by Larry Hoy
“Nope,” the sheriff said, “and that one clearly had wasting disease, and I wouldn’t care if you ate infected meat for the rest of your life. But not to kill it first…that’s low, even for you, John C.”
“It ain’t against the law.”
“I could probably take you in for animal cruelty, maybe even make it a felony, or for trespassing on private lands again, but I’m not gonna do any of that.”
Stuart cocked his head and squinted. He wasn’t a smart man, but he was clever in the way that most criminals were.
“What’s the catch?”
Knickermeyer nodded with his head. “This here is Luther Sweetwater; you might have seen him around town some. He grew up around here, not too far from your momma.”
“Whoopee shit, so what?”
Sweetwater smiled. “So the sheriff is my client and led me here so I could do the job he hired me for.”
“What does that mean? You pickin’ up trash outa the ditch?”
Using his left hand, Sweetwater pulled a sheet of paper out of his top shirt pocket along with a single one dollar bill. As he did so, his focus never left Stuart, and his right hand never let the pistol drop.
“This is a binding contract offered to me through LifeEnders, Incorporated, who employ me as a licensed Shooter. As you can see, it’s been duly signed and notarized. That means I’m legally obligated to kill the person named on the line where it reads ‘target.’ Can you see what’s printed there? That’s your name, Mister Stuart.”
“But…huh? Wait a minute, you can’t do that! Tell him, Sheriff! Take me in, I’ll confess to whatever you want.”
“Sorry, John C., that’s not on the table now,” Knickermeyer said.
Stuart started forward, but didn’t get a step before Sweetwater lifted the battered Sig Sauer P320 in his right fist a scant three inches, his finger on the trigger and the barrel now aimed at Stuart’s forehead.
“Remember Grace Allen Erebus, Mister Stuart?”
“She was my old lady’s daughter,” he answered, wariness in his whispered tone.
“Correct. She was also the young lady you raped the night her son was murdered and she fled to her mother for help and comfort.”
“I don’t—”
“Shut up you piece of shit, or I’ll use every bullet in this magazine to make you suffer the way you did that deer, the way the sheriff tells me you’ve been doing with dogs for the last 30 years. If I could prolong your suffering I would, but something tells me you’re gonna spend all of eternity begging for mercy. If we lived in Shelby County, or Hardeman, or McNairy, I would have done this pro bono for Grace Allen. That’s what I came here for. But you see, this is my home too, and it sickens me that assholes like you hide behind the courts and the law, when what you really need is a bullet. When the sheriff told me about you, what you’ve done all these years, then it became personal.”
“Grace Allen, yeah, I get it now. You must have fucked her like everybody else in the county,” Stuart said, managing to sneer despite the situation. Maybe he thought it would help. Instead, Sweetwater lowered the gun, fired, and blew out Stuart’s right knee.
The huge man collapsed into the dried leaves and sticks covering the shoulder of the dirt road, howling like one of the bait dogs he sent to its death in the ring. Rolling in the dirt, a jagged branch cut a long slice in his cheek, but the pain of his destroyed knee overrode the minor wound. Sweetwater knelt near the man, the Sig less than two feet from Stuart’s right jaw.
“Like I was saying, I would have done it for free after hearing Grace Allen’s story, but when I let the sheriff know you’d be turning up dead, he insisted on paying me. After I heard your story, I downright refused to take his money, and he downright refused not to pay me. We were at an impasse. Since I didn’t want to be paid to kill you, and the sheriff wouldn’t hear of not paying me, well, we compromised. Your life is worth precisely one dollar, Mister Stuart. A single fucking dollar.”
In between sobs, Stuart mouthed pleas for mercy, even appealing to the sheriff’s well-known religious beliefs.
“Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord,” Stuart said. Dirt stuck to his wet face, making his bloodshot eyes appear whiter than they actually were. “That’s what the bible says, Sheriff; that’s what it says! Reverend Milthouse said so hisself!”
