Reagan's Ashes

by Jim Heskett

  “I know this all doesn’t make sense, but it will. It’s better if you don’t know right now. Because after we go in there, I have something else to show you.”

  He reclined in his car seat and dragged a finger along the fabric covering the roof of the car. “Today is a day for mysteries, apparently. Alright Spoon, keep your head down and don’t ask questions.”

  She kissed him, then reached for the door handle, but she paused. With everything he had been through in the last few days, he deserved to know the truth. “First, I need to tell you something.”

  “Alright then.”

  His expression was calm and even, no hint of apprehension. She loved his poker face.

  “I know I’ve told you before that I sometimes struggle with taking my meds, but I don’t think I’ve ever told you how hard it’s been. How I’ve had little lapses like this before. Maybe you’ve seen it in me, but I’ve tried to shield you from it.”

  “I knew, but I also didn’t know, if that makes sense,” he said.

  A tear dribbled down her cheek and ran into her mouth, salty and warm. “It does. The truth is, though, that it’s probably always going to be like this. You have to ask yourself if you want to be with someone as unstable as me.”

  He held her gaze, not blinking or looking away to find his answer. “We’re getting married, remember?”

  She cried, but tears of relief instead of pain for the first time in more days than she could recall. She kissed him, careful not to press against his bruises.

  They emerged from the car together. Reagan slung her bulky purse over her shoulder as they crossed the street. “Just follow my lead. I’ve got this under control.”

  Spoon turned his palms to face the sky. “Don’t see as I have much other choice, but carry on, Captain.”

  As they crossed into the parking lot, Spoon raised a finger. “There she is.”

  “There’s what?”

  He pointed at a black car. “The Lexus Anne let me borrow. Long story. I have to get it back to her next door neighbor. Thank God it’s here though, I had no idea how to explain that one.”

  She shrugged it off and stopped in front of the door, taking one last deep breath to ready herself. They walked inside together, Reagan leading. She hadn’t been here in five years, maybe more, but the scent of oil and grease and metal spilled over her as it had in high school, visiting uncle Tyson after class. Asking him for money to buy sodas from the gas station across the street, before it became the Slinky Grape.

  Tyson was sitting behind the counter, a stack of receipts in one hand and his other hand typing on a noisy adding machine. Tick tick kah-cherg kah-cherg. A pair of glasses sat on the edge of his nose.

  Dalton was on a stool nearby, rubbing a bandaged hand over a bruise on the side of his face. Whatever dust-up he’d engaged in with Spoon, looked as if her man got the better of it.

  Another man was leaning next to the counter, a guy almost as big as Tyson. Tattoos poked out of every opening of his dark leather jacket.

  “Alright, Gus,” Spoon said as he raised a hand toward the tattooed stranger. “Looks like you’re well.”

  Dalton jumped off his stool, his eyes bloodshot but wide open. “What the fuck are you two doing here?”

  Gus snatched a stray lawnmower blade from a nearby shelf.

  Tyson stopped clacking at the adding machine, took off his reading glasses, and tossed them onto the counter. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore. Maybe I stuttered, but I distinctly remember saying I was done with you.”

  “You will be, after today,” Reagan said. She let her purse fall from her shoulder into her hand.

  Dalton took a step forward, and Spoon raised his fists.

  “No,” she said. “No fighting. I’m here to settle this, and then it’s over.”

  Tyson chuckled. “This ought to be good. Alright, Miss Reagan, what can we do for you?”

  “First, I have two questions.”

  Tyson crossed his arms in front of his barrel chest. “Go ahead.”

  “Where’s Charlie?”

  Tyson and Dalton exchanged a look.

  “He’s at home,” Dalton said. “At his apartment in Westy. His leg got scratched up a little bit when he fell down that hill, but he’s fine. No stitches or any shit like that.”

  “What’s your other question?” Tyson said.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I want you to cut him out of whatever it is you guys do here. Whatever gangster crap you’re doing now, or whatever illegal stuff you’re going to do in the future, Charlie doesn’t get to be a part of it. Deal?”

  Tyson laughed, looking equally amused and annoyed. “And why should I make a deal with you?”

  Reagan reached into her purse. Gus lifted the lawnmower blade. Tyson stood up. Spoon took a step closer to Reagan.

  She lifted her hand out of the purse, now holding three stacks of bills, wrapped together in cucumber-colored bands. “I have twenty-one more of these in my purse. Two hundred and forty thousand, right, Uncle T?”

  Spoon gasped. “Reagan, what are you doing?”

  She met Spoon’s eyes and winked.

  “That’s right,” Tyson said. “Two-forty large.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  He squinted at her and started chewing the inside of his cheek. “You said you had two questions. What’s the other one?”

  She nodded at Dalton. “What happens to him?”

  Tyson placed his hands on the counter, then lifted one to stroke his goatee. “I’ve been wondering that myself. He did screw up the one job I gave him and I can’t just let that go.”

