Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  3

  Peter Donovan sat in what he'd come to think of as his seat in Lucas Brightman's rec room and smoked another cigarette. Not far from him the owner of the house was playing at watching the grass grow through a window that was as spotless as everything else in his house. No matter what had happened the day and night before, Brightman's maids always had everything back in order within a few hours. That was what Luke wanted, and he almost always got what he wanted.

  Brightman looked away from the window and moved over to the bar, pouring himself a shot of Scotch whisky that was older than Pete was by a decade or two. He looked at his houseguest with eyes that were sharp enough to cut through wood, and Pete stared back.

  "I think it's fair to say things have gotten worse, don't you?" Lucas spoke with the same refined Southern drawl he'd always had-fair became fay-uh, and summer became summah, bringing back to Pete's mind the image of an old plantation owner in a white suit, and just possibly wearing a short-brimmed white hat to go with it-and Pete reflected briefly on how much he liked the sound of that particular dialect. It spoke of breeding and money, both of which were things that he respected.

  "I imagine it would have been worse if you'd left the damn mill shut down." Pete was still angry about that. He hadn't wanted the mill reopened. The mill was where he'd been handling a lot of the munitions he and the boys were making-the boys that were left after the Black Guard came through town and locked about half of them away, thanks very fucking much-and he was still worried that somebody would stumble across their stash and make things even worse.

  "I had my reasons for opening the mill again, Peter Donovan. Don't you forget that."

  Pete crushed out his cigarette and lit another, blowing a cloud of smoke across the room. "Yeah? Like what?"

  Lucas Brightman's eyes narrowed into a squint, and he looked at Donovan long enough to make the guest in his house feel decidedly unwelcome. "I live in Collier, boy. I know these people. I might not always agree with them, but they're still my neighbors. You watch out for your own, Peter. If you don't, no one else will."

  "I don't get what you're saying, Lucas."

  "Now why doesn't that surprise me any?" Brightman looked at him for a second and then continued. Pete decided not to take offense to the old man's attitude. He was used to it by now. "Just because you and some of the boys decided to play terrorist doesn't mean I feel like watching others take the flack for it. Everyone in town is getting restless, and that is decidedly not good. You and the others, you know how to work quietly. You know how to avoid a mob scene."

  Pete nodded to show he was getting the idea. "You're actually trying to stop them from following my lead?"

  "You're damned right I am. You get two hundred angry people together without something to do that's constructive and they're going to get destructive. You know it and so do I. Normally I wouldn't give a good goddamn about that. But these aren't normal times, now are they? It is not Frank Osborn who'd be breaking up a mob scene right now. It's those bug-eyed walking tanks out there. And they don't much care if we live or die. It's all the same to them."

  Pete nodded again, considering that. "Maybe I'll keep it quiet for a few days."

  "Might not be a bad idea. Let them think they got the ones causing the troubles… or at least that they got the leaders."

  Pete smiled. "I can do that. Besides, I have a few more things to fix up before we get started in earnest."

  Brightman looked over at Pete and nodded slowly. "Just you be damn certain you know what you're doing, boy. I don't want the people of this town dead, I want them free. Am I clear?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  The two men sat in silence for a while. It was a comfortable enough silence, but Pete wasn't feeling comfortable at all. His unfinished business would help keep some of the rowdier boys from getting too itchy. He left a few minutes later, ready to get the gang together for a little party.

  4

  Later the same afternoon, long after the rain had stopped again and the ground was once more dry and baking hot, Rebecca Susan Thomerson, better known to the people of Collier as "Becka," was wondering if she'd ever be able to get back home. Wondering if she'd ever see her family again. At first running off with Dutch seemed like a grand idea, but that was when she could still call her mother and tell her everything was okay…

  Back when she could ask if her mother's new boyfriend was still there.

