by Kirk Jockell
As he drove on, Logan realized how dark the road seemed, even with his high beams on. The sky was blanketed by a thick overcast, not a star to be seen anywhere. He looked in his rearview and side mirrors. Everything behind him was virtually black. The surface lights of Nags Head were distant on the horizon.
The Bronco rolled on down the highway. The glass packs bellowed and the mud tires roared on the pavement. Then he felt a bump. That was followed by a grunt. Logan looked in his rearview. His package was coming around. “Don’t kick my truck, asshole.” Then a moan emerged from the back.
The Oregon Inlet was just ahead. The view from atop the Herbert C. Bonner Bridge is always stunning during the day. But even on a night as dark as this, with so little to see, the view was awesome. Offshore, the horizon was marked by the running lights of merchant vessels making their way up and down the coast. Some would be heading to the Chesapeake Bay, no doubt.
As he reached the top of the bridge, Nigel slowed. He rolled down the passenger side window and began to toss items out the window. One by one, items were jettisoned into the inlet. Jimbo’s phone, Manchester’s phone and revolver all took flight. The last item was Manchester’s wallet. Logan checked its contents, but left everything intact, even the several hundred dollars that lined the billfold. He was a lot of things; a thief wasn’t one of them. He laughed at the thought as the wallet was slung out the window.
He got back up to speed as he came down the other side; up ahead the Cape Hatteras National Seashore provided what seemed like additional darkness, if that were possible. That’s what he was looking for. His thoughts were interrupted again by more movement in the back. Manchester was awake now. Logan could hear him trying to talk and move around. The movement developed into thrashing about as he tried to get free; his muffled talking had a certain panic in its tone.
Nigel demanded, “Knock it off back there, asshole!” But it didn’t help, so Logan looked around and thought This is as good as anywhere. He pulled off onto the left side of the road and turned off his headlights. In an instant, he was reminded of just how dark it can be. He sat for a bit to let his eyes adjust. Then his phone bonged. It was a simple text from Sherry Stone: Merry Christmas. Wherever you are.
Logan looked at his watch. The face read 0011. He tossed the phone on the passenger seat. He looked into the rearview mirror and said, “Merry Christmas, Manchester.”
He put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and placed her back into drive. He thought about how his night vision goggles would have come in handy about now as he began to navigate the Bronco. Off to his left was nothing but sand, dune, beach, and ocean. His eyes hadn’t adjusted much and he felt like he was driving by braille. The headlights would draw too much attention, so he turned on the parking lights. They didn’t help much either. Then he remembered his LED flashlight and pulled it from the bag.
He rolled down his window, so he could hear the surf that he couldn’t yet see. The crashing waves were loud, close, out there somewhere. The wind was louder, howling out of the north, bringing a bitter cold. The extra noise was good. It helped drown out the commotion from the back of the Bronco.
Logan stuck his hand out the window and turned on the flashlight. That was much better. He shined it around and once he got his bearings, he turned the light off and eased forward. As the Bronco rolled to the top of the next dune, he could just see the breakers: faint; flashes of luminescence glowed in the dark water with every crash.
This seemed good. He was far enough off the road, and he didn’t want to navigate back up another big dune if he could prevent it. He rolled down the back window so he could open the back. He left the engine running. He put his hoodie back on to help with the cold and got out, slamming the door. He walked toward the back of the Bronco and stopped to shine his light in the side window. Manchester squinted as he looked up.
Logan swung the spare tire rack to the side and opened the gate. He shined the light in the eyes of Manchester. “We’re here, bitch. Get out!”
Manchester didn’t move. He couldn’t, not really. His legs were bound tight with a combination of zip ties and duct tape. His hands were done the same way and behind his back. Logan knew moving was near impossible, but he used his target’s disobedience to get angry. Logan put the light between his teeth and reached in with both hands and dragged Manchester feet first out of the back.
Logan saw his head slam against the rear bumper before he landed on the dune. “Damn! Sorry ‘bout that.” Logan crouched down over Manchester and shined the light in his face and slapped his cheeks. “Stay with me, now. No more passing out. No fun killing you, if you’re not awake.”
Logan smiled when he saw Manchester’s eyes open to look at him. “That’s better. Wait here.”
Logan went back to the cab and retrieved his bag. When he got back to Manchester, he said, “Roll your fat ass down the dune. I’m not dragging or carrying your ass anymore.”
Manchester did nothing.
“I’ll give you five seconds.” Logan didn’t. He kicked him hard in the ribs and said, “Move!” Then there was another shot to the ribs and Manchester began to rock back and forth. Logan put his foot on his target’s hip and rolled him like a log. Manchester began to roll. Logan applied an occasional kick to keep him motivated and moving. When they got to the bottom of the dune, Logan sat Manchester up and ripped the many layers of duct tape off his mouth.
All the panting that had been coming out his nose moved to his mouth. He gasped for more air and the flow of adrenaline helped ease the sting of the tape being torn from his lips. He took a second to catch his breath and asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Logan sat back on the sand across from his target. “The same thing anybody wants. Justice.”
