by C. G. Cooper
That seemed to break Denny’s trance. His eyes lit up like he realized who I was. “I was just going to help him.”
“Where is he?”
Denny motioned with his head toward the source of gunfire. “He’s in quite the jam. Not sure he’ll make it out.”
That’s when it all came around. The pieces fit in with morbid perfection.
The gun in my hand shifted. “It was you.”
Chapter One Hundred Nine
“What was me, Jimmy?” His weapon hadn’t moved.
“Everything.”
He cocked his head. “Everything?”
Amazingly, he seemed to relax with every word while I tensed like an over-tuned piano.
“Where’s Carlisle?”
Denny’s eyes narrowed. Here was a different man. Gone was the Hollywood hero. This guy had the glint of crazy.
My gun came up.
He laughed and pointed at it. “Where’d you get that?”
“It’s my dad’s.”
“Maybe you should’ve left it that way.”
“It’ll be mine one day.”
A sly grin played at the corner of his mouth. “Might just be yours today.”
There was a commotion and three forms burst into the room. Denny brought up his gun and took the first form in the chest, two shots in rapid succession. The inmate fell to the ground, dead to the world.
The second man took a round in the side of his face, having tripped mid-fire. The man screamed and splashed face-first onto the ground. As a hand went up to search the wound, Denny put three more rounds into the poor guy’s back.
Denny shifted to aim in on the third form, and I’m sure he had him in his sights, but he froze.
“Well,” he said, a smile on his face, “look at what we’ve got here! Jimmy was just asking about you.”
Carlisle looked from Denny to me and then back again.
“What are you doing with the boy, Boss Bell?”
“I should be asking you the same thing. It seems I’ve heard some interesting tales today about you and Jimmy here being best of friends. Now tell me that’s not true, Carlisle. You can imagine what Warden Allen would think, may God soon rest his soul.”
I was about to answer for Carlisle, but he cut me off with a glare.
“Nothing to it. Rumors, boss.”
Denny shook his head. “Now, Carlisle, you and I both know that rumors tend to lead straight to the truth in our quaint little prison. So, tell me, what have you two been up to? Not getting a little hanky-panky in the greenhouse now, are you, Carlisle?”
“I saw you and Mrs. Bell,” I blurted.
Denny’s gaze turned to me, more curious than imposing.
“You saw us do what?”
The words spilled out like he’d ripped them from my brain. “Mrs. Bell was naked and dancing. You were sitting in a chair watching her. You slapped her butt, and she was crying.”
It sounded juvenile coming out of my mouth.
Denny threw his head back and laughed. When he recovered, he said, “That’s not against the law, Jimmy. Ask your best buddy here. Isn’t that right, Carlisle? Not a damn thing wrong with a man admiring his wife.”
“No, Boss.”
“See, Jimmy? You happened to see some adult stuff that you’re too young to understand. Just wait until you get a little older. Though I’m sure you won’t be taking liberties with memories of my wife, now will you?”
I didn’t fully comprehend what he was asking, yet I still shook my head.
“And as for you . . .” Denny turned to face Carlisle. The rifle came up. “I’ve had enough of your meddling.”
I was across the room from the man, but that didn’t mean a thing. I brought my dad’s revolver up. My eyes looked over the sights. I pulled the trigger.
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Denny didn’t jump or anything. He looked at me and then over his shoulder to where the bullet from the revolver had struck the wall. His head turned back, shaking.
“Seems like your daddy didn’t teach you much about shooting. Take a kid like yourself. I’d say on a good day, you could’ve got me at seven, maybe ten yards. Look at me; I’m a good bit farther than that.” He took four steps back to punctuate the point. The rifle shifted its aim from Carlisle to me. Denny tapped the barrel. “Now take this beauty. I could take you running at a hundred and fifty yards. If I’m sitting on a hill, I could hit you at five hundred. So, you see, I knew before you even took a shot that the cards stacked in my favor.” The weapon went back to Carlisle. “Good try, boys. I’m not sure what you were trying to accomplish, but it looks like it’s all in a day’s—"
I pulled the trigger over and over until the hammer clicked home on an empty chamber, and there was nothing left but the beating boom of gunfire in my ears.
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Well, two out of five ain’t too shabby for a kid.
A pessimist would have said I’d missed with three of my five remaining shots. I’m no pessimist.
Denny was staring down at the two shots he’d taken in the chest. His jaw moved, but the only thing that came out was a wheezing whine like a pinched balloon.
The rifle clattered to the ground, and Denny followed shortly after.
Carlisle was on him in a flash, first kicking the rifle away and then checking the assistant warden for a pulse.
“He’s dead.”
The first thing I wanted to say was, “Good,” but all I got out was some mumbled expletive. Denny had asked for it. He said Dad was dead or gonna be. Denny was going to kill Carlisle; I was sure of that. And while he might not have killed me, what would my life have been then?
I’m not sure how long Carlisle had been saying my name before I snapped back, my gun-toting-hand shaking.
