Acoustic Shadows

by Patrick Kendrick

  Thiery was silent as he tried to catch his breath. He’d begun to hyperventilate as soon as Bullock had mentioned Gazmend, New York, and Adrienne. Because, he knew. He had always known. Because, even if she had left him, she wouldn’t have stayed away from the boys. Not forever. Now, it all made sense.

  ‘Justin, you okay?’

  ‘Nah. I’m not, Jim. I … I have to think … ’

  ‘What you need to do, man, is stay safe. At least until the US Marshals have rounded up this Moral and got him to sing on the Esperanzas. Until then, you and Adkins aren’t safe. You understand? Now, tell me where you are, and I’ll send an extraction team to you … ’

  Thiery was standing in the small dining room of the beach house, looking out the window, his vision blurred from the emotions of what Bullock was telling him, when he saw the first car go by, driving very slow. The windows were tinted, but he thought he recognized the car. When the second car went by, he could make out Moral’s silhouette, looking up toward the house.

  ‘Shit,’ Thiery uttered, snapping off the lights. ‘It’s too late, Jim. They’re here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen,’ he spoke calmly and clearly, ‘I’m at 16 Sunset Road in Ormond Beach. Call for help, Jim. We’re going to need it.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Bullock, but the phone had already gone dead.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Adding the lies Moral was spewing to the media to what Thiery had already told him, Dunham knew Moral was dirty. You didn’t have to be a rancher to recognize bullshit when you saw it. He called his assistant chief, told him he was off the clock, and asked him to cover for him if the city manager called. Then, he slipped into his Kevlar vest and followed Moral all the way to the east coast, watching him, a desperate man completely devoid of his surroundings, oblivious of anything beyond a singular purpose.

  Chief Dunham saw Moral meet the group of shady looking men at Betty’s diner, watched them through binoculars while perched on a quiet shoulder on a section of A1A by the beach. They hadn’t sat at a table. It was just a meet, with a purpose, no dinner or drinks with old pals, no hands were shook. No one smiled, least of all the grim-looking tank of a man wearing too much big city bling for a fellow cop, or anyone who followed rules.

  Dunham waited until they came out. He tried to call Thiery several times, but understood why he wasn’t picking up. Thiery didn’t want to be found. The small town police chief from Sebring wasn’t sure if Moral and his new friends were going after Thiery, but he was bet-money sure they were up to no good.

  Moral and his amigos got into their cars and drove, slowly, quietly, letting the cars idle their way a couple of blocks north, finally turning into the residential community of Silk Oaks.

  Dunham waited a few minutes, drove by the street they turned onto, passed it and turned onto the next street, Sunrise Road. He parked in front of a darkened house with a ‘For Sale’ sign sitting in the overgrown lawn. The street ran parallel to Sunset Road where Moral and the others had parked. He checked his pistol. He still carried the gun they issued him ten years ago, a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, six-shot, double-action revolver. He was a good shot, and the gun had stopping power, but it was slow to reload and not the best weapon of choice in an extended gunfight.

  He popped his trunk and pulled out the one item he’d treated himself to over the years: a Mossberg 500, 8-shot, pump-action, 12 gauge shotgun, with Ghost ring fibre-optic front sight and tactical slide. It weighed just under seven pounds. The department never would’ve sprung for it, but his loving wife of twenty-one years told him to pick one out for Christmas one year because she, ‘didn’t want him standing there with a pop gun, while the bad guys had those semi-automatics out there robbing gas stations and general stores’. He loved her for that, especially now, as he hefted the weapon in the pale night light, its dull, flat black winking at him like a promise. He knew the weapon was loaded, because he kept it that way.

  As quickly and quietly as he could, he made his way between the vacant house and across backyards, praying no dogs would give him away. After passing a few houses, trying to guesstimate where Moral was parked, he heard a car door clunk shut, then two more, followed by the sounds of hard-heeled dress shoes scuffling along the pavement. He peeked out between the slits of a shadow-box fence and saw three men, one of them Moral, walking hurriedly down the road. They were all openly carrying guns, emboldened by the sparsely populated street lined with several vacant houses.

