by Hunt, Jack
He backed up still not taking his eyes off Foster and pulled open a small cabinet. Inside were multiple bottles of liquor. He placed the gun down and filled two glasses with three fingers of bourbon, then brought one over and handed it to him.
“It’s getting bad out there, isn’t it?” Wayland asked.
Foster nodded. He listened to him drone on about the North Koreans and how nothing in life was truly black and white. There were gray areas — legal hoops that those in authority had to jump through and that’s why things got dragged out. He was trying to justify his actions in some roundabout way but it was doing little to change Foster’s mind. When Wayland’s gaze turned away, he looked at how close that gun was and was thinking about how quickly he could pull his own.
“And that’s why we’ll be lucky if we see this country bounce back.”
“Did you do it?” Foster asked gazing down into his drink, swirling it around in his hand. “That’s all I want to know. Did you do it?” He didn’t need to spell it out again, he was fully aware of what he was asking him to admit. He assumed under the circumstances there was nothing to hold him back from confessing.
“For what it’s worth, Foster, I’m sorry for what happened. I’m not even with Lucy anymore. Our marriage broke apart seven months ago. And no, it had nothing to do with the media attention or even the accusations being thrown at me. Our marriage had been on shaky ground for some time.”
Foster couldn’t believe it. That’s all he cared about — not what he had done to others, to those in the department or even those he’d let slip through the justice system because of tainted evidence, or false reports — no, it was always someone else’s fault.
“So did you do it?” Foster asked again.
“What do you think?”
He nodded. The man couldn’t even admit to it. Foster didn’t want to resort to violence but with every second that passed he could feel himself losing his grip. Wayland downed his drink. “I could use another, what about you?”
Foster hadn’t touched his. He shook his head and Wayland turned and began unscrewing the top. The sound of metal against glass and his words mixed together like nails going down a chalkboard. He couldn’t bear it anymore.
“Shut up,” he said under his breath, so quiet that Wayland didn’t hear him. Foster pulled up his shirt and clasped the grip of his Glock and pulled it from his waistband.
“Shut up!” he said now in a tone that was loud enough that he heard him.
“What?” he said turning around to find the Glock aimed at him. Wayland’s hand started to shake; his eyes darted to his service weapon on the counter.
“Don’t do it,” he muttered under his breath. One second, then another passed and then Wayland dropped the glass he was holding and lunged for the gun. He had no chance. Foster squeezed the trigger, and it let out a pop, the round struck him in the chest. He stumbled back against the sofa and then slid down, dropping to the ground. He gripped his chest and opened his mouth as he tried to force words out.
“Get. An. Ambulance.”
Foster walked over and loomed over him. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the photo of his son. “David Edward Goodman. Say his name.”
Wayland’s breathing got even more rapid as panic sank in.
“Say his name!” Foster yelled shoving the photo against the side of his face, then backhanding him with the gun.
“David Edward Goodman,” Wayland blurted out.
“Now admit you covered it up. Say it.”
“I…”
Perhaps he might have said it but he was now struggling to breathe.
“SAY IT!” Foster yelled.
His mouth opened, and he then he got this glazed look in his eyes as if the real person behind the meat suit was leaving.
“No, no, no. You say it now. Admit you covered up for your wife!”
His breathing became shallow and then he was gone.
“NO!” Foster yelled loudly. He got up and kicked the TV, smashing it against the wall. He went over to the sofa and pulled it down. He upended a chair and drove his foot through a glass panel that divided the living room from the hallway. Over the course of the next five minutes he unleashed his anger by going from one room to the next and smashing everything in sight. By the time he was done, it looked like someone had ransacked the home. Papers littered the ground, glass crunched beneath his boots, and ornaments were shattered.
He dropped to his knees and wept loudly, releasing all the pent-up frustration, anger and heartache he’d buried. When he was done, he gazed at the mess and the body of Chief Wayland. That’s when the shock set in. What had he done? His head shook ever so slightly as he tried to comprehend having taken a life. In the heat of the moment he didn’t think about what he would feel after. Panic slowly started to creep up his chest, filling him with a deep sense of dread. Who had heard the gunshot? Was someone coming? He darted out the back door and peered into the darkness. No one was there. No one was coming. The occasional sound of gunfire echoing in the town gave him a smidgen of peace. It didn’t last. He reentered the home and hurried over to where a bottle of bourbon lay. He unscrewed the top and chugged it back, wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve and looked down. The cogs in his mind started turning. He needed to make this look like a group of people had broken in and robbed him. People with a hatred for the police. Someone who didn’t just want him dead, they wanted him to suffer. In the next few minutes his mind went into autopilot. He placed the bottle on the ground and went over to Wayland’s lifeless body and took a firm grip on his wrists and dragged him out from underneath the sofa. He lugged his corpse into the kitchen and hauled him up onto the table. Next he tore open his shirt and gazed at the wound in his chest. He paced back and forth for a few minutes wondering if he should cut out the bullet. Even after all he’d been through, his mind was still processing it all as if a medical examiner was going to look him over — when the truth was no one was likely to touch his body.