Logan began to hear a hint of panic rising in his voice. “Justice for what? How did you get Jimbo’s phone? Where is he? I thought he was...”
Logan almost finished his sentence. He almost said dead, but he didn’t. He sat and listened.
“What is this all about? Is it money? Is that it? Who the fuck are you? Who sent you?”
Logan squinted in confusion as it dawned on him; Manchester was really in the dark. He had no idea who it was. He assumed Manchester would figure it out on his own. That he might put two and two together. But he hadn’t. Logan gave it some thought, and it began to make sense. Hell, nobody knew he was out of prison. Not yet anyway. That made Logan think harder. How should he play this?
Logan reached into his bag and found the Ruger, then the loose magazine. He was cold, tired, and ready for all this to be over. He worked the magazine into the bottom of the grip and slapped it in place. It was seated with that signature sound that is unmistakable. Manchester flinched, and he flinched again as Logan pulled back on the bolt and let it slam home. Logan took the LED flashlight and shined it in Big Man’s eyes. He reacted by squinting and Logan said, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”
Manchester raised his voice, “Give me one good reason why you should.”
Logan said nothing. He kept the light in Big Man’s eyes.
“Please! I can make it right. Whatever it is. No problem. You don’t have to do this.”
Logan was silent.
“Talk to me! What is this all about?”
Logan said, “Everything. It’s about everything. Every sin. Every injustice. Every murder. Every crime against humanity. Welcome to your judgment day.”
“Money,” Manchester said. “You want money. I have plenty. How much? Just tell me.”
Logan was insulted and angry. “Manchester, this has nothing to do with money!”
“EVERYTHING IS ABOUT MONEY!” yelled, Manchester in a panicked frenzy. In a quieter more sensible tone he said, “Every man has his price.”
Logan kept the light on Manchester’s face and stood up. “You’re right. And every man names his form of payment.” He drove the bottom of his foot onto Manchester’s chest and shoved him back against the dune. Logan le
aned in closer and said, “Some things are about love. Now, open your mouth.”
Big Man resisted, so Logan pressed the barrel against his tight lips and yelled, “Open! Open or I’ll blow a hole through your teeth!”
Manchester was shaking. Out of fear and the cold, he was shaking. Logan pressed harder and twisted the muzzle against his mouth. Manchester moaned as he relented and Logan slid the barrel deep into his mouth. Logan was done, ready, tired of his time being wasted. But as he was choking Manchester with the barrel of the Ruger, ready to pull the trigger, he became conflicted.
Logan wanted to kill him. He was capable and on the verge. No doubt. The life of Manchester Lundsford meant nothing to him. He had more respect for roadkill. But … should he let him die wondering who and why it had been done, let that horror run through his mind, or should he lean in and watch Big Man’s face as he introduces himself and reminds him of Grace Matthews and the two thugs he sent to Port St. Joe.
Deep down, Logan wanted him to know. He wanted Big Man to know he had come back. That he had come back from Tate’s Hell and prison, just for him. He wanted Big Man to see his face. He wanted to see Manchester’s eyes the very moment he realized it was true. That it would be Nigel Logan to end it all. Logan wanted to see his face the second before the trigger was pulled. Logan wanted those moments. Each of them.
“Manchester, before you die. There’s a couple things you need to know.” Logan could feel Manchester’s body tighten under his weight, a knee now planted in the middle of his chest. Logan leaned in. He was about to speak, but something stopped him. It was a voice in his head. It was Candice. Six simple words: What have you become? Come home. He closed his eyes and heard it again. It wasn’t a hallucination. The voice was real, but they weren’t Candice’s words. He heard her voice, but the words were his own. What have you become? He got quiet and listened some more. He let Candice tell him. You can’t do this.
The adrenaline running through Logan’s veins was at an all-time high. He began to shake. He looked at Manchester. He began to think about what he wanted most. It was home. Home and Candice. He wanted his life back.
He panted as he spoke, “Manchester ... we’re not that much different. Me and you. We’ve both done bad things. The difference is the reasons why we do them.”
Big Man was quivering, listening. He tried to say something, but it was pointless with the muzzle in the back of his throat.
“The scars you people leave are real and painful. They affect your victims in the deepest way. They are constant reminders of the horrible things done to them. Many often wish they were dead.”
Logan let that sink in for a few seconds and he said, “So, death … tonight … might be too good for you.”
Manchester’s eyes crossed as he looked at the barrel in his mouth and nodded his head.
Logan continued, “But ... you have a problem, Manchester. You don’t have the emotional capacity to walk away from this with mental scars. So, the question is; what good would it be to let you live?”
Manchester looked at Logan. Said nothing.
“I just don’t know. But I know you’re a piece of shit and I’m tired of looking at you.”
Manchester closed his eyes.
Logan moved the barrel of the Ruger to the side causing Manchester to turn his head. Logan pushed his other hand to the side of Manchester’s head, pinned it down to the sand, and growled, “Merry Christmas, motherfucker.”
Logan moved and pressed the muzzle around Manchester’s mouth until he found fleshy cheek tissue. When he could feel the sand give, he pulled the trigger. He moved the muzzle around to different spots. He fired three total rounds and burnt three small reminders in the right cheek of Manchester Lundsford.
