Damage

by Mark Feggeler

  "That's close enough," Billy said. "You say there's nobody with you? What about Pritchard?"

  "He's been out looking for Redmond," Ray explained. "He's been cooperating with a state investigation. They've got a warrant out for him and they're on their way here now."

  Ray expected a reaction from Redmond at this news, but there was none. The sheriff lay still on the ground a short distance behind Billy, his hands cuffed behind his back. Blood ran down his cheek from a gash where the shotgun had struck him.

  "They should have saved themselves the trip from Raleigh," Billy said. "There's only one kind of justice a man like this understands."

  "They're looking for you, too," Ray added. "You don't care about him, but do you care about yourself?"

  "I know what I'm doing," Billy said.

  "What about Amy and your kids? Will they understand what you're doing?" Ray took several steps closer. "Turn yourself in, Billy. Let that asshole live to stand before a court of his peers for what he's done, and turn yourself in."

  "And then what?" Billy lowered the pistol. "We go fishing? I take my family on a holiday? I'm as guilty as he is. Worse, even. I give this up now and I'm on death row inside six months. All he's gotta do is call in a few favors and ride out easy years until he gets parole."

  "He's gonna lose everything, Billy," Ray said. "You think anyone's going to reach out to lend him a hand when this goes public?"

  "He deserves the death penalty," Billy said. "You can't guarantee me that's what he'll get and neither can any district attorney, so I intend to carry out that sentence here tonight. I've killed better men for lesser cause. We're done talking about it."

  Billy turned gracefully and fired a single shot from the pistol into the sheriff's back. Redmond curled into a ball, howling in pain, drawing his knees to his chest. Without thinking, Ray ran to him, cutting a wide berth around Billy. Redmond rocked back and forth, grunting and swearing, oblivious to Ray kneeling behind him. The sun was setting quickly. It was too dark to see precisely where the bullet had hit him. Grass crunched beneath Billy's feet as he stepped closer with the pistol raised.

  "Back away," Billy ordered. "Back away or hold him still. It's your choice."

  "I won't help you kill a man!" Ray cried.

  "Suit yourself," Billy said and let loose two more rounds.

  Ray fell backward and scrambled away from Redmond, whose body jerked from the impact and immediately fell limp and still. Blood sprayed when the bullets hit, catching Ray across the face. He instinctively tried wiping it off with his sleeves and the tails of his untucked shirt. The next thing he knew, Billy lifted him to his feet. With one hand locked around Ray's arm, Billy led him out of the pasture and back to the pickup truck by the barn. Neither of them spoke. Ray was still trying to process what he had just witnessed. The pistol landed noisily in the bed of the truck.

  Ray felt numb. None of his senses were functioning correctly. He didn't even feel the cell phone buzzing in his pocket.

  "You going to check that?" Billy asked.

  Ray just stared blankly back at him, so Billy reached into Ray's coat for the phone. He pressed a few buttons and read a message that made him smile.

  "It's Pritchard," Billy said. "They found your car and are making their way up to us. He heard the shots and wants to know if you're okay. See? I told you he's a good man."

  "You'll be on death row," Ray said. "And I'll have to testify against you at trial."

  "Maybe. Sit with me for a minute, will you?" Billy held open the passenger door of the truck.

  The sound of movement behind them, like deer walking through the undergrowth bordering the driveway, made him realize he didn't have much opportunity remaining for casual conversation with his cousin. He climbed in and pulled the door shut as Billy walked around and got in the other side. A brief silence followed as they both stared through the windshield at the remaining streaks of color tinging the high clouds.

  "Beautiful evening," Billy said. "Can already see a couple stars."

  "How can you be so at ease with yourself after everything you've done?"

  Billy sat back and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Because I'm setting things right. I should have done this years ago. This is the best I've felt in a long time. I'm just sorry I got you involved."

  "Why did you, anyway?" Ray asked. "How did I figure into all this?"

  "You didn't," Billy said. "Not really. You're always complaining nothing ever happens around here, so I figured if I brought you along on Monday you could get a good story out of it for your newspaper. As soon as you found Mrs. Wallace still breathing, I knew it was all gonna go to hell. In hindsight, though, I'm glad you were there."

  "Why?"

  "Cause if it was just me, if I had found her, I would have finished the job I'd started the night before," he said. "Because of you, she's still hanging on."

  "And your life is as good as over," Ray said.

  "I've been dead a long time," Billy said, smiling weakly. "I just haven't been smart enough to lie down. Until now."

