Death is Not Forever (Barefield Book Book 3)

by Trey R. Barker

Angela’s rage stopped suddenly. Her head craned, a puppy hearing a new sound. Her muddy brown eyes snapped to Bean. “Are you talking to her?”

  A hand grabbed Bean’s throat. “Talking to who?”

  “Mother. Are you talking to her?”

  The hand around Bean’s throat squeezed, hard and tight. “Angela, listen to me, okay? I am your father and Mariana is you mother. We always will be, until the end of time—”

  “He will dictate the end of time, not you.”

  Her affect was completely flat, as though there was no one home inside her head. Or maybe a heart that was completely empty.

  “And whenever He chooses to make it the end, both your mother and I will still be your parents. But your mother is dead, Angela, you know that. She died—”

  “The night of my birth, I know.” She shook her head. “That was a night, wasn’t it? The birth of your daughter, the death of your wife. And you were where, again? Oh, wait, I remember, sucking down campaign cash to win your election.”

  “Yes, Angela, I was away. I was campaigning for office. I will never live that mistake down. But you were premature. We didn’t expect you for another month. If I’d thought you were going to pop into the World that night, I’d have been there. I’d have been in that delivery room. I’d have held your mother’s hand and swatted your bottom to give you your first breath.”

  She shook her head. “You swatted my bottom enough.”

  “Angela, I never touched you.”

  “Throwing me out wasn’t swatting my bottom? I ran away, Daddy, and came back to you and what the fuck did you do? You threw me out again. You sent me back to that hellhole so I could be starved and raped and beaten again.”

  And from there, she had burned the house down, had killed her tormentors. And then years later, she had come looking for her father, the man who’d thrown her out. And on the way to him, she’d killed and killed and killed again.

  “I was afraid.” Bean talked, filled space, tried to think of some way to get everyone out of alive, but his brain had shut down. Fear or surprise or simple exhaustion, he didn’t know.

  For the first time, Angela’s face became something softer. Through that softer filter Bean could see Mariana clearly. “Afraid? You’ve been afraid?”

  Bean tread carefully. “Every day of my life, Angela.”

  “Of what?”

  “The madness. My father’s madness. It belonged to my grandmother, too. And my great-grandfather and who knows all before that.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  Bean held out a hand, as though offering it to her. “I know you’re not, Angela, and that’s not why I had to send you away.”

  A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Then why, Daddy? I just wanted to be your daughter. I just wanted you and Mama back...a family. Like it should have been. Why did you throw me out?”

  “Because I was afraid I would have the madness. I saw what it did to my father, Angela, and to my grandmother. The pain was awful. Seeing it put fire in my head and—”

  “That’s how it feels.” She nodded. “Like fire. That I can’t put out.”

  “I know, baby, I know. I was so scared that I’d hurt you or kill you...or worse. I had to send you away to protect you.”

  “Bullshit.” She shouted and fired suddenly. The bullet went through the back window of the SUV. Shards danced on the air, catching the later afternoon sun, a harsh yellow-orange, and looking like nothing so much as colored confetti. Chelle jumped a little and slammed her eyes closed. Digger kept his eyes on Bean, waiting for some signal, some flick of wrist or nod of head, that would tell Digger endgame was at hand.

  “You didn’t do it to protect me, you did it to protect yourself.”

  She’s right, Mariana. Maybe not completely, but partially. I did it because I was selfish, because I didn’t want to be a father if her mother wasn’t at my side.

  “You talk to her all the time, don’t you?”

  Bean nodded. “I do, Angela, yes.”

  “Does she talk back?”

  “I think she does. Digger thinks it’s my subconscious.” He shrugged. “Either way, I guess, as long as I get an answer.”

  “She never answers me. I call her all the time. She never answers.” Angela put the gun to her head. “Did she not want me, either?”

  “Angela.” Bean said it sharply, sharper than he’d intended. “Cut the bullshit. Your mother loved you deeply. She lived to bear you. She wanted nothing more in life than to be your mother. If she had lived...? We would have been the family you wanted.”