Foster retrieved a large kitchen knife from a drawer and in a final act of bitter hatred he cut into his body, slicing him from sternum to abdomen. By the time he was done tearing at his flesh, his hands were covered in blood. Had he lost his mind? His hands began shaking, his eyes widened as he stepped back taking in the sight of the man he’d just brutalized.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and could smell the iron.
What had he done? He couldn’t even begin to comprehend the gravity of the situation. It wasn’t meant to go this way. He was just meant to admit to it. Wasn’t he?
He took several steps back, distancing himself from the macabre sight.
For over two years he’d thought about this moment, played out what he wanted to say and do and when it came down to it, he didn’t even feel any better for it.
Foster dropped the knife and picked up his Glock off the counter and took one last glance at the body before bolting out the back door.
Chapter 6
Black smoke swirled over pines and into the gray sky as they finished the final leg of the journey. Sara Cooper lived on Bartlett Road in the north part of Keene. It was nestled between 2,300 acres of Sentinel Range Wilderness and the gushing waters of Phelps Brook. In the distance were the snowcapped peaks of Sentinel and Pitchoff Mountains. A moderate amount of snow had fallen over the past few days covering the wild and rugged terrain.
Damon instructed Jesse to give it some more gas.
Her father had purchased a large lot of vacant land along with a property that dated back to the 1960s. It was originally used as a summer camp but had fallen into disrepair and instead of abandoning it; the owners auctioned it off. He’d lucked out and snapped it up for a ridiculously low price, then renovated and built a gorgeous log home with four bedrooms.
For a time, he and Sara lived together but after he ended up in Rikers, she lost her job. Of course, she’d told him she’d moved back in with her parents. It was easier that way.
Damon
asked how she lost the job and although she said the restaurant couldn’t afford to keep paying her salary, he knew that wasn’t the reason. The trouble was with people yapping. Small towns were notorious for it, and with less than 1,100 people, rumors traveled fast, and bad reputation even faster. She wouldn’t say it but her connection to Damon hadn’t worked in her favor.
He was hoping to change that when he returned. There wasn’t a day that went by that he hadn’t thought of how he could turn it all around. He knew that if he got out, he had to distance himself from Cole, from the town, from anything that would come between them. But that presented challenges of its own. Her old man had always been against her moving away. She came from a large family, a religious one that believed in gathering every Sunday, meeting for family dinners once a month and sticking close so they could help each other out. He had no problem with that as he was born and raised in Keene and fully expected to die there. Except living there only worked if a person could find work, and there wasn’t much of that going around. That’s why they went into business for themselves. Cole knew his way around an engine as well as any trained mechanic, Devin had bodywork skills, and well, he had connections. Sawyer, Magnus and Tyron came into the picture later when Cole started looking at ways of supplementing their income through other means.
Sara on the other hand should have been the one to leave town. She had the grades, the charisma and drive that could have taken her places, but she listened to her old man — bought into his fear-based ideas. It was such a waste. Damon had told her that if she wanted a life, she needed to break away from them but she couldn’t do it.
As they got closer to the turnoff, his mind churned over their last conversation on the phone. Sara had told him she didn’t want to see him after he got out. She said it was best they cut ties with one another as it was doing neither of them any good.
He might have believed her had it been the first time she’d said something like that but it wasn’t. Damon wasn’t lying when he told Elliot his relationship with her had been on and off for years. He’d met her in high school and even though they went on to date other people, they got back together in their early twenties. When it was good, he could do no wrong, but once he went into business with Cole, that’s when the arguments started.
Her parents hated Cole and anyone who associated with him.
It didn’t matter that Damon got along with her parents or that they knew his livelihood depended on the business. They’d already made up their mind and there was no changing that.
The truck tore into the lot outside the two-car garage. The home was just over two thousand square feet, with an incredible landscaped yard, and a recent extension they’d added onto the back. It was this area that was up in flames.
Damon didn’t hesitate; he pulled his Glock and pushed out of the truck before it even came to a stop. He dashed toward the front door which was wide open, and ran into the smoke-filled home keeping an arm over his face.
“Sara!”
There was no answer.
He pressed on even as he heard Jesse calling his name from behind. All his senses were on high alert as he darted upstairs to a spacious loft area, which had been converted into a master bedroom with a walk-out balcony for Sara. He coughed hard and squinted as he scanned the room. No sign of her. He bumped into Jesse on the way down.
“Damon, it’s too dangerous.”
“She’s got to be here.”
With every step forward it was getting harder to breathe. Snot trickled from his nose, and his eyes stung as he broke into a coughing fit. He moved into the back room of the house and tried to make out where the fire had started. Flames licked up the curtains, consuming everything in its path. He dropped to his knees and under the cloud of smoke he saw them.
Bob and Shirley were on the ground. He clawed forward even as Jesse protested. “This place is gonna collapse. Damon!”
He had to know.
His mind was in turmoil.