  Dalton took a step toward his father. “Dad, what are you saying? This wasn’t my fault. I went into the park like you said. I followed this bitch around for four days. It’s not my fault the money wasn’t there.”

  Reagan closed her eyes and took an unsteady breath. She put all of her energy into ignoring the betrayal, the conspiracy, the unbelievable truth that every single member of her family wore masks to hide their true selves.

  The only thing that existed for her was this moment, getting through it, and leaving unharmed.

  Tyson pursed his lips and tugged on his facial hair. “You’re out too. If Charlie’s out, then you’re out. I can’t have liabilities like you working for me.”

  Dalton grabbed a coil of wire from a nearby shelf and twisted it in his hands. His chest heaved. “No! You can’t do this. It’s all her fault!” He glared at Reagan, fire in his eyes. “You motherfucking bitch.”

  Tyson nodded at Gus, who dropped the lawnmower blade on the counter, then placed himself between Dalton and Reagan.

  “Easy, kid,” Gus said. “If he says you’re out, then you’re out. Don’t make a scene.”

  Dalton glared at Reagan over Gus’ shoulder, then stormed toward the back of the store. A shelf screeched as he moved it out the way of the back door. “This isn’t over,” he yelped as the door slammed shut behind him.

  Reagan took the rest of the stacks from her purse and set them all on a metal shelf in between two lawnmower engines. She scooped them together, and then set them down on the counter in front of Tyson.

  He picked up a stack and dragged his thumb across the top. The bills made a fwip sound as he fanned them. “You remind me of your dad, you know? That slippery bastard could be pretty shrewd, too. But I like the way you do business; real upfront and no horseshit. It’s a shame how all this went down, but we can’t do anything about that now.”

  “No, we can’t,” she said.

  “Do you know how your dad came by this money?”

  “I think so,” she said. “He stole it?”

  Tyson nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt you, kid. I’m sorry about what Dalton did to you and your boyfriend here. All I ever wanted was to get back what he took from me.”

  Reagan eased backward, toward Spoon. “And now you have it, and we’re done here.”

  Tyson bowed his head to her and raised a hand at the door.
“We’re all squared away. You’ll get no trouble from me.”

  ***

  9:55 am

  Dalton slammed the back door and stomped across the concrete porch toward the fence. He laced his fingers between the chain links and squeezed until his digits turned blue and started throbbing. Didn’t care. He hardly felt any physical sensations at this moment, only rage welling up inside him like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

  Motherfucking bitch. All that bitch’s fault.

  He sucked in a lungful of air and roared until his voice cracked and his throat went numb. How could she walk in there, flash some money, and cut him off from everything that was important in his life? How could Tyson value that over family?

  All her fault.

  If Charlie was out, that was fine. Dalton knew his brother would eventually get pushed out, one way or another. The whiny punk was never suited to this kind of life. Going on money collection runs, leaving persuasive messages for the guys who couldn’t pay, destroying private property… Charlie complained about all of it. Plus his class schedule always interfered with important work.

  But Dalton, this was his future. Going into the lawnmower business with his dad was all he’d ever wanted to do with his life. Two minutes inside the store was all the bitch needed to steal it all away from him. And Tyson hadn’t even spent five seconds considering it. The dollar signs flashed in his eyes and the greedy bastard took a big shit all over his favorite son.

  Dalton couldn’t even decide where to point his anger. Reagan? Tyson? Both of them?

  No, only her.

  Definitely her. If she had handed over the key in the park, none of the rest of it would have happened. She was the root of all the trouble and she had to pay for what she’d done. Right now.

  He checked his pockets. Didn’t have his knife. His gun was at his apartment. He looked around the back of the store and rifled through the collection of parts and assorted shit strewn about. Needed a weapon, and quick. Plenty of lawnmower parts sat in a tall pile next to him, but nothing like a blade or something long enough to use as a club.

  Then he saw it. A pile of lumber, and a piece about as long as his arm with a nail poking out of the top. Not exactly a ninja sword, but he could swing it and cut up that bitch’s face pretty good.

  No more playing. No more holding back. Reagan would get what she deserved.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  10:00 am

  Reagan opened the front door and she and Spoon stepped out into the hot summer day as a wave of relief blanketed her. After keeping her nerves level during the exchange inside, the adrenaline finally surged. Her knees wobbled, but she struggled to walk to the car as quickly as possible. She’d done it. She’d actually pulled it off.

  Spoon opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Just a minute more. I’ll explain everything.”

  He raised his hands in surrender, his eyes gleaming. “Okay, Captain, whatever you say.”

  As soon as they started to cross the parking lot, a blur of fabric appeared out of her peripheral vision.

  Dalton.

  He was running, screaming, holding a piece of wood about the size of a baseball bat in one hand. During the time it took her to understand, he’d narrowed the distance between them and was raising the piece of wood with two hands to swing it at her.

