by Mike McCrary
They killed my parents, he told me. I almost forgot somehow.
Jonathan and Mama McCluskey.
Killed my parents.
Need to work through a timeline on this. Think. Apparently my mother and Jonathan had a night when she was young—it happens—and the result of that night was me. Years go by and she finally meets a good man. She meets my dad, my real dad, at least the real dad in my mind. I’ve decided it. My real dad who raised me. Picked me up when I fell. Took my temperature. Fed me soup when I was sick and cooked me bacon burgers when I was well. Watched movies he hated because I like them. Took care of me. Loved me and loved my mother. I don’t have specific memories of any of that, but I’ve seen the pictures and heard stories from people who knew him and us together.
More importantly than all that, I just know it.
Feel it in my bones.
A love for my real daddy and my mom. A love that can’t be altered by a big money trust, Gordo and an army of those motherfucking McCluskeys.
They killed my parents.
I know that now too.
A new feeling starts in my belly. It rolls up, too. Rage. Rage rips up and spreads throughout my body like a welcome disease. Give me fuel. My sweet, sweet rage.
The McCluskeys? They’ve come after me. They’ve tried to kill me and my brother. That’s fine. I’ll deal with that shit. We’ll deal with that shit. What’s not fine. What needs to be addressed, and soon. Is that this blood feud of ours needs a conclusion. A measured result. This is not going to simply roll off my back, not by a damn sight. The cold hard facts are that they killed my parents and shredded my life.
And that shit?
That shit has a price tag.
Fucking big one.
“Skinny Drake?”
Nothing. He’s too focused on Uncle Jesse.
“Drake?” I give him a shove with my foot.
“What?” he barks back to me with mouth full, again.
“Get your shit together.”
“What?”
I get up, grabbing my bat, squeezing it tight.
“We’re gonna kill some McCluskeys.”
He smiles at me. Some crust falls out of his mouth and lands on the floor, but he doesn’t mind. It’s in his eyes. He’s all in.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Can we give it a minute?” he says, heading for the door with his gun pulled, holding it to his side with his finger resting just off the trigger. “Food’s here.”
The kid barely knew what a gun was a few days ago.
The kid’s learning fast.
My brother.
Chapter 38
My heart jumps into my throat as he steps to the door.
I move up closer behind him, gripping my bat, but still keeping an eye on my gun that rests on a table. Skinny Drake apparently took it off me when I checked out.
My brother. Still feels weird as shit to think about. I’m going to just stay with Skinny Drake. Skinny Drake checks the peephole then opens the door.
I hold my breath. Pull my bat back. My pulse pounds.
In walks a uniformed hotel server pushing a service cart. He gets about a foot or two in the room before Skinny Drake stops him telling him that he’s got it from here. He thanks him and gives him a few bucks.
Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?
Paranoid?
Fear is the new constant.
Knock at the door? Full-on defensive mode. Armed? At all times.
Full-alert is our new normal.
Skinny Drake more or less replaces the old cart of food with the new one. He slides the old cart closer to the bathroom door to make room. Needs his eating space. With a careful, caring eye he’s arranging everything the way he wants it. He’s developed some sort of system for his room service dining experience. Fries go here. Mayo here. The much discussed six-dollar pitcher of water there. Such a veteran of luxury now.
I take a seat on the couch.
On the table next to me is the hotel’s complimentary copy of USA Today. While waiting for Skinny Drake to do his thing, I glance at the front page. There’s a story about how baby pigs are dying by the thousands from some disease, and no one really knows how to cure it. Farmers are panicked. Price of pork is skyrocketing. We’re powerless to stop it. There’s a large color picture of farmland covered with small, plump, pink bodies laid out across it. Looks like a holocaust for pigs. Dozens of them, if not hundreds. There’s a larger one standing to the side looking over the spread of corpses. Difficult to read a pig’s mind, especially from a newspaper photo, but I can’t help but wonder if the larger pig is the next of kin. It’s sad. Real sad.