“Romans 12:19, John C.; you’re right. I’ve heard him give that sermon three or four times, an’ it does my heart good to know that you love the Lord. It kinda makes this easier. But you see, what the Lord doesn’t say is what tool He will use to exact His vengeance. In this case, I believe He is using Mister Sweetwater here, much as he did Samson, except instead of the jawbone of an ass, Mr. Sweetwater uses a Sig Sauer chambered for 9mm rounds. You see the similarity, don’t you, John C.?”
“That’s not what God meant!” Desperation gave volume to Stuart’s words.
Knickermeyer shrugged. “Much as I’d enjoy debating theology with you, the day’s getting on. Oh, last thing, John C., I promise. Don’t count on a proper Christian burial. I talked to Sam Hart before coming out here—this is all his land, as I’m sure you know—and he gave me permission to leave your body right here. You remember what Clint Eastwood said about vultures having to eat, the same as worms, don’t you, John C.?”
“I—”
The second gunshot sent a flock of grackles flapping skyward in a nearby field, which the two men could see through a thinner stand of trees. The bullet struck Stuart about four inches short of the chin and blew off most of his lower jaw, leaving a flap of skin and splintered bone flopping as he tried to speak. But it didn’t kill him. The horror on Stuart’s face was a grotesque sight which finally sated Sweetwater’s desire to avenge poor Grace Allen. In his mind, it didn’t square things between them—nothing could—but maybe it would give rest to her soul. A third bullet shattered Stuart’s skull like a pumpkin.
Sweetwater policed his brass while the sheriff strolled back toward the cruiser.
“You killed me,” a voice said from the ditch behind Sweetwater. “You really did it.”
The translucent figure of John C. Stuart stood with hands outstretched in disbelief.
“Yeah, John C., I killed you. I wish I could do it again.”
“You know I’m gonna get you for this,” Stuart said, as if Sweetwater was too stupid to understand the consequences of his actions. “You know what’s coming at you.”
For the first time in a long time, Sweetwater chuckled.
“You’re not gonna do anything, John C., except learn how to live with being dead. And if you’re thinking that any of your scumbag buddies will try to kill me, I hope like fuck they do. But I’d think you have more to worry about than me.”
“If I’m dead, what do I have to worry about now? Except maybe hell.”
“Maybe the spirits of all those dogs you tortured.”
“Dogs don’t have spirits!”
“No? I heard they did, and that they like to bite people who treated them bad. I guess you’ll find out which of us is right, but that sounds a lot like hell to me.”
He turned to join the sheriff. Sweetwater knew that Knickermeyer couldn’t see the dead man. He wasn’t sure how he could communicate with the dead, but he knew that others couldn’t see or hear them.
“I didn’t say you could go,” Stuart yelled out. “Please don’t go, man; I’m scared.”
“So were all those dogs you killed.”
“They were just fucking dogs! You killed me, asshole; now stay here. You owe me that much!”
“Go to hell,” Sweetwater said, smiling at the pun.
Stuart dissipated like mist, but where he’d been standing stood three other figures, all of which were little more than skeletons. Two raised bony middle fingers and, by their builds, he recognized Bonney and Shields. The other saluted…Cooper. Then they followed Stuart into the netherworld.
Knickermeyer returned with a sign made from black paint on an old piece of wood nailed to a long, sharpened board
. He jammed that into the ground beside Stuart’s body.
“Did I hear you sayin’ somethin’?” the sheriff asked.
“Just a prayer.”
“Yeah? I didn’t figure you for a prayin’ man. For John C’s sake, I hope God’s got more forgivin’ in His heart than I would.”
“I wasn’t prayin’ for John C. He can burn for all eternity as far as it concerns me.”
“Who then? Can’t be all them dogs, no way a dog goes to hell.”
“Me,” Sweetwater said. “I was praying for me.”
