Dimebag Bandits

by Craig Furchtenicht

  “Uh, you can start by telling me what you're doing in my house,” Kori replied.

  “You must be Kori,” the man said as he slid the glass door shut behind him. He extended a hand and introduced himself. “Robert Allen.” He left his hand dangling in the air, waiting for Kori to take it. When he saw that the gesture was not going to be reciprocated, he began to fumble with the off switch on his iPod. “Reverend Allen, your stepfather's replacement.”

  “You're kidding me, right?” The fast food lunch did another somersault.

  “No joke, son.” the reverend waved his hand behind him. “Don't worry. I'll take good care of the place. You'll never even know that I was here when your folks get back in a year.”

  “A year?”

  “That's right, maybe longer.” The plastic smile reappeared, a preacher's calling card if there ever was one. “You never can put a time frame on God's work.”

  “Unfucking believable.” Kori didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was just like Clayton to pull something like this. Getting his mother to dump him off for a few months when he actually meant a year or more. It seemed awfully convenient that he just happened to get busted the day before the holy crusade. He wondered how much of this his mother knew ahead of time. “Can I at least get the rest of my things?”

  “Your things?” The reverend looked puzzled. “The moving service packed all of your family's belongings days ago. If there's something you need, something I can help you with. We can sit down and talk. Maybe I can give your father a call.”

  “He's not my fucking father!” Kori screamed. He balled up a fist and stepped forward. The reverend backed away and squinted his eyes, the corner of his lips quivering in fear. As much as he hated Clayton, Kori at least gave him credit for not being a pussy like his replacement.

  “I think you should leave,” Reverend Robert Allen said with a tremble in his voice.

  “I think you should blow me.” Kori stormed away. Halfway back to the car his churning stomach betrayed him and he lost the lunch on the pavement. Fast food fries and gastric juices splattered the otherwise pristine sidewalk in front of 604 Ravencrest Drive. He climbed into the car and told Todd to drive.

  “Didn't you get your shit?” Todd asked.

  “Oh, I got a load of shit alright,” Kori replied, staring at the house that was no longer his. “Let's just go home, man.”

  Chapter 18

  Virgil Semler was a creature of habit. He firmly believed that a well structured routine was the foundation to a meaningful existence. Of course the dope heads, thieves and other questionable characters that he kept company with tested that philosophy on a daily basis. They were all unpredictable pains in the ass, but they also made him money.

  He started his morning by holding a stubby finger under the tap until he deemed the water clear enough for his morning coffee. He lit a Winston with the same silver Zippo that he had used since his time in the navy, some forty years ago. The coffee brewed as he nursed the cigarette and gazed through the window above the sink. The lighter gave the first few drags a slight chemical taste. He grimaced and waited for the pot to finish.

  He admired the bright autumn morning, at least what was left of it. It was almost ten o'clock and he was just waking up. Right on time as far as he was concerned. From his safe cozy kitchen he watched the world that was already stirring without him. Not one for the outdoors, he never left the sanctuary of the house without a damn good reason. Nature watching through the window was more his forte.

  Songbirds battled for position at the bird feeders that were placed just beyond the porch, fattening themselves for their impending journey south. Sparrows and starlings picked over the crumbs below. He made a mental note to have the new kid pick up some seed on his next grocery run. He finished his smoke as his mind wandered.

  The younger Woodson brother was due to show up any time. He hoped things would work out with the newest member of the dime bag thugs, though he had his doubts. The kid was not cut of the same cloth as his brother. Not even close. He certainly was nothing like those other three degenerates. For one, he was too clean cut. Too pretty. He was a smart one though. Hopefully smart enough not to get any funny ideas while hauling six bags of his merchandise halfway across the state.

  If the kid screwed him over it would be the last thing he ever did. He would take it out on that sweet little ass for sure. The kid was too old to use in the internet photo scene, but maybe he would work well on film. A sick part of him almost hoped it would come to that. The very thought caused a stirring beneath Virgil's housecoat.

  A knock came from the front door, startling him. The hot brew sloshed over the rim of the cup and he stepped back with his arm extended to avoid burning his feet. He damned his own frazzled nerves and rushed to the door.

  “Hey Virgil, hope I didn't wake you up. Thought I'd get an early start.”

  Speak of the devil. Kori Woodson stood in the doorway with a sheepish look on his face. He wasn't alone. Todd fidgeted nervously behind him, combing his mess of long hair with his fingers. Virgil impatiently waved them in as he scanned the yard over their shoulders. The Hillyer kid's car idled quietly in the drive. Good, he thought. At least they did not plan to overstay their welcome. He looked them both up and down and scratched his head. “So much for keeping this just between the two of us.”

  “I had to get a ride from somewhere. I thought, since you know Todd...” Kori explained.

  “Fine, fine,” Virgil dismissed him with a wave. He motioned them both in and locked the door. He lugged the bags out of a nearby closet and placed them at their feet. “But it's coming out of your end, not mine.”

  “Not a problem,” Kori replied. “Mind if I check these out real fast? It'll be nice to know what I'm working with. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, well be quick about it.” Virgil raised up a sleeve and glanced at his watch. “I'm expecting a little company and don't need you two tripping over your dicks when they show up. Comprende?”