  … when she could make sure her mom was still doing all right and still hanging around with her latest boyfriend, Bobby…

  … hands…

  … Dallas, better know to Becka as Mr. Hands. The sick bastard couldn't keep his hands to himself, and kept trying his best to get into her pants. Becka felt it best to leave before she did something stupid, like beat his head in with a hammer, or he did something worse, like rape her and dump her body somewhere.

  Bobby gave off the sort of vibes that said he could do something like that. Becka trusted her instincts enough to leave before he could cross that line. Oh, her mom had thrown all sorts of fits at first, screaming up a blue streak on the phone and calling Becka a liar when she finally told the woman why she'd left. She changed her tune about a month later, and Becka could only guess why.

  Because it's a trap. Because he made her say all the right things so I could go home and he could get his filthy paws on me again. Because my momma loves his sick ass and I'm just a means to keep him. Because…

  She had her suspicions, but they weren't anything solid. They were just guesswork.

  Dutch was supposed to give Becka a lift back home; that had been the deal when they left Allentown, and it was still the deal now that they were supposed to be on their way back. Her fault, she was the one who wanted to see the fireworks in Collier. Dutch, big teddy bear that he was, had never tried to use that fact against her. He just kept doing his own thing, and did his best to keep smiling through it all.

  Becka knew what Karen thought, but it wasn't like that at all. They hardly ever had sex; Dutch was more like an uncle than a boyfriend. Mostly they talked. Mostly Dutch told stories about his time in Viet Nam and Karen listened like a rapt pupil, eager to learn as much as she could. It wasn't that she much cared about the war, it was more that she loved to hear him tell his tales. He was a perfect example of what Becka thought an uncle or grandfather should be. She'd never had either, but she'd always imagined what one would be like. All she'd ever had was her mom and, on rare occasions, one of her mother's boyfriends who was willing to talk to her when she was just a little kid. Most of them never stayed around long enough to give a damn about what Becka had to say. A lot of 'em just stayed for a few hours, or a few weeks if Mom was on a roll, then hit the road, never to be seen again.

  Dutch was different. He was Becka's friend, not her mom's. In his own way he cared for her, too, and that was really something special. If he wasn't so much older, she'd maybe have thought about becoming more than just friends with him. But he was old enough to be her father, and smart enough to know he was being used by Becka. They had an understanding, and while they fought from time to time, both of them respected the established boundaries of their relationship.

  Becka rolled over, looking around the area and wondering where Dutch had gone off to this time. They were in a patch of woods not too far from the edge of the lake, and pretty close to where the farmhouses started. Dutch hated being cooped up all the time, so Becka'd decided to make them a picnic lunch-peanut better and jelly on rye bread. The white bread was all gone and there was no mayonnaise left to go with the remaining tuna fish, but the sandwiches weren't too bad-just so he could get some space away from the house. They'd done some heavy petting after eating, and Dutch went off to slip on a condom, something he always did, as if putting one on in front of her was rude or something. That had been a good fifteen minutes ago. While he'd wandered off before, he'd normally waited until after they'd had sex on the occasions when they'd gone beyond groping and dry-humping.

  The shade was
good in this area, and the breeze was actually strong enough to help cool her body despite the humidity. Becka closed her eyes and just listened to the world around her. Occasionally, a cowbell would ring in the distance. The sound reminded her of when she was just a little girl, before her father left. She couldn't remember where they'd been living, but she remembered the smell of cows and the sound of the cowbells. The noise was comforting.

  She'd almost drifted to sleep when she heard the noises. Flesh on flesh, a violent slapping sound that was all too familiar from the last few years in the Thomerson household. Becka's eyes popped open of their own volition, and the sun above nearly blinded her. Perhaps she had gone to sleep, after all. The sun was in a different position than she remembered.

  She heard angry voices in the distance and moved slowly into a sitting position. Her skin felt hot and flushed. She could taste salty sweat on her upper lip as she ran her tongue there. Her body was stiff, but only a little. She moved around until her circulation was back where it was supposed to be and then she slipped into the shadows of the trees.

