The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels)

by R. O. Barton

  I wished I’d taught him something like, “Sic’ em!”, so he’d charge up the hill and tear the crap out of whoever was up there. But, with me being the alpha dog in this equation, he was waiting for me to do something.

  It was a still night, and through the sound of the mellifluous creek below, I thought I heard the faint sounds of footsteps barely rustling the gravel on the drive. By the sound of it, whoever it was, were still pretty high up, if they were there at all. Only one way to find out.

  I ran barefoot up the stone steps that were laid through a tiered azalea and rhododendron garden. As I came to the lower level drive next to the house, I slowed and walked across the gravel as not to make any noise and because I have soft feet and the gravel hurt like hell. I stepped into the wooded island that was the center of my circular drive.

  The ground in the woods was damp because of the wet weather we’d been having. Staying low, I moved quietly to the electrical transformer box that was about 30 feet up the hill. The box is a three foot cube and made of heavy metal and would make good cover, if I needed it. I sat down with my back against the box and waited for whoever was coming down the drive, if indeed someone was. As I sat there, I was struck with how cold it was, then thought, that’s a good thing, there were no chiggers or ticks out.

  I was starting to shiver, and the shotgun was getting colder by the second. Then I heard them talking. I’d lost track of Razor in the dark.

  “Do you think he’s got any dogs?” It was a loud whisper.

  “It doesn’t make a shit, I’ll kill the fuckin’ dogs, too.”

  I pushed the safety off and turned a little to my right. It sounded like they were coming down the right side of the island. I sneaked a peeked around the box to see if I could see them yet. I looked down at my legs and wished I had gotten a better tan last summer. I was very white and felt like a light bulb that was just turned off. All I could see was me. I didn’t like that.

  “Can you see the house yet?” said the same loud whisperer.

  “Fuck, I can’t see anything. It’s fuckin’ dark,” said the one that was going to kill my dogs.

  “We’re gonna have to do this guy fast, just shoot him in his bed if we can, can’t give him a chance. I don’t want him shooting at me.”

  “Shut up, you fuckin’ chickenshit,” said the K-9 killer.

  “Don’t talk to me like that, Pauly. This guy’s too good to let him shoot at us, I’m ….FUCK!”

  Two shots rang out-Bang!-Bang!

  “God damn it, Anthony! What the hell . . .”

  Then another shot- “Bang!” Followed by the howl of a hurt dog.

  “A fuckin’ dog! It fuckin’ bit me, fuck, fuck. I shot the fucker, fuck . . . fuck!”

  They were no longer whispering.

  Razor must have gone around the other side of the house and slipped up on them from behind. I turned all the way around, facing the sound of them, but kept the transformer box as a shield. I put the shotgun over the top of the box and aimed. I hoped it would be high enough not to hit Razor if he was still on his feet. I couldn’t see them, but I knew where they were, about 25 yards away. There were a lot of trees between them and me, but I’d be shooting No. 4 birdshot and at that distance, the pattern would be about the size of two basketballs. I shot five times, fast as I could pump. Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang!

  I ducked down behind the box as it was hit with what felt like a jackhammer, instantly trailed by the sound of automatic gunfire.

  Down at the house, Tuesday was barking, and even old Buck was putting in his two cents, but only sounding like a farthing’s worth.

  I rolled over to my left and changed my position. Lying on my stomach, I felt sticks and leaves trying to invade my private parts, and was again relieved it wasn’t summer. I eased the shotgun forward, and from down low on the ground, again peeked around the metal box.

  Now that the echo’s of the fired shots were fading, I could hear the sound of running feet on the gravel, going away. I knew I had two double-ought buckshot and two slugs in the magazine. I always load my shotgun like that. Out of nine rounds I load five birdshot and then two 00 buckshot, then two slugs. The buckshot is like nine .38 caliber bullets being shot at once, there’s nothing deadlier at close range or in the dark. A slug is a hunk of lead about half the size of my thumb.

