Doppelganger

by Byron Starr

  Now he drew his pistol.

  He pressed the button on his shoulder mike. “I’ve got someone hurt out here at the James Taylor residence. That’s the fifth house down FM Fourteen-fourteen,” he said in a shaky voice. “Send all units and an ambulance.”

  Greg hesitantly walked up to the door with the flashlight in his left hand and his nine-millimeter in his right. “James! Are you in there?”

  Greg used his flashlight to push the door the rest of the way open, revealing Angie’s corpse. She wasn’t nearly as mangled as Sharon had been, but she was just as dead. Her throat was torn out, and she had major gashes running down her right arm from the shoulder to her elbow.

  “Get away from her!” a voice only vaguely recognizable as James’ screamed from inside the house.

  Greg looked up and James was standing in the hall. His eyes had the look of a cornered animal. He held a double-barreled shotgun in his hands and it was leveled at Greg’s chest.

  “James, it’s me, Greg.” Greg said softly, then he slowly holstered his gun and took a slow step over Angie’s body, toward James.

  James quickly threw the shotgun up to his shoulder, taking deliberate aim, “Don’t come any closer, you bastard!”

  Greg was between a rock and a hard place. He knew he would be better off if he were not standing right over Angie’s body, but he was afraid to step forward any more than he had for fear that James would think he was advancing on him. Also, if he stepped back he would be exiting the door and he was afraid James would think he was trying to get away. And, since he was in the doorway, sidestepping to the left or the right was impossible. He decided he would try to step forward and to the right at the same time, this would put him in the living room, away from Angie’s body and in the open.

  “I’m just gonna slowly step over to the side into the living room,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Stay right where you are!” James shouted.

  A war was raging inside James’ head. He had returned to find his wife brutally murdered in the doorway of their home. Grabbing the shotgun from the couch, he had sprinted into his son’s room to find his son’s mangled corpse. Then, when he returned to the living room, he found his best friend standing over the remains of his wife. His mind screamed, It’s the beast in disguise, shoot it! but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He stood there trembling, both hammers on the old shotgun pulled back and his finger on the trigger.

  “Put the gun down, James,” Greg said softly.

  “NO!” James shrieked, causing Greg to wince, thinking James was going to fire. But he didn’t, not yet.

  After James’ outburst, Greg was afraid to speak again; but, after gathering his thoughts for some time, he finally said, “Then let’s talk. Tell me what happened.” He surprised himself at how calm he was when he did speak. His voice was soft and slow, like he was speaking to a child.

  James was silent at first, then his arms lost some of their tension. The shotgun was still at his shoulder and aimed at Greg, but it looked less like a single twitch would send two loads of buckshot into Greg’s chest. Even more importantly, a small portion of sanity seemed to seep back James’ his eyes. “They’re dead,” James muttered.

  Oh God, not little Jimmy too, Greg thought.

  “It killed’em,” James continued. Greg noticed with no small amount of relief that James had said it killed them, not you killed them. In the distance Greg heard sirens approaching.

  Oh, hell, Greg thought. That would probably be Chad. He was the other deputy on duty tonight. Greg felt he almost had the situation under control, but since James didn’t know Chad or any of the other deputies very well, their presence might be more of a curse than a blessing.

  At the sound of the sirens, James started looking confused.

  Oh hell, Greg repeated in his mind.

  “That’s going to be Chad Hudspeth. You know him, James. He was at my Fourth of July party this year,” Greg said in a soft, calm voice, but James still looked confused. Outside Greg heard Chad’s cruiser slide into the driveway behind his car. He could see the reflection of the patrol car’s lights on the wall beside him. Greg then heard the car door slam followed by footsteps running toward the house

  Oh hell.

  Chad Hudspeth was two years younger than Greg and James. He was originally from Fort Worth. Chad had only been a deputy in Newton County for ten months. He had proven to be a hard worker and was already well liked throughout the county. Chad wasn’t the brightest person in the world, but he was turning out to be an efficient deputy. However, like most rookie deputies, Chad was a little on the gung ho side.