  Dunham watched them approach a darkened house then stand in front of it for a moment as if contemplating their attack. The squatty man with the black suit and shiny bling slipped away from the others and disappeared into the shadows as he rounded the back. Moral walked confidently up the drive toward the front door, as if he had just arrived home. The last man, a tall guy in a fitted suit, remained at the end of the drive behind a parked Porsche Cayenne, cradling a short automatic rifle like a deadly baby.

  Inside the house, Thiery had pushed a fresh clip into his Glock and handed Millie his BUG, or back up gun: a Beretta Tomcat .32 calibre, with a seven-round clip shoved up its tiny butt. The gun was small but accurate and with little recoil. Most importantly, it was the only other weapon they had. In the darkened house, they had slid the heaviest furniture against the doors, in the few seconds after Thiery noticed the cars cruising by. He hoped Bullock had made the 911 call for him and that police were on the way. But, in a small town like Ormond Beach, he could only wonder how many cops they could send and how long they would take. If it took more than a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter; they were outgunned and outnumbered by people who had no other reason to be there than to make sure he and his companion were dead.

  ‘Millie,’ Thiery whispered harshly, ‘hide in the bedroom. If they get past me, kick the window out and run.’

  She shook her head. Her face looked like a fragile ceramic figure, one where the artist’s intended expression of fear had somehow turned to anger in the kiln. ‘I told you,’ she said, ‘I’m not hiding anymore.’

  ‘But, you need to survive and we might not … ’

  ‘Shsssh,’ she said and held her finger to her mouth. ‘I won’t. If I get a chance to kill one of these bastards before I go, it’ll be worth it.’

  Thiery saw the determination in her eyes and realized there was no sense in arguing. No matter the consequences, the scene was set. Even if it was going to be the Alamo. He nodded and extended his hand. She took it and squeezed. It was no ‘one for the Gipper!’ pep talk, but it was good to know they were in this together. Gripping their guns, they stood ready for a fight. They peered out the front window of the living room, their faces glistening with nervous sweat.

  The front door knob clicked as Moral tried to open it.

  Thiery tried to aim his gun at him through the small, frosted window in the door, but couldn’t get the right angle. He considered shooting through the door when he saw headlights coming down the road from A1A. He glanced at Millie, who nodded her confirmation that she’d seen them, too, and mouthed, ‘Thank God!’

  Julio calmly laid his rifle against the mailbox as if he were depositing a benign UPS package and stood with his arms crossed as the car slowly rolled up and parked in front of him.

  Moral sidestepped off the front stoop and slipped into the shadowed carport, unseen.

  A big man got out of the car and approached Julio. Thiery recognized him as a neighbour he’d seen earlier mowing his lawn. He stepped into the car’s headlights and said, ‘Evening, sir. I’m part of a neighbourhood watch here in Silk Oaks and—’ Before the man could finish, Julio unfolded his arms, produced a small semi-automatic pistol with an attached sound suppressor from inside his jacket, and shot the man in the head. He quickly picked up his rifle, hurried to the cruiser, turned off the lights and engine, and, in an exaggerated whisper, called out to Moral, ‘Hurry!’

  The cold-blooded shooting happened so fast Dunham was taken aback. His mouth hung open in surprise as rage filled his head like a th
ermometer heated to bursting. ‘No!’ he yelled as he ran forward, pumping the shotgun and firing, laying down a barrage of shot as thick as a swarm of killer bees.

  Julio took cover behind the car, aiming loosely and returning fire in the direction of the shotgun’s muzzle blast.

  Thiery flicked on the porch light. He wasn’t sure who the cavalry was, but he thought some light might help them target Moral. Within seconds, other houses along the small street lit up as residents, stirred by the sound of gun blasts, began to investigate.

  From the temporary safety of the carport, Moral thought about his plan of attack. They might expect me to come through the door, but what about that window? One more roll of the die; could I get in and get off one more shot without taking one myself? What the fuck do I have to lose?