  I jumped up and moved up through the island about twenty yards, keeping the larger trees between me and them.

  “That mother fucker’s down there shooting at us! And that fuckin’ dog bit me!”

  “We gotta finish this thing. You go down to the right, and I’ll go down to the left. We’ll get him in a cross fire.”

  Sounded like a good plan to me. Too good. I didn’t like it. I was naked and cold, with sticks and leaves trying to find their way up my ass, and I didn’t like any of that, either.

  I knew exactly where they were, up on the single drive, just before it splits to go around the island of woods I was on. I also figured they’d stick together and stay on the drive until they got to the split. There was a street light up at the top, where my driveway started, and it was casting just enough light I thought I might could see them, maybe. They were still 60 or 70 yards away, if what I saw was them.

  I couldn’t let them separate. What's more, I was so cold my manhood was in jeopardy. I ran straight for a large beech tree I knew to be about 50 yards from the split. As soon as I got to the tree I leaned against it and shot four times into the middle of the road a little ways up the hill from the split.

  BANG!-BANG!-BANG!-BANG!

  “Ahhhh Shit!”

  I heard a body fall and hit the gravel.

  I sat down with my back to the tree and started taking shells out of the side saddle to reload. All these were 00 buckshot.

  First, it came as horizontal lead rain. Hard slapping pops, ripping bark off trees, completely severing smaller saplings, then the sound of automatic gunfire, a wall of sound. Explosions and the horrific sound of wood being ripped apart and hammered. The ground around me exploded, showering me with leaves and dirt. I could feel the tree I was leaning against being hit with a rapid fire sledgehammer. I made myself as small as I could and closed my eyes to protect them from the debris that was flying around. I never stopped reloading.

  I knew they couldn’t know exactly where I was, but someone had seen my muzzle flashes and had homed in very close. All I could do was wait for them to run out of ammo and have to change magazines.

  It didn’t take long. The quiet was as startling as the noise was at first. I decided not to peek around the tree again. I knew one was down. I was pretty sure there was only two. That left one on his feet. I knew I’d never use algebra.

  It made more sense to me to stay where I was and let him come to me. The closer he got, the better it was for me and my shotgun. Whereas he could sit up there and chop down the trees around me and maybe get lucky and chop me down. I wasn’t cold anymore.

  I heard some grunting and the sound of gravel being scraped. The sound was getting smaller. In a little over a minute, I heard a car door slam and tires spinning in the gravel up on Willow Branch Lane.

  I sat there trying to hear out into the darkness over the sound of my breathing. I thought I might just sit here until daylight. I didn’t know what time it was, so I didn’t know how long that might be.

  There could have been another man in the car waiting and that would make three altogether, meaning one could have been left behind to get me after I thought the coast was clear. That was more like algebra.

  Deciding to stay put was a wise decision. I heard the soft rustling of wet leaves and a small twig break. Whoever it was, was good. He was very quiet. I could barely hear him as he moved down the hill and closer to me. This guy was smart, staying in the woods and off the gravel. I knew I’d have time for only one shot and I had to make it count.

  It sounded like he was coming straight for my tree. I could barely hear him. I didn’t want to take the chance of standing up. He was too close a
nd would hear me for sure. As quietly as I could, I stood the shotgun on its stock in front of me. I didn’t know on which side of the tree he would pass, and I had to be ready to shoot left-handed if he came around to my right.

  He stopped moving. I could hear him breathing. He was on the other side of my tree. I could sense him searching for me in the dark. I cradled the shotgun with the palms of both hands next to the trigger guard, ready to lean the gun in either direction and shoot one-handed, almost over my shoulder, if need be.

  He stopped breathing. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I realized I’d been holding my breath ever since I’d heard him breathing on the other side of my tree.

  Suddenly I felt a warm wet tongue on the side of my face. Razor had leaned around the tree and almost licked the leaves and sticks out of me.