“Jimmy?”
“I’m okay.”
He slid the revolver from my hand and eased me to the ground. “Do you have any more ammunition?”
“In my backpack.” My voice sounded cold and devoid of life. I was a robot, going through the required motions.
I felt the backpack lift from my shoulders and heard Carlisle rustling around inside while my eyes were glued to the open-mouthed corpse of Denny Bell. I didn’t feel bad for killing him. I didn’t even feel scared. I just . . . I didn’t feel. I can’t fully explain the sensation, even now, with the benefit of looking back from a distance.
Carlisle stepped into my field of vision and, before I could say anything, he emptied another six rounds into Denny’s lifeless body.
My eyes widened at the surreal sight.
“You need to go, Jimmy,” he said nervously. “Back the way you came. And this time, stay the hell home, you hear me?”
He’d shoved the revolver in his waistband and was helping me to my feet. There was no time for questions. I saw figures running our way.
“I can’t leave you here; they’ll—"
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, pushing me out the door. When we were at arm’s length, he looked at me woefully. “You take care of yourself, Jimmy. Don’t tell a soul about what happened here today.”
“Okay.” Tears welled in my eyes.
“Pinky swear?”
I nodded and held out my pinky. Carlisle took it with his.
“You remember everything I told you?”
“I will.”
There were shouts from outside. They were about to come in.
“Now go.”
Carlisle turned to meet the onslaught, arms raised, with what I now realize were hands covered in the residue expelled from Dad’s revolver.
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
That’s it. That’s the story of my becoming a murderer at age ten and some change.
There’s more to it, however, and if you’ve stuck with me this far, maybe you’d like to hear it. I think you’ll like it. It’s about a boy and his dad.
First, the small details.
My old man survived. He and a handful of guards held off Denny Bell’s guard and in
mate mercenary gang. When they finally got inside the room, they naturally assumed Carlisle had killed the assistant warden. Dad said Carlisle admitted to it right away.
It wouldn’t be until days later that Denny’s involvement was entirely uncovered. The loose lips came from none other than Mrs. Bell herself. She told the local and federal authorities all about her dead husband’s escapades. Not only was he a compulsive womanizer, but he’d also had a budding smuggling operation running through the prison for two years. With his brother on the prison board at the national level, Denny had assumed that he’d be the next pick for the warden.
But Dad had his own champions. Despite Denny running out the last warden, the Allen family still came to Virginia.
The entire operation had been planned to discredit my father and paint Denny in a favorable light. Once this came out, Denny’s brother, a slick-mouthed attorney with proclivities similar to his younger brother, was arrested and charged with a rap sheet the size of a roll of paper towels.
As for Mrs. Bell, she never got to see the fruits of her admission. After telling the authorities everything she knew, she went home, kissed her children goodnight, and swallowed a half a gallon of Drano. I never understood why a person would choose such a method for self-murder. By all accounts, it was a messy and agonizing death.
For obvious reasons, my dad was transferred to another prison. Certain assurances were made that what had transpired was not the fault of the vaunted Warden Allen. But as things happen, everyone knew the score. Dad’s reputation as The Fixer disappeared overnight. He never got a plum assignment again, but he continued to take his lumps for years. He would later retire with a healthy pension.
During that time, he and Mom split. I guess some adventures are too much for man and wife. Larry and I stayed with Mom, and we saw less and less of our father.
For years, I tried to find Carlisle. His case had gone underground because of the circumstances surrounding the final event. No one ever questioned me. I’d come out unscathed from the commotion, at least physically.
The mental game was another issue.
I couldn’t snap out of my funk. The only thing I focused on was schoolwork, and that was for Carlisle and Kenji, of course. In the span of a few months, I’d lost my two best friends. How does anyone come back from that?
The short answer is, you don’t. Not all the way.
By the time I was thirteen, I was sneaking drinks from Mom’s stash. By fifteen, I was running around with the worst kids in school.
I knew how to skirt the line. I never got arrested, but I always missed curfew. Sure, Mom would ground me for weeks. I railed and screamed, and she stood fast.
“I know you’ll come back to me,” she’d say. I laughed in her face.
I was eighteen when I found Carlisle. Some judge in some town found him guilty of killing Denny Bell. It turned out that once the wheels of justice got moving, there was little that could be done. Not that anyone tried, not even Carlisle. He took my punishment for me. It killed me to find that out. I was a murderer, and he was doing my time.
After several unsuccessful efforts to contact him, I fell into a deep depression. I found solace in a bottle a day that soon turned to two. I was a high school graduate with a year to live.
When I turned nineteen, my father invited me to his cabin in the Smokies. I agreed because I knew he kept the place stocked with booze to the gills. Lucky me.
The first day, I was good. Just a couple of drinks. The second day, I snuck shots. Third day, I blacked out.
I woke to find Dad sitting in a chair at the small desk he sometimes used to write letters to old friends. He still clung to the old ways despite the rise of the Internet age.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like shit.”