  Spoon jumped in front of her, then nearly fell when his bad knee connected with the ground. He raised a crutch and jabbed it into Dalton’s chest, but that only knocked her cousin off balance for a second.

  Dalton spun, then kicked his foot out and swept Spoon’s leg, which sent him sprawling.

  No one between Dalton and Reagan now.

  She thrust her hand into her pocket.

  Dalton lifted the wood above his head, screaming, “you motherfucking bitch. All your fault!”

  As he started to bring down the weapon, air rushed toward her. She lifted her hand from her pocket and flicked open the blade of her Swiss Army knife in one motion. She whipped one hand upward to block the weapon while thrusting her other hand forward, connecting with Dalton’s cheek. A rush of wetness met her hand as she pulled it back.

  He dropped the wood, staggered, putting a hand on his face. Blood dribbled between his fingers. He lurched forward, then teetered on weak knees.

  “You cut me,” he said, seeming dazed. His eyes drooped.

  The front door opened, and Gus rushed out, followed by Tyson.

  Dalton dropped to his knees, swaying back and forth. “Bitch cut my face. I’ll kill her for this.”

  Gus reached behind him and pulled a gun from his waistband. He pointed it at Dalton, then glanced at Tyson for approval.

  The world slowed. Reagan watched this scene play out in front of her as if on television, a grainy layer on top of real life.

  Dalton’s head lolled on his shoulders, blood dripping down his chin.

  Spoon struggled to collect his crutches.

  Gus put a hand on top of the pistol and drew back the slide.

  Reagan could practically hear the bullet entering the chamber. “No!” she shouted.

  Everyone stopped and looked at her. All was quiet except for the sound of the cars on the street, which seemed distant and muted.

  “No more fighting,” she said. She looked at Tyson. “This isn’t what I wanted. You said this was over.”

  For a few endless seconds, no one moved or said anything.

  Tyson tilted his head. “Gus, put that away. Take the kid here to the hospital. When he gets out, don’t bring him back here. I don’t want to see him again.”

  The burly man did as he was told, seizing Dalton by the shoulder. Gus dragged him toward the blue truck, and Dalton barely had a chance to look back at her. His eyes were frantic, confused, and she felt pity for him, for a brief moment.

  Tyson cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about all that, but it doesn’t change our deal. We’re done here. Go on you two, clear out.”

  Reagan helped Spoon to his feet, then helped him cross the street as Tyson strutted back into the store. Spoon grimaced with every step, labored breaths turning his face crimson. He could barely move his knee.

  There seemed to be no one on the street at that moment, no one around to gawk at the insane scenario Reagan had experienced.

  When they reached the car, she stopped to catch her breath. The lawnmower store had gone quiet and still, as if nothing had happened there. Just a regular American store, open for business on a Saturday to serve the lawnmower repair and parts needs of Broomfield and the greater Denver area.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  “Fell on my knee,” he said. “Hurts like hell.”

  “Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”

  “I’d like to lie down and take some Ibuprofen. First, though, perhaps you could explain to me what in the world happened inside that shop.”

  “I wanted it to be over, and that wasn’t going to happen until they got paid. My dad stole, and Tyson just wanted what was his.”

  He nodded. “I understand. Anne told me your dad cashed in their life insurance policies.”

  This notion no longer surprised her.

  Spoon grunted as he tried to flex his knee. “I have to say, though, two hundred forty grand would have been nice to have.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  “But maybe now you can tell me why we couldn’t call the cops before?”

  “Let me show you something,” she said as she fished the car keys from her pocket. She unlocked the trunk and pulled the dollhouse to the edge. Put pressure on the lip around the base and wrenched it free of the top section. Piles of money stacks tumbled out of the crack, flooding the trunk of the car in a sea of green.

  “Oh my God,” he said as the color drained from his face. “How much is that?”

  “No idea,” she said. “At least two or three times what I gave Tyson. I need to give some to Anne, of course. She deserves to be able to start over somewhere else after what my dad put her t
hrough. And some for my mom, maybe. I haven’t decided about her yet.”

  “Alright, now is it time to call the police?” he said.

  Reagan brushed the hair back from his forehead and caressed the bruise that had nearly sealed one of his eyes shut. “I don’t care about any of that anymore.”

  He put his arms around her waist. He kissed her, and she folded into him. The world disappeared for a few seconds, and she held tight to this moment with her fair-haired Australian boy. She needed nothing else.

  Reagan closed the trunk lid.

  A NOTE TO READERS

  Thank you for reading my book. Seriously, thank you. I hope you loved it and it helped you escape for a little while.

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  Books by Jim Heskett

  To see the full list of Jim Heskett’s books, visit www.RoyalArchBooks.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jim Heskett was born in the wilds of Oklahoma, raised by a pack of wolves with a station wagon and a membership card to the local public swimming pool. Just like the man in the John Denver song, he moved to Colorado in the summer of his 27th year, and never looked back. Aside from an extended break traveling the world, he hasn't let the Flatirons mountains out of his sight.