Comin' Home to You

by Dustin Mcwilliams

  “My hands are cold.”

  “It’s 90 fucking degrees. Don’t give me any shit, Clint. Put your hands up.”

  “Nah, I think I’m good.”

  Scar glanced at Ben for a short time. He knew him well enough to know that play time was over. “Clint, put your god damn hands up.”

  “I ain’t takin’ orders from you. Shut the fuck up.”

  Scar squinted. “You bein’ serious right now? Put your fucking hands up.”

  “Shit, he ain’t going to shoot me. Them Tomkins are a cryin’ bunch of bitches.”

  Ben grit his teeth so loud that even Owen’s barely conscious ears could hear it. “Scar. I’ll give you a few seconds to shut your brother up. Otherwise, I’m giving him my final warning.”

  “He hasn’t threatened you.”

  Ben kept his voice quiet so that only those in front of him could hear it. “Right now I don’t give a fuck.”

  Scar acknowledged Ben’s vulgar warning. His face showed alarm. “Do what he says, Clint.”

  “Fuck that!”

  “I don’t need the pain of having two dead brothers right now. Do what he says!”

  Biting his lip to keep in his anger, Clint put his arms up at a snail’s pace. He kept his hands up, though his middle fingers were up.

  “Why are you here anyway?” asked Scar.

  “An officer caught Owen speeding, that’s all.”

  The other officer gently eased the beat-up Owen into the backseat of the patrol car. Backing away with his gun steady at both Clint and Scar, Ben opened the driver door. Before he entered, he glanced at Ali and Austin. Both looked petrified, with tears in their eyes. His face showed great concern before he entered the car. Leaving his niece and great-nephew alone with Scar and Clint troubled him, but there wasn’t anything he could do legally. Getting his brother out of there was all he could do.

  Owen’s body ached badly. His mind was scatterbrained and barely functioning. Lying in the back seat in a fetal position, he could feel the car drive away. Instantly, his brain perked up along with his pained body.

  “Woah, what the fuck? We can’t leave Ali and Austin!”

  “Nothing I can do,” replied a mellow Ben.

  “Turn the fuck around!”

  “Owen, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Trying to scream and plead his case, Owen realized how bad he was hurting. A pained groan escaped from his mouth.

  Ben kept a straight face. “Brother, I can’t just take Austin and Ali away.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not a domestic issue. Hell, I came here because your stupid ass got caught speeding, and Taylor asked me to find Austin. I didn’t expect to see you with your ass beat to shit.”

  Owen’s stomach hurt so badly that his voice came out quieter than he wanted. Yet, he painfully spoke what he could. “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, Owen. Fuck me. If we hadn’t showed up, Clint and Scar would probably be soldering your asshole with a hot iron rod. You should be thanking me.”

  Owen said nothing. He knew his brother was right.

  “Listen brother,” reassured Ben. “I know you hate Scar. Hell, I do too. But as long as he is there, nothing is going to happen to Austin.”

  “Ben.”

  “What?”

  Owen took a moment to draw in a breath. “They know.”

  The other officer in the passenger seat looked at Ben in confusion. Even Ben didn’t quite understand. “What do you mean they know?”

  “They know what I did.”

  Ben quickly understood, closing his eyes a touch longer than a normal blink.

  His eyes zipping from the window to Ben, the other officer wanted so badly to ask what was going on. Ben glared at him, somehow quieting him with just his eyes. Sighing, the officer rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger and kept quiet.

  Owen badly wanted to protest further. He couldn’t leave his daughter and grandson there, especially after what he had tried to accomplish. But his body was feeble and limp, and each time he tried to exert any energy, he couldn’t do it. Once again, he was too weak to fulfill his duty to Ali and Austin. They could suffer due to his failure. If anything happened to them, he actually prayed to go to Hell so that he could be tortured for his inability to save his beloved family. He felt sick and tired, yet determined. A strange combination, but one that made sense to a chaotic mind that Owen currently possessed.