He nodded, tapped his shirt pocket for the cigarettes that were no longer there. He’d quit at some point. I’m not sure when. He never stopped tapping his pocket.
“I think you should see someone.”
This idea was rich. Here was the man who’d dragged us around for years, the man who’d made Mom miserable. Turns out that a man who’s married to his work can’t be married to his wife. He was the man who was responsible for the wreck I’d become. And he wanted me to see someone?
“No way.” I stripped the blanket covering me and almost fell to the side when the headache spiked me.
“Not so fast. I made some calls.”
Great. Dad wanted me to go to rehab. Or was it counseling? Neither option tickled my funny bone. AA was for quitters. I used to say that as a toast.
“Thanks for the good time, Dad. Let me shower, and I’ll be out of your hair for good.”
I meant every word; I was done with him. I was done with everyone. Hell, I was done with myself. The guilt I felt left a hole in me as wide as the Grand Canyon.
“It’s Carlisle,” he said.
I turned so fast that my head spun. I had to reach out and grab the headboard to steady myself.
“What did you say?”
“I said it’s Carlisle.”
“What about him?” I asked through teeth that could tear apart a jaguar.
“I think you should see him. Talk to him. Whatever you want.”
The anger deflated like I’d been popped.
“When?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
We went to see Carlisle two days later. I told Dad I wanted to go in alone, and he allowed it. I had aged a millennium, but Carlisle still looked as young and carefree as I remembered. He smiled that wide grin when I sat down on the other side of the plexiglass. We both picked up one side of the phones.
“Jimmy.”
My words came out in a spill. “How are you, Carlisle?” I had so much to say and none of the words to say them. “I’m so sorry. If you want me to—"
He raised a hand.
“It’s good to see you, Jimmy. Let’s start there. I’ve missed you.”
I remember feeling such anger at his blasé attitude. I’d come in sporting a good buzz, and he was ruining it.
“How can you say that? After what happened? I’m a terrible person. You should—"
His steady gaze speared me to silence like he’d clamped my jaw shut with a vise. “I’m ready to tell you my story.”
It took me back years, to his promise in that wonderful greenhouse in Virginia.
“Your story?”
He nodded.
“I swallowed my first pill at fifteen. I did it to fit in. From there . . .”
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
That was the first of many visits. Sometimes I talked, and Carlisle listened. Other times I sat and tried to fix my mind on what he was saying. It felt good to be with my friend again.
Gradually, after many subsequent trips over state lines, we got around to the subject of my life. He’d told me his story, and now I told him mine. I told him about my guilt, the running around, and finally the drinking. Carlisle never judged me. In fact, the only thing he said was, “When you’re ready to fix that, you know where I live.”
It took many months, countless meetings, and hours spent with Carlisle, but I did it. I got sober despite the relapses and the near-crippling guilt. It was always right there in front of me when I saw Carlisle. Through it all, he never offered advice. He would tell me some tidbit of his own experience, and I sat in wonder at his sage-like wisdom. He gave me my strength and hope.
“Will I have to do this for the rest of my life?” I asked one day.
“If you want to stay alive.”
At that moment, I did. I did want to live. The visits with Carlisle meant more to me than anything, and yet, the rest of my life was incrementally getting better.
“Progress, not perfection,” Carlisle said, over and over.
I celebrated one year of sobriety by telling Carlisle that I was going back to school.
“Business?” he asked. He liked to talk about getting out and op
ening a burger stand somewhere, maybe at the beach.
“Law school,” I said with a proud smile.
Carlisle whistled into the phone. “You working for our side or theirs?”
I laughed. “Haven’t decided yet, but probably yours.”
“Will I have to call you Mr. Bigshot after you graduate?” I fixed him with a stare.
“I’m going to get you out, Carlisle. I promise.”
It took years and much-needed help from my father, but we finally got the prison board to approve Carlisle’s parole. Up until that point, he had close to forty years behind bars.
It didn’t hurt that he’d helped many inmates get sober, and he’d been instrumental with other prisons instituting programs to help battle a variety of addictions.
The day I told Carlisle about his upcoming release was his birthday. I had a huge cookie made with “Happy Birthday! We did it!” slathered in cream cheese frosting on top.
I was his attorney, but still we couldn’t hug. Rules are rules.
I should’ve broken them.
Anyway, now on to the good part.
Epilogue
My wife and two kids are with me. My youngest, Carlisle, has my left leg in a death grip.
“When can we go home?” he asks.
“After we meet Daddy’s friend,” my wife Cora says.
I’m too choked up to talk. Lucky for Cora. And for the call with Larry on the way. My brother’s headmaster at a boarding school that looks like Hogwarts. Cora and Larry’s combined optimism is the only reason I’m standing right now.
We hear a loud screech as the oil-lacking door to the prison opens. I remember my vow to carry WD-40 as part of my spy tool kit. A guard steps out and I exhale. It’s not Carlisle.
Then another form, tall and proud, emerges behind the first. He was grayer now but no less proud.