by Randy Rawls
Tom stopped at the intersection with I-75. The adrenaline high that had carried him through the night slowed, then dissipated, and a body-wide fatigue overtook him. All he wanted was to get home, shower, and fall into bed. The events of the past hours ran in slow motion through his head. He expected to pay a heavy price in nights to come just as he had before. He killed only scum who deserved it, but too often that left him with a troubled conscience.
Abby. Why had she entered his mind? Was she in the car he’d suspected of surveillance the previous night? If so, why did she turn back? What would she think if she witnessed what he did? He was weary. Too weary to think about it now, and way too weary to confront her. He couldn’t go home.
He took out his cell phone and dialed. “Rafe, Tom Jeffries here. Can I get a room for three or four nights?”
“Of course. When’re you arriving?”
“Today. I’ll be there in a hour or so.” He closed the phone with a tired smile. “Always nice to have a refuge away from home.”
He merged onto the interstate pointed west, set his speed control at eighty, put his brain on autopilot, and drove. Traffic was light, and he only had to dance left to pass a few cars. Opposite Fort Myers, he turned east on Route 78, drove a few miles, then pulled into the parking area of a small motel. Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, he took a couple of deep breaths.
In his peripheral vision, Tom saw Rafe come out of the office and walk toward his car. He lowered the window.
“You okay?” Rafe asked. “Anything I can do to help?”
“I’m alright. Just exhausted. Got a room for me?”
“Yeah, it’s ready. Here’s the key.” He handed it through the open window. “Way back in the corner where it’s quiet. C’mon, I’ll drive you back there, then put your car in my garage. I assume you don’t want any visitors.”
“You assume right. I just need to be alone.”
* * * *
A few minutes later, Rafe was in his office with Martha, his wife of thirty years. “Is he all right?” she asked, leaning on her walker.
“I think so. But it looks like he’s been on a mission, like after a tough one when we were SF. Whatever it is, something is gnawing at him from the inside. I didn’t ask.”
She stared toward the back of the motel where it bordered a wooded area. “Probably wouldn’t have done any good. He always keeps everything inside him, locked away with his demon. He’s a good man, so whatever he did was deserved.” She wiped at a tear. “Maybe someday, he’ll find peace. Maybe someday, he’ll find a good woman who’ll love him and take care of him. She’ll help him with his demons.” She shuffled to a chair behind the counter and settled into it. “He’ll be okay. I’ll take care of him until she comes along.”
Rafe stared at her, wanting to believe she was right. He had to believe it for her sake. She had enough pain and suffering for everyone. And in return, all she gave was love.
* * * *
Tom spent three days in Rafe’s motel under the scrutiny of Martha. If he’d been conscious and in control of his faculties, he’d have argued with her as she shuffled to his room several times a day. Instead, he battled through horrible dreams and night sweats as she watched, worry lines creasing her face. When he was awake, he paced, the drapes drawn, not wanting to see anyone. The first time he woke, about midnight of day one, he found fresh sandwiches on a tray waiting for him, and a six pack of his favorite beer in the small refrigerator, along with several bottles of water. Each subsequent time, fresh food and cold liquids waited. But mostly, his time passed in troubled sleep.
Rafe helped Martha, wanting to do everything himself, wanting to keep her from exerting herself. But that would be wrong. His Martha took care of those around her, especially her favorites. Tom was one of those, and nothing Rafe said would stop her. So he did what he could, and stayed out of the way when he couldn’t.
The worst of Tom’s dreams, the one repeated most often, the one that jolted him awake in pool of sweaty fear played on his days as a sniper. Alone, he treaded snakelike through a jungle, searching for a spot on a map. When he found it, he climbed a tree and settled in a fork, his rifle with sniperscope at his elbow. In his dream, he waited—one day, two days, three days. Finally, the afternoon of the fourth day, he heard voices along the trail. Four men came into view.