  “Damn, boy,” I said, and realized I was whispering. I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him close to me. They were gone. Razor said so.

  I felt something warm and sticky on my chest. I stood and walked down to the house, feeling for the first time my complete nakedness. Before, it had been more environmental, how my feet hurt on the gravel, how the leaves and twigs were trying to invade my body, the whiteness of my body in the night, the fleeting coldness overrun by the rushing of battle blood being pumped by adrenaline. Small frames in a much larger film. A film of survival. Now that I had survived, I felt ridiculous and self-conscious. I may have to start wearing pajamas.

  I’d left the door to my bedroom open. When I went in and turned on the light, Buck and Tuesday were on the bed. When all the shooting started, I guess they knew where the safest place was. I laid the shotgun next to them.

  I pulled Razor in and checked him out. There was a lot of blood on the left side of his head. I wetted some paper towels with water and started cleaning him up. He had a perfect round hole through his left ear and a furrow of hair missing along his left jaw, leaving just a burn. The hair on the side of his face was singed and his left eye was a swollen and bloodshot. I checked his eyes with a flashlight, and his dilation seemed to be fine. I didn’t know about his hearing though.

  “Got a little close, didn’t you, boy?” I said. “You want to stay in the house for the rest of the night?”

  Razor looked over at the pansies laying on the bed, huffed and walked outside, back on patrol.

  I looked at the clock. It was 4:44 a.m. I was starting to shiver. Some might think I was shaking, but it was just a shiver. I went to my walk-in closet and put on a heavy, giant hooded robe. On the way out of the bedroom, I reached over the bed and slipped my hand under the lonely passenger side pillow and pulled out my Colt. I went into the kitchen and made some tea, setting the gun down. . . close by.

  Standing by my stainless steel stove top waiting for the kettle to whistle, it hit me. They knew where I lived. My son, Emmett, could have been home.

  Emmett was the product of a relationship with a friend of Margie’s and mine during a vulnerable period of my convalescence. Marriage was not an option for either of us. Emmett was legitimized through the courts and carried my name. Without the courts being involved, his mother and I shared equal time with our son. Since the age of two, when we started living in separate homes, Emmett stayed with each of us for two weeks of every month. Emmett was literally my salvation. He was my beacon and reason for living during a time of extreme nigrescence. He could have been home.

  Later in the morning, I would have to call Spain and find out where E. T. hangs out. I’d have to have a chat with Eddie Tuma.

  Chapter 21

  Lyles, TN December 12th, Present Day

  I was cooking a mushroom, asparagus, and egg white omelet when I heard Razor’s ‘somebody’s driving down the driveway’ bark. Tuesday joined in, and Buck went into his Stevie Wonder impersonation. I looked at the clock on the double oven. It was 6:17 a.m., and not quite daylight.

  I had changed into jeans and a sweat shirt. As I went to the single atrium door, I tucked the Colt into the small of my back and pulled the sweatshirt over it. Earlier, while drinking tea, I’d loaded the shotgun and sidesaddle back up to capacity, and it was leaning in the corner to the right of the door, barrel down so I could pick it up by the grip.

  Before I opened the door, I saw a flash of colored lights and heard one small blast of a police siren.

  I turned on the floodlights and waited. It only took about twenty seconds before Larry Deal, the constable of Lyles, was standing on the patio.

  “Come on in, Larry,” I said, turning and walking back toward the kitchen.

  I heard the door close, and when I turned around Larry was standing there, his hat in his hand, displaying a bald shaved head sitting atop heavy shoulders. He had no neck, literally. He looked in the corner and saw the shotgun. It was black and ominous, looking just like what it was, a killing machine.

  “Can I make you some coffee? I’m just finishing up this omelet and would be glad to share it with you.”

  “I gotta few calls earlier this morning, Tucker,” he said.