  Thiery was holding his aim on the door when Moral flung himself through the front bay window, shattering glass and firing wildly as he rolled across the floor. The gunfire was deafening in the small living room, and the space was lit up like strobes at a KISS concert. Moral kept rolling and took cover in the kitchen.

  In the backyard, El Monstruo took advantage of the distraction out front and, using the tip of his hunting knife, quietly pried open the lock to the back door.

  From inside the waiting car, Emilio watched the gunfight with trepidation. ‘Jose,’ he called to his driver, his voice high and dry with fear as he watched his plan deteriorate before his eyes. ‘Go,’ he instructed. ‘Get Julio and bring him back.’

  Jose opened his mouth to say something, but Emilio didn’t give him a chance.

  ‘Even if he’s dead,’ Emilio continued, ‘get him. We can’t be found here. Go. Quickly!’

  Millie stood up, framing herself in the now glassless window as, outside, Julio turned his attention back to the house and sprayed bullets across the front of it. Plaster exploded into powdery dust, curtain rods flew off the wall, as street light filtered into the room.

  Thiery saw Millie standing, exposed, arms extended, gripping the pistol, but obviously confused as to which way to point the weapon. He jumped up and grabbed her, shielding her body with his own, drywall dust clogging their eyes and nostrils. Pushing her down the hall, he paused once to shoot back toward the kitchen, where he’d last seen Moral. He needed to use his dwindling ammo efficiently, but also wanted to keep the heat of return fire going.

  El Monstruo leapt from the shadows of the hallway and onto Thiery’s back, shoving the blade of his knife into his shoulder. It hit bone and stuck.

  For a moment, Thiery felt as if he was back on the gridiron, like he’d just completed a touchdown pass. The huge, block-like man who used to be his college coach was there to slap him on the back. But the slap was hot and piercing, to the point where it knocked his breath out, and the squatty man was a black and deadly bear, metal glinting off its claws in the dark, its face shining, baring its teeth as it tried in vain to extract the knife, so it could strike again. Gunfire continued to echo from the street and into the house like cannon fire. What had Millie called the sounds, again? Acoustic shadows …?

  The pain caused him to drop his gun, but he pushed Millie forward as he turned toward his attacker. She stumbled into the bedroom and twisted back, aiming her gun at the knot of men grappling in the narrow, dark hall, trying to get in a shot without hitting Thiery.

  El Monstruo gave up trying to free the knife and, instead, pushed one meaty hand under his jacket to free his gun: a well-used, nickel-plated, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Airweight .38 Special, with the serial numbers filed off. It was well worn, as evidenced by the black-taped grip, and designed to be used up close, as El liked, which typically meant against someone’s head. He drew quick, but the big cop was quicker, gripping El’s hand in his own and crushing it against the small gun. He tried to pull the trigger, but the man’s huge hand covered his so completely he couldn’t get his finger inside the trigger guard. In desperation, he launched an explosive left against the giant cop’s head. He felt a knuckle break.

  Thiery used his height to his advantage, bending at the waist and plying down on his wide-shouldered attacker, pushing him back, but taking a punch that caused his vision to jiggle wildly, and his ears to ring. It pissed him off, and he was too big an opponent to piss off. The pain of the punch and the knife piercing his back brought a rush of adrenaline that fuelled his rage. Thiery grunted like a bull gator and headbutted the man, then he did it again, then again. Each time, he could smell the man’s skin and his greasy hair tonic wafting into his nostrils.

  The force of a headbutt from a man with a neck that squeezed into an eighteen-inch collar was like being hit in the head with a twelve-pound sledge. El Monstruo felt his legs turn to rubber, his grip on the gun loosened. He could no longer feel his crushed hand and, when the giant finally released it, the gun fell to the floor with a metallic clatter.

  The brief respite allowed Thiery to glance back at Millie, and he yelled, ‘Get out the window and ru … ’ He was cut off as El Monstruo grabbed him by the throat and began to squeeze.