Tom studied the snapshot he carried, the face blurred in his dream, then sighted his scope. The first target was the wrong man—too tall, too fat, wearing a beard. He shifted to the second, also wrong, then the third, not right. As they passed under him, he let the scope settle on the back of the head of the fourth man and tightened on the trigger. He had to be the target. As Tom squeezed off the round, the head turned, the face coming into focus—the face of Tom Jeffries, his face.
He awoke screaming, not screaming from fear, but screaming at the realization he had killed himself. Not in the dream for he knew that was a figment of his imagination, but in real life. He knew his activities would end with a bullet that tore into him, ripping, shredding, bringing intense pain, then eternal relief. No more nightmares. No more vengeance. He lay in the bed, trembling, sweating, not wanting to die, but knowing it was inevitable, squinting at his surroundings. Every bad wallpaper image was a demon reaching for him. The mirror encased the face of the devil. The light that sneaked in around the curtain flickered from the fires of hell. He lay rigid, afraid to move. Then gradually, ever so gradually, the room returned to normal and his breathing evened. How many times he dreamed the dream he didn’t know and didn’t want to guess.
At noon on the third day, his eyes popped open, his head clear. There had been no nightmare to drive him awake. He felt rested, ready to return to the world. Swinging his legs off the bed, he spotted the food. His first smile in four days opened up his face. He grabbed a sandwich, taking a big bite as he looked in the refrigerator. He ate, satiating himself, and drank two bottles of water. Then he went into the shower and let the hot water pummel him for thirty minutes, finishing his cleansing. His soul might remain foul, but his skin glowed pink from its scrubbing. He found a toilet kit alongside the sink and used it, brushing his teeth vigorously to rid his mouth of the fear he’d tasted for three days. Then he shaved and dressed in fresh clothes—his clothes that someone had washed, ironed, and left in his room. Even his athletic shoes were clean, no evidence of his time in the swamp remaining. He didn’t know, but suspected his car also met the same degree of cleanliness. Rafe would have guessed and taken care of everything he could.
Tom examined his image in the mirror, then declared himself ready to continue his vendetta. He pulled out his wallet, removed the fifty dollars he took from Johnny and laid it on the dresser, adding fifty of his own. He knew Rafe and Martha would rebuff any offer of money beyond the rent of the room. The brotherhood of Special Forces said you were always there for one another, no questions, no charges. But Tom also knew they lived on the edge. Rafe’s military pension and meager earnings from the motel were no match for the expenses of life and Martha’s treatments.
* * * *
“Bert, I’m sure he’s up to something,” Abby said into the phone. “The last time I saw him, he and another man were behind Publix. They left in Tom’s car.”
“So? That doesn’t sound abnormal.”
“Except it was two days ago at midnight, and I swear the other person rode in the back seat. Do your guests ride in the back seat? They went south, then headed across the Everglades on I-75. I followed as far as I could, but had to turn back.”
There was silence before Bert said, “No, my friends ride in the front. Where do you think they went?”
“Could be anywhere west or north. Maybe he went alligator hunting. I don’t know, but my woman’s intuition says he’s up to something.”
Again, there was silence on the line. “Have you been by his house?”
“Of course. I camped out there so much the neighbors think I’m homeless, living in my car. I’m telling you he’s not home, and something is wron
g.”
Bert sighed. “I’ll let Dad know. Maybe he’ll have some ideas. In the meantime, keep your eyes open and let me know when he shows up. Like I said before, I don’t think Tom would do anything seriously wrong, but…” More silence. “Anyway, your hunches won’t do. Think like the excellent lawyer you are. If we’re going to help Tom, or keep him from doing something stupid, we need more than a premonition. Stick with him. Now, I have to run. Have a nice day.”
Abby closed her cell phone, her cheeks flushed. “Dammit.” She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. He’s right though. This is no time to go all squishy.
* * * *
Tom wheeled onto his street and spotted Abby’s car parked three houses up from his place. He pulled alongside her car and bumped his horn as he lowered the passenger window. “Another omelet? Maybe a potty break?”
She stared at him. “Damn you. How dare you slip up on me again? Where the hell have you been?”
