Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  Zeke takes another step forward. “You can remove your guns or die with them stuck in your pants. The choice is yours, but either way is fine with me.”

  The men make no move to disarm. Zeke fires a single shot and the man on the left slaps a hand to his ear. Blood seeps between his fingers as the man howls in pain. The smell of cordite hangs in the still, cold air. The horses stomp and thrash until the ropes come free, but they scamper through the open gate and race back to the safety of the barn.

  Zeke waits for the man to stop wailing. “I’m usually not one to give warning. The next shot will drill into the center of your forehead. The hollow-point slugs will mushroom on impact and a good portion of the back of your head will disintegrate.”

  The man to his left moans as they begin to slowly reach for their pistols. “Now, I want you to grab them by the barrels and—”

  A high-pitched scream erupts in the darkness. “Uncle Zeke!”

  Zeke’s stomach plummets and his blood runs cold. But the ingrained army training assumes command. He doesn’t whirl at the voice and his gun hand never wavers from the two would-be horse thieves. Both are still holding the butts of their weapons with two fingers.

  “Emma, are you okay?” Zeke shouts, berating himself for not checking the surrounding area more closely.

  “Uncle Zeke . . .”—her voice is trembling—“there’s a strange man here.”

  A new voice shouts out, “Earl, you and Bobby bring whoever you got on in here. And I don’t want any more shootin’. You dumb asses will have half the county headed this way.”

  “Everything’s going to be all right, Emma,” Zeke shouts.

  The man on the right laughs. “You got that right, cowboy.”

  A searing anger wells up from the depths of his core. The heartache of the last few years—the loss of his fellow squad members, the agonizing months of recuperation, and the staggering deaths of his wife and unborn child—solidifies into a fiery rage. Zeke explodes forward. He knocks the gun from the man’s grip and rams the barrel of his pistol under the man’s chin. Without hesitation Zeke pulls the trigger. He whirls toward the other man, who’s fumbling to get a firm grip on his pistol. The Glock barks again and the man collapses to the ground.

  Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. Zeke sucks in a lungful of air before stalking toward the rear of the house.

  “Hey, boys, what’s going on out there?” The man’s voice is deep and raspy but contains no hint of fear. Zeke’s fairly certain the man is older than the other two, not that it matters one whit whether he lives or dies.

  With a clock counting down in his head, Zeke races up to the side of the house and takes a quick glimpse around the corner. The dying fire, coupled with the faint moonlight, illuminates enough of the scene for him to see Ruth and Carl along with Emma and Noah bunched together near the fire pit.

  Summer is nowhere in sight.

  A large, burly man stands at the rear of the group, a shotgun braced against his shoulder. Too close for Zeke to risk a shot. A mixture of fear and cold has Emma and Noah shivering as they stand next to their parents.

  The man bellows, “Boys, somebody answer me.” His request is met with silence.

  Now or never. Zeke tucks his pistol behind his back and steps into the clear. “I’m sorry to say that Earl and Bobby are indisposed.”

  The shotgun swings his way. He exhales a sigh of relief and slowly approaches the group, meandering farther to the right to draw the shotgun farther from his family.

  “Who are you and what did you do to my sons?” The man’s finger caresses the trigger as Zeke stalks closer.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter.” Zeke continues his slow pace forward, doing his best to tamp down the rage coursing through his body.

  He comes to a stop ten feet from the man. At this range the shotgun would rip through his body from shoulders to ass. “Now, the way I see things is you can die where you stand or, choice two, you can gather up your sorry-ass sons and go back to the hole you crawled out of.”

  The man tenses. “You sorry mother—”

  His head explodes in a red mist as the rifle shot echoes in the darkness. Zeke is moving before the body hits the ground.

  A cry of despair and the sound of the rifle clattering to the floor escape from the house.

  Zeke thrusts his pistol into Carl’s hand. “There might be more. Keep an eye out.”