  Thiery clenched his colossal hand on his attacker’s neck. The man didn’t have much to grab onto; it was as if his head had emerged like a fetid mushroom from his muscled shoulders. He managed to wiggle his fingers between the man’s chin and chest, and his grip pinched like a hydraulic vice. Like the bull with the picador’s lance that boils its blood and fuels its charge, Thiery’s strength was bolstered to an unreal level from an overdose of adrenaline. He grit his teeth and felt the man’s tight neck muscles weaken, then felt a satisfying ‘pop’ as a gush of hot, beery breath pushed into his face. The man went limp. Thiery wasn’t sure if he’d crushed his windpipe or broken his neck, but he didn’t care as he released him and let him crumple to the ground.

  Glancing up again to search for Millie, he was relieved to see her slipping out the window, gun in hand, waving him toward her. As he struggled to his feet, he heard her scream, ‘Look out!’

  Thiery turned his head as Moral pulled the trigger. There was an earth-shattering explosion and a bright white light that turned a dull red, then maroon. Then the world went black.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Julio Esperanza never stopped to identify the shit stain who’d fired the shotgun, leaving several buckshot pellets in his thigh, but the return fire he’d laid down from his AK-15 had stopped whoever it was and left him bleeding in the street. He sprayed the house with another clip and reloaded before limping toward the front door.

  He approached cautiously, careful not to brush the door, now a mass of splinters barely hanging on by its hinges. Inside, the place looked like the surface of the moon: dark, quiet, and with crater-like chunks missing from the walls. The flashes of light that had earlier illuminated the struggling figures had subsided, as had the screams of those within. He wasn’t positive, nor did he care, who was still alive, but he was determined to make sure they were all dead. If that included El Monstruo, or Moral, so be it. He never cared for the fuckers anyway.

  ‘Moral!’ he hollered. No answer. He reached inside and flipped on the light switch. The living room brightened, revealing a lump dressed in black, stretched into the room from the hallway. He looked closer and saw it was El Monstruo, staring up at him, his face still shining from its sweaty exertions. His eyes were bulged and bloodshot, his mouth gaping open, revealing gold caps and yellowed teeth. The place smelled of something burnt, mixed with the scent of blood powerful enough to be palpable on his tongue, like smelting copper.

  Beyond El Monstruo, Julio could see the big state cop he remembered from the lobby of the Gaylord, sitting upright against the hallway wall, his head tilted over on his massive shoulders, his face a mask of blood, a sticky clot at the edge of his hairline where a bullet had entered. So where the fuck was Moral?

  ‘We have to go,’ an urgent, familiar voice broke the silence and startled him. Julio whirled around to see Jose the driver had come up from behind.

  ‘Scared the shit outta me, man,’ said Julio. ‘Where’s the wom
an?’

  ‘Don’t know, but your padre says we need to go.’ Jose looked at Julio’s leg. ‘Man, you’re bleeding. Bad.’

  Julio looked down. He hadn’t thought it was so bad. Looking now, he could see his pants were soaked red from the crotch down. For the first time, he felt ice creeping up from his feet to his belly. When he swallowed, it was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He and Jose had retreated no further than the front doorway when, from outside, shots rang out again.

  Pop. Pop. Pop. Unreal. Like firecrackers.

  Jose looked surprised when tiny holes appeared in the pressed white shirt he was wearing. It seemed like forever before the blood began to flow, though only seconds passed. He looked at Julio, appeared to try to smile, then fell forward onto his face.

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ screamed Julio, just as a shadow – a small, feminine-looking shadow – ran across the front yard, firing its popgun in his direction. He felt a slap to his chest, then another to his face, as he tried to raise his weapon. The assault rifle was suddenly very heavy, and he struggled to hold it. The weapon fell from his hands, and he stumbled back onto the porch as Millie stepped into the light, holding a small pistol. Her mouth was trembling, tears streaming down her face, leaving white streaks in the dirt on her cheeks.

  The irony of a life that intimately blended violence with sex – ever since that beachside trip with his father – was not lost on him but it was just a notion as his consciousness slipped away. Julio went to his knees as if in prayer, his mouth spilling blood and teeth.

  With a throbbing head and a touch of justified satisfaction, Millie watched as he fell forward onto Jose, and died. She was about to go back into the house and check on Thiery when she heard, ‘You’re done, Millie.’