“Follow me to the house. I’ll spin a story for you.” Before she could reply, he pulled away, then into his driveway. Stepping out of his car, he grinned as Abby stopped behind him. “I’m going in.” He headed for the front door.
“Slow down,” she yelled, hands on her hips. “I want to know where you’ve been.”
“Omelets will take about thirty minutes or so. You want to wait out here, or come in where you can yell at me without disturbing my neighbors?” He unlocked the front door and entered, careful to leave it open behind him. Turning, he saw her glaring after him. He gave an exaggerated shrug, then walked into the kitchen.
The light on his telephone winked, indicating a message. Checking the small window, he saw there were several. He hit the play button and heard hang ups—probably telemarketers. A familiar voice came on the line. “Tom, Charlie here. Lonnie’s in the hospital. She’s not doing well, not well at all.” A sob broke his voice. “She’s so depressed—just can’t seem to shake it. We need to talk.”
“Who was that?” Abby asked, coming into the room. “And who’s Lonnie?”
“Friends.” Tom leaned into the refrigerator. He stopped and faced Abby. “Sorry, I have a private call to make. I’ll go out back. Maybe you could start the omelet. Makings are in the fridge.”
Once out of the house, he punched in Charlie’s phone number.
ELEVEN
Detective Phil Summers walked into his boss’s office and put papers in the inbox. “Autopsy of the young girl we pulled out of the trunk of that abandoned car—Mary Lou Smithson.” He dropped into the visitor’s chair.
“How bad?” Detective Jim Richards asked.
“I’ve read worse.” Summers shrugged. “Gangbanged and strangled. A lot of tearing, but no signs of torture.”
Richards picked up the papers, leaned back, and flipped through them, picturing his twelve-year-old daughter. Only raped repeatedly. No torture. Ain’t that just great? We feel better if the suffering is less. He took a deep breath. “Anything that’ll help us find her killers?”
“Lots of DNA. It’ll take a couple of weeks to get results—if we ask for a rush job. Other than that…” Another shrug.
“Shit. It’s never easy, is it?”
“We might catch a break on the tattoo.”
“Sure, and I believe in Santa Claus, too.” Richards leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and rested his head in his hands. “How’re you doing on backtracking her?”
“Getting there. She had a large circle of friends. But one stands out, a possible boyfriend. A deadbeat she worked with last summer. I hit his neighborhood yesterday. Most folks never heard of him.” He rolled his eyes. “Like uh-huh. But I did find one woman who said he had a pocketful of money all the time—loved to flash it to the young kids. Thought I’d hit the Publix where he works today. They either pay better than I expect, or he’s into something. If it’s the former, I might apply for a part-time job.” He grinned. “Unless you have something better for me.”
“Huh? No. Follow through on what you planned.” He slid the papers into his inbox.
Summers rose. “You okay, Jim? Is this case getting to you? You can hand it off to someone else.”
Richards looked through his partner. “No. It’s mine. Mine until they’re either in jail or dead. I was just thinking how it would be if it were my daughter, Chelsea. We’re gonna get these bastards, Phil. I want them bad.”
“It’ll happen. Of course, when we bring them in, we still have to worry about a conviction, then how soon they’ll be back on the street. That might be harder than catching them.” He started toward the door, hesitated, and turned back. “Oh, yeah. Remember that PI—Jeffries? He asked for the autopsy info. Should I give him a call?
Richards thought a moment. “Yeah, but make sure you stress this is a police matter. I don’t want some damn amateur screwing it up.”
* * * *
Tom closed his phone and returned to the kitchen where Abby was busy whipping eggs. “I have to go to the hospital. Lock up when you leave.” He walked into the hallway and took his western hat off the rack.
“Can I go with you?” Abby stared at her hands. “Tom, I’d really like to understand you. You’re such a contradiction—mean and nasty, yet ready to feed me. And now I see the tears in your eyes and the pain on your face at the misfortune of a friend.” She smiled a tentative smile. “I’ve never known a man like you.”
