A Swollen Red Sun

by Matthew McBride

  He told his family he loved them and gave his wife a kiss.

  “You leavin’, hun?”

  “Goin’ out to see poor Olen. Prob’ly sit with him awhile.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad,” Jude said. Her voice shared a genuine sympathy Banks could feel. “I know this must be hard on him.”

  “It is.”

  Jude stopped wiping off the counter and looked up at her husband. “Dale, how does stuff like that happen around here? Old man gettin’ robbed on the side of the road like that? What happened to this town?”

  “I don’t know, Jude. Sometimes I don’t even recognize the world no more. I see these kids walkin’ ’round with their pants hangin’ down, their drawers hangin’ out—and the drugs y’know these kids is all on.”

  He looked around the room, then bent down to his wife.

  “Got called up to the high school, wasn’t two days ago. Kid had naked pictures of his girlfriend on his cell phone. They broke up, so he’s sellin’ ’em. Five bucks a pop ’n’ he’s sendin’ ’em to his friends. Goddamn. What in the hell’s wrong with these kids? I’ll tell ya, it’s the parents, Jude. It is. They just don’t parent like they used to.”

  She nodded her head and hoped Jake wasn’t one of the kid’s friends.

  “You got moms working two jobs because the dad’s in jail, or he’s a drunk. Or a cranker. I hate that shit with a passion, Jude. All these lowlifes drivin’ ’round with meth labs in the trunks of their cars. Makes me sick.”

  Jude picked up her rag and returned to wiping. “I know,” she said. “Remember when we was growin’ up? All you really had to worry ’bout was drinkin’ too much ’n’ getttin’ pulled over on the way home.”

  “That’s right. That’s why God made gravel roads.”

  Jude laughed. “We had a good time or two on some of them roads.”

  Banks nodded his head and snorted. Pulled his chew from his pocket and thunked the lid. “Yes, we did,” he said. “Many a good time.”

  He walked toward the door and said good-bye. “I best get.”

  “Well, OK. We might go ’n’ pick up some pizza if that’s all right.”

  “Sure.” He reminded her he liked anchovies.

  “That’s disgusting, Dale.”

  He grinned and walked out the door, not knowing what the night would bring.

  Inside his head, Banks felt like everything was his fault. He had to make this right in the eyes of God. He did not think of killing as revenge, but protecting his family. Killing that redheaded bastard was an easy choice.

  Banks left home in his old Bronco with two handguns and a scattergun. Drove into the sun. Reached into the console and pulled out a beer and thought briefly of Bill Hastings as he popped the top. Listened to the sound that made. Unmistakable from other sounds.

  Banks raised the can to his lips as the first drink spilled free in a powerful burst. He turned off the blacktop on Highway F and followed that to the state shed where the road split and half turned to gravel. He followed that road and nursed his beer.

  He would spend the evening with Olen. Then he would find Jerry Dean and find his way to the rifleman. Banks was prepared and without reservation. A man protects his family, and that’s what Banks had the strongest of intentions of doing.

  He arrived at the Brandt farm at sundown and stepped from the Bronco with a box of Natural Light. He wore a Kevlar vest under his flannel. There was a Glock on his hip and a snub-nosed .38 on his ankle. Scattergun wedged under the seat.

  There was a strong smell of jasmine, and the air tasted like a wave of soft candy.

  Banks heard a gunshot and jumped like he’d been stuck with a cattle prod. He dropped the box of cold ones and pulled his Glock from its holster and ran toward the sound. Kept his breathing under control and counted his steps. Ran to the back of the house.

  He never saw the note on the door.

  Hastings and his wife had a small house in town, just outside the city limits of Owensville. The closest neighbor was a landscaping business, and they looked to be closed. Jerry Dean drove by the Hastings residence and parked on the shoulder and walked back to the house and hid in the woods.

  The sky darkened as he made his way through the backyard. Saw the missus inside. Short shorts, small tits, but damn if they weren’t nice—though Jerry Dean was not a picky man, not in the slightest sense of the word, when it came to his taste in women.

  Short, tall, big, small, Jerry Dean likes ’em all.

