Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “You’re not. He is an Aussie Cattledog.”

  “Fine specimen,” McPherson went on, approaching the truck. Donk sat and watched both him and Crockett. “Do I discern,” the judge went on, “the absence of an eye on this animal?”

  “Yes, you do. Lost it when he was a puppy.”

  “He is still young, is he not?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And large for his breed. See how he watches me to see what I will do, and watches you to see what you want him to do. Very aware, this dog. An animal of significant mettle, I should think.”

  “He’s a good dog, your honor.”

  “I suspect so. I like his presence, sir. And I enjoy yours also, for that matter. I assume you have approached me because of certain developments in the Underwood family?”

  Crockett grinned. “Merely seeking the association of those more informed and aware of the possible permutations of the circumstance in which we currently find ourselves embroiled, sir.”

  Stifling a smile, the judge continued. “Let me express a certain amount of amelioration, deputy,” he said. “You are not required to accept an excessive amount of shit. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, your honor.”

  “Very well. Excellent dog you have there, Deputy Crockett. Excellent. Please express my best wishes to your lovely wife. Good afternoon, sir.”

  “See you later, Judge,” Crockett said.

  It was a quiet evening. Around seven-thirty Crockett got on the air.

  “Hart two to Hart eight.”

  “Go ahead, two,” Cleaver replied.

  “10-20, John.

  “East of Clayville about two miles”.

  “Good. Orbit that area for another two or three hours if you will.”

  “Ten-four, two.”

  “And thanks for hanging around late tonight.”

  “My pleasure, two.”

  “I’ll be in your general area also, eight. Five and nine will maintain regular patrol.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Two out.”

  Things remained quiet until a little after ten.

  “HQ to Hart two and eight.”

  “Two, go.”

  “Eight, go.”

  “The Underwood residence outside Clayville, two and eight. Suspect in the yard shouting threats and demanding entry. Complainant is Suzanne Underwood.”

  “Two, ten-four. Two minutes.”

  “Eight, ten-four. ‘Bout three for me, two.”

  Crockett kicked the Ram in the ass.

  A minute and a half later, he slid the Ram between the brick columns and roared up the drive. On the well-lighted porch he saw the rear end of a large pickup truck protruding from the front door of the residence. To his left, he noticed a figure in flowing white running toward him. He braked to a stop and a panting Suzanne Underwood, wearing a pale nightgown, clutched at the truck’s rearview mirror.

  “I wouldn’t let him in,” she stammered, breathing heavily. “I wouldn’t let him in, so he got in his truck, backed off down the drive, and drove it right up onto the porch and into the house!”

  “Where is he now?” Crockett asked.

  “In there someplace, I guess. I ran out the back and headed out here. The sonofabitch drove right into the house. Jesus Christ!”

  Crockett held onto his grin. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m all right. That fucker drove his truck right into the house!”

  “Donk,” Crockett said, patting the passenger seat, “Up here.”

  As the dog clambered into the front of the truck, Crockett turned back to the wheezing woman. “Get in the back, he said.

  Rather numbly, Ms. Underwood climbed in and shut the door. “Right into the house,” she said.

  Crockett drove to within fifty yards of the home. “Stay in the truck, okay?”

  Suzanne, now beginning to settle down, gave him a jerky nod.

  Crockett reached for the mic. “Go to the rear, Cleaver,” he said. “The wife is in my truck, suspect is loose someplace, possibly inside the residence. I’m going in through what’s left of the front door if I can get past the truck that’s parked in it.”

  “Ah, ten-four, two. ‘Bout a minute.”

  “Stay, Donk,” Crockett said, and headed for the house.

  Crockett clambered over the left front fender of a badly damaged Ford F-250 after checking the cab. The steering wheel was collapsed and a flaccid air bag hung sadly from the center. Once in the foyer, he could hear the sound of grunts and breakage coming from the second level of the home. All the lights were on. He palmed his whipstick and began to climb the stairs.

  The door was open on the first room to his left from the second floor balcony, and he could hear panting inside the space. The sound of breaking glass spurred him to action. He stepped into the doorway. The suspect, a medium sized man in his late thirties with thinning brown hair stood beside a canopied king-sized bed, staring across the room at the shattered mirror on an immense cherry wood dresser. The room contained a couple of overturned chairs, drawers from the dresser and their contents were scattered on the floor and a nightstand was lying on its side.

  “Hello, Keith,” Crockett said.

  The man whirled to stare at Crockett and dropped into a crouch. Sweat was streaming down his face and he had an abrasion on his forehead. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Call me Crockett, Keith. I’m a county deputy.”

  “Crockett?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’ve heard ‘bout you,” the man snarled, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

  “Some of it might be true,” Crockett said. “What’s going on?”

  “No goddammed woman is gonna lock me out of my own goddammed house!”

  “Apparently.”

  “Not my house,” Underwood went on. “Not my house!” His hands were trembling.

  “That pisses you off, huh?”

  “Fuck yes, it pisses me off!”

  “So, because you’re so pissed that she locked you out, you drive a truck into your house and start trashing shit?”

