Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  He breathed in heavily. “They shall all die,” he said, in a slow, low tone.

  Adam labored up the stairs and headed for his study. Inside he locked the door behind him. Only the banker’s lamp offered light, painting the room with a virescent hue. He rested both elbows on the desk, reflecting on the phone call he’d made earlier in the day to Detective Wilkerson.

  The detective had given him a standard bullshit response to Adam’s concern about Sikes’s possible release. “The matter’s in the hands of the judicial system,” Wilkerson had said, sourly. “Hey, he’s still in jail, isn’t he?”

  Adam massaged his forehead with his fingertips in an attempt to knead away the frustration and fear that had besieged him since noon. After several minutes he stopped, feeling like he’d rubbed more in than removed. Reaching down he slid the bottom desk drawer open. It coasted smoothly on the metal tracks until hitting the stops. He lifted the brown paper bag he’d tucked away earlier and set it on the desk.

  The bag crackled as he opened it, removing a bottle of Cutty Sark and a small glass he’d smuggled from the kitchen after dinner. He twisted the cap off the bottle with a snap and poured half a glass of the tawny liquid. The first sip made his lips purse, but the warmth that engulfed his throat relaxed him. He sipped again, and again.

  An even mellowing warmness swept over him. He leaned back more in the softness of the chair and tried to recall the last time he’d drank in his study. He never drank in his study. In fact, he rarely drank at home.

  “I’m getting fucking drunk,” he softly laughed, as he poured another.

  He held the glass up to the light streaming from the desk lamp and peered through the golden liquid. Is that glass half full or half empty? He jutted one side of his lower lip out forming an asymmetric smile. The real question is: Does anyone really give a fuck?

  His thoughts drifted back to Detective Glenn Wilkerson. The skinny little shit. Adam steadied his hand gripping the glass as best he could and sipped slowly. Bet that weasel dick’s gay. Looks like it. Damn sure worthless though.

  The old head was beginning to feel a little thick, and his eyes seemed to not want to move as quickly as he commanded them. It took a couple of tries, but he managed to focus in on the time glaring back at him from the wall clock. It was eleven already. How’d that happen?

  He downed the last bit of scotch and rapped the glass hard on the desk top, then eased back in his chair.

  Tick tock, tick tock, one day we’ll all die and who’ll give a fuck?

  He snickered softly then suddenly lunged forward, tapping the space-bar on the computer keyboard with his index finger. The screen saver vanished.

  “Time for me to find a gun,” he said, blubbering out the words. He froze a second then pressed his index finger to his lips as he looked over his shoulder toward the door. “Ssshhh.”

  80

  ADAM OPENED HIS eyes slowly and immediately felt the sledgehammers working overtime inside his head. The shock waves propagated down to his stomach, founding a queasiness that seemed to gradually build.

  Peering around the room through foggy eyes, it finally hit him: he’d passed out in the study. He spotted the Cutty Sark on the desktop, a substantial amount gone from the green bottle, and the glass he’d drank from last night still had at least two good belts left in it. The sight of this sent his stomach wheeling, followed by a briny taste in his mouth.

  The stinging hot spray from the shower, two extra-strength Tylenol caplets, a plain bagel, and two cups of black coffee sent him on the road to recovery. Valerie and Dawn weren’t up when he left. Thank God he didn’t have to go through an inquisition about last night with either of the two. He wasn’t up for that. Nursing the aftermath of his intemperance from the night before was bad enough.

  As he backed the Volvo out of the garage, he thought it peculiar that no one checked in on him last night. Shrugging off the oddity, he pulled the shifter into drive and headed down the driveway.

  Cruising north on A1A, the Volvo’s engine hummed. Adam lowered the passenger-side window halfway to let in the crisp morning air. It was an absorbing mixture of ocean scents and the redolence of sulfur from sprinkler systems in nearby yards. Glancing right he peered through the gap between two rising condominiums, capturing a glimpse of the sun’s orange radiance sparkling on the ocean’s rolling waves.