The air was thick with smoke making it almost impossible to see and even harder to breathe. He’d only made it a few more feet when a huge section from the rear of the home collapsed in. Massive blackened logs rained down crushing her parents.
A hand clamped on to the back of his jacket and the next thing he knew he was being dragged back across the hardwood floor.
“Get off,” he yelled trying to break free from his grasp.
Jesse didn’t reply until he’d hauled him out of the raging inferno.
The wood home crackled as it burned, and large pieces of ash floated away on the breeze.
Outside Jesse released him and he broke into a coughing fit. Damon looked back at the house that was now fully engulfed. He staggered a little. His eyes burned from the heat.
“What the hell were you playing at, running in there? You wanna die?”
“She could be in there.”
“If she is, she’s dead.”
“You don’t know that,” he shot back.
Maggie placed a hand on his shoulder and he shook it off and walked around the surrounding property. Black ash drifted to the ground, standing out against the brightness of white snow. Horrified and full of questions, Damon crouched and brought a hand to his smoke-covered face. As he looked on helplessly, he was at a loss for words. How did it start? Was it an accident or done on purpose? He’d seen many homes around Lake Placid set on fire. No one gave a damn now. If the power grid going out wasn’t bad enough, now they had this shit to deal with.
“Damon!” He turned to see Jesse beckoning him. “You need to see this.”
He got up and hurried down, following the driveway around to where Bob kept his boats. There on the side of his storage unit, sprayed in white paint were the words: Damon! Baxter Mountain Tavern.
* * *
Cole hurled a barstool across the room and it clattered on the ceramic floor.
“You did what?”
“Oh don’t blame him,” Magnus said. “Things got out of hand, the old man went for his rifle. If they had just done what we said, both of them would be alive.”
“And if you had just done what I said, we wouldn’t be dealing with this now. I told you no one gets hurt. What part of that didn’t you understand?”
“I brought you Sara, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and you killed her parents.”
“And burned down the house,” Tyron added, shaking his head.
“You fucking idiot! Do you even know what you’ve done?”
Magnus snorted. “I don’t have to put up with this shit.”
“No, you don’t. The door is there if you want to walk,” Cole said straightening up to him. He knew he was just venting hot air. He had nowhere to go. No family except them. Cole glanced over to Sara who was cowering in the corner of the room. He never had this in mind when he told them to go and collect her. All he wanted was a little leverage for when Damon showed up. He knew he would eventually arrive. Whether it was today or a week from now. There was no telling what he would do. Not that he was concerned, but he wanted an ace in his back pocket. Sara would have been that. But not now. This sent the wrong message.
“Why did you set the place on fire?” Cole asked. Magnus stared back at him and Cole just threw up a hand. “Actually, don’t bother telling me. I don’t want to know.”
Devin and Tyron sat at the bar drinking cold beers after having been out for the past two hours trying to recruit others. They’d returned without even one person. It was unbelievable.
“And what about you two?”
Tyron shrugged. “It’s bad out there, Cole. We had guns shoved in our faces; others wouldn’t come to their doors. Like I told you, people don’t trust anyone right now. Even if you were to roll up with a cooked chicken on the end of a stick, they probably wouldn’t take it.”
Cole shifted from one foot to the next shaking his head. A group of five wasn’t enough. If they were going to take control of this town and ride out this shitstorm, they were going to need a new incen
tive.
“I keep telling you, you’re going about this the wrong way,” Magnus said while he sat on the sofa in front of a roaring log fire. He tossed in pistachio shells. “But no one wants to hear me.”
Cole walked around the sofa and gestured. “Go on then. Let’s hear it.”
“Oh, now you do?”
“Magnus.”
“Alright. Tyron is right. People are too damn nervous right now to open their doors even if you genuinely are offering them a good thing. The only way to get them to listen is by force. Now I know you don’t want to escalate to that, but we’ve tried your way. How about we try mine?”
“If I try yours, there will be no town left as it’ll be burnt to the ground,” Cole bellowed.
“Suit yourself,” he said putting his feet up on a small coffee table and tossing another shell into the fire. Sawyer kept an eye on Sara to make sure she didn’t bolt.
“What about you, Devin? What do you think?”
Although Devin tended to be quiet, and rarely gave his input, Cole trusted him. He hadn’t yet led him down the wrong path and if whatever they were going to build here was to work, he needed to hear from others. It couldn’t just be him. This wasn’t a dictatorship.
He turned on his stool with a beer in hand. He ran his other hand over his goatee and shifted up his round John Lennon-style glasses into his mousy hair.
“You remember that guy who was dealing here in town before we got started?”
Cole nodded.
“He became our best distributor. I’m just saying.”
He knew what Devin was getting at. Back when they first got into dealing drugs, most of the addicts and social indulgers already had a go-to guy named Ricky Jones. The guy had made a name for himself not only for being able to get anything, he’d also made it clear that this was his territory and no one else was dealing unless he got a cut of the profits.
His cut? Seventy-five percent.
Yeah. That didn’t fly, but he did, straight off a ten-foot high deck.