  “Sure,” Kori said as he inventoried the stash, still trying to wrap his head around the size of it all. After each bag was assessed he handed them off to Todd, who quietly carried them to the car. “We should be back by ten if everything goes okay. Want me to swing by with your half?”

  “No. That won't work. Just bring it by tomorrow. Say, noonish?”

  Kori nodded, handing the last bag out the door. He dusted his hands off as he walked outside. Lacking anything better to say, he added, “Well, wish me luck.”

  “Luck?” Virgil scoffed. “Luck ain't got shit to do with nothing. Just remember whose money it is you're playing with, kiddo.” He slammed the door before Kori had time to respond. He did not have all day to deal with small time pill pushers. He had bigger fish to fry.

  He watched until they were beyond the end of the drive, glad to be rid of them. His heart rate increased as he systematically pulled all of the blinds on the first floor. After double checking the locks he went down into the basement. Time to mix business with pleasure, he thought as his bare feet padded down the cold gritty stairs.

  He hurried across the cement floor, careful not to stub his toes. The south wall of the basement, the only one that was framed and finished, possessed a single door on the far right side. To the unsuspecting eye it appeared to be nothing more than a small closet. He removed a pair of bolts from the back, revealing a passage way into another room. This was his honey pot, where the real money was made.

  He pushed the door open and then stopped, frozen in place. For a second he could have sworn that he heard something, a sound from somewhere upstairs. He held his breath and strained to listen, ready to reseal the secret room if necessary. He focused on the ceiling above; the only thing he heard was the whooshing of his own pulse running through his temples. He exhaled, disgusted with himself. It was good to be cautious, he told himself, but paranoia leads to coronaries.

  He stepped inside his sanctuary. It smelled of latex and bodily fluids.

  With les
s than an hour before his company was due to arrive, Virgil set to work getting the studio in order. A twin mattress, encased in a plastic covering, lay in the middle of the room. The light from the powerful tungsten bulbs in the corner reflected off of it, creating a blinding glow. Dark spots danced in the back of his eyes as he quickly threw a fitted sheet over the plastic. Sweat trickled from beneath his robe. He started up a pair of circulating fans, wondering why he hadn't done so in the first place.

  Most of the camera equipment was still in place from the last time job. Except for checking the battery supplies on the auxiliary equipment, there was not much more to do until the performers arrived. He checked his watch again and determined that he had enough time to unwind before show time.

  In the corner of the room was an antique trunk. Using a key that hung from his neck, he removed a single padlock and lifted the lid. A rush came over him as he stared inside, a feeling that he could not have matched if he were looking at the Holy Grail itself. Underneath a layer of blankets were stacks of photographs. Beneath them were hundreds of discs and cassette tapes. His personal copy of nearly every video that he had ever shot. Scrawled on each was a handwritten date, nothing more. He pulled a stack of photos from the trunk and sat on the mattress.

  Few of the subjects in the photos looked even remotely close to being of age. That was the way he liked it. More importantly that was the way his business associates liked it. There were two things that kept his buyers coming in from all over the Midwest. Drugs and skin, both equaled the other in terms of quality. He served his product to customers with expensive taste, refined palates that required that their vices not be tainted from over handling. They wanted only the freshest and rawest.

  He sat down on the mattress and thumbed through the photos. He slipped the cloth belt out of the loops of his robe and wrapped it around his neck. Slowly, he tightened the pressure to heighten his arousal. His pulse thumped in his ears like a rhythmic primal dance beat. Blood trapped above the belt swelled the skin on his face as he furiously worked his hands under his robe. He did not hear or feel the shot as it first entered his shoulder.

  The belt loosened as the hand holding it lost the ability to grip. Muscle and tendon ceased to function as the slug tore its way through. The seductive trance of self-induced asphyxiation faded and pain seeped in. He regained enough of his senses to hear and feel the second shot. It nearly separated the arm beneath his robe at the elbow. The mattress that had seen its share of blood in the past steadily became saturated with his own.

  His eyes welled up as he fought through the pain. He squinted to see the shooter that now stood in the doorway, but it was no use. His glasses had slipped from his face when the second shot hit him, rendering his vision to a watery blur. He tried to readjust them but neither damaged limb could manage the simple task. The blur moved closer, leaning down to place the glasses back on his face with enough force to crack both the frames and Virgil's nose.

  “Remember me, asshole?” the intruder growled.

  Virgil looked at the man towering over him and began to sob. He instinctively kicked at the legs of the man, but pain from his ruined upper limbs erupted as he moved. The beginning stages of shock were already setting in as he forced himself to look his attacker in the eyes. “Why?” he asked, almost pleading. “Why now?”

  The only answer came in the form of another burst of gunfire. Rounds tore through the fabric of his robe and into the flesh surrounding his groin. He sank into unconsciousness, welcoming the reprieve from the searing agony. He was pulled back to reality for a moment by a splash of cold liquid that burned his open wounds. The smell of diesel fuel filled the room, robbing him of precious air as he struggled to breathe.

