecting the wound. It was clean but raw. The night’s activity had broken the scab.

  “They thought it was funny after that.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  I looked at Skeeter. He hated his real name and never told anybody what it was. I only knew because it appeared on his police record.

  “Clarence,” he said without hesitation. She had won him over.

  “And you’re the computer whiz?” She looked skeptical.

  “You sound surprised,” he said and chuckled to himself. He loved the reaction he got from people when they found out he wasn’t an NFL player.

  She took a black four-X T-shirt from the Walgreens’s bag and handed it to Skeeter.

  “I figured you needed a shirt. It was the biggest they had.” She helped him slide it over his head. It fit like an extra layer of skin.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Like a gorilla in a bikini,” I said.

  “Man, you racist,” Skeeter said.

  Kelly wasn’t sure what to think until she saw him smile.

  “I always tell the truth,” I said.

  The coffee and the taquitos were producing the desired effect. My head was clear, and my muscles were starting to recover. I glanced around the park. The puffy clouds had shed their pink tint and were ready to take on the day. I realized that the Jetta wasn’t concealed in the daylight, and we were plainly visible to the main road. It was Thursday. All the locals who lived on the outskirts of town were headed to work. Marcus’s thugs would be on the prowl. I’m sure he chewed their ass or worse for letting me slip through their fingers. They wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “Leave the vehicle,” she said, taking charge. “They’ll be looking for it. We’ll use mine to relocate to a secure location.”

  “Here we go. She talks like you when you go all Marine Corps,” Skeeter said.

  “That should make you feel safe,” I said.

  “What’s he talking about?” Kelly asked. She hadn’t been out as long as I had, and she worked in law enforcement, so she hadn’t completely made the adjustment to civilian life.

  “First things first,” I said. “Head call.” The coffee and taquitos were making my guts churn.

  Kelly reached in the console of the Ram and came out with a roll of toilet paper. “There’s a tree,” she said. “Go commando.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I grinned and took the paper. “What color would you like it, ma’am?”

  “When I say ‘shit,’ you squat down and ask what color,” she barked, doing her best sing-song drill instructor voice. We both laughed.

  Skeeter was disgusted. “Great, now I gotta put up with two jarheads.”

  “Oorah,” Kelly and I shouted in unison.

  We had a shared background, but this wasn’t a military mission. I didn’t want to put Kelly in harm’s way or take responsibility for getting her hurt or worse. The question was, Would she listen to me? She was, after all, an officer.

  The outdoor theater on the river was undergoing renovations, and I found a portable outhouse set up for the construction crew beside the building. I glanced around the park, checking for any sign of the Super Duty pickup. The coast was clear. Kelly and Skeeter had their heads together and seemed to be lost in conversation. He seemed to like her much more than he ever liked Sylvia.

  When I headed back to her pickup, the two of them stopped talking. Skeeter fussed with his prosthetic hand, and Kelly bit into a breakfast taquito. I figured the best way would be to tell her directly.

  “Kelly, we’re going on alone. Thanks for the coffee and the breakfast.”

  She swallowed a mouthful of tortilla and egg, washed it down with coffee, and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. Skeeter looked at her, then at me like I had just sprouted a pair of horns. Maybe I had. We both waited for her to speak.

  “No,” she said. Her voice was clear and matter-of-fact.

  It caught me off guard. Skeeter started to smile, then changed his mind. His face remained neutral, as if he were waiting for the punch line. She stepped out of the pickup and faced me.

  “This is my fight. We’re not in the Marine Corps. You don’t owe me anything. You came here and brought supplies. I’m grateful for that. I’ll take it from here. I’m on the job. I’m getting paid to find Marissa’s killer.” Despite my confidence, I could feel my face flush slightly.

  “Bullshit,” Kelly said. “Your grandfather�
�s dead. You just found out your girlfriend is a lying bitch. And they killed your dog.” She nodded toward Skeeter.

  I shot a look at Skeeter for betraying my confidence.

  He just shrugged. “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  She stood facing me with her shoulders square and her feet planted. Her hands were on her hips. She looked every bit the lieutenant she once was. “You can’t lie to me. You’re not in this for the money. You’re in deep shit, and you need my help. I’m breaking the military’s golden rule—I’m volunteering.”