  “You don’t understand, goddammit!”

  “Guess not. Would you like to explain it to me, Keith?”

  “What the fuck do you care?”

  “To be honest with you, I don’t. But if I can get you talking, you’ll change your focus and settle down a little. That’s a good thing. If you settle down, we’re both more likely to get out of this without a lot of trouble. Plus, I’m killing time. My backup should be here any minute.”

  “You think you’re pretty fuckin’ smart, doncha?”

  “I never was any good at math,” Crockett said. “If you’re done breaking shit, why don’t we get out of this mess and talk awhile?”

  Underwood’s breathing slowed a bit and he looked around the room for a moment, nearly surprised at what he saw. “Where’s my wife?” he asked.

  “Where you can’t get to her.”

  “I wanna see her!”

  “Maybe later. You’re too upset right now. Let’s go downstairs and talk this over, Keith. Just you and me.”

  Challenge returned to the man’s eyes. “I’m not goin’ anywhere with you, motherfucker.”

  “Okay. We can stay here. You sure fucked up the porch and front door. Damn.”

  “You’re in my house. You got a warrant, mister policeman?”

  “Don’t need one. Nothing like a trucked parked halfway into a house to give me probable cause.”

  “What are you gonna do, shoot me?”

  “Shoot you?”

  “If I don’t come with you, you gonna shoot me?”

  “Hell, Keith, I hope not. You want me to?”

  “What?”

  “Well, sometimes some people get so shook up they let their problems kinda take over their minds. They stop thinking straight. They then get really stupid and get themselves killed by some policeman. Suicide by cop is what it’s called. How ‘bout you, Keith. You so pissed off at your wife you
wanna die? Make things a lot easier for her, doncha think?”

  “What if I shoot you?” Underwood asked.

  “Now you’re gonna shoot me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Got a gun in that nightstand next to you?”

  “What if I do?”

  Crockett smiled. “You got the sand for it, pilgrim, skin that smokewagon.”

  Underwood peered at him. “What?”

  “Sorry,” Crockett said. “Cowboy talk. This is just getting a little too theatrical for me. If you wanna try, Keith, jump on, but you’ll never make it. You’ll be dead and your wife will own everything you have. The house, the furnishings, both your businesses, your bank accounts, everything. It’ll all belong to her. You’ll be dead, and she’ll be set for life. She’ll be out having a good time, and you’ll be worm food. Of course, if that’s what you really want, go ahead. There’s an upside for me.”

  Keith’s eyes gained focus. “What upside?”

  “If I have to kill you here tonight, I’m gonna piss your brother off. I like pissing your brother off. He’s an asshole.”

  The man sagged. “You’re right,” he said. “He is an asshole.”

  Crockett smiled. “So are you, Keith. Hell, so am I. Why don’t we, just two run-of-the-mill assholes, walk outa this mess before either of us get to be an even bigger asshole.”

  “I’m tired,” Underwood said.

  “So am I, pard,” Crockett said. “Had enough?”

  “Yeah. You gonna handcuff me?”

  “Naw. You’ll have to be cuffed when you get in the car, but I’m not gonna take you out of here like a prisoner. It’s your house, for chrissakes.”

  Defeated, Underwood shuffled around the bed, and he and Crockett walked out of the room. Standing in the hall was Hart eight.

  “This is Officer John Cleaver,” Crockett said. “You met him earlier today. John will take you downstairs and into Hartrick. I’ll see you there a little later.”

  Thoroughly settled, Underwood said nothing and started toward the stairs.

  “I heard the whole thing,” Cleaver whispered. “Beautiful.”

  Crockett stepped back into the bedroom for a moment, crossed to the other side of the bed, and opened the top drawer of the nightstand. A forty caliber Glock gleamed dully up at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Because of the front door obstruction, Crockett followed Underwood and Cleaver out a side door and around to the squad car and stood by while Cleaver cuffed the now quietly crying man and put him in the back seat. As the car drove away, he clicked on his flashlight and returned to the truck where Suzanne Underwood, pretty, blond, augmented, and in a flimsy white gown, still sat in the rear seat. Crockett leaned on the window frame.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Was he in that police car?” she asked.

  “Yep. He’s under arrest.”

  “Good. Look what he did! He tore up the house. He ruined the truck.”

  “Oh, no,” Crockett went on. “He’s not under arrest for that. He’s under arrest for violating the restraining order. Misdemeanor. He’ll be out tomorrow.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Did he hurt you or anything?”

  “Well, no. But look what he did to the house.”

  “His house,” Crockett said. “He can do pretty much what he wants to it, as long as nobody else is in danger.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a civil matter, not criminal. I suggest you contact your attorney. He can advise you.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “Nothing I can do, and nothing I want to do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your husband is in bad shape right now. He’s not thinking clearly. In a couple of days, he’ll be over a lot of that. The last thing he needs now is more pressure.”

  “What do you mean? Did you hurt him?”

  Crockett smiled. “No. I never laid a hand on him. He wanted me to shoot him for a while, but he got over it.”

  “Shoot him?”