  Headlight beams approached as his mind entertained fantasies about Hastings’s wife, implausible scenarios only a man in Jerry Dean’s position would consider.

  When the car passed Hazemann Landscape & Supply—a business run by a mother and son whose bond was the subject of constant gossip—Jerry Dean moved, as fast as he was able, with as much stealth as a fat man at night with a semi-erection could.

  Hastings pulled up in his cruiser and put the car in park. Let it run while he looked through paperwork. Talked on his phone. Hurry up, you fucker. Jerry Dean had to piss.

  Finally, the headlights went off and the engine shut down and Hastings climbed out.

  Jerry Dean was pumped. When Hastings walked by, he stepped from the shadows and got him in the shoulder with a stun gun. When he did, the kid’s mouth was illuminated with current. Hastings’s legs bent into rubber sticks and a grunt of sound was made as he hit the grass.

  “Holy shit, I saw lightin’ in your mouth,” Jerry Dean said. He dragged the kid around the house and removed his handcuffs and secured him to a concrete flowerpot and waited for him to stir.

  When the kid could speak, he asked what had happened. What had Jerry Dean done?

  “Yeah, sorry ’bout lightin’ you up like that, boss. You must have braces or somethin’. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that, not in all the times I used this thing.”

  Jerry Dean explained why he was there. One of those two dipshits stole the money out of Little Buddy’s shit box. “What do you know about that, cowboy?”

  Hastings looked toward the house. From the view on his back, he could not see his wife.

  “Oh, don’t worry ’bout her, dude. Your old lady’s just fine. Yes, sir, just as fine as she can be. But I gotta ask: Does she shave her cooter? Cuz I do believe she looks like she’d be a shaver.”

  Hastings kicked his leg free and planted a hard shoe in Jerry Dean’s groin.

  Jerry Dean fell over. “Oh, goddamn, cowboy.”

  He coughed and rolled on his back and got to his knees and zapped Hastings again. He shocked Hastings’s wrist by the metal handcuff, and his mouth sparked and flashed. Like his teeth might catch fire and burn holes through his gums.

  Hastings was a strong kid, and after a while he’d built up a real tolerance to electric.

  That impressed Jerry Dean, but he assured Hastings his wife would not be as strong.

  Hastings threatened Jerry Dean, and Jerry Dean zapped him again. Then his batteries died, and he informed Hastings, in no uncertain terms, what a truly lucky day this had been for him.

  “Never buy your batteries from the dollar store.”

  “I know who you are,” Hastings said.

  “ ’Course you do, tough guy. You’s out at my place just the other day.”

  “It’s a shit hole.”

  Jerry Dean shrugged. “It could use work.”

  “What kind of piece of shit cooks dope in his kid’s bedroom?”

  Jerry Dean said he wouldn’t know; place was like that when he moved in. And he didn’t have any kids anyway. Least not that he knew of. “And not that it’s any o’ your business … but I always been a big believer in the rhythm method myself.”

  Hastings tried to calm down. Breathed slowly though his nose, like he was concentrating.

  “Now, don’t go gettin’ any big ideas just cuz my stunner died. I still got the Eagle.” Jerry Dean patted his hip.

  “If you were gonna kill me, you’d’ve already done it.”

  Jerry Dean squatted.
“And this is a fact, my friend. Had I wanted ta kill you then you would be dead.”

  They both looked at each other.

  “But that ain’t what I want.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Just to get your attention, partner. You got to arrest somebody tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Listen now, this is a career-makin’ case that I’m just givin’ you. All you gotta do’s show up. You’ll see the problem when you get there. Trust me on this one, cowboy; this here bust’ll make you a hero.”

  “What’s this about? Maybe you best talk to the sheriff.”

  “Just show up, that’s all you gotta do. Just get it done, sport, and this all goes away.”

  “All what goes away? Mister, I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I don’t have no money, and I don’t understand none of this.”

  He looked in the kid’s eyes. “No, I ’spect you don’t.”

  Jerry Dean walked back to his truck satisfied that a meaningful conversation had been had. Then he left Owensville. It was dark. The sun was gone, and the stars were sparse. He’d made his intentions to the deputy clear. One of them had the money, and if the money did not find its way back by the weekend, somebody’s wife was getting fucked. Then somebody was getting shot.