  She faltered, the gun wavering against her temple. Eventually, it came down and rested on Chelle’s shoulder, barrel toward Digger. Digger continued to watch Bean.

  “I love you, Daddy. Mama, too.”

  “I love you, Angela. Now can we let those two go? Just you and me. Anything you want. We can talk. We can leave this place. We can do anything you want. Give me a chance to prove myself.”

  “Proof is water.”

  “Uh...I don’t know what that means.”

  “Because I exist on a higher plane.”

  “I’m sure you do, Angela.”

  “Don’t fucking patronize me, goddamnit. I won’t take—” A look of horror slipped across her face. “Son of a bitch. How do you do that? How do you make me blaspheme so much?” She grinned and put the gun against Digger’s head. “Make me do that again and there will be blood punishment.”

  Bean held his hands up, placating. “I’m sorry, Angela, I wasn’t trying to patronize you.”

  “So if she talks to you so much, how come you don’t know what happened that night?”

  The sun fell, lengthening shadows and twisting them out of shape. Bean had no idea how much time had passed but it felt like the beginning of forever. Usually, about this time of the evening, coyotes howled and barked, playing among themselves. Tonight, there was nothing, just as the ghosts of Langtry West were still quiet, still holding their breath.

  “I know you don’t know because you kept asking that Ranger. You kept telling him he shot Mama.”

  “He did.”

  Angela shook her head, reached into her pocket, and produced a letter. It was crumpled, torn through the middle. “He didn’t.”

  Bean frowned. When he looked at Digger, Digger was staring at Angela.

  “She told me to live with integrity.”

  Bean thought for a minute. “Your mother.”

  Angela nodded. “She wrote me this letter.”

  He remembered it then. She’d written it while in the hospital while waiting for labor to begin, while letting the nurses and doctor check her and prod her and poke her and make sure what was slowly becoming a premature delivery was going to go smoothly. A sealed envelope with “Angel” scrawled across the front, written in Mariana’s spiky hand. It had been just another part of what the staff had given him, sealed in an oversized plastic bag, when he claimed her body. Clothes, shoes, purse, the letter, a magazine she’d brought with her, and her Texas Ranger badge.

  Bean had wanted to read the letter then and there, but it was written to his daughter and he refused to violate Mariana’s confidence. Ultimately, Bean couldn’t really remember what happened to the letter or the rest of the shit in that bag except the badge.

  “It was in the attic, Daddy. With all her love letters and her clothes and her police stuff. All that stuff you never threw out. Why did you keep it?”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. It was your mother’s, it helped me remember her.”

  “Then why didn’t you ever look at it? Why didn’t you ever show it to me? I found it myself.”

  A question Bean couldn’t answer.

  “She told me to live with integrity because she hadn’t.”

  “What?”

  Mariana, what is she talking about? You had more integrity than anyone I’ve ever known.

  Did I, Jeremiah? Then why did I lie about that night?

  “I know what happened that night, D
addy. She told me. She said she had failed and it was because of Jim Dell Perkins.” A gleam shined in her eyes. “I found him. I found them all. The entire team. They paid for what they did to Mama.”

  “What’d they do to Mama, Angela?”

  “Jim Dell didn’t shoot her, Daddy.”

  Bean frowned. Sure he did. That was how it played out.

  “She shot herself.”

  “What?”

  “That was her failing. She let Jim Dell talk her into going along that night and that he convinced her a gunshot wound would be the icing on the cake.”

  “She didn’t shoot herself. That’s idiotic. Makes no sense.”

  Doesn’t it, Jeremiah? For that much money? All that campaign cash...and those last couple of ads that won it for you? Those ads didn’t appear magically, Jeremiah. Someone paid for them.

  So that was Jim Dell’s payoff? Not that he shot you, but that he convinced you to shoot yourself? Jim Dell convinced you a bullet hole was good for the story but couldn’t take it himself? Why, Mariana, why would you do that?

  To get you elected, Jeremiah. Everything I did was for you and our daughter. Don’t you dare question me, don’t you dare do it.