  “Kill him, actually. Even threatened to shoot me so I would. We found a point of agreement, and he settled down.”

  “A point of agreement?”

  “Yeah. We agreed that his brother is an asshole.”

  Charlene smiled. “So, he’s okay?”

  “Hell, no, he’s not okay! Physically he’s got a bump on his forehead, and he’ll probably be sore as hell from the airbag and slamming into the house like that. Emotionally and mentally, he’s a wreck! Jesus Christ, woman! He actually considered going for a gun so I’d have to kill him. That sound like he’s okay to you?”

  “He cheated on me! I’ve got proof!”

  “I know that. In some ways, he deserves to get whatever comes. But let me ask you something. What flash of insight made you think he wouldn’t cheat on you?”

  “What?”

  “He cheated on his first wife, and you were the other woman! You knew his behavior going into the marriage. You knew he was a snake when you picked him up. Now you’re all righteous because he bit you?”

  “You men are all alike. You’re just taking his side.”

  “There it is. You men are all alike. The displaced female war cry. Did you learn that we men are all alike when you were dancing out at Heels? Did Train teach you that?”

  Suzanne’s mouth dropped open. “Train? You knew Train?”

  “Yeah. I met him once.”

  “Now you’re throwing that in my face. That I used to work there.”

  “I don’t care where you used to work. I don’t care that you danced. I don’t care if you hooked. That’s none of my business. You have every right to do whatever you have to do to survive, as long as you’re not hurting anybody. I happen to think that naked ladies are nice to look at. The point that I’m making is that you entered into this relationship with what has proven to be an unrealistic attitude. Then, when the almost inevitable happens, do you storm off in a huff and wait for him to come crawling to you? Do you attempt to talk with the shithead about his broken promises? No. You go through all the legal crap to keep the man restricted from his property and out of his own house, a house that he had before you came along. He lied, and he cheated. No doubt about that. You were vindictive and hateful. No doubt about that, either. All that would be fine, except that the two of you love each other. Your past histories just managed to fuck that up. His need to cheat, and your need for revenge on all those men that treated you as entertainment or a blow-up doll. Nobody had a gun to his head, sweetie. Nobody had one to yours, either.”

  “He doesn’t love me. If he did, he wouldn’t have cheated on me!”

  “Bullshit. Love doesn’t guarantee monogamy. The man was so ashamed he actually contemplated death as atonement for what he’d done. How do you think he feels right now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do, Suzanne. He feels just as bad as you do, and you’d realize that if you’d stop the crap about men and really let yourself feel.”

  “So what am I supposed to do, just forgive him and go on like this never happened?”

  “Hell no. Just understand that a lot of what you are doing is to punish yourself for the life you led before you married Keith. Stop beating yourself up for all those men you used, for being the other woman, and for misjudging your choices. Show yourself some compassion, for chrissakes! If you show yourself compassion for your mistakes, you might show him some compassion for his mistakes. Will you live happily ever after? I don’t give a damn if you do or not. But you might stop being so hard on each other and yourselves. That would be nice. There’s a truck in your house, goddammit!”

  Suzanne stared at the floor for a moment. “This part of the standard police service?” she asked.

  Crockett laughed. “Just the facts, m’am,” he said.

  “So now what happens?”

  “He’ll bond out. Then, it’s up to you.”

  She thought for a moment, then l
ooked at him. “A couple of years after I left Heels, I ran into a friend who still worked there,” she said. “She told me some older white guy kicked Train’s ass in the entry room one day. Knocked the shit outa that big sonofabitch. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Suzanne smiled. “’Course not,” she said.

  “You and Keith have a pre-nup?”

  “No.”

  “Hmmm,” Crockett mused. “Car dealership, tractor and implement dealership, big house and land. You could get out of this with all the money you’d ever need.”

  “Yes, I could,” Suzanne said, climbing out of the truck.

  Crockett got behind the wheel and started the engine. “Then all you’d have to do would be to live with yourself,” he went on, slipping the Ram in gear. “Good luck with that.”

  He drove away and left Suzanne Underwood standing in the dark.

  When Crockett got back to town and walked into the cop shop, he found Dale Smoot in the lobby.

  “Sheriff,” he said. “I’m sorry they got you out for this.”

  “I heard the call on the scanner at the house and came down. Cleaver says Underwood drove a truck into the house.”

  “Right through the front door.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Just him.”

  “Civil matter.”

  “Yep.”

  “He also said that you talked Keith down when he was trying to get killed.”

  “Sounds worse than it was.”

  “I took a call from his wife, too. She’s pretty impressed with you.”

  “Maybe she’s not the dumbass I think she is,” Crockett said. “Where’s Keith?”

  “In a cell. His brother’s down there talking to him now. Five’ll getcha ten you’re next.”

  Crockett grimaced. “I am not in a mood to take much shit from that pompous fuck, Dale.”

  Smoot smiled. “How do you really feel?”

  Crockett glared at him for a moment, then flopped into a chair and laughed. “God, whatta night.”

  “Sounded like it to me from what I heard. Write a statement and go home. Take tomorrow off if you want to.”