  “You’re an active member of law enforcement. You have to walk away or put me in custody right now. That’s your duty. You know I’m a fugitive. I shot a police officer.”

  “A dirty cop trying to kill you. Working for a corrupt politician. He got what he deserved. You asked me for help last night. I’m here. What happens to me from here on out is not your fault.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I crossed my arms and stood my ground. Skeeter took that as the punch line and launched into his low baritone chuckle.

  I turned to Skeeter. “You think this is funny?”

  “I think she’s right, and you’re too stubborn to admit it,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  We heard the crack of the AR-15 rifle I had left with Skeeter. The wind had picked up, and my nose was running. Kelly handed me a tissue from her glovebox, along with an antihistamine.

  “This wind does it to me too,” she said.

  We heard another shot and listened for the explosion that didn’t come.

  I checked the rounds in my pistol and tucked it behind my back. Kelly clipped her Glock to her canvas belt. I lifted the M24 from the back seat and snapped in a full five-round magazine. Kelly grabbed her police-issue 12-gauge pump-action shotgun and loaded extra rounds in a black tactical backpack along with wire cutters and two bottles of water.

  We heard a third shot. Nothing. Another ten seconds ticked by. No explosion. I shared a questioning look with Kelly. We were less than a mile from Skeeter. If he hit the transformer, we would hear it. She chewed her bottom lip. It was the only clue I had that she was nervous.

  We were waiting by the side gate to the Allison ranch, which was guarded by two surveillance cameras. I had left Skeeter under a small cedar tree growing from the base of the fence near the front entrance and below the main transformer supplying power to the ranch. The tree provided some cover and a natural place to rest the rifle. I showed him the basics of AR-15 operation—take the safety off and pull the trigger. I had left him a twenty-round magazine. If he hit his mark, one was all he needed to cut power to the compound and the surveillance cameras.

  We heard the fourth shot. It should have been followed by an explosion or electrical pop. Again, we heard nothing. I was beginning to think this was a bad idea. I should have left Kelly and gone through the side gate on my own. We heard another shot and another miss. He was fifty feet from a three-by-two-foot target. He had a scope on a rifle resting on a tree limb. I knew his shoulder was wounded, but goddamn. He could throw a rock and hit it.

  We heard the sixth shot. Nothing.

  I counted two more shots. Both misses. I could see Kelly counting too. There was a pause. I wondered if Skeeter was saying a prayer. I hoped whatever he was doing worked. I held up my crossed fingers. Kelly did the same. If the saints weren’t listening, we could use a little luck.

  Shot number nine returned a loud ping and the sound of a ricochet. Skeeter had finally hit something, but there was no explosion.

  We both held our breath.

  I looked through my rifle scope at the surveillance cameras over the back gate. I could see the little green lights still on. We heard another pop. Round ten. That shot was followed by a ping and then an electronic zap and a string of firecracker explosions. After ten tries, Skeeter had finally hit the target.

  I checked the cameras. The lights were off. I grabbed the bolt cutters, and we sprinted to the back gate. The cutters sliced through the chain, and we were through the gate in less than a minute. We pulled the gate closed, and I propped the chain back in place.

  Sometime in the past ten years, a bulldozer had scraped a fifty-yard easement around the inside of the perimeter fence. Because of the drought, instead of grass there was mostly prickly pear which made the going rough. We ran in single file to make traveling through the thorny jungle easier. A roadrunner jumped in front of me and kept pace with us for twenty yards before disappearing into a brush pile.

  Once past the easement, we plunged into thicker mesquite and huisache brush, both equally full of thorns and both fully capable of ripping clothes and skin. After a mile, we found the power line that led to the house. The ground underneath had been cleared more recently, which made running much easier. We paused in the shade of a mesquite tree to catch our breath and drink some water. Both our forearms were covered with blood and scratches. The wind was keeping the temperature down in the lower eighties but was also picking up dust that filled our eyes with a fine grit.

  We drank and rested for two minutes in silence. I wasn’t sure how far we were from the house, and I didn’t want to take any chances on them hearing us. Kelly secured the water bottle and shouldered her backpack. We took off at a slow jog. Ten minutes later we saw the house.