  Greg was still in the doorway when Chad came up behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chad’s pistol on his left outstretched and pointing at James. “Put the gun down, now!” Chad shouted.

  James looked confused, and, worse yet, he looked scared.

  “Everything’s under control, Chad. Put your gun away.” Greg said in the same calm voice he had been talking to James in.

  Chad acted as if he didn’t even hear Greg. “Put the damn gun down!” he shouted.

  James’ grip once again tightened on the gun and he shifted his aim to the right, away from Greg and at Chad.

  “No, James, aim at me,” Greg said.

  James, still looking confused, did. Then Greg cut his eyes at Chad to tell him to put his gun down when he saw that the hammer of the .38 revolver was coming back as Chad applied more pressure to the trigger.

  Greg acted fast. Greg’s hands were slightly raised in a surrendering gesture to set James at ease. This placed his left hand only inches from below the barrel of Chad’s gun. Greg’s hand flashed upward hitting the muzzle of Chad’s pistol just as the gun went off, firing into the ceiling. Almost simultaneously James pulled both triggers on the old shotgun firing both barrels into Greg’s chest. Greg flew back through the door, his flailing left arm bringing Chad down with him.

  As Chad scrambled to his feet, Greg weakly told him. “Don’t shoot. He’s empty.”

  This time Chad listened. He came through the door and there stood James, his gun now down by his side and his mouth agape. “What have I done?” he muttered.

  * * *

  The two caskets rested beneath the green tent, they would not be lowered until the family and friends dispersed from the cemetery. The people milled about under and around the tent, talking among themselves. Occasionally they glanced down the hill to the solitary figure standing near the back of the cemetery. Most of them felt sympathy for the boy, others felt pity, and a few, including George Lambert, Angie Taylor’s father, felt anger.

  James had been this way throughout the wake and the funeral. He seldom interacted with any of the visitors except to occasionally mutter a quiet thank you to the numerous people expressing their sympathy. While he was burying his wife and son in the Lambert family cemetery, he was also buried himself beneath a heavy pall of self-loathing.

  One of the pallbearers took a long look down the hill. Unlike the others, he didn’t sigh and turn away. After placing his boutonniere on the head of one of the caskets he started down the hill to join his friend.

  Two nights ago, Greg had been lucky – he didn’t always wear his vest, but he’d had it on that night. His ribs were severely bruised and every breath he took pained him - it had taken the better part of five minutes just to get on his jacket this morning – but it could have been a lot worse.

  Greg walked up behind James, approaching to within a few feet, but, unsure of what to say, he stopped there.

  James turned slightly, saw who it was and turned back to face the woods. “Hey, Greg,” James said, his voice weakened from crying and slightly muddled by the heavy dose of medication the doctor had prescribed. Over the last couple of days, the medication had proved beneficial in two ways: it not only calmed his nerves, but it also made him sleep harder. In fact, he slept so soundly he was no longer troubled by the dreams.

  “Chest gettin’ any better?” James
asked.

  “Doesn’t bother me at all,” Greg replied, lying just a touch. He felt his pain was irrelevant here. “I’m fine. I’m just worried about you.”

  “Oh ... I’ll be all right.”

  Greg slowly approached, coming up beside his friend.

  “I’m sorry,” James said.

  “Hey, it’s nothing.”

  “Oh, please. I shot you, Greg,” James said flatly.

  “You didn’t mean to. If Chad hadn’t screwed up everything would have been fine.”

  James lowered his head, “Not everything.”

  “No, I guess not,” Greg said, suddenly wishing he could take back his last statement.

  James sniffled once and his chest heaved. He raised his head and said, “It wasn’t really Chad’s fault either. I mean, he doesn’t know me like you do and I was standing there with a gun aimed at him. I hope like hell he didn’t get in trouble on my account.”

  “Nah, after I got back from the doctor ole Sheriff Oates took us into his office and gave us a long talk, but I explained the situation and he let Chad off the hook.” Greg left out the fact that this long talk had been one of the ass-chewing variety, and that talking the sheriff into not suspending Chad had been simple when compared to another daunting task – talking Sheriff Oates out of pressing charges on James for attempted murder of a police officer.