  He watched the intruder emptying the contents of the trunk into a large bag. No matter the damage to his body, seeing his life's work being plundered hurt the most. He just hoped to stay alive long enough for the cavalry to arrive. He was not afraid to die. The only consolation he desired was to see the bastard who did this lying next to him, bleeding and dying.

  He closed his eyes for what seemed like only a few seconds, but when he opened them he found himself alone in the room. He heard footsteps going up the stairs and into the living room above. He glanced over to the trunk, which lay turned on its side and completely empty. Hate filled his heart. That and the want for vengeance was the only thing keeping him alive.

  He laid back and smiled, thinking about the hell that waited beyond the front door for the bastard who dared to hurt him. That smiled remained strong until he saw the smoke rising up from the crack under the door.

  Chapter 19

  The Lincoln Navigator pulled to the side of the road and let the emergency vehicles pass by. The driver watched carefully as the fire trucks and police cars congregated around the house, just a half mile away. The house was fully engulfed by the time the first hose was put into action. A crowd of curious onlookers formed at the end of the driveway, kept at a safe distance by two policemen. No sign of the contact was among them as far as he could tell. He turned the SUV around and drove away.

  He pulled a throw away phone from his pocket and punched in a number. “Contact's gone. No, I mean gone as in gone. Okay. Yes, sir. See you tonight.” He dropped the phone on the seat next to him and sighed. He turned to the young girl riding in the backseat. She stared back at him with a distant foggy look in her eyes. “Looks like you just got the day off, sweetheart.”

  He drove east for over an hour, as far in the opposite direction of home as time would allow. He crossed the Mississippi river and into Illinois. A small waterside picnic area seemed as good as any place to do what had to be done. There were several boats in the distance, but no other vehicles in the parking lot. He got out of the Lincoln and walked around to the other side.

  The girl looked up at him as he motioned her out of the back. The same dull expression remained on her face. It had not changed a bit since they had left Omaha that morning. It was as if she were seeing something a thousand miles away. He took her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. He looked down at her delicate bare feet and swallowed hard. He hated this part of the job.

  He led the girl down a hiking trail that cut through the wooded area, running parallel to the river. She remained silent, even though he knew that the rough surface of the trail had to be biting into her soft feet. After about a hundred yards he stopped and turned her to face him. A faint glimmer of fear flashed through the drugged fog in her eyes as he studied her. His stomach knotted up and he quickly turned her around, unable to stand that look any longer.

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out another disposable phone. It was not unusual for him to go through three or four of them in any given week. He wiped the surface of the phone with his shirt and placed it in the girl's pants pocket. Then he pulled five twenties from his wallet and shoved them in behind the phone. “Stay here for a while before you come back out, sweetheart. Then call you folks and get your ass home, where you belong,” he whispered in her ear.

  The girl did not turn around as he made his way back to the Lincoln. He stopped and stared at the shimmering water for a moment, looking back to the woods. There was no sign of the girl as he climbed back into the vehicle and exited the park, knowing what he had just done was probably going to get him killed by his boss.

  Chapter 20

  Dale lingered close to the patrol car and watched as the firemen fought a losing battle to the flames. There was really nothing that he or Tassler could do until the Cameron fire chief gave them the all clear. Under normal circumstances the sheriff's department served little purpose in a house fire, except to control traffic. But this was no normal situation. Virgil Semler was a loner, practically a recluse. No one had any doubts that whatever burnt remains were left, would surely be found inside that house.

  He nervously studied the other officers when the state crime lab van pulled in, wondering who would be the first to question why the DCI boys would be showing up to a fire
call. It had only been an hour since the initial call had come in. Yet here they were, spit-shined and dressed to the nines. In a matter of minutes they would systematically pull rank on the local authorities. Most of the guys would take the intrusion as a blessing. No one wanted to dig through the ashes for roasted body parts.

  By the look on Tassler and Sheriff Baylor's faces, Dale determined that they would rather keep the scene to themselves. Butch rushed the van with Whitey running behind, struggling to keep up. He looked on as his partner tried to incite a pissing match with the lead DCI man. The investigator stood his ground and calmly waited for the sheriff to wisely lead his enraged deputy away by the arm, leaving him alone with Dale.

  “You partner seems to be taking this well, Deputy Scheck,” he joked, extending his hand.

  Dale shook his hand and nodded, hoping the display gave everyone the idea that the two had never met before. “Do you mean the fire or you state boys coming stealing his thunder?”

  “Both.”

  “How you been, Bobby?” He felt eyes upon them as he and the investigator talked. The intensity of the stares rivaled that of the heat blazing behind them. “This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I told you I'd touch base with you soon.”

  “Yeah, I didn't see this one coming.” Robert Hazelton shook his head and looked up as the firemen began to yell over the noise of the tanker engines. The roof began to collapse, putting everyone on edge until it slowly settled in on itself. Millions of sparks rose up as the glowing timbers cracked under their own weight. “We still have a lot to talk about, you and I. This doesn't end the investigation. Only changes it.”

  “Turns it upside down is what it does. Semler was ninety percent of our case. Suddenly he's charcoal? And by who?” Dale absently dug the toe of his boot into the grass. “Where do we go from here, Bobby?”