  All this goes away if you arrest Bazooka Kincaid.

  He’d told the kid where to find Bazooka. Told him what to do. His words struck a chord in Hastings. “Kid, your old man was a fuck-up. You know it; I know it. Shit, the whole town knows it. Here’s a chance to make things right.”

  Jerry Dean had set a plan in motion; there was no turning back. His destiny waited at the top of Goat Hill. He cranked down the window and felt the wind and made for the deep back pockets of Gasconade County.

  Banks found Olen on the sun porch, covered in piss with a 10-gauge in his hands.

  There was a coon lying dead in the yard. Close to the porch.

  Olen had fired through the screen door. Blown the top off its hinge. The wooden framework hung down with the torn section of screen still attached.

  “Good God-almighty,” Banks said, and relaxed his squeeze on his Glock.

  “Damn coons. Been tryin’ to kill that one for the longest time.”

  Banks looked at the bloody chunk of meat and the ruined screen door. “You use a big enough gun?”

  Olen laughed. But it was a strange, hollow laugh that concerned Banks. Olen wasn’t well. The porch smelled like urine. There was an antique cap and ball gun beside him.

  “This here was my daddy’s gun,” he said, and removed it off his lap with considerable effort.

  “Let me take that, Olen.” Banks grabbed it from his hand. “Damn that sumbitch is heavy.”

  “Yep,” said the old man. “They don’t make ’em like that n’more.”

  “No, I don’t reckon they do.”

  It was a double-barrel 10-gauge with dual triggers. One barrel spent and smoking. Banks leaned it against the corner and swore it ran the length of a man.

  He pointed toward the old revolver. “What about that one?”

  Olen picked it up and handed it to Banks. Told him hang on to it for him. “This was my daddy’s, too. Old black powder gun.” He laughed. “Smokes like a bastard when you fire it. I was gonna give it to my boy when he was old enough.”

  He took a deep breath, very quickly, and Banks heard a high sound in the old man’s throat. “Guess I waited too long.”

  The night was black, and the stars were electric dots. Banks watched him watch the yard. He’d never seen Olen without a cap. His hair was long and thin and white. There was a tuft of whiskers on each cheek and chin stubble like untreated wood.

  “You gonna be all right, old-timer?”

  Olen shook his head, his eyes focused on something Banks couldn’t see. “Y’mean, am I goin’ crazy? ’M I gonna shoot myself out here in the woods?”

  Banks swallowed hard. Said that’s what he was asking.

  Olen waited. He took his time before he answered. Not because he wanted Banks to hurt. Because he didn’t know. “No, Dale, I don’t reckon I will.”

  Both men thought in silence framed by a wall of emotion. An old man at the end of his life, looking back on things he could not change—and a young man looking forward to his future and the things he could.

  “I think about you boys, when you’s small. The three of you kids was into everthing.”

  Banks listened to the old man talk. He lived in the past; his sun porch was a time machine, and the memories of his family were all he had.

  Olen thought about his words for a long time, thoughts not spoken in fifty years.

  “I ’member that day like it was yesterday, when we lost little Gil. I’d been out on that old Ford, plowin’, diskin’, whatever it had been—and I come up through the low bottoms, through the swag, and sun’s in my eyes.” He pointed toward the barn. “It was evenin’, damn near, and them boys was playin’ by that barn with Gilly’s kite, and they got it hung in some tree limbs. Tried to knock it down with a metal pole, but Gil touched the power line and it shocked him. Killed ’im.”

  Olen made a nod with his head toward the yard.

  “I come up the hill, there yonder, and I seen it. Didn’t know what I’s seein’ at first. My boy was on fire, dancin’, and then there was a boom, and he was put out. On the ground. Hair burned off at the scalp. Power’d blowed the bottom of his foot off.”

  Banks couldn’t speak.

  “You ever smell somebody got burned up? The smell of burnt skin. My boy was covered in blisters, and his face had burned through. I could see his jawbone and teeth. Black skin—what hadn’t come off in the melt was black. God it stunk, Dale. My little boy layin’ dead cuz I let him buy a damn kite and all I can think is how bad he smells. Those are the last memories of my son.”