  The voices were coming closer. A cold seed bloomed into full-blown fear when she heard Dutch's voice added to the chorus approaching her. Dutch didn't sound angry. He sounded hurt. Bad hurt. Becka looked around for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. She spotted a decent-sized rock near her right foot, and her peripheral vision caught the picnic sack where they'd gathered the leftovers from their meal at the same time. Becka'd moved herself into the shade. She'd left their mess behind. Even as she noticed that, she noticed the shadows moving across the ground, like a wave across an angry sea, heading directly towards the bag.

  Part of the shadow broke away, stumbling and flailing as it went. The shadow raced forward, and Becka looked up to where the shadow joined with Dutch's feet. She heard laughter from farther back, and saw her friend fall to his knees not far from the remains of their lunch. Becka stifled a scream when she saw what they'd done to him.

  Dutch Armbruster hadn't ever been a handsome man, but at present he was positively hideous. His face was bloodied and swollen, and his bottom lip was split so badly he seemed to drool blood. His already crooked nose was mashed and pulped; it leaned heavily to left side of his face. His right eye was puffed into a slit, and the other eye looked like someone had rubbed the white and cornea with coarse-grade sandpaper. His arms were bruised and blackened. Becka guessed he'd tried to stop the damage to his face until he had trouble moving his arms any longer. The black shirt across his belly was partially missing, and an angry red weal ran from his navel to his right hip. A thin line of crimson ran down and stained his blue jeans black from his hip to his crotch.

  Dutch crashed to the ground with a grunt, resting on his hands and his knees. His graying hair blocked Becka's view of his face. Then, slowly, his head turned until he saw the lunch bag. Despite his obviously weakened condition, Dutch's hand and arm blurred as he slapped the sack away from where it was and sent it streaking deeper into the woods. He looked up just as the other shadows began to catch up with his. Dutch's bloodied left eye made contact with her own, sleep-mussed eyes, and he spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "Hiee, Bega, hie!" It took her a second to translate what he said into Hidey Beckay hide, but she did as he said. She slid farther into the shadows, even as her knees began to quake and her blood pressure leapt towards the heavens.

  Becka slid as far into the shadows as she could, willing herself invisible and hoping that her wish was strong enough to make it happen. Most of the men she saw were strangers to her, same as the vast majority of people in Collier, but one of the was very familiar; Karen had shown a picture of him to Becka as a warning. Peter Donovan.

  Becka felt her skin draw into gooseflesh as she remembered the man. Seeing him that one time after he left the grocery store was enough to make sure she didn't forget him. He was handsome enough, but there was something about him that gave her the willies just the same. His smile was cruel, and never quite made it to his eyes. His short, red hair looked too perfect, like he'd spent hours making sure every hair was exactly the same length. Every move he made seemed to threaten impending violence. Donovan was wearing what Becka'd come to think of as the formal uniform for redneck assholes: he had on a black T-shirt, well-faded jeans that were a touch snug but held up by a wide black leather belt just the same-naturally, the belt's buckle was a brass representation of the rebel flag-and a pair of combat boots that showed a great deal of wear. In his back left pocket was a circular object about the size of a hockey puck. She guessed it was probably chewing tobacco. In his left hand he carried a new addition to the wardrobe: the wide handle of an ax, minus the head. The hard wood was dark and wet on one end. She could guess what caused the change in color from the bleeding wounds on Dutch's body.

  Becka very much wanted to be somewhere else.

  Donovan wasn't alone, either. He had two other men with him. They were bigger than he was, one of them almost as big as Dutch, but they weren't in the same shape as Karen's ex. They were softer, less like a walking coil of muscle. Somehow that didn't make them seem any less threatening. Maybe it's the bloody baseball bats that make 'em look so mean. Yeah, I bet they're just sweeties without 'em. Becka bit her lip to stop from giggling hysterically.

  Peter Donovan moved over to where Dutch was trying to regain his footing. Dutch looked over towards the man's figure and shook his head from side to side. "No-oo. Preashe, no morah." No. Please, no more.