  He had to survive just a bit longer. Two members of his family still depended on him.

  Chapter 8

  The Tomkins’ brothers bickered quite a bit on the drive. Owen demanded Ben turn around and deal with the Graysons. Ben countered by threatening to take Owen to jail for his speeding and overall idiocy. A highway patrol car a few miles outside of the city limits caught Owen going well past the limit on his way to Ali’s, but heavy traffic prevented him from giving chase. The officer instead radioed ahead for the Adrienne dispatch to deal with it. The other officer in Ben’s car, who had introduced himself twice as Officer Webster since Owen kept forgetting, admitted that Owen’s speeding was one of the reasons he wasn’t being tortured by Graysons right now. Why else would they randomly show up like a caped superhero to save the day? Owen guessed he was luckier than he thought.

  After apologizing, he wondered aloud what they would do now. Ben quickly answered that he was being taken into custody. This topic started a whole new argument between the brothers. Ben reasoned that having a solitary cell with heavy supervision was the only true way to stay safe until the commotion died down. Owen retorted that he wasn’t scared in the least, and that they had no justification to lock him up.

  “I’m trying to keep you alive, idiot!” roared a frustrated Ben.

  “I’ll be fine, god dammit. I’m already on my way out, anyway.”

  “I thought you went to the doctor today.”

  Owen allowed his head to fall backwards, bracing itself on the back of the seat. “There’s too much damn work involved in that. There’s a list that I have to wait on and a lot of damn Alcoholic Anonymous classes. I’d be dead long before I get fixed up.”

  “Maybe an AA class would do you good anyway.”

  “Don’t start that shit right now.”

  Ben let a moment pass. “Do you really think I can just let you go home with the Graysons in a bloodthirsty uproar? They are going to be coming for you. And there are a lot of them too.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Bullshit. I already know what you want to do. Die in a blaze of glory. Some of that misguided outlaw movie shit. You ain’t that, brother. If you really think you can just take all the Graysons out from your home, shootin’ at them from the windows, well, then you are pretty damn stupid.”

  “Honestly, I just want to go home just to be fucking home. Can you let a man do that?”

  “I can’t do that. Fuck...my own family is in danger now. You really fucked things up, Owen.”

  “Then let me be the martyr! Trust me, if I am gone, they won’t care about you. I’m the target.”

  “You don’t know that,” dolefully spoke Ben.

  “I do. But even then, I would rather not die. Not yet anyway. Let me try to talk to Scar.”

  “No. Might as well shoot you myself if you wanna do that.”

  The car pulled into Owen’s driveway. The two brothers stayed quiet, while Officer Webster, already feeling awkward, inhaled a congested breath through his nose. Silence reigned supreme after that. Ben and the other officer stayed still. Owen did too. If he could leave the car, he would. But the back doors of patrol cars were purposefully made to keep people from escaping.

  “Are you going to let me out anytime soon?”

  Angered, Ben exited the car and opened the back door forcefully. Owen stepped out of the car gingerly. The two brothers only made short spurts of eye contact with each other. Eventually, Owen decided it was best for him to end this charade of uneasiness.

  “I guess I haven’t thanked you yet.”
<
br />   “Owen, shut up.”

  He started to react in an annoyed way, but he knew Ben had more to say.

  “The Graysons are gonna come after you.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “How do you not care? I don’t want to lose my fucking brother!”

  “I don’t exactly want to die either.”

  “Then leave town! Shit, there are a lot of options for you! Staying here is suicide!”

  “I made the mistake of provoking them, Ben.”

  Ben crossed his arms. “No shit.”

  Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Owen looked at a stray cumulous cloud in the sky. “I made this mistake. If anyone should be punished, it’s me. As long as I stay here…”

  “You think putting yourself in danger keeps others out of it?” Ben sighed.

  “More or less. If I run, they can use you or your family to get to me.”

  “They could do the same thing with you here.”