  Zeke jerks the screen door open and hurries down the hallway. He turns into the first bedroom and finds Summer sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her head buried in her hands. Zeke sinks to his knees and takes her in his arms.

  “It’s not like shooting an animal,” she blubbers into his chest.

  “No, it’s not,” he says in a gentle voice. “But you did what you had to do.”

  She wipes at her tears and pushes him away. Anger flashes on her face. “You intentionally provoked that man.”

  Zeke drops to his butt and leans his back against the wall. “Maybe I did . . . but I”—he pauses and rubs his hands across his face—“I’ve seen more than my share of bad men. Men who spend their lives terrorizing others. Men who only take and never give. That man lying in the yard was that type of man.”

  Summer whirls to face him. “How could you know that?”

  “I know from a lifetime of reading people.” Zeke expels a heavy breath and reaches for her hand. “If we had simply disarmed him and his sons and sent him on their way they’d come back. Tomorrow, next week, maybe next month, but make no mistake, they would have returned. Life is difficult enough without having to look over your shoulder wondering if every odd noise is an announcement of their reappearance.”

  Summer turns away. “Did you kill those men trying to steal the horses?”

  “Yes.”

  A cold silence. Zeke rests his head against the wall.

  The screen door squeaks open and slaps shut a moment later. Murmuring voices drift down the hall. Zeke drags his legs under him and starts to stand. Summer reaches for his hand and pulls him back down. She rests her head on his shoulder and entwines her fingers with his.

  CHAPTER 84

  The Oval Office

  First Lady Katherine Harris threads her way around the bustling West Wing and enters the Oval Office through the side door connected to the study. Her husband, dressed in a black knit shirt from Congressional Country Club, is hunched over his desk but he glances up as the heels of her boots strike the hardwood floor.

  “Surprise,” she says. Her trips to the Oval Office are few and far between. Most of their discussions take place in the privacy of their bedroom. But with the upheaval and the fact that they’ve taken up residence in the Roosevelt Room across the hall, their private time has been compromised.

  He tosses the pen on the desk and pushes out of his chair. They meet halfway across the office and wrap their arms around each other.

  “Have I told you recently how good your ass looks in a pair of jeans?”

  “Not recently, no.” She is dressed in jeans tucked into a pair of knee-high boots with a soft cotton red sweater filling out her ensemble. Her face is absent of makeup. With no cameras around, the staff of the White House has stretched casual Friday to include most every other day of the week.

  He takes her elbow and steers her toward the opposing sofas. President Harris sits and she cozies up next to him.

  “When are we leaving for Camp David?”

  “Tomorrow night. We have to slink out of town under the cover of darkness.” There’s lingering bitterness in his voice.

  Katherine scoots up to the edge of the sofa and turns to face her husband. “Paul, I know we’ve had numerous discussions on the topic, but I want you to send someone to retrieve Juliette and David.”

  “I thought we decided not to intervene.”

  “Lord knows our daughter is strong willed, but I can’t stop worrying about her. And I love our son-in-law to death, but I don’t know how resourceful he is.”

  “Not being able to put t
ogether a bookcase from IKEA doesn’t mean he’s not handy.”

  “David is about as handy as a toadstool.”

  They both chuckle.

  The President grasps one of his wife’s hands. “What happens if they’ve left their condo? They could be anywhere in Southern California.”

  “Where would they go?” Katherine asks. “I could maybe see them camping along the beach, but I have a feeling they haven’t gone too far astray. Call it mother’s instinct.”

  President Harris stands and begins pacing, his hand on his chin. “It could take weeks to find them.”

  “I don’t care. I want our only child here with us.”

  “What if they refuse to come?”

  “For all of her independence, I’m betting a week without running water and minimal food has changed her outlook.”

  The President stops pacing and turns to face his wife. “Your instincts are well honed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I have a small squad of soldiers from the California National Guard keeping an eye on them. Juliette and David are camped in a park down the block from their condo building.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “One, I know they’re fine. And two, I wanted to see how long your resolve held.”