  Hastings left town not long after Jerry Dean. Drove his old Mustang. The car he’d owned since high school. Told his wife he was going to meet Banks. It was important and he could not call him.

  He arrived at the Banks home to find it abandoned. Dale’s cruiser was parked in the garage, but his Bronco was gone. So was Jude’s Olds.

  Hastings grabbed the spare key from its hiding place and unlocked the garage. He left Banks a note. They had to talk. If anyone knew what to do, it was Banks. He was honest and decent. The best cop he knew. The kind of father he would be before long.

  Becky had surprised him with the news. She was having his baby. She hadn’t seen the doctor yet, but those tests weren’t wrong—not two in a row. Best she could figure, she was due come May. She liked that. Didn’t want to be fat in summer.

  It was the best day of Bo Hastings’s life.

  Hastings let off the gas and the Flowmasters rumbled, expelled backpressure. He eased onto the gravel, careful not to rev the pipes. He passed the turkey farm and parked at the bottom of Hog Trough Road. Sat in the car and gathered his thoughts.

  What mess had he stumbled into?

  He began the walk up Pigg Hollow. It was cold and dark, but he felt tough. He was well armed. Well trained. And now he had two people to fight for. He’d be a father soon. Had a family to protect and a name to restore. The legacy his old man ruined had newfound potential. Hastings knew it. Believed it. Thought about calling Banks but didn’t.

  He looked back at his car getting smaller and darker. Coyotes wailed in the holler.

  Hastings climbed through ruts and followed washed-out sections of road until it was gone and there was dirt and he could see the outline of a trailer in the glow of dusk.

  He approached the mobile home with extreme caution. Drew his gun and released the safety. There were lights on inside. He smelled weed. He pushed his fear aside. Concentrated on the stairs and the screen door above it.

  There was a fat beast of a man at the counter. Shotgun beside him. Music playing in the background. Hastings blocked it out. Led with his gun and climbed the steps and opened the door. Stepped inside. Told the man to raise his han
ds.

  Bazooka Kincaid jumped.

  “Dammit, boy, you scared the shit outta me.”

  Hastings grinned and lowered his weapon. “Yeah, that was the point, dumbass.”

  Bazooka looked disorientated. “What ’n the hell you doin’ up here? You ain’t suppost ta be here.”

  Hastings shrugged. “You tell me. Cuz I got no idea. Hell, I thought you ’n’ Jerry Dean was tight.” He looked curiously at the drying pot plants that filled the room.

  “We are tight.”

  “Well, don’t sound like it, bein’s he’s the one sent me up here.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hell, yeah, he set you up.”

  “What?”

  Hastings nodded. “It’s true. He told me to come up here ’n’ arrest you.”

  Bazooka Kincaid was nervous. He knew about the kid and the kid knew about him, but they were not supposed to meet in person. And if so, not like this.

  Bazooka Kincaid looked at the joint burning on the counter. And the shotgun. “He told you to arrest me?”

  “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna. How could I explain it?”

  Bazooka looked down at the kid’s gun.

  Hastings grinned. “Well, I ain’t gonna shoot ya, either. Just tell me what the hell’s goin’ on here. And what’s this stolen money shit? I thought we was in this together.”

  There were large marijuana plants that hung upside down from the ceiling and gave a pungent scent of skunk Hastings had not expected.

  Bazooka Kincaid panicked. He did not trust Jerry Dean, and he did not trust the kid. He grabbed the gas can from the counter and doused it over his head and chest. Poured the rest on the floor.

  “Get away from me, boy,” he screamed, and Hastings took a quick step back.

  “Now, calm down,” Bo said, shocked. “You’re crazy.”

  “Fuckin’ right I’m crazy, you faggot! Now, put that gun down, hoss, or I’ll light us both up.” He grabbed the joint and drew off it and reddened the end.

  Hastings looked back toward the door. Thought about running but fought the urge.

  Herb Feeler stepped from the dark hallway and startled Hastings.

  “Damn, boss. Scared the shit outta me. So what the hell’s goin’ on here? What’s this about Banks takin’ our money?”