  Bean’s anger bubbled over. “Damnit, give me the letter.” He moved toward her, moving quick, his hand outstretched, his .380 on the floor behind him. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Stop.”

  But he didn’t. “Enough of this bullshit. Put the goddamned gun down and give me the letter.”

  “Blasphemer!”

  She yanked back the hammer.

  “No,” Bean said. He lunged for her.

  The gun blasted, ear-splittingly loud, and he saw spatter on her sleeve.

  “Judge...” Digger. Quiet and ragged, breathing hard.

  Bean looked at him, the stench of burned gunpowder and raw blood heavy in the air. “Oh my God. Digger.”

  At Digger’s side, Bean watched the blood pour from a chest wound, the air sucking hard though the hole.

  “Judge,” Digger said again. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shhhhh, this isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”

  Digger shook his head. “I had to...Tell Timmy I loved him.”

  Bean frowned. “Timmy? Sure, Digger, I’ll tell him. Do you know where he is? Do you know...”

  Digger’s eyes emptied. They never closed, there was never a final gasp, or a word. It was just over. Quiet and simple and bloody.

  Bean turned on Angela, furious, anger boiling his blood until it was a bloody steam. “What the fuck? Are you fucking crazy? Why’d you shoot him? You’re mad at me and so you shoot him? What the fuck for?”

  “To kill them,” Angela screamed. “To kill all of them.”

  Bean made a grab for her, but she jammed the gun against Chelle’s head. “Come on, then. You don’t mind giving girls away...wanna see her brains? I can give them to you, you bastard.”

  Bean halted. “Hang on, Angela. That’s not what I want. Let’s talk about this.”

  “It’s all talked out, Daddy.”

  “To kill them all,” Bean said. “Echo...Tommy-Blue...Andy...Digger.”

  Angela nodded, smirked. “To kill them all. To kill everyone you ever knew. To kill everyone you ever loved. Just like you killed everyone I loved.”

  “Angela, I never killed anyone you loved.”

  “You killed Mama.”

  Bean gaped. He’d been miles away, Angela had said it herself.

  “If you’d been there, you’d have been able to save her.”

  “Angela, it was a medical problem. I’m not a doctor, there was nothing I could do.”

  “You’re the daddy,” she screamed. “Daddies can fix it all.” Tears were openly on her cheek now, staining tracks through the dirt on her face. “Daddies can fix everything. They’re supposed to fix everything. Why didn’t you fix everything?”

  She cried and for a moment, Bean was too shocked to react. He stood there, his feet suddenly clay. His daughter, carrying a full measure of his family’s madness while he had none, crying about a family broken before she was even an hour old.

  Angela’s head went down, but she glanced at him through the tops of her eyes. “I’m going to kill your life the way you killed mine.”

  Chelle stared at Bean, her eyes full now, telling him to move. Telling him to get the jump on Angela while he had the chance.

  Telling him to save her and finish what he’d promised to do...to get her home.

  He dove then, arms outstretched, hands looking to get around the barrel of the gun, looking to snap that gun out of his daughter’s hands or at least turn the barrel away from everyone.

  “No.” She howled.

  She yanked the trigger and her first shot went wild, more toward Bean that at Chelle. Chelle’s eyes grew to gigantic Os and she threw herself to the floor away from Angela.

  When Bean reached Angela, she slammed him across the face, backhanded, with all the force of her .45 behind it. Pain flared huge and red-hot and he stumbled sideways, hit the ground hard next to Chelle. Her eyes were huge, begging and pleading. She tried to speak but behind the ball gag, all he heard was the fearful tone.

  “Angela, stop,” Bean said. He was on his back. “I’m your father, do what I tell you.”

  “You’re not my father. You gave me away. You’re not my father.” She jammed the gun against Chelle’s head. “And she’s not your daughter...I was.”

  “Angela!”

  When she fired, the bullet exploded Chelle’s head. Blood and brain matter spattered Bean and Angela. He shoved himself away from Chelle and managed to grab the Glock from the small of his back. He fired once, quickly, and Angela yelped and fell against the wall, her right shin shattered. Her gun went skittering away toward Digger’s body.