  “Good,” James said. “And thanks for letting me stay at your house for the last couple of days. I don’t think I could have managed to go home.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I think I can handle it now.”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  James paused. He swallowed a heavy lump in his throat and started to say something but Greg interrupted.

  “Why don’t you stay a little while longer? I think it’ll be good for you.”

  James shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” Greg replied. “I insist.”

  James started to renew the argument, but Greg could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “Okay, but just for a day or two.”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Yep, I’m kidnapping you for two weeks. Maybe I’ll let you go home after one week if you’re good,” Greg added with a light nudge.

  James slowly nodded, “A week, maybe two.”

  * * *

  For the next five days James stayed at Greg and Sandy O’Brien’s house. Sandy, who was a teacher’s assistant at the local high school, was always at work during the day and Carissa went to daycare, but Greg had been given two weeks off to let his ribs heal. However, after the first day, Greg found his friend had rather be alone, so he promptly found something to do — anything just so James was happy and not having to stay in the house where his family was killed, even if it meant giving up his own house for a while. As a result James had the house to himself during the day. He appreciated Greg’s efforts, but he didn’t imagine it would be any worse at home, although he certainly didn’t think it would help. For James, the O’Brien’s couch had become his new home, although he felt it more qualified as a cell than a home. James stayed on the couch most of the time. He slept there at night, and during the day he watched the TV from his couch/cell in a half-stoned stupor. James even ate his meals on the O’Brien’s couch, not wanting to sit at the table and see the barely hidden scorn in Sandy’s eyes.

  She thinks it’s all my fault. Everyone thinks it’s all my fault. Maybe they’re right.

  Chapter 7

  Hunting Season

  It was well before daylight when the faded blue pickup made its way through town. The little truck had seen better days. Its left front fender was caved in from a ‘fender-bender’ over a year ago that had resulted in a DWI for its driver. The accident had also disabled the left headlight and turn signal. The pickup’s tailgate had fallen off almost five years ago and had never been replaced; the driver’s side window had been busted out and replaced with clear plastic; and, as if this wasn’t enough, the inspection sticker read 1996 -- four years ago.

  Johnny Paul Watkins, the battered pickup’s driver and owner, had lived in Newton County up until three years ago, when he’d moved to Jasper. Now, with five warrants for his arrest in Newton County, there was but one thing that would bring Johnny Paul back to Newton — deer season.

  Some people are avid hunters. Johnny Paul was an avid poacher. His criminal record was a mile long, with various misdemeanors such as disorderly conduct, theft of habitation, public intoxication, drinking and driving, and possession of a controlled substance. But well over half of the petty crimes he had committed over the years were hunting related: trespassing, hunting without a license, hunting out of season, and so on.

  When Johnny Paul’s pickup passed the county line and entered into Newton County, its driver was still about half drunk and three quarters stoned from earlier that night. This, plus the five warrants out for his arrest, would surely put him under the Newton County Hilton should he get caught. However, he managed to make it through town without being spotted by any of Sheriff Oates' law dogs. On the other side of town, Johnny Paul turned onto Kline’s Ferry Road, then, a couple miles further on, he turned the old pickup onto Lee’s Mill Road. After slowing for the turn, he forgot to shift to first gear. The old truck spasmed and died with a shudder.

  “Shit!”

  Still drifting along at less than ten miles per hour, Johnny Paul put the truck in neutral and turned the key. A grinding noise came from the engine, and the lone headlight dimmed as the old engine turned over, but didn’t start. He tried again. Still, no go. Finally, just as the pickup was drifting to a complete stop, the engine fired. Johnny Paul put his foot down on the accelerator, trying to prevent the engine from going dead. The pickup shuddered as the engine blared to life, then, saluting itself with a sharp backfire, the rusty blue pickup was back underway.