“Oh…yeah. Son, I sure as hell ain’t the man to speak for God, so I can’t say whether in His eyes you’re a good man or an evil one. But I meant what I said to John C. He gives us tasks to accomplish according to our talents and uses us to bring about His grand plan.”
“And you believe that?”
“I surely do, Luther.”
“You know, Sheriff, cops don’t generally like Shooters very much, and the other way around, but you and I just might get along.”
“Before this, I hated you people,” Knickermeyer said. “I shouldn’t have—the Lord says not to hate anybody—still, I’m paid to keep folks alive, not help ‘em die. But you know, this is the law of the land now, and in certain cases like this one, it might just work out better.”
The sheriff sucked on his cheek and scratched his neck then, and Sweetwater knew the man wanted to ask him a question, probably the same question everybody wanted to ask a Shooter. He decided just to get it over with and not wait for Knickermeyer to ask it.
“The idea of killing somebody who hasn’t done anything wrong bothers me a lot, Sheriff.”
“Oh,” Knickermeyer said, taken aback.
“Can I tell you a secret, Sheriff? Something nobody else in the world knows?”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I think so, yeah. Leastwise, if you swear not to tell, I’ll believe you.”
“Long as you’re not confessing to a crime committed in Fayette County, or anywhere else, I guess, then I swear to keep your secret.”
“Not a crime, no, it’s kind of the opposite. I’ve killed people, Sheriff, two so far, and both had it coming, but I’ve never killed anybody for a contract. I was supposed to, and I took credit for it, but I didn’t do it.”
Knickermeyer picked an acorn out of a crease in his sleeve, tossed it into the ditch and then let his eyes roam over the field beyond.
“So you’re confessing to not killing somebody?”
“Pretty much, yeah. I can’t give you details about it, without maybe opening you up to a lawsuit, but I checked and what I did, it’s not a crime. LEI tells you it is, but it’s not, it’s a breach of contract, a civil matter.”
“So they won’t kill you for doing it?”
“They’d kill me in a heartbeat. That’s like Rule Number One of things for a Shooter not to do.”
“Why are you telling me, Luther?”
“I don’t know, exactly; I just felt like I needed to tell somebody.”
Knickermeyer smiled like Sweetwater always wished his dad would have smiled at him.
“You have a conscience, and I think you’re gonna find that a moral compass ain’t such a good thing in your business. I wouldn’t go ‘fessin up to just anybody, either. Trust ain’t so common as you might think. Now, how ‘bout I buy you dinner at the Donutman?”
“Donutman sounds good, but I’m payin’. I can afford it now.”
LEI allowed Shooters to do pro-bono work for a good cause, and Sweetwater had found his. Whether he could ever kill anybody to fulfill a contract or not remained to be seen, but Fayette was his home county; he knew the people because they were his people. The sign alone wouldn’t stop the John Cleve Stuart’s of the world from making money off the suffering of animals that scumbags would pay to see tortured, and that’s where he came in. Grace Allen hadn’t died for nothing after all, her death led him to find John C., and that had given him a purpose. Riding in the front passenger seat of the Sheriff’s Department cruiser, Sweetwater saw the sign in the side mirror and read it again.
This is what happens to rapists and dog fighters in Fayette County.
Cast of Characters
Luther Sweetwater – Ex-Marine sniper and Probational Shooter for LifeEnders, Inc.
Teri Warden – Contract consultant for LEI.
Cynthia Witherbot – Assistant Director for LEI.
William ‘Billy the Kid’ Bonney – Shooter for LEI based in Memphis.
Adrian Erebus – Former high school math teacher.
Grace Allen Tarbeau – Adrian Erebus’ ex-wife.
Herbert Erebus – Grace Allen and Adrian’s son.
John C. Stuart – Grace Allen’s mother’s former boyfriend.
Eamon Cooper – LEI contract target.
Mark Shields – Shooter for LEI based in Memphis.
Steed – LEI Shooter.