  Bean jumped up and jammed the gun toward her. She stared at him, still crying, arm bleeding.

  “You told Digger you had to get her home. You told him you had to get that girl home to her mother.”

  Bean, breathing heavily, said nothing.

  “Why couldn’t that girl be me?”

  “It was you, Angela. Mariana wanted me to get you home to her.”

  “I’m so tired, Daddy. I hear her all the time, Mama, I mean. I hear her in my head all the time but she never talks to me. I talk and talk and talk but she won’t answer. She won’t stop talking, either.” She dragged her ragged fingernails over her forearm, digging hard until blood appeared. “There are so many bugs, Daddy. All under my skin, crawling inside me. Make them stop. Please.”

  There was no shouting now, no screaming or anger, just a melancholy that reached deep into Bean’s soul. He wiped a tear away.

  Which of these women are your daughter, Mariana? The killer or the little girl crying about the voices in her head? Crying about the madness that my blood gave her?

  Both of them, Jeremiah. Both of them are our daughter.

  She would continue killing, Bean was certain of that. She would say it was to destroy Bean’s life but when that was done, she would find another reason. She would keep killing. Perhaps continuing to find young girls to take Bethany’s place, if there had ever been a Bethany, and to eventually kill.

  I can’t do this, Mariana.

  You have to, Jeremiah. There is no other choice. You can’t let her hurt anyone else.

  But this?

  Stop her hurt, Jeremiah.

  I remember what you always said to me, Mariana. “God is God.”

  Yes, Jeremiah.

  “Life and death belong to God, not you.” How many times did you tell me that?

  Jeremiah, all I can tell you now that is your daughter—our daughter—is hurting. Stop her hurt.

  “She’s right, Daddy. Stop my hurt. I can’t stop it. I’ve tried. I need you, Daddy, to fix me.”

  “Do you hear her?” Bean asked.

  Angela nodded. “I do.” She looked at him, then at Digger and Chelle. “I did that, Daddy. I just want to see my mother. That’s all I’ve ever w
anted.”

  Jeremiah, please.

  “Daddy, please.”

  The voices became one, a single woman, bound to him by blood and history and violence.

  He fired twice. Quick shots. Rapid succession, his cop friends called it.

  Angela slumped against the wall, and left a bloodstain as she slid to the floor.

  44

  Three hours later, Bean had all three buried.

  He left no markers, not even simple wooden crosses to mark them. Jim Dell and the cartel soldier he left where they were, in bits and pieces near their SUV. Soon, probably tonight, the coyotes would discover the feast. By tomorrow morning, tomorrow night latest, their bodies would be scattered from the outbuilding to all points in Langtry West.

  He’d stopped crying within an hour, though his heart still hurt. He’d packed up a very few things from his house, left everything else, and walked out. He’d planned on taking the SUV registered to the Mariana Bean Estate, but if the law did come this way and find this mess, that name would be all over the computers and radios. Eventually, he’d be stopped or some enterprising cop would randomly run the license plate and pull him over.

  He wasn’t going to jail, though he was most assuredly guilty of a great many things. Murder, drug smuggling, extortion, to name three quickies. But the real guilt, which Bean had always believed came from within, was for what he’d done to his family. To his wife and daughter, and Digger. It was so much more than what a simple charge of murder connoted.

  No, he would not go to jail. Even in protective custody, assuming he got it, he’d still be a former justice of the peace. Every breath he drew would be an affront to inmates and criminals. He would not let the system or the inmates have the pleasure of killing him.

  Instead, he would go to Mexico. He would find a secluded place and live quietly whatever years he had left. Or he’d find that secluded place and contemplate the suicide that would complete his family reunion.

  “Hey.” A gruff voice. Deep and threatening.

  Bean, walking away from Langtry West on the single dirt road, stopped. The man was behind him.

  “Bean? That you? Judge Royy Bean, II?”

  Bean turned. “Son of a bitch.”

  Jason Grimes. An agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.