  “True. But I doubt it. If you saw a buck in your scope, would you look for any other bucks?”

  Ben couldn’t keep from laughing. “That was the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

  “It’s true though. They aren’t going to come after you. Not as long as I am here.”

  “Whatever you say,” resigned Ben. “The least I can do is have patrol cars drive by your house periodically.”

  Owen shook his head. “They’ll come through the woods, maybe take pot shots at my windows if they don’t want to get too close. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Yeah…well, I’ll call to check in.”

  “Really…thanks, brother.”

  Despondent, Ben looked at the ground and without saying another word, hopped in his car and drove away. An intense feeling came over him, and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. He raised his hand in front of his face. There, he could see it shake tremendously. He was scared. He had accepted that death was coming, but when it was approaching by the probable way of armed men that wanted nothing more than to blow his brains out, it made him tremble. Wiping away a dried tear from his eyes, Owen walked into the house, his legs wobbling with each step.

  He entered his front door cautiously, although there wasn’t enough time for a Grayson to beat him home. Even knowing that, he didn’t feel safe until he checked every nook and cranny. While in his bedroom, he grabbed a handgun from his sock drawer and also pulled out a 12 gauge shotgun from his closet. He grabbed as much ammo as he could for the two firearms, then laid it all on the kitchen table. He knew something was missing though. Knowing what it was, he didn’t hesitate in pouring a glass of whiskey. The aroma of the alcohol was delightful, even though he knew the risks of the drink. His nerves were already shot, and he needed to calm down somehow.

  Taking a seat by the table with his handgun in one hand and whiskey in the other, Owen looked out his kitchen window, which had its blinds raised. It allowed him to see the sun setting behind the trees of his back property. As the light of the day came to a close, he found time to reflect on the day's happenings. From meeting the beautiful doctor to getting his ass kicked, it had truly been an eventful day. Unfortunately, the day wasn’t over. It was likely more life-changing events were to occur before the sun rose back up. He doubted sleep would come to him without the aid of whiskey.

  He gritted his teeth and banged his fist on the table when he realized how close he was to skewering that little prick Clint. A lot of this grief would be over had he succeeded. He threw back his double shot of whiskey in frustration. Now, Clint had his knife and was still very much alive. He wondered why he cared so much about the knife. It didn’t hold any sentimental value. It was just something he bought at a Wal-Mart a few months back. What worried him more was that Clint was angry, and had two people he cared about the most in his possession. He poured himself another glass of bourbon. It was the only thing that was keeping himself from going insane in worry. But his mind got the better of him. A visualization of a vengeful Clint beating Ali entered his unwilling mind. The mere thought of that made him want to drive over there immediately and pump Clint full of lead. That was not an option though. They would be prepared for him and now that he thought of it, his truck was there. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if Clint had already shattered the windows or slashed the tires. My poor baby, thought Owen.

  Taking his fingers off from the filled whiskey glass, he rubbed the back of his pained and tense neck. While his fingers were weak, he still felt the benefits of the massage. He wished someone else could do this for him. He recalled the days when Patricia would rub his neck and shoulders after a long day of work. Grace did it too, but it was nothing like his departed fiancé. Those were simpler and happier times, before drugs took over their lives. A flashback of that critical point where he found Patricia smoking marijuana in the bathroom suddenly found its way into his mind. Why didn’t he just say no? Was I that blinded by money? I’m such an idiot.

  In the end, life took its course. Patricia died, his daughter hated him, and he moved to another house, one that didn’t have the everlasting memory of Patricia’s dead body lying on the gray carpet. And the money he earned because of his course of life? It slowly dwindled away, like a puddle in the road on a hot summer day. Now, he sat in his kitchen alone, with a gun in his hand. This would all be over soon. At least there was a maudlin sense of solace in that thought.