  “I bet you did,” I said, slipping the omelet out of the non-stick pan onto a plate. “How about that coffee? I can make you a fresh cup.”

  “No thanks. What the hell was going on here earlier? Mildred Thomas called and said it sounded like a war over here.”

  Mildred Thomas is my closest neighbor, about a third of a mile away.

  “Must’ve been someone shining deer up on Willow Branch,” I said, sitting down at the dining table.

  “With a machine gun?” he said. “That’s what Mildred said it sounded like. And Wayne Baker called right after and said there was something going on over here, and it sounded bad, like a gunfight.”

  Wayne lives on the other side of the creek, way up the hill, about three quarters of a mile, as the crow flies.

  “Yeah, that’s what it sounded like to me, too. Scared me to death. I wasn’t about to go up there and check to see what was going on. The only reason I didn’t call you was, I figured someone else already had. Figured I’d see you sooner. It was over an hour ago I heard all the commotion.”

  “Ya know, Tucker, we read the papers out here, too. I know what you do for a living. Always kinda liked having you out here. I figured if you was still alive, you’d still be here, and if you weren’t, well, there just wouldn’t be any reason for me to hightail it over here so early.”

  Larry was a good ole country boy. He was born and raised here in Hickman County and got along with just about everyone. Constable was an elected office. He also wasn’t going to get his head shot off if he had anything to say about it.

  Larry Deal walked over to the corner and stuck his finger in the barrel of the shotgun, twisted it around, then pulled it out. It had a black smudge on it. He held it to his nose and sniffed.

  “Smells like it’s been fired recently,” he said, then looked over at me. “What in the hell are you eatin’?”

  “A mushroom and asparagus egg white omelet.” I said, still chewing.

  “Jesus, Tucker,” he said, scrunching his face like he just got a whiff of something bad. Constable Deal was a sausage and egg man, the eggs cooked in the grease from the sausage.

  “When’s the last time you fired this here riot gun?” he said, holding up his smudged finger.

  “Must have been a couple of months, at least,” I said, with my mouth full. Dining etiquette would have been lost on him.

  “Yeah, right,” he said with a smirk. “And you always have it parked right here by the door.”

  “No. I guess I was nervous about those poachers up the hill, what with the automatic gunfire and all. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up and put that in easy reach just in case, you know.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Those poachers must have shot them a deer right up there by the split of your drive. My headlights picked up a shiny blood trail that started right about there and went up past your gate.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said, twirling h
is hat around his finger like a cowboy twirling a gun. He was enjoying himself.

  I said, “I never thought they were that close. You reckon they didn’t know anyone was living down here?”

  He walked back to the door and put his hand on the knob, put his hat on and said, “Well, I’m sure they do now. I’ll go tell Mildred your poacher story, then go by and talk to Wayne. I like you, Tucker, but I hope you can keep your Nashville business in Nashville, know what I mean?”

  I stopped eating and put my fork down. The anger was coming up. They had come to my home. My son could have been here, alone. I looked him in the eye and quietly said, “I know exactly what you mean, Larry, and I’m going to make sure those poachers get the message.”

  He suddenly looked like he needed to put on my heavy robe to chase away a chill. He nodded, then was gone.

  After eating and cleaning up, I fed the dogs, then did some paperwork for about an hour. After changing into camo pants and rubber boots, I put Tuesday in the truck and drove the two miles to the Henry farm, where I had permission to use their pasture that contained a pond.

  For the next hour Tuesday heeled, sat, and played baseball, a training exercise. Baseball is where she sat alone about 20 feet away. She’s the pitcher’s mound. I’m home plate. I throw dummies at the first, second and third base positions. I send her to each base where she retrieves the dummy and brings it to me, then goes back to the pitcher’s mound for the next command. At least that’s what happens when it’s done properly. At the end of the hour I thought, maybe tomorrow it would be done properly. I was determined not to let anything get in the way of my daily routine. Everything will go on as normal.