I got the feels over this. I’m actually sad.
Little piggy sad.
This fucking world.
Everything I’ve got going on right now and I’m getting teary-eyed over little piggies dying. I’m wracked with guilt for letting this get to me, and for the overall sadness of this horrible pig thing. I look to Skinny Drake. Feel like slapping the bacon-stuffed club from his face. He just keeps stuffing it in without a care in the world. I can feel my palm making contact with his cheek. I should, but I don’t. But I feel like it.
“You gonna eat?” he asks.
“I’m good.”
“Sure? Pretty damn tasty.”
“Maybe some fries.” I get up and snatch a fistful of golden goodness. Best fries I’ve ever had. I’m also starving. Looking toward the closed bathroom door, I realize I haven’t heard a peep out of there since I woke up.
“When’s the last time you checked on him?”
“Who?”
“Gordo, our uncle.”
“Awhile,” he says, eyeballing me between bites. Pretty sure that uncle thing fucked with him a bit.
“When’s the last time you heard anything out of him?”
“Awhile.”
“Yeah? Any of that concern you at all?” I say, getting up, motioning toward the bathroom with my bat.
He looks up at me, taking a moment to read my stare.
“Maybe.” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Getting up, he pushes the cart to the side as he follows me to the bathroom door.
I knock on the door with light tap. “Gordo.”
Nothing.
Another knock, harder this time. “Hey, Gordo. We’re coming in, okay?”
Nothing.
“Think he’s dropping some heat?” says Skinny Drake.
I look to him. I don’t even have the words.
He gives me some raised eyebrows and a bounce of his shoulders. I really should just slap the shit out of him. What’s really pissing me off is that he’s over here without his gun. Really? Maybe the kid hasn’t learned a damn thing. I rapidly point my finger toward his gun on the bed. He realizes his goof and rushes over. Can’t help but shake my head as I grip my bat and push open the door.
Gordo fires out like a bullet from a gun.
A blur of a man ripping free from the darkness. He crashes into me full force. An angry-ass man blasted from a cannon is more like it. Hits me with freight train power. We fly back, bouncing off the wall, knocking down a mirror. He’s yelling something, can’t make out the words. An angry, guttural language.
I wrap my arms around him, trying to stop him from getting a good swing at me. My bat gets knocked free, bouncing, rolling away. He’s a strong son of a bitch. I get in a punch to his ear, doesn’t do much. He tries to land a fist to my face. I pivot right. His punch puts a dent in the wall. As he pulls back I fling my head forward, landing it on his nose. Stuns him for a second, but that’s about it. He picks me up, slams me onto the floor. I feel my bones shift and my organs slide. My face crunches into the mirror, can feel the cracks form under my skin.
“Stop,” I hear Skinny Drake say.
Peeling my face off the mirror, pieces stuck on my face, I look up and see he’s got his gun on Gordo. Gordo stands up, towering over me, sucking in hard gulps of air. I get up and hobble over to Skinny Dr
ake’s side while flinging mirror from my cheek. I see my bat next to the bathroom door.
New lesson: bats are hard to hold onto while roughhousing.
I hold my hands up, begging him for calm. “Gordo, you need to dial it down. I realize you’re not happy with us.” I feel like a crossing guard telling people to slow the hell down in a school zone.
Gordo doesn’t say anything. Just keeps sucking air in and out.
“We can talk this through. Peaceful as shit.”
Gordo still going mute. Not like him. He’s a chatty dude, usually.
“We’re kin, remember?” The curtain flaps behind me and Skinny Drake. Breeze feels nice coming off the patio. Provides a soothing vibe to an extremely tense room.
Gordo cocks his head.
The look in his eyes concerns the hell out of me.
He drops low, on all fours.
I don’t like this.
“Stop!” yelps Skinny Drake, trying to get an angle on him.
Gordo leaps forward spider-like hitting the room service cart at full strength. Skinny Drake fires. A shot booms, blasting a hole in the door.