  “Damn it, Paul. Just because you’re the President doesn’t give you the right to withhold family secrets from me.” She stands from the sofa and walks to her husband. “Are you going to bring them home?”

  “There are some logistics to work out. And there are some political issues we need to overcome. I don’t want to be accused of using scarce resources for personal matters.”

  Katherine’s cheeks turn red. “I don’t give a damn about politics. I want—” Her tirade is interrupted by a soft knock on the door to the study. They both turn in that direction.

  Chief of Staff Scott Alexander steps into the room. The First Lady takes three angry steps in his direction and raises her finger to his chest. “Out, right this damn minute, Scott.”

  A voice behind the door speaks. “Wow, Mom, glad to see you haven’t lost your spunk.” Her daughter walks into the room, followed closely by her husband.

  Katherine turns to her husband. “Asshole.”

  Those in the room erupt with laughter.

  CHAPTER 85

  The Peterson home

  A night disrupted by gunfire and death ended with the most passionate lovemaking Zeke had ever experienced. He stirs awake before the sun breaks on the horizon. One more grim job weighs on his mind. He slides from beneath the covers and slips on his clothes and carries his boots in hand as he tiptoes from the room. He eases open the door to the second bedroom and pads across the floor to stir Carl awake. While Carl dresses, Zeke pulls on his boots and steps outside to stir the coals in the fire pit.

  He avoids looking at the dead man lying in the yard.

  After adding a couple of logs to the fire, he pours water into the coffeepot and sets it next to the coals to warm. Carl pushes through the screen door and eases it closed. He turns and brakes to a halt when he spies the body.

  Zeke approaches and says in a whisper, “They need to be gone before the kids get up.”

  Carl nods, his head still wrapped in the sling.

  He takes Carl by the elbow and propels him past the body, where they huddle close together.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Zeke says.

  Carl pantomimes a digging motion.

  “Digging a grave big enough for three bodies will take us most of the day.”

  Carl shrugs. “I’m new to all this, Zeke,” he manages to say.

  “I hate like hell to disrespect the dead, even if I’m the one who did the killing. But we need a speedier solution. I’m thinking of tying them together and using Murphy to drag them as far away as possible.”

  “Whatever,” Carl mumbles, not meeting Zeke’s eye. It comes out “wha-evuh.”

  “Look at me, Carl.”

  Carl slowly looks up to meet Zeke’s stare.

  “I need you to be okay with this because I can’t do it alone.”

  Carl nods, but then he’s overcome by an intense anger, thinking about what might have happened. “Fuck ’em.” It comes out “fa ’em.”

  Zeke says no more as they head toward the barn. He slips the bit into Murphy’s mouth and throws on the saddle blanket. Carl tosses on the saddle and Zeke cinches it tight. They scour the barn for available rope and find enough to do the job. Zeke leads Murphy from the barn and stops near the two men he killed. The horse balks at the coppery scent of the blood that has soaked into the earth. Zeke strokes the horse’s withers and whispers softly to him. He hands the reins to Carl and rolls the two dead men together.

  Carl does his best not to look, but he does. He sees two unrecognizable faces. He whips the sling from his head and vomits onto the grass.

  “Coyotes,” Zeke says. He lashes the ankles together and ties the rope off on the saddle horn. He takes the reins and leads Murphy over to the third man. Zeke quickly lashes the ringleader to his sons.

  With a cluck of his tongue and a gentle pull of the reins, Murphy lurches forward. The three men are heavy and the horse strains to get the three bodies moving. Zeke leads him around the barn and he tells Carl to run ahead and open the gate so that the horse won’t have to stop. Murphy drags the bodies down the ridge and through the grove of oak trees at a slow walk until they arrive at another fence.

  Zeke stops and looks back toward the house. “See if you can find a gate, Carl. We need to move them as far as we can.”

  Carl walks along the fence line, searching. Midway down he finds an old barbed wire gate held up by wooden poles. He unties the baling wire holding the near post and pulls the gate open. Zeke restarts the horse.