  Two more hours and the R & R Gun Rack would open its doors on Granger Avenue in Cocoa Beach. The Volvo zoomed past Ron Jon’s. Adam gazed over at the pink and teal stucco monstrosity, shaking his head with repugnance and disapproval. Damn eyesore. He never understood how a surf shop could stay open around the clock. Kids scuttling about at three in the morning sure as hell didn’t have surfboard wax on their drugged-up minds.

  He eased into one of the many available parking spaces near the Cocoa Beach pier, only a mile from the R & R Gun Rack. He shut the engine off and grabbed the manila folder from the passenger seat. The folder contained a fitful stack of papers, some with the corners bent and curled. He had printed them out last night in a state of drunken numbness, page after page of handgun specifications he wanted to examine in detail before visiting the gun shop. Adam figured poring over the gun specs on the pier, with the cool morning breeze whipping off the ocean, would help him recover from last night.

  There were less than a dozen beach bums creeping along on the pier, and not many more roamed without purpose on the hard, wet sand where the waves broke gently on the shore. A grizzly-bearded man in a faded denim jacket and Levi’s peppered with holes walked a small dog with black matted hair on the pier. A long, curved Stanwell pipe hung loose from one corner of the old man’s mouth, and clouds of smoke billowed from the other. Adam passed the two as he headed for the end of the pier. A brisk breeze rushed across the walkway forcing Adam to turn his face away from the blast of cold air and toward the old man and the dog. When the two were even with him, the dog reared up on his back legs pulling the frayed twine leash taunt, snarling and growling as Adam passed by.

  “He ain’t gonna bite,” the old man said gruffly, tugging on the makeshift leash.

  Adam forced a thin smile, side-stepped the mongrel, and continued down the pier, tucking the folder tightly under his right arm.

  An imposing black wrought-iron lattice secured the front door of the R & R Gun Rack. An engraved anodized sign bolted on the gate read:

  All Firearms Must Be

  Unloaded Before Entering

  The Management

  Adam muscled the heavy door open and stepped inside. A set of three bells attached at the top of the door jangled. The smell of aged wood mixed with gun oil hit him immediately as he entered the store. Muffled gunfire came from the indoor firing range at the back of the shop and echoed off the smooth cedar boards that lined the store’s interior.

  Two men standing behind a glass showcase were locked in a spirited exchange about the authenticity of Pamela Anderson’s bazonkers, and another appeared to be taking inventory of the various accessories hanging on the walls. One of the men behind the counter finally stopped pleading his case about the Baywatch beauty and turned toward Adam.

  “Mornin’, can I help you?” he asked, drawing out each word with a thick Alabama twang.

  “Good morning,” Adam said. “I’d like to just look around.”

  “Sure enough,” the man said, stroking his long black-and-gray beard. “I’m Arno Goudy. Just let me know if I can show you anything.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Arno Goudy inherited the gun shop from his father, Lowell, in 1997 after that dreadful day in June of that year, a year when a load of shit went very bad for Arno.

  Lowell Goudy opened the gun shop doors for the first time in 1972 and ran it like he was still chief boatswain’s mate on board the U.S.S. New Jersey. He barked out orders in the shop, as well as at home, with the same head-rattling volume that he once used on the main deck of the New Jersey.

  “Move this. Move that.”

  “Do this. Cle
an that.”

  “Fuck me, look at this. Don’t you know nothin’?”

  “Can’t you do anything right?”

  “I don’t give a shit what you think, do it the way I say.”

  “You pudwhackers ever do anything around here?”

  “Get your head out of your ass.”

  His intensity was even greater in the Goudy house, especially after Lowell downed a few beers. Pall Malls and Budweiser, and a goddamn good argument sometimes, got Lowell Goudy through most of the days of his life, except June 1, 1997. That Sunday morning at 7:36 am, a man wearing a navy blue ski mask, a pair of brown-suede gloves and wielding a double-barreled shotgun burst through the unlocked front door of the gun shop. He immediately spotted Lowell counting money behind the glass showcase. There were piles of bills, ones, fives, tens, twenties, all neatly stacked on top of the showcase. The man didn’t hesitate.