“Shit.” The entire hotel will be on us in no time.
The cart blazes toward us, Gordo pushing with all the force he has, his powerful legs pump as if he’s a linebacker working a tackling dummy. The cart crashes into Skinny Drake, who’s lifted off his feet onto the cart, Gordo raging at full speed. Both are screaming at the top of their lungs. Oddly the same note, almost in harmony.
All I can do is watch. No idea what to do, I run behind them as they hurtle at ramming speed toward the open sliding glass door. Curtains give another flap as they roll through, heading toward the balcony.
The cart, along with Skinny Drake, slams into the rail on the balcony. I can see the impact removing the air from Skinny Drake’s lungs. His face is now a deep shade of red. Eyes pop huge. Gordo releases the cart, jumping to the railing, slapping both of his hands down hard while lifting a leg up, trying to get over the top.
He’s going to fucking jump.
I try to remember what floor we’re on.
Skinny Drake grabs his arm, holding on for dear life. Gordo lands a punch to his jaw. They lock in a ball of arms and elbows. Thwaps of skin. Grunts of obscenity. I rush over with no idea what I’m actually going to do.
I make it about a foot, maybe two, before I see them fall. All I see is them flip over the railing with feet flailing and mouths screaming. Both of them wrapped around each other hurtling downward framed by the big blue sky.
I hit the railing hard, stopping myself with my hands. I get there in time to watch them fall down and down and down. The metal clang is huge. They must have hit a truck, or something metal, with some serious damn force. Looking over, I see them bounce off a food truck and splash-land into a crowded pool. Kids and parents scatter like roaches with the lights kicked on. New screams now.
Didn’t think it was possible, but this is more of a cluster than the condo.
I whip my head back toward the room. The hole in the door. The boom of Skinny Drake’s gun still rings in my ears. I don’t have time. I know it. The entire hotel will be here in no time. Cops will be here in no time. I jump-run back into the room, grabbing our stuff. The gun, my bat, wad of cash and car keys.
Is that it?
My eyes scan back and forth.
I can’t think.
I know we came in here light but I can’t remember what we brought. Is there more money? More guns? Anything that can ID us? I hear people out in the hall. Some frightened. Some angry. It’s time to roll. I grab a towel out of the bathroom and wrap my head best I can, leaving some room to see and breathe. Don’t need these people or the cameras to get a good look at me.
I pull the door open and run like hell.
Chapter 39
I’ve got to get the hell out of town.
I jam the pedal. The Porsche lurches forward as I tear-ass down 290 with no idea where I’m going. Weaving in and out of cars, passing them one by one. I know I’m going too fast, but I can’t slow down. Skinny Drake is either dead or in jail. Gordo, not sure I care. I’ve also got a pack of hostile family members out there somewhere wanting to eat my heart.
Things are great.
Never better.
I can’t keep my mind focused on any one particular problem. They have all balled themselves together in a tangled mass of holy shit inside my head. A tumor of worry. A tumor named McCluskey. I feel like I could throw up any second.
Still, the deranged side of me can’t stop thinking how cool it is I’m living this. I mean, think about it. I’m in a Porsche filled with weapons and money. On the run from killers and, more than likely, the law. Wild West-type shit. It’s cool, right?
It seems cool.
From afar.
As in, it would be cool if I was watching someone else living this out.
It has some rough strings attached, and those strings are choking the fun out of this. Almost literally. I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe the more I think about it. But I have to think about it. It hurts, it’s scary as hell, but I have to figure out a plan or I’m one dead cool-as-hell woman.
Think.
I can’t.
Think, bitch.
Fine.
What am I working with here? Give me the facts, lady. Just the facts. The facts are that my life has changed considerably and rather damn quickly.
Fact #1: I’m in deep shit.
Cute, but how are you in deep shit?
Fact # 2: Mama McCluskey wants to kill me.