  Billy unholstered the pistol he had used to shoot Redmond in the legs. It looked like a toy gun in his meaty hands, but that didn't help Ray feel any more at ease about its sudden reappearance.

  "What's that for?" Ray asked.

  "I think you're smart enough to figure it out," Billy said. His voice trembled and tears welled in his eyes. "Why don't you go on now. Tell Amy I'm sorry and give my girls a kiss from their daddy."

  "I'm not leaving," Ray managed to say.

  "Suit yourself."

  Billy opened his mouth and raised the pistol. Before he could take aim, Ray reached over and grabbed for it. He was no match for his cousin physically, and there was no way he was going to be able to pry it out of Billy's hands, so he focused his efforts on keeping the weapon pointed toward the driver side window.

  After several long seconds, a single deafening shot fired, boring a hole through the window and causing the rest of it to shatter into an opaque network of fracture lines. They both stopped struggling to figure out what had happened. Ray's right hand began to sting. At first just slightly, as though the heat caused by the bullet had burned him, but the stinging quickly flared into a consuming pain that spread from the tip of his pinky across his hand and all the way down to his elbow. He reeled back, hitting the door behind him, his hand squeezed tight under his left armpit. Billy, dumbstruck, simply watched Ray recoiling until it started to dawn on him what had happened. He reached out to help, but Ray had managed to grab the handle and the door fell open behind him, spilling him out on the dry mud.

  The back of Ray's head struck the ground. He barely noticed. His left hand wrapped around the damaged area and immediately he knew something wasn't right. His stomach churned when he managed to catch a glimpse of what remained of his little finger. The bullet had torn it in half below the second knuckle, leaving a jagged stump that looked like a scrap from a butcher's market.

  Billy shuffled along the bench seat to follow Ray out the passenger door.

  Someone in the distance yelled. Ray couldn't make out what was being said or who was saying it. He looked left to see several people in suits with weapons drawn and aimed at the truck. Still holding the gun, Billy started to climb out of the truck. He must not have heard them, Ray thought.

  "Billy, No!" Ray yelled.

  The moment the big man's foot hit the ground, two rapid shots sounded. Billy swung hard into the open door, bounced off it, and crashed to the ground in a heap facing Ray. Gasping for breath and convulsing, Billy managed to bring the muzzle of his pistol up to his chin. He smiled at Ray.

  "Close your eyes," he said.

  Ray barely managed to squeeze his eyelids together before Billy pulled the trigger.

  Thursday, Part I

  So much of the week had passed in a blur of extraordinary events, it was difficult for Ray to piece them together in any semblance of order. Lying in his hospital bed under the lingering effects of codeine didn't make it
any easier.

  Despite the gauze wrappings causing his right hand to appear swollen to twice its normal size, the fact of the matter was it was smaller by one digit. The physician that had assessed his injury in the emergency room agreed with the orthopedic specialist that the remaining portion of Ray's finger was too badly compromised to bother saving. They made him comfortable as best they could through the night and would operate on his hand first thing the next morning. Detective Pritchard acted as the de facto liaison between Ray and the many people who arrived throughout the night to interview, photograph, arrest, or attack him.

  Pritchard told him he had fired the shots that took Billy down. From his vantage point, an armed man known to have murdered at least one person that day was aggressively approaching an unarmed man who appeared to be wounded. Pritchard had ordered Billy to drop his weapon and put both hands out the window, but when he came out still holding the pistol, Pritchard had no choice. He fired twice, dropping Billy, and was running over to disarm him when the self-inflicted shot blew through Billy's head. Pritchard and the SBI officers with him asked Ray question after question at the scene, not stopping until the ambulance arrived to take him away. He wasn't sure if he answered all the questions honestly. All he did know was he never said anything about Billy taking his own life. When they asked if Billy shot himself intentionally, Ray kept telling them he couldn't be sure.

  Chief Yeager of the Glen Meadows Police Department had strong opinions about what should happen to Ray once the hospital released him from its care. He kept throwing out terms like "multiple charges," "evading arrest," and "felonious assault" in an eloquent tirade directed at Pritchard and his new friends from the State Bureau of Investigation, who eventually managed to take the discussion outside the emergency triage area. Ray didn't even want to think what kind of trouble he had gotten poor Officer Hussey into for skipping out on him.

  The toughest part of the evening was his visit from Amy. She arrived shortly after midnight with her neighbor, Ed, a short man with graying hair and a muscular build, at her side for emotional support. Ray had met Ed on several occasions. The stupor that clouded his thoughts cleared instantly when Amy stepped into view at the foot of the gurney. Every second of their discussion was a delicate balance between understanding what had happened and hysterics at the loss of her husband. One thing was certain. No matter what Ray said, she would forever blame him for Billy's death.