  The first eruption from the shotgun tore away the right side of Goudy’s head, leaving only his left eye and part of his mouth and nose, the scalp peeled back like cut sod. Lowell never had a chance to draw the .45 from the leather holster hanging from his belt. The second shot was probably a result of surging adrenaline in his assailant. It disintegrated a framed picture of John Wayne, in a ten-gallon hat and red bandanna, wearing his famous half-grin.

  Lowell Goudy was gone, and his murderer was never caught. But that was just the beginning of a string of tragic events that Arno had to survive that year. Two months to the day of his father’s death, Arno’s teenage daughter, Naomi, sat in one of the sterile white examination rooms at the Reese Medical Clinic in Cocoa Beach. With her mother holding her hand, the doctor read the lab results. She was HIV-positive, the result of a whirling PCP high and a one-time encounter with a boy she’d only known for three days. Five days later the family’s black Labrador retriever jumped the backyard chain link fence, ran into the path of the Reliable Plumbing truck, and was splattered over the hot black asphalt. The finale of Arno’s condemnation that year came in mid-September. His mother, Faylena, sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her chest early one Sunday morning. The tightness clamping down on her with relentless force, as she sucked for air in short gasps. Slipping off of the bed, she hit the hardwood floor with a resounding thud, God’s given life drained from her body. That’s where Arno found her two hours later.

  81

  ADAM POINTED toward one of the thick handguns with a square shape. Arno stood behind the counter peering down, following the course of Adam’s finger, his white T-shirt stretched tight over his protruding belly. His lengthy hair, gray with occasional wisps of black, was pulled back tight over his skull and secured in a ponytail.

  “This your first handgun?” Arno asked. His coarse beard danced as he rolled out each word.

  “Yes, it is,” Adam replied.

  “Good choice. This here’s a Glock model 30.”

  Arno lifted the gun from inside the showcase and locked the slide back then checked the chamber. He pushed down the release letting the slide fly smoothly forward. After snapping an empty magazine into the bottom of the handgrip he held out the gun for Adam.

  “Nice, ain’t it?” Arno asked.

  “It is.”

  “Nice an’ compact, a lotta people carry ’em concealed. Great for that.”

  “I like the way it feels.” Adam stretched his arms out over the counter and trained the sights on a holster in plastic packaging hanging on the wall. “Great balance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many bullets does the magazine hold?”

  “Ten. Law was passed in ’94 limiting the magazine capacity to ten.” Arno leaned over the counter slightly. “Less you can find larger capacity magazines at a gun show.”

  “Is that legal?” Adam asked, looking up.

  Arno straightened his immense frame and took a step back. “Hell yes, it’s legal.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the glass countertop.

  “How much?”

  “Five ninety-five,” Arno replied without hesitation. “But we discount most of our firearms, so I can sell you that for …”

  His head craned back, and his eyes rolled up like he was doing the math on the ceiling. After a few seconds he looked back at Adam, his eyebrows forming neat arcs over his dark brown eyes.

  “Five sixty-five, that’s ten percent off the normal retail price,” he said with a wink.

  A friendly smile stretched out over Adam’s face, stifling any comments about Arno’s inability to do simple math.

  “Let me think about it—”

  Adam was cut short by a shrill pitch from the phone next to the cash register.

  “Excuse me. I need to take that.”

  Arno waddled off, leaving Adam to further examine the gun.

  “That’s a fine handgun, sonny,” a deep voice resonated behind Adam.

  Adam jerked around and saw a broad-shouldered man standing beside him wearing a faded green flannel shirt. His silver hair was clipped short in a perfect flat-top, and dense black eyebrows jutted out over his steel blue eyes. His face was cleanly shaved, exposing a ruddy complexion and a long, jagged scar marking his left cheek.

  “I … didn’t see you standing there,” Adam finally said, modulating the words in short tense spurts.

