A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  Angel’s eyes drifted downward to the bloodstain on the hall floor. “Yeah, I got a pretty good idea what happens when someone pisses you off.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Cara had already unlocked her back door, waiting for Duke to appear in the moonlight that spread across her yard. She sat in the darkened kitchen and opened the door when she saw the familiar figure running up the grade from the creek.

  There was an immediate and uncommon tension between them. She walked down the hall, her yellow terrycloth bathrobe cinched up at the waist and flapping against her heels as she walked. There was a time in the not-too-distant past when Duke would have peeled it away before they were out of the kitchen. She took a seat on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. Duke grabbed a chair from across the room and set it right in front of her. Tears were streaming down both her cheeks.

  “It’s not too late,” he said.

  “Don’t,” she said, raking hair out of her eyes with her fingernails. “Don’t say things that you know aren’t true. It is too late.”

  “Maybe after I get settled, I could send for you.”

  “I don’t want you to send for me, Nick. This has to be over. It is over. I love you dearly, and I always will. But I can’t, won’t, go with you. Not now, not ever. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re giving up an awful lot. You’re not only giving up your identity, you’re giving up a woman who loves you, and two kids who idolize you.”

  “You could have come with me. I wanted you to come with me.”

  “And then what? Leave my parents and my brother and sisters here? Huh? Hide in fear for the rest of my life? You want me to put my children in a home with a man who will have a price on his head by the Mafia? Really? Frankly, I’m not willing to take the chance that the people you’re messing with are discriminate killers.” She pulled an eyeglass case from her bathrobe pocket and handed it to him. He unsnapped the case and eyed its contents. “Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  “I want you to go.”

  He nodded and stood. “I brought this for you,” he said, handing her a brown lunch sack. “It’s for the kids. It’ll help pay for their education. Hide it, in case there’s any trouble.”

  She took the sack but didn’t look inside. Still, she could feel the bulk of the three thick stacks of cash that Duke had swiped from Tony’s safe. She turned her head and refused to look at him again. He leaned across and kissed her wet cheek. “I’ll always love you, too, Cara.”

  And in a moment, he walked out of her life forever.

  She remained on the couch, tears dripping off her face and soaking her robe. She would still be sitting on the couch an hour later, when the front door was busted off its hinges.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  In the few seconds before the door was kicked open, Cara heard the hard footfalls across her porch. It sounded like a hammer beating on loose boards, as though the person inside the shoes intended to announce his anger in advance. She knew Tony DeMarco would be paying her a visit, and she really hadn’t expected him to knock. Consequently, she wasn’t totally shocked when he kicked the door and it fell into her living room. Still, she flinched, and a splintered piece of doorjamb flew by her head; the brass catch into which the deadbolt had rested blew into the kitchen like a missile. Tony DeMarco stumbled inside and into the small table next to the staircase, knocking a vase of silk flowers and a framed snapshot of the kids to the floor. The picture frame survived the fall; the vase did not.

  She sat on the corner of the couch, half reclined, her toes tucked between the cushion behind her. She calmly looked at the damage, then at Tony, then said, “Some people find the doorbell effective.”

  He was in no mood. In two steps he was over her. “Where is he?”

  “Where is—”

  Before she could complete the sentence, Tony had two handfuls of her terrycloth bathrobe and jerked her to eye level. “Do not say, ‘Where is who?’”

  She had remained limp, causing him to struggle with her weight.

  “I will snap your neck if you don’t tell me where he is.”

  She remained calm and limp, a marionette in his thick hands. “He was here earlier. He left. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying. He knew you’d be looking for him. He said he wasn’t going to tell me anything that you could beat out of me.”

  He glared into her eyes for several silent seconds, then dropped her back to the couch. He turned away and ran his hand through his hair, then reached into his belt and pulled out his pistol. “Get dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. Get your ass upstairs and get dressed. Your kids, too. We’ll just see which he finds more valuable: you and your kids, or those tapes.”