Tom stared at her, then lowered his eyes. “Sure, you can come if you want. In fact, it might help if you see a touch of the real world. We’re visiting a woman who lost her child and the will to live. And the man who loves her and can’t bear the thought of losing her, too.”
They walked out of the house together. Abby moved her car, and they left in Tom’s convertible.
No one spoke until Abby said, “I’m not just another pretty face. I’m also a good listener. Maybe it would help if you talked to me. I promise not to repeat anything you say.” She paused and forced a smile. “Attorney-client, remember?”
A block later, Tom coasted to a stop as the traffic light turned red. “Charlie Rogers is the best friend I have, the best anyone could have. We go back to my early years in the Army when he saved me from the biggest mistake any young GI can make.” He went quiet, reflecting on the past.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Starts in the little town where I grew up. It was so small, our traffic light only worked on weekends. We used to go down and watch it change. Red, yellow, green, yellow, red. Gave us a big charge.”
“All right,” Abby interjected. “I said I’m a good listener. I didn’t say I fell out of a Humvee on my head.”
Tom chuckled. “Okay. If you don’t believe me, I can’t help it. The nearest city was fifty miles away, and that wasn’t much of a metropolis by most standards. I was a bigger hayseed than you’ve ever met—or seen on TV.
“I graduated from high school and took a quick glance at college. But I was tired of teachers trying to stuff facts in my head I didn’t need. So I hotfooted it to the Army recruiter’s office in the county seat. A few hours later, I had signed the bottom line for a three-year hitch and had a reporting date to boot camp. Mom was not thrilled, but Sis thought it was the greatest thing to ever hit town. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends her brother was off to save the country.”
“I didn’t know you have a sister.”
“Lots of things you don’t know. And it’s had, not have.”
“Oh—”
The light changed, and Tom gunned away from his stop, cutting off what might have been an apology he didn’t want to hear. “My dad lived in a simple world and liked it that way. That day was probably the closest he ever came to being philosophical. He said the outside world was nothing like I envisioned, nothing like the movies. They were warped mirror reflections of what it was really like.” Tom smiled. “Those were his exact words—warped mirror reflections. Pretty sophisticated for him.”
“Makes you wonder if we ever know our parents, doesn’t it?” Abby
said.
“Yeah,” Tom said, taking a right. “Anyway, a few days later, I caught the bus, believing I was ready to take on the world. Mom and Sis cried and hugged me. Dad shook my hand and complained about all the dust in the air. Kept rubbing his eyes.
“Time flew by in boot camp, followed by what seemed like an even quicker session of advanced infantry training. Between the two, I went home on furlough, filled with myself. Later Sis told me what a horse’s ass I was, said I was insufferable. But even with all my strutting, I was antsy by the third day. The town was so small, the pace so slow. I was so sophisticated. I knew I’d never live there again. My future was in front of me. It was out there.
“The Army assigned me to an infantry unit at Fort Bragg. Before I could settle in good, the company commander called me in and told me my marksmanship qualified me for sniper school.”
He sped up to beat a caution light. “Didn’t seem like any big deal. I’d been shooting at moving targets since the age of six. That’s about how old I was when Dad first took me hunting. A lot of the food we ate was game we brought home from the woods. I learned to kill it, clean it, cook it, and eat it.”
“Doesn’t sound very appetizing to me,” Abby said, her nose wrinkled.
“Your city breeding is showing. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Hitting a stationary silhouette was nothing special, no matter if it did pop-up. Since successful completion of the sniper course would earn me a stripe and a boost in pay, I said yes.
“That’s where I met Corporal Charlie Rogers. He was the school armorer and taught classes on what he called the care and feeding of military weapons. Funny part was he couldn’t hit a hay bale at ten yards with a scattergun. He struggled to weapons qualify, and we joked he only made it because of an M-16 pencil.
“On weekends, Charlie, me, and some of the others would go into Fayetteville and work our way from bar to bar.” He glanced at Abby. “That’s where I learned that sneaking a beer in high school does not qualify as hard drinking. There were many nights when Charlie helped me back to the barracks and put me to bed. It was on one of those occasions that Charlie saved my life.”