  They traverse another hill and at the bottom Zeke spots a thicket of persimmon bushes and steers Murphy that way. At the brush line he has to tug on the reins to get the horse to step through the brush. When they’re deep enough in, Zeke halts the horse and unties the rope from the saddle horn.

  Carl makes a coiling motion with his hands. “Rope?”

  “Leave it.” He goads Murphy back through the thick brush and they begin the return journey to the house. Carl turns to glance back, but Zeke walks steadily forward.

  They spend four more days at Summer’s home. Zeke bagged a deer on the third day and they feasted for a third night, another night where everyone went to bed with full stomachs. On the fifth morning, Zeke’s up early to prepare the horses for travel. No doubt his parents are beside themselves with worry. The only way they’ll know the rest of their family is safe is by Zeke and the rest showing up at their door.

  His emotions are all over the place. Summer and he experienced some very tender, exquisite moments—moments Zeke hasn’t had in his life in a long, long time. Maybe never. He continues to beg Summer to come with them, but her fear of abandoning her daughter is insurmountable. With sadness, he finishes saddling and leads all three horses up to the house.

  Carl is doing much better, and Emma and Noah are excited to see their grandma and grandpa. Ruth steps out on the porch and offers Zeke a hug of encouragement. He hands her Murphy’s reins and steps into the house.

  Tears are drifting down Summer’s face, matching the ones falling from his own eyes.

  “We can leave a note and I promise we’ll come back down here as soon as the power is back on,” he says.

  She tiptoes up to kiss him. “A piece of Aubrey is here, Zeke. I would wake up every day wondering if she and my father had made it home. That’s not fair to you.”

  “I don’t care about fair. If I thought Carl and Ruth could find their way to the truck I’d stay here in a heartbeat.”

  “Just make sure they make it home, Zeke. They need to be safe.” She wraps her arms around him and he encircles his around her. “Come back if you can?”

  Zeke nods and backhands the tears from his cheek. They stand like that for as long as possible. He lea
ns down and the two share one last tender kiss. He removes the locket from around his neck and carefully withdraws the small picture of Amelia. He tucks the picture into his front pocket and slips the chain and locket over Summer’s head. With no further words, he breaks away and makes his way out to the porch. Still leaking tears, he shuffles across the gravel drive and slips his foot into the stirrup, pulling himself aboard Murphy. With foolish anger he wheels the horse around and walks him out to the road. He looks back to make sure everyone is following, and catches sight of Summer standing on the porch. His heart breaks a little more as he nudges Murphy down the road.

  Zeke is sullen as they ride throughout the day. The sun is out, the sky is a brilliant blue, but he takes no notice. He’s confined to his misery. They stop for short breaks along the way, and he finds more of the little streams, this time with water, for the horses to drink from. In his self-imposed anger, he sets a fairly brisk pace and they make it to where the truck is parked as darkness begins replacing the light.

  With Ruth’s help, Zeke gets the horses unsaddled and loaded into the trailer. The kids are in the backseat with their father and Ruth takes the seat in front. Zeke retrieves the keys from where he had hidden them and rams them in the ignition. Before he can turn the key to start the engine, Ruth reaches over and puts a hand on his arm.

  “Go back to her, Zeke,” she says in a soft voice.

  He sighs and leans back in the seat.

  “We can get home from here, Zeke. You’ve done your part by rescuing us from Dallas. You’ve done enough.”

  He turns to face his sister.

  “Go rescue yourself, Zeke.”

  He opens the truck door and walks to the back of the trailer. Ruth helps him separate Murphy from the other horses and also helps him resaddle him. Before he mounts up, Zeke gives his sister a long hug. Damn if they’re both not crying, him for the second time today.

  “Tell Mom and Dad that I love them and I’ll see them soon. And tell the kids to take good care of Lexi,” he says as he pulls onto Murphy’s back. Zeke gives him a nudge with his heels and turns to wave bye to Ruth and Carl, Emma and Noah. They disappear into the darkness of night.