  “Tapes?” she asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He stared down at her and wished he could kill her now, just to inflict as much pain on Duke Ducheski as possible. He would wait. Maybe, he thought, he would kill her in front of Duke. That would be even better.

  Cara found herself surprisingly calm and unafraid, and she didn’t move from the couch. “I’m not going anywhere with you. But I can tell you this: Duke has already determined what’s important to him, and it’s not me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  It dawned on her that Tony didn’t know. He hadn’t figured it out. “You don’t know, do you?” she asked.

  “I don’t have time for your games, bitch. Know what?”

  A broad grin spread across her face. She was going to take delight in telling him. “He’s never coming back, Tony. Duke said he was leaving Mingo Junction forever.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Whatever it is you’re looking for, tapes or whatever he took from you, he turned them over to the police, or the sheriff, or someone. He doesn’t have them anymore.”

  “You’re as big a liar as your boyfriend.”

  “He’s no longer my boyfriend. Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

  The backhand sent her head flying back against the couch; in the next instant, his hand was around her neck, pressing hard under her jaw.

  “Don’t think for one minute that I won’t kill you. I’ve killed women before, and I wouldn’t hesitate to kill another, especially you.”

  She struggled to breathe under the pressure of his hand; his thumb was pressing up under her chin, closing off her air.

  “Open your mouth again, and you’ll find yourself at the bottom of the same blast furnace as your boyfriend.”

  He released his grip, and she slumped into the corner of the couch, holding her terrycloth robe closed with one hand, grasping her neck with the other, as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

  “I’m going to find your boyfriend, and when I do, I’m going to kill him. You better watch your step, or you’ll be next.” He walked out the opening where the front door had been.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Duke arrived at the Heinzmann Convalescent Center at 1:30 that morning. That was not unusual. Over the years, he had frequently gone to the nursing home after working the four-to-midnight shift in the mill, and more recently after he closed the restaurant. The duty nurses had gotten to know him and did not mind the late-night visits. And Duke usually brought them leftovers from the restaurant. Tonight, he had the foil-wrapped meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and homemade rolls.

  After delivering the food to the duty desk, Duke spent a few minutes chatting with the nurses, then walked back to Timmy’s room. He pulled the folding chair away from the desk and sat alone with his son. It was dark except for the nightlight above the bed; silent, except for the sound of his own breath. Duke put his hand on his son’s nearest knee, bony, bent, and cold, and gently massaged it in a circular motion.

  “I told you about Moonie getting killed, remember?” he said in a tone jus
t above a whisper. “It’s been one big mess ever since. I’m so sorry about this, Timmy. I’m so damn sorry for all of it.” Tears welled in each eye. “I’m sorry that you had such a short and miserable life. I hope it’s better for you on the other side. I’ve got to believe it will be; I just have to believe that. I’ve got to go—leave Mingo Junction—and I can’t take you with me. I’m sorry about that, too. I don’t know what else to say except I’m so goddamned sorry.”

  Duke stood and ran some water in the sink and splashed it on his face to mask the tears, then walked back down to the duty desk and asked one of the nurses to come down and take a look at Timmy. Something, he said, just didn’t seem right. Edna followed him back to the room. She was fiftyish, black, heavy, with a lovely disposition and Duke’s personal favorite for the wonderful care she gave Timmy. “He’s not breathing right, Edna,” he said. “He’s making a funny noise when he breathes.” Duke demonstrated a wheezing noise.

  Edna put the ear tips of her stethoscope in place and listened to his heart and took his pulse. “Everything seems normal, Mr. D. He’s a little on the slow side, maybe, but nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure. Enjoy your visit.” She smiled and left.

  Duke sat back in the chair. “I’ve never told you about my dream, have I? A few years back, I dreamed that you got out of this bed and wanted to have a game of catch. I heard your voice, clear as could be. I don’t know how, but I know that was you talking to me, wasn’t it? That dream is very real to me, Timmy. I can hear your voice; I know what you would sound like if you could really talk to me. I always figured that was your way of telling me that things were going to be all right.”