  "I cain't understand you, Bubba. You gotta speak up." The thick Southern accent in the man's voice didn't hide his obvious satisfaction. As Becka looked on, Peter Donovan hauled back one of his heavy combat-style boots and kicked it forward into Dutch's ribcage. Becka heard something snap even over her boyfriend's grunt of pain.

  Dutch raised an arm and mumbled again. Donovan brought the ax handle down in a savage arc, connecting with the bone in her boyfriend's scarred wrist. Nothing broke that time, but Dutch let out a full-scale scream as he went down.

  "That didn't sound like an apology to me, buddy." Donovan sounded casual and friendly, as if he were talking about the Braves and their chances of winning the World Series. "That didn't sound anything like 'I'm real sorry I messed with you back at the Piggly Wiggly.' Hell, that sounded more like an insult." He turned to face his two associates. "Ain't that what it sounded like to you, boys?"

  The shorter of the two, a man in his late thirties, with little hair left on top of his head and a great abundance of hair sticking out of the collar of his T-shirt, looked uncomfortable. "Judd's gonna be sore pissed off if he hears about this, Pete." The man had an accent even thicker than Donovan's, and he looked like he was about ready to make a run for it.

  "Then I guess he better not hear about it, Billy. You unnerstand me?" Donovan's voice was harsh, filled with threat.

  The one called Billy looked away and then down to the ground. "I reckon so."

  "Get your sorry ass over here, Billy."

  Billy looked up sharply, a wary expression on his pudgy face. "What for?"

  " 'Cause I figure the only way to keep you shut up is if you're part of it all."

  "I don't want to, Pete. I'm already on parole."

  "Well, no shit, dickless." Donovan walked away from Dutch, reaching out with one hand and grabbing Billy's shoulder. When he had a solid purchase, he shook Billy's entire body, ripping the shirt on the fat man's arm in the process. "I know you're on parole, asshole. I was in there with you. It ain't like that's a problem anymore though, is it? It ain't like there's a chance of you going to jail for this." Donovan laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Hell, you might as well be in jail right now anyway." He waved his left arm, complete with bloody stick, wildly around them. "Ain't none of us gettin' out of here unless we work together. Them assholes in the black outfits ain't gonna let us walk. You know it and I know it. Now get your fat ass over there and break that fucker's head."

  "You're the one's got a problem with him, Pete. I don't even know who he is."
/>
  "He's a stupid, Yankee fuck who thinks he can keep me from my wife, that's who. And you'll do it, 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna break this stick off onna side of your damn fool head!" As Peter Donovan spoke, he increased his volume and moved forward. Billy backed up just as fast, nodding his sweating, bald head as he went.

  "I'll do it, Pete. But you better learn not to talk to me thattaway." If the man was trying to sound confident, he failed.

  The third man with them watched the exchange with a bored expression. He scared the hell out of her, even worse than Pete. Becka suspected he'd have the same look on his face if he watched a woman get raped with a broken bottle. Despite the heat, he wasn't even sweating. He was very tall, but not really heavily muscled or anything. He was actually wearing a dress shirt, short-sleeved and white, with the button at his throat opened and the rest neatly in place. While he was also wearing jeans, his shoes were more appropriate for office work than anything else. The more she looked at him, the more he scared her. He wasn't anything spectacular. He didn't look like he regularly participated in this sort of beating, or like he did much beyond sit behind a desk and talk on a phone or dictate letters. But he still scared her. He worried her a lot.

  The man spoke softly, but his words reached Becka even from where she hid a good thirty feet away, and both Pete and Billy seemed to defer to him. "Hit the man, Billy. We got work to do when ya'll are done playin' games."

  Billy nodded nervously and raised his bat above Dutch's head. Dutch didn't even seem to notice. Becka wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out a warning or just run through the woods and never look back. More than anything, she wanted to stop the men from doing what they were doing to Dutch Armbruster, who was, despite their constant arguments, the closest thing she'd ever had to a real friend in her life.