Logan stood, panting, looking at his target. He was out cold. Logan reached down and checked his pulse. Still alive. Very alive. He grabbed his chin and turned his head to look at the damage. He used the flashlight to find that Manchester had been left with a nice pattern of exit wounds to commemorate the night. There was virtually no bleeding thanks to the muzzle blast. Logan was happy with his work.
He stepped away and used the flashlight to find his casings. Then he rolled Manchester over and dug into the sand until he retrieved the bullets. He worked quickly to clean up the rest of the scene and pack the Bronco. He walked back down to Manchester and propped him up against the dune. He put his hat back on his head, which caused a welcomed chuckle. Stupid looking hat. Then he used his knife to free Big Man’s hands.
Logan stood over him for a bit to reflect on the night, but it was cut short by the howling wind and cold. He ran back to the Bronco. He could think about it as he drove.
The Stool
One of the advantages of being a good television news reporter is being asked to guest anchor the news desk when someone was on vacation. The disadvantage is that those opportunities usually only come during the holidays. Sherry Stone was driving home from the station. She had been asked to cover the Christmas morning news. She had begrudgingly accepted. Take every opportunity you can get.
She delivered a flawless performance and the producer, who was also a stand-in, was pleased. She almost screwed up one story, though. It was the classic holiday piece designed to pull at the heart strings. A cute, but lonely pooch at the humane society was wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and made to look both adorable and pathetic, desperate for a home.
She was on a commercial break, looking into the camera knowing there was nobody looking back. Who in their right mind is watching the news on Christmas morning? Nobody really. If you’re watching, what does that say about your life? Then she thought of the one or two asshole dads that she imagined were out there, telling their kids to Shut the hell up. You can open your gifts after the weather. Now sit your asses down and be patient.
She busted out in belly laughter as the cameraman started his count down, “Live in seven, six, Sherry!, four, Get it together!, two...” The second the camera was live, she was back on point and delivered like a pro.
She was thinking and laughing about that moment as she turned her FJ onto her street. She continued to laugh as she drove, but for different reasons now. Tears began to join the chuckles and she began to find it hard to breathe. A Bronco was sitting in her driveway.
She found him asleep on the couch. She kneeled on the floor next to him and brushed his hair back. His eyes opened with a start as he found her looking at him. She was looking for the right words, but he beat her to it. “Hello, friend.”
Friend. She felt her heart sink a bit, but that did nothing to overshadow how happy she was to see him. She smiled and said, “Hello, friend.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
She shook her head and said, “That key will always be there for you.” With a quick smile, she changed the subject. She reached down and ran her fingers through his beard. “What is all this scruff on your face?”
“I hate it.”
“I love it. It’s sexy.”
“Really?” he asked.
And she changed the subject again. “I am so very happy to see you.”
He said, “Me too. Merry Christmas.” She started to cry again and he sat up and held her until she stopped.
When her tears were done, she squeezed him tight and asked, “Hungry?”
They parted and Nigel said, “Like a refugee.”
There was no mention of or questions about where he had been or what he had been doing. She considered the worst and didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to talk about it either. As a matter of fact, to Nigel, it was already forgotten history. She was pouring him a cup of coffee when she asked, “So when do you go back?”
“In a few days. Could I maybe...”
“Of course you can stay here. Don’t be ridiculous. I just would have thought you would be itching to get back.”
“I am. Believe me. It’s just the past few months have been...” He stopped. “I would just like to chill a bit. Not think of anything for a while.”
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She smiled. “I would like that very much.”
He stayed for four days. A couple days longer than he thought he would. He knew that when he left, he would probably never be back. Not for a long while anyway.
He made time for visits with Charlie and Caroline and, of course, Grace and the boys. He came by twice. They spent quality time together and never once dwelled on the past. It was like old times and Nigel was thankful for that. As he left for the last time, Nigel asked, “You guys will come to St. Joe to visit, right?”
Charlie said, “Well, yeah.” But both Nigel and Charlie knew a visit probably wouldn’t happen, at least for a very long time. Now that everything was behind them, forgetting the past was best, and that would be near impossible when they were together, so … maybe … forgetting the past might include forgetting each other. That idea saddened Nigel as he said, “Goodbye, my friend.”
Charlie didn’t say anything. He just nodded.
She came home from work to find him finishing the last few pages of a book. When it was done, he got up laughing and tossed it on the kitchen counter. “You should read this.”
She picked up the copy of The Man Who Invented Florida and looked over the cover. She opened it and glanced at the front matter. “You’d like it,” he said. When she raised her head to look at him, she saw something different in his eyes. Two or three beats later, he came right out with it. “It’s time.”
He caught her off guard. She secretly hoped this day wouldn’t come. She nodded her head, held back the tears, and asked. “When?”
“Tomorrow. It will take me a few days to get home. I’m going to take my time, but I got to be home by New Year’s.”
She nodded her head again. This time with a smile. “They will be happy to see you.”
He took her by the hand and smiled. “Can a sailor buy you a drink?”
They bellied up at the bar in front of the draft beer station. The bartender came over. “What’ll it be?”