  Timmy’s eyes were slightly open, his mouth agape and dry. There was a slight gurgle to his breathing. Over the years, he had always spoken to Timmy as though the boy understood perfectly. He had long hoped that some of the words had gotten through.

  Ten minutes passed, and he went back to the duty desk, where Edna was working on charts. “I hate to bug you again, Edna, but he seems to be laboring, and I really think something is wrong.”

  Edna looked up, a faint hint of aggravation in her usually pleasant eyes, and pushed herself away from the desk. She repeated the earlier procedure by checking Timmy’s heart and taking his pulse. “This train’s runnin’ right on schedule, Mr. D.”

  “But he keeps gasping and wheezing, like he’s in trouble.”

  “I’ll make a note of it on his chart and tell Dr. Kuhn when he comes in.”

  “Okay, Edna, sorry to have bothered you.”

  She was gone without another word.

  He walked over to the side of the bed closest to Timmy’s curled frame. For several moments, Duke stroked his son’s hair and rubbed his cold shoulders and arms, but said nothing. Gently, he pressed a kiss to his son’s cheek and whispered in his ear, “Tell Moonie I said hi when you see him.” Duke took a long breath, fought off tears, and allowed his hands to slip off Timmy’s arms. He walked around the bed and peeked outside the door. Edna and her two co-workers were getting ready to delve into the meatloaf, making sandwiches with the rolls.

  Duke pulled the eyeglass case from his pocket and opened it, revealing a syringe loaded with clear fluid—potassium chloride. He worked quickly and methodically. As he walked across the room, he removed the plastic cover from the needle. With the same calmness that served him so well on the basketball floor, he shoved the needle into the entry hole in Timmy’s intravenous tube and injected the liquid. There was no hesitation. He had committed to the act.

  Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, with tears running in rapid fashion down each cheek and leaping onto the sheets, and waited for his son to die. It happened in mere seconds. He rested a hand on Timmy’s puny calf and watched as the pulse in his neck slowed, then disappeared. An overdose of the chemical sent his weakened body into an electrical malfunction, stopping the heart almost instantly. Timmy’s barely palpable breathing slowed and stopped. His body slumped only a tiny amount. There was little difference between Timmy’s living body and the shell that lay before Duke.

  Where he had expected great sorrow, there was unexpected relief. The boy’s suffering was over. He was at peace, and with any luck, Moonie had already draped a thick arm around Timmy’s shoulder. Duke waited ten minutes, sitting in silence with Timmy. When he was sure that no amount of emergency heroics could save Timmy, he walked to the bathroom and flushed the syringe down the toilet. He then took the cheap pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, slipped them into the eyeglass case, and returned the case to his pants pocket. He didn’t make eye contact with the nurses as he walked past the duty desk to the men’s restroom and relieved himself. On his way back to the room, however, he stopped for a moment and made small talk with the women.

  “How’s the meatloaf?”

  “Delicious,” Edna said through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “We’ve got the best food in the valley. You should come down and eat sometime. I’ll treat.”

  The eyes of the three women widened. “You can count on that, Mr. D,” Edna said.

  “Enjoy,” he said, making his way back to Timmy’s room. He stood inside the door for twenty seconds, then bolted back into the hall and sprinted to the duty desk. The tears were real. “Something’s wrong. I think he’s gone.”

  This time, Edna’s eyes didn’t roll. She got up and ran; the other nurses followed. Edna had worked at the home for years, and death was no stranger to her. She took one look at Timmy and knew the boy was dead.

  “Oh, sweet baby,” she said, placing her fingers on a cold wrist that she knew bore no pulse. She placed her hand on his forehead and slowly moved it down his face, closing his eyes. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone, Mr. D,” Edna said, tears welling in her eyes. The tears weren’t for Timmy; they were for Duke. “Oh, Mr. D, it’s my fault. You said something was wrong, and I didn’t see it.”