  The man formed a narrow smile as he leaned on the counter. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

  Adam shook his head. “That’s all right.”

  He pointed to the gun clutched in Adam’s right hand. “I’ve got a Glock. It’s a model 21.”

  “Isn’t that a .45 too?” Adam asked.

  “Yup. Glock makes the best .45 pistol. They put two recoil springs in ’em, unlike their .40 caliber handguns. Those damn things kick like a mule.”

  “Mr. Goudy didn’t tell me that.”

  “Mr. Goudy?” the man said laughingly, apparently amused by the formality. “Call that old fart Arno … Say, I didn’t get your name.”

  “It’s Adam.”

  “Good to meet you, Adam,” the man said, holding out his hand. “My name’s Bill. I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “You haven’t. Today’s my first time.”

  “I shoot in their indoor range every now and then. I enjoy the drive up from Sebastian. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the information about the gun.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Adam caught a glimpse of Arno out of the corner of his eye. He was pulling the receiver away from his ear, laughing and shaking his head, the ponytail dancing behind his head.

  “So what do you think?” Arno blurted out.

  He wobbled back in Adam’s direction, occasionally slapping down a hand on the edge of the showcase to steady his large frame.

  “Think I’ll take it,” Adam said, holding up the Glock.

  “Very good.” Arno took a final step and stopped then wheeled around. “You know there’s a three-day waiting period before you can pick it up, right?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “All right then. You got some paperwork to fill out, and I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

  82

  AT TEN MONDAY MORNING the two motions were filed with the Brevard County Clerk of Courts. Harley sat in a wonderstruck trance at his desk. Reaching underneath the seat of the overstuffed brown-leather executive chair, he tugged on the tilt lever until the back started to smoothly recline. He had too much legal experience under his belt to sail off on a premature victory cruise. But this one felt too good, too alluring, too … oh hell, this one felt incredible.

  He tried to extinguish the swarm of thoughts that buzzed around in his mind, the glorious battles that could be won, the brilliant conquests, especially those that featured Mr. Slick, squirming and sweating under the oppressive media lights, answering rapid-fire questions about corruption and incompetence.

  He didn’t want to think about any of this right now, but he was lost, drifting …

  “Mr. Buckwald,
” a soft voice called out.

  “Mr. Buckwald.”

  There it is again, Harley thought. His eyes were still open and fixed on the churning ceiling fan.

  “Mr. Buckwald, you all right?”

  Harley’s head cleared slowly. His eyes finally lowered and focused across the desk. He leaned forward in the chair and smiled. “Maureen. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You looked like you’d been hypnotized,” Maureen said, with a hint of concern.

  “Just trying to clear my mind.”

  “You have a one o’clock with Mr. Allison in the main conference room.”

  Harley checked his watch. It was exactly one. “Thanks.”

  Harley slapped his old friend and law partner, George Allison, on the back as he strolled into the conference room. Maureen already had a thermos filled with piping hot coffee sitting on the conference table. Beside it were two white porcelain mugs imprinted with the University of Georgia bulldog.

  “Coffee?” Harley asked.

  “Sure.”

  Harley streamed the steamy coffee from the thermos, filling the tall mugs, then offered one to his partner.

  “Thank you, counselor,” Allison said, smiling as he reached for the coffee.

  The two sat silent for a few moments.

  “The motions were filed this morning, George,” Harley said confidently.

  “Getting a little cocky about now, are we?” Allison asked, grinning extensively. His wide smile accentuated the abrupt crevices in his cheeks. Three on the right side and two on the left ran from his jawbone to his filmy, steel-gray eyes. Two years from his planned retirement at sixty-two, he looked more like he was ten years into it.

  “Trying not to,” Harley said, reflectively, “but I can’t resist thinking about shoving this one up Jacobson’s ass.”

  “Yeah, I think Sam Weber’s already done that for you.”

  Harley let out a burst of laughter that reddened his cheeks. His barrel chest shook, stressing the buttons on his vest. “I … guess he did.”