  The compound was teaming with activity. A pickup parked sideways in the road. Two security guards in black uniforms leaned against the bed, pointing AR-15 rifles toward the main entrance. I counted two more in the barn loft. Three on the porch of the old house.

  Marcus was nowhere in sight. That meant we were one step ahead of him. If we could slip in and take Danny off the property, Marcus would be forced to deal with me.

  Kelly whispered in my ear. “I count nine.”

  I held up seven fingers. She pointed to two more in a pickup parked beside the cattle pens that I’d missed. I pointed out the old house where I’d seen Danny emerge from on my last trip and motioned for her to follow.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The first Allison had built the original house and barn for defense against Comanches and banditos, but the younger generation had lost its connection to the past in more ways than one. The newer buildings blocked the southern view. The new barn and the garage faced inward, toward the cliff, instead of toward the sloping landscape. I took advantage of the blind spots and led Kelly around the corrals to the old house.

  We emerged behind a portion of the original rock wall that probably had once circled the house. They had only maintained a thirty-yard section that served no function but landscaping. Inside the wall, rose bushes were stationed at five-foot intervals. I scanned the back windows for movement. Nothing.

  A Heights Security guard with a black uniform appeared on the back porch. I ducked down and put my hand on Kelly’s shoulder. I pointed toward the house and held up one finger. She nodded.

  We both heard a commotion in the yard. Tires crunched on gravel. The guard turned abruptly and hustled toward the noise. I motioned for Kelly to cover me. She checked her shotgun and nodded she was ready. The only other sound was the coo of a mourning dove.

  I vaulted the four-foot wall and thankfully landed between rose bushes. The short sprint to the porch took less than five seconds. I flattened my back against the cool limestone blocks and saw Kelly sweep both right and left with her shotgun. I slid along the wall to the back door and tried the handle. Locked. I inched back to the window and peeked inside. The kitchen was laid out similar to Grandpa’s house. It was a small room with bare countertops and a round table that contained napkins, a honey jar, and four empty beer cans. I listened for footsteps. Nothing but the muffled voices from the front yard.

  One building at a time. Clear and secure. I was in military mode. I could see Kelly was too. She was on the alert, weapon in position, and ready for anything. I motioned her forward and brought my own weapon up to cover her advance. There was no hesitation. She vaulted the wall with ease, desp
ite her shorter legs, and ran to the opposite side of the door.

  I pointed at my boot, showing Kelly I was going to kick the door in to gain access. The wooden doorjamb looked to be as old as the limestone blocks, and I didn’t expect it would take much to splinter. Kelly held up her hand for me to wait. She reached behind her belt and produced a Marine Corps issue Ka-Bar knife—a deadly combat fighting tool with a fixed seven-inch blade that could do damage to anything in your way. I nodded approval. She sliced the blade in the jamb and quickly popped the door open.

  We stepped inside and paused to listen. Wind rustled the oak limbs in the yard. The dove was silent. The kitchen smelled like stale beer and snuff spit. Kelly glanced at the empty beer cans and crinkled her nose. I shouldered the M24 and drew my pistol. It was a better weapon for close-quarter fighting.

  I heard footsteps on the upstairs floor. We froze. The footsteps moved quickly down a hall and descended the stairs that were just behind the kitchen door. I pressed against the wall. Kelly behind me. We both held our weapons ready.

  The footsteps paused on the ground floor, as if deciding which way to go. The next step came toward the kitchen.

  I held my breath.

  Danny Allison walked past me. I immediately jammed my Springfield into the side of his neck.

  “Long time, no see, Danny,” I said.

  He took a sharp breath. “Why are you here?”

  Kelly pulled out a pair of flex cuffs and slipped them on Danny’s wrists. I shoved him into a kitchen chair.

  “I told you I would come for you,” I said.

  “You were supposed to kill Marcus Lopez at your grandfather’s ranch. He was with your girlfriend. He killed your granddad. Why did you let him go?”

  “You better start making sense,” I said.

  “Grandpa said you would kill him. You were supposed to end it. Now, Marcus is coming here.”

  “You’re saying Patrick Allison set me up?” I jammed the .45 barrel against his forehead.

  “No… I mean, yeah. Don’t kill me.” His chest heaved.

  “Talk, Danny,” I said.