  He was 38 now, 15 years removed from that fateful day of seeing his beloved Patricia’s overdose. The saying is that time heals all wounds, but this is a wound that could never be healed. He would never stop blaming himself for this, and Ali never would either. Shaking his head, he placed his handgun and aimed it directly at his head, resting the tip of the barrel on his temple. After taking a sip of whiskey, his finger flirted with pulling the trigger. Playfully, his mouth mimicked the sound of a firearm, and his hand reacted to the fake recoil of the gun. He could never kill himself, not while his grandson’s entire future depended on him. Although sometimes he wondered if suicide wouldn't be a bad way out, he always rebuffed such thoughts with either a slap of his own face, or a shot of liquor. Maybe once all this is settled, a quick shot to the head could end all this. It’d be better than lying in a hospital bed throwing up and cringing from chest pains. Puffing his cheeks out and blowing out the accumulated air, he shelved that thought for another day.

  The desire to call Ali grew stronger the more he drank. But he was sure calling her would do more harm than good. Hell, she may have already went back to hating him by now. She could have also picked up the pipe after he left, knowing her. When life became the least bit frustrating, she resorted to drugs to cope. As long as she and Austin were okay, he could live with whatever she was doing.

  But the more he thought about his predicament, the more irritated he became. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t leave, but staying made him feel like a sitting duck. The forested area in the back part of his property made it easy for someone to sneak up on his home. He had a strong wooden fence around it, though it still had a gate. The property behind it was elevated enough so that a sniper could easily pick his target through a window. Am I supposed to stay away from windows all night? God, this is absolute bullshit.

  Brushing his hands through his still sweaty hair, he struggled while thinking of his next move. Sure, drinking was a good idea. Hell, it was always a good idea, but at this juncture, it wasn’t a solution he could agree with. As if suddenly acting on primal instinct, Owen rose up, placed two clips of handgun ammo in his pocket, grabbed his handgun, took one step toward the door, and then immediately sat back down. His mind was that chaotic and indecisive. He wanted to do something. Sitting here and letting death come to his door was not it.

  With his mind racing, he stared deeply into the brown liquid that is whiskey. He couldn’t even create a coherent thought anymore. All he knew to do was to look down the glass and hope an epiphany could be created from his turbulent brain. The mor
e he pondered his next move, the more his mind became muddled, like the brown color of his bourbon. It all became so frustrating. He was feeling absolutely useless.

  The creaking of his back porch step suddenly changed his mood. Tension in his body grew, like a stranglehold on the innards of his stomach. His mind raced quickly. Shit, they are here. How was I not watching outside? I ain’t ready to die now. I’m not going to die. Fuck. His body, on instinct, quickly hid behind a bookshelf that only contained a handful of books. It left him defenseless if an attack came from the front, but he could only prepare for what he heard. His arm holding his gun aimed toward the door, ready to fire.

  Taking a shallow breath, fear set in again. He wished he could have had one more shot of whiskey before this moment. Regardless, the time of reckoning was here, and it was time to man up. A moment that seemed like an eternity passed. A bead of nervous sweat drifted down his forehead and off of the tip of his nose. He heard small chatter from behind the door, but he couldn’t make out any specific voices. This was followed by a light knock. He wasn’t expecting such an unmanly knock from a Grayson, but his mind became further opaque when the light knocking continued.

  His finger trembled on the trigger. Owen almost pulled it when a voice came from behind the door.

  “Dad?”

  “Ali?” replied an unsure Owen.

  “Yeah. Will you let me in?”

  He couldn't be sure she was alone. This could all be a ploy to draw him out. “Is it just you? Answer me!”

  “Austin's here too.”

  Surely the Graysons wouldn't use their own flesh and blood as a bargaining chip or a hostage. He wanted to believe that, but he really didn’t know what they were capable of. What was certain was that his daughter was at his back door. She claimed that Austin was there, but he hadn’t heard a peep from him. But something deep inside him told him to trust her. His gut was wrong a lot, but he believed it this time. What did he have to lose besides his life? For some reason, that thought humored him.