  "I just identified my husband's body downstairs in the morgue," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes focused on the wall behind him. "You were with him when he died."

  "Yes," Ray managed to say.

  "Did he suffer?"

  "No," Ray lied. How could he not have suffered?

  "Did he..." Amy leaned to one side. Ed caught her and straightened her up. She took a moment to regain her composure. "Did he kill those people?"

  "Yes," Ray whispered.

  "Did he take his own life?"

  Ray didn't want to answer. He couldn't lie to Amy, yet he didn't want to confirm Billy had committed suicide, that the idea of running a bullet through his brain offered him greater peace of mind than any other option open to him. Amy turned her eyes to Ray and repeated the question, her voice laced with bitterness. Struggling to keep from turning away, all he could manage was a slight nod of his head.

  She stared at him a moment longer, tears streaming down her cheeks, before turning to Ed . "Take me home."

  Just before they left the room, Ray called to her. "He told me to tell you he's sorry."

  Amy paused and started sobbing. Without looking back, she was led from the emergency room in the arms of her neighbor.

  Pritchard quietly returned a short while later with a cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of the Citizen-Gazette under his arm. He strode over to the bed when he saw Ray's eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.

  "How's your hand?"

  "Okay, I guess," Ray mumbled, not turning his attention away from the stained ceiling tile directly above him.

  "I brought you today's paper," Pritchard said. He held it out.

  Ray glared scornfully at the newspaper. Pritchard placed it next to him, pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed, facing Ray.

  "Do you think they'd let me see her?" Ray asked.

  Pritchard shook his head. "Raymond, we've been over this several times already. Not only will they not let you visit Mrs. Wallace, you won't be leaving that bed until they take you back for your surgery. Besides, what good is it going to do you?"

  Ray shrugged.

  "If it's any consolation, I checked on her again just now," Pritchard said. "She has a long recovery ahead of her, but she's awake and alert and alive, thanks to you. You should be proud of yourself. If you hadn't tagged along Monday morning, she'd probably be downstairs in cold storage next to her husband."

  "I don't feel proud," Ray said.

  "That's survivor's guilt talking. Find yourself a good therapist and get over it."

  "Knock, knock," said a woman's voice through the pull curtain that hung around the foot of his bed. Becky poked her head through and smiled sympathetically at Ray. "Is it all right if I come in?"

  Ray nodded. Pritchard stood. He made a hasty introduction to Becky and excused himself.

  "He really is the cutest little man," she said once Pritchard was out of earshot. She noticed Ray's bandaged hand and her mouth dropped open. "Oh, my God. So, is it true you got shot? I need details, please. Oh, my God!"

  Ray had held up his hand so she could see it more clearly. Even through the layers of gauze it was evident there was a finger missing.

  "Pinky's mostly gone," he said. "The rest isn't worth saving so they're gonna take it off tomorrow."

  "And on your right hand," Becky sympathized.

  "It's okay," Ray said. "Semicolons are overrated anyway."

  A weak attempt at a smile tugged at his mouth. Becky walked over to him and sat on the side of the bed. She didn't have to say anything. Just by the expression on her face, Ray knew she understood how much he had lost in the past few days. What made it worse was he overwhelming and irrational sense of responsibility he felt about everything that had taken place. If he had been quicker to understand what he was going through, he might have been able to save a life, possibly several lives. He wasn't even sure Amy would let him attend his own cousin's funeral. Emotions rose like flooding tides inside him. Becky touching his arm startled him. He had forgotten she was there.

  "Someone looks like he needs a hug," she said.

  He tried to answer her. Tears streamed down his face as she leaned over to embrace him, holding him tightly until he could feel himself gradually regaining control. He patted her back and drew several deep, refreshing breaths through the tangled curls of her hair.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  "Just tell me one thing," she said, propping herself up and wiping tears from her face. "Where the hell is my car?"

  Mark Feggeler has worked as a newspaper reporter, public relations manager, and hospitality salesman. Through it all, he has maintained an active interest in writing. He lives in North Carolina with his wife and three children.

  Other books available from the author include:

  The Psi Squad: Book One

  The first in a series of novella-length paranormal adventures written for children 9-12 years old.

  Ramblings of a Very Pale Man: Volume One

  A collection of posts from the first year of the author's blog about family life and work.

  To follow the author's Ramblings of a Very Pale Man blog, visit:

  http://paleramblings.blogspot.com

 

 

 
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