Better. How do you stop her from being successful?
Fact # 3: I need to take down Mama McCluskey and her merry little band of assholes or I will never have a moment’s peace.
Getting there, but again, how?
How do I do that?
Yes.
Don’t know.
I don’t know where they are or how to find them, but yet they are able to find me. I need to figure out where they are. How do I do that? Gordo was the best shot I had and he’s God knows where. In the wind, probably. Might be in jail. Might not be alive at all.
Think, girl.
A light bulb explodes over my head.
I’ll go home.
They’ll head there eventually. They’ll have to. If they can’t find me out in the wild, then home is the first place they’ll come looking. They think I’m a dumb as shit country hillbilly anyway. They think I’ll go running home to feel safe. So I’ll do just that. I’ll lie in wait, hunker down bunker-style, armed to the teeth and mad as hell. Maybe I can shift things back in my favor.
At least I know that bitch knows where the house is.
That much I do know.
Chapter 40
Exit the highway onto farm road 1314 and punch it for about forty miles, taking curves and turns like I was a NASCAR driver.
With a few miles to go, a thought does occur to me.
What if there are McCluskey goons at the house waiting for me?
It’s more than possible. I’ll need to walk in heavy. Giggle a bit to myself. I’m already talking like a five-star badass—walk in heavy. Fake it ‘til you make it, I guess. I’m thinking I will need to park down the road and sneak around back with some firepower on me. I know the house and the land better than any of those dickholes, so I can maneuver around get a good look and determine what I’m about to step in. I’ll go to that back window by the guest room that has never been fixed. It drains the air-conditioned air out like a son of a bitch, but I can slip in that way if need be. If there is anybody in there, God help those poor motherfuc—
A boom echoes to my right.
The wheel pulls hard. Almost rips away from my fingers. Loud flapping comes from the right side. I’m fighting the wheel from yanking the Porsche off the road and into a ditch. Bit my damn tongue.
A flash to my left. Another boom.
More flapping, so loud I can’t tell where it’s coming from. The wheel whips in both direct
ions now. I’m going too fast. My head jerks wild. Can’t hold on.
Then the flipping starts.
The Porsche is flipping. I’m flipping with it. I’m strapped into a Porsche that is flipping over and over and over. Too fast to get my eyes right with what’s happening. The windshield smashes in. Can feel the difference in the roof as the Porsche rolls. The difference between road and air. The crunch of metal. The quiet of air. The sickness of rolling over in high speed.
White blobs form in front of my eyes. Not now. Fight it.
A sudden jerk. My face bounces off the driver’s side window.
My eyes go heavy as hell.
Lids dropping.
Fight to stay awake, Teddy.
Stay steady...
Chapter 41
My eyes open.
The seatbelt cuts into my shoulder and I have to fight through my hair that’s hanging down in front of my eyes. I can’t see, but I’m alive, awake and suspended upside down. At a quick glance it looks like I’m in a field or a ditch. Not sure how long I was out, guessing not long, but did lose some time. I know it wasn’t too long, mainly because it’s still daylight and nothing seems missing from the car. Those things and, oh yeah, I’m still alive. Whatever assholes took shots at me would’ve come over and finished the job if I’d been here for too long a stretch of time.
I’m getting way too familiar with that flash I saw. The one that popped to my left. Flash of a muzzle. Flash of a gunshot. It’s familiar now, but I’m still not comfortable with people shooting at me. Not sure I ever will be, or ever should.
Somebody’s out there. At least two. They have guns and took a shot at me and my car. I can only hear the tires outside spin round and round like crazy. Can’t make out any other sounds, can’t hear anybody out there, but I’m sure they will be joining me soon.
I brace my hand on the caved in roof and press the button to release my seatbelt. It’s not comfortable, but I’m able to contort my body around to where I’m able to fall-slide onto my stomach and I can now see out the window. Lots of brush and dirt, some bugs, some smoke too. My gun is still in my jeans.