  Today was Friday, November the fifth, the day before deer season opened. Last week Johnny Paul had been at a small party at a friend’s house in Jasper, enjoying a few beers and a joint or two, when he overheard one of his friend’s friends, Tom something-or-other, bragging about this deer stand he’d set up. Tom, who happened to be from Newton, went on and on about the huge deer tracks in the area where he’d thrown his corn out. He said he’d watched the deer from his stand; he claimed it was enormous: A fourteen-point; two-sixty to two-seventy pounds; at least two-hundred pounds field-dressed.

  At first Johnny Paul hadn’t been able to get him to cough up the location of his deer stand — Tom had been warned about Johnny Paul Watkins — but after a few more beers and another joint had loosened his tongue, Tom told Johnny Paul exactly where it was. After a few more inquiries, Johnny Paul found out Tom was working for a logging company near Kirbyville, and on weekdays he left early for work without checking his stand.

  Perfect.

  About two miles after Lee’s Mill Road went from paved to dirt, Johnny Paul saw a small Rebel Flag handkerchief tied to a sapling to the left of the road. Unable to see clearly through the plastic over his side window, Johnny Paul stopped the pickup and got out. It was the place all right, just like big-mouth-Tom had described.

  Johnny Paul then looked for a place to hide his truck. He didn’t want it to be in plain sight, just in case some of the County Mounties happened by or Tom drove by on his way to work. Finding a suitable place, Johnny Paul got back in the battered old pickup and drove through the ditch and into the woods. He got out and rearranged the underbrush behind the pickup so it would be hard to spot from the road.

  After making sure the pickup was well camouflaged, he went back to the cab and got out his rifle, a Winchester 30-30 without a scope — Johnny Paul’s father had always said scopes were for pussies. Suitably armed, he started down the path that was barely visible in the moonless night.

  Not fifty yards into the woods, he found what he was looking for. It was a simple makeshift stand overlooking a small clearing in the woods. A wooden platform
had been constructed out of treated wood, then painted black. It was positioned in an old oak tree, balanced precariously between two limbs about six feet from the ground. Four one-by-fours, also painted black, had been nailed to the trunk of the tree to provide a simple ladder to the stand.

  Johnny Paul reached up and placed his rifle on the platform, then climbed the makeshift ladder and tried to situate himself in the stand. The stand was very unstable, a real piece of crap. Not a single nail held the platform to the tree. Johnny Paul found that if he leaned to one side or the other, the platform would shift in the tree. He had to remain perfectly still, not only to keep from scaring away any deer that may be approaching, but also to keep from falling out of the stand. The stand certainly didn’t give Johnny Paul much faith in Tom as a hunter. He began to suspect Tom’s huge deer was just the wishful thinking of an amateur.

  Johnny Paul checked his watch: 3:32 a.m..

  He was much earlier than he’d planned. He tried to adjust his position so he could get comfortable. He’d hate to fall asleep and miss the deer, but it was going to be a long time until dawn. Johnny Paul soon found that making himself comfortable in the tiny stand was easier said than done. Only after quite a bit of shifting around did he finally manage to prop his back up against the tree and relax. Johnny Paul had been out drinking and smoking pot all night. He was tired. It wasn’t long until his eyelids started getting heavy. He tried to fight it, but each time he blinked his eyelids became heavier and it took him longer and longer to open his eyes. Then his head began to nod with every long drawn out wink. After sitting in the tree for less than fifteen minutes, his head sagged to his chest and didn’t rise. Johnny Paul was asleep.

  Even when he was as drunk and stoned as he was tonight, Johnny Paul was a light sleeper (unless he passed out, that is; then he slept like a rock). He was asleep for about ten minutes when he awoke to the sound of movement in the bushes. It was still dark; he couldn’t see a thing, but he could definitely hear the rustle of pinestraw. Only it wasn’t coming from the small clearing in front of the stand; it was coming from behind him. At first Johnny Paul thought he was caught. It had to be either Tom or a game warden who had spied his truck from the road and decided to take a look. But the more he listened, the more he was convinced it had to be the deer. It didn’t plunge clumsily through the brush like a human; instead, it stealthily moved a short distance, then stopped. Then, not much later, he would hear it move again. Not only that, but whatever it was, it wasn’t on the trail. The trail to the deer stand was behind him and to the right. This movement was coming from behind him and to the left.