  The last thing Duke wanted was for Edna to think she was responsible for Timmy’s death. “No, no, Edna. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.” He hugged the crying woman. “It was simply his time. It’s a blessing.”

  Duke needed to sit. He went back to the folding chair and rested his head on his hands on the edge of the bed. For several minutes, he cried quietly into the sheets—tears of sorrow, tears of pain, tears of relief. When he looked up after several minutes, Edna was taking the intravenous tubes from Timmy’s arm, straightening his body and brushing his hair. She placed a hand on Duke’s shoulder as she walked past the bed.

  “I’ll leave you alone to be with your son, Mr. D.”

  In spite of his sorrow, Duke knew he couldn’t waste time. He said his final good-bye to Timmy, left the room, and walked to the duty desk. “Will you call Dr. Kuhn, please? He said when the time came, he would sign the death certificate.”

  The next thirty minutes seemed to drag for hours. Dr. Kuhn agreed to sign the death certificate; there was certainly no need for an autopsy. He asked to speak to Duke, and Edna handed him the phone. “Son, we’ve known this was coming for a long time, and we know it’s for the best. I know that doesn’t make it any easier. You were a better father to Timmy than most men are to boys who are blessed with healthy bodies. I’m sorry for the joys that you were never able to experience.”

  “I’m sorry for that, too, Doc,” he said.

  The body was released to Millard Funeral Home. Duke waited in the hall while they loaded Timmy onto the gurney. His body was slid into the back of the station wagon, and Duke followed the vehicle through the empty streets of Steubenville, parking the Buick in the alley behind the funeral home. The employee backed the station wagon into the garage and was perplexed to see Duke standing beside the front fender of the vehicle.

  “Did you want to stay with the body until things open up?” he asked, knowing that some people did not want to leave their loved ones alone.

  “No, I want the body cremated.”

  �
��Yes, sir, I realize that, but we won’t do that until later, when Mr. Millard comes to work around eight or eight thirty.”

  Duke shook his head. “No, I would like to have it done immediately.”

  “I’ll have to call Mr. Millard and make sure that’s okay. He usually oversees the cremations.”

  Duke reached into his pocket and peeled ten hundred-dollar bills off a wad of money and handed it to the employee, whose name was Dewey. “How about you just take care of it yourself? I’m sure Mr. Millard won’t mind. If there’s a problem, you can tell him I insisted.”

  “It doesn’t cost this much.”

  “Whatever’s left is yours.”

  Dewey slipped the money into his pants pocket. “I’m sure Mr. Millard won’t have any problems with me taking care of this.”

  Duke helped Dewey get Timmy’s body out of the back of the station wagon and roll the gurney into an inner hall. Dewey went into a back room and returned pushing a stainless-steel table, on which rested a cardboard cremation chamber. Together, the two men lifted Timmy into the box.

  There was a moment of uneasy silence as the employee looked between Duke and the frail, sheet-covered earthly vessel of Timothy Nicholas Ducheski. “Did you want a minute alone to say good-bye?” he asked.

  “Just a quick minute,” Duke said.

  Dewey nodded and walked into the back room. Duke pulled two credit cards from his wallet, and reached into the cremation chamber, slipping them under the back of his deceased son. “Take these with you, okay, pal?” he whispered.

  He walked to the back room and met Dewey at the door. “How long will this take?”

  “Depends on the body size. He’s a pretty little guy. I don’t think it’ll take much more than an hour and a half, if that.”

  Duke nodded, slowly turned away, and walked into the waiting room. It was small, maybe ten-feet square, with a single window, a couch, and an end table on which was an instant coffee maker; a stack of brochures with the names and phone numbers of all the ministers, priests, and rabbis in Steubenville; several old magazines, their covers torn from the staples; and two fans, the kind you find stuffed in the hymnal racks on the back of church pews, with “Millard Funeral Home” printed on the handle. Duke made a cup of coffee and watched the first rays of morning light creep over the crest of the West Virginia hills.