* * * * *
About William Alan Webb
Despite persistent rumors, Bill does not have Besquith ancestors, and he is not the result of a failed genetic experiment; he just looks that way. Born in the badlands of West Tennessee, he foraged for food and shelter in the perilous world of his parents’ home until age 21. They used the term ‘mooching;’ he saw it as wilderness survival.
Regardless of semantics, a lifetime of sloth and hedonism convinced his wife Kathy that he was a great catch, and by the time she realized her mistake, it was too late. There were kids and dogs and bills and a mortgage, and he had correctly calculated that she would decide that kicking him to the curb was too much trouble.
Having more time than brains, he attended the University of Memphis while majoring (more or less) in Creative Writing. (The university’s English Department would say ‘less.’) Ignoring the standard four-year schedule, he instead chose the more leisurely 38-year plan. This allowed him to be heavily involved in his children’s lives, which repeatedly embarrassed them in their teenage years. That, of course, was the point.
Then, in one fevered year, 2014-2015, he wrote the two books that launched the writing career the world had successfully avoided until that moment. The rest, of course, is infamy.
Bill now lives in [REDACTED] with [REDACTED].
Follow Bill on social media:
Twitter: @jointhebrigade1
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheLastBrigade/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/keepyouupallnightbooks/
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About Larry Hoy
Larry is a contributing author for a collection of anthologies, most of them dipping into the horror, supernatural, and mystery worlds. He is also a contributing member of the Malice in Memphis & Memphis Writers clubs.
When not writing, Larry can be found on the back of his motorcycle. Trips have taken him through a healthy bit of America and some of Europe. Over those years, he has collected an endless supply of stories. Now, on days when he isn’t thundering down backroads, he has been spotted putting some of his stories down on paper. This is one of those stories.
Other high water marks in his life include his wife and daughters. Together they have shared many adventures and somehow come out safe on the other side. The family also trains in Kempo-Karate, where they earned enough belts they can all hold up their pants.
If you are fortunate enough to see him out and about, please wave him down and tell him how much you loved the story.
To find out more, you can contact him at https://larryhoyjr.wordpress.com/
* * * * *
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The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy:
Salvage Title
______________
_____
Kevin Steverson
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Excerpt from “Salvage Title:”
A steady beeping brought Harmon back to the present. Clip’s program had succeeded in unlocking the container. “Right on!” Clip exclaimed. He was always using expressions hundreds or more years out of style. “Let’s see what we have; I hope this one isn’t empty, too.” Last month they’d come across a smaller vault, but it had been empty.
Harmon stepped up and wedged his hands into the small opening the door had made when it disengaged the locks. There wasn’t enough power in the small cells Clip used to open it any further. He put his weight into it, and the door opened enough for them to get inside. Before they went in, Harmon placed a piece of pipe in the doorway so it couldn’t close and lock on them, baking them alive before anyone realized they were missing.
Daylight shone in through the doorway, and they both froze in place; the weapons vault was full. In it were two racks of rifles, stacked on top of each other. One held twenty magnetic kinetic rifles, and the other held some type of laser rifle. There was a rack of pistols of various types. There were three cases of flechette grenades and one of thermite. There were cases of ammunition and power clips for the rifles and pistols, and all the weapons looked to be in good shape, even if they were of a strange design and clearly not made in this system. Harmon couldn’t tell what system they had been made in, but he could tell what they were.
There were three upright containers on one side and three more against the back wall that looked like lockers. Five of the containers were not locked, so Clip opened them. The first three each held two sets of light battle armor that looked like it was designed for a humanoid race with four arms. The helmets looked like the ones Harmon had worn at the academy, but they were a little long in the face. The next container held a heavy battle suit—one that could be sealed against vacuum. It was also designed for a being with four arms. All the armor showed signs of wear, with scuffed helmets. The fifth container held shelves with three sizes of power cells on them. The largest power cells—four of them—were big enough to run a mech.