Blood Brothers

by Kate Merrill

  How would it feel to drift free in the wind?

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  TWENTY- EIGHT

   

   

  Much like a dream…

   

  Bo looked around after he crossed the third bridge and noticed a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The change brought Bo sharply back to his senses. A Confederate flag was boldly stenciled across the tailgate of a pickup truck filled with three shirtless, sunburned country boys with nothing better to do than stare backwards at Bo. Was it his imagination, or did the truck slow down when the driver spotted a black man in his rearview mirror?

  This delay widened the gap between himself and Bobby, and even after the truck turned off down a dusty road, Bo’s paranoia increased. It wasn’t just the rednecks--- the mood of the very landscape had changed. The resort traffic had thinned out. Instead of expensive, gated developments, he saw trailer camps and a makeshift Baptist church. Bo has crossed an invisible line from the New South into the old, the real South, the one he feared beyond anything rational.

  He activated the intercom in his dashboard. “Are you with me, sir? Porter’s still up ahead, but I haven’t seen any signs of the local police.” Bo was startled, then angered by the note of fear in his voice. As he waited for the static to clear, he vowed to put his old ghosts behind.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve got your back, Agent Miller,” a stranger’s voice answered. “Help’s on the way, so hang in, sir.”

  It pained him that Grim himself had not responded, but then Bo had to laugh. The rookie at the other end had called him sir, when Bo felt utterly unworthy of such respect. Up ahead, the traffic light’s green eye blinked to yellow, then red. At the same time, Bobby’s brake lights came on as he stopped. Only two cars between them now. If Bobby knew Bo was on his tail, the man didn’t show it. Even at that distance, Bobby’s somber profile was carved of white marble as he stared straight ahead.

  When the light changed, Bobby started to pass through the intersection, but instead, he turned abruptly into a parking lot. Bo hit the brakes and turned in after him, keeping a discreet distance between them as he struggled to get his bearings. He saw an ABCstore crowded with customers stocking up on booze for the weekend and a pair of gas pumps under a weatherworn Phillips 66sign. But where was the service station?

  As Bo wondered where folks went to pay for their gas, he watched Bobby pull to the far side of the lot nearest the road. Bobby turned off his engine, leaving room for cars to pass through for fuel. Bo counted nine other cars in the area, and then noticed several people entering an old concrete block building set back from the pumps. Still Bobby made no move to leave his truck, although his head had swiveled towards the door of the concrete building. What the hell was he up to?

  Bo maneuvered to where he could survey the scene without calling undue attention to himself, then shut down his own engine. Heat built up inside his car, so he powered down the windows. Sweat pooled under his shirt, so he loosened his tie. He longed to shed his jacket, but it concealed the gun and shoulder holster hanging heavy on his ribs.

  The concrete building had a narrow front with heavy iron bars on its one small window. A faded red awning mounted above a steel security door said Kit n’ Pete’sSportsman’s Store. Bo’s heart raced with dread--- the place was a gun shop.  Images of White Supremacists crowded his mind. They waved their hoods and shouted epithets at Bo. He reasoned with himself to get a grip and focus on reality. He spoke into the intercom to relay his situation and position.

  “Good job, Miller…” another strange voice responded. “Sit tight. The Catawba sheriff’s in the neighborhood.”

  Bo groaned. Okay, the good guys had a fix on his dilemma, but time was passing. Scanning the lot, he saw one car with a lone occupant. The vehicle was a tan, late-model Ford Escort, a style also favored by rental agencies. The driver was a large blond, much like the mystery man Diana Rittenhouse saw at the Open House.

  Adrenaline jolted through his body as Bo strained to see inside the car’s dark interior. No sign of the plastic purse woman or the boy, but was it possible? Maybe little Juan was lying on the back seat? Bo had always had a second sense about these things. Was the prize less than ten yards away, yet hopelessly beyond reach?

  As minutes passed, the blond man glanced at Bobby, then quickly looked away. But Bobby noticed the exchange and stared back from across the parking lot. The longer Bobby stared, the more agitated the man became. Bobby was a bomb about to detonate in this explosive situation, so if this was really the ransom drop, what the hell was Bobby waiting for?

  Bo decided the blond guy wasn’t working alone.Clearly everyone was waiting for some kind of signal, so likely the preacherwas inside the Sportsman’s Store. When he stepped outside, all hell might break loose and Bo couldn’t risk it.

  He got back on the intercom. “I’m going in…”

  “Negative, Miller!” Grim himself responded. “Take one step out of your car, and you’re fucked!”

  “Sorry, sir, too many bystanders. If our man’s in there, someone’s gonna get hurt.”

  Until a moment ago, Bo had never heard his boss resort to obscenities, but as Bo disconnected, Grim’s language would make a teamster blush.

  Bo’s legs were jelly as he crossed the concrete. He felt the blonde’s eyes follow him through the security door, and once inside the dim space, he was assaulted by curious stares. As his old goblins raised their ugly heads, Bo imagined the angry snarls of Ku Klux Klansmen superimposed on the faces of everyone in the store. He knew he was crazy. On the other hand, he’d bet a month’s pay that black men seldom entered this place.

  As his eyes adjusted, Bo saw the space was much bigger than it appeared from outside. It was laid out in a series of narrow, deep rooms. The first room was relatively innocent, devoted to fishing gear with a display of stuffed bass on the walls. The next passage was reserved for rack after rack of camouflage clothing and a bow and arrow display. Heads of slain deer adorned the hall. Their glassy eyes gazed down mournfully at the weapons of their destruction and the fashions worn by the well-dressed killer.

  Next came the firing range, where for a fee, fathers could teach their sons how to shoot. These sons could whip up a good healthy blood lust--- family values to pass down to the next generation.

  Finally, Bo entered the gun sales room. It was almost as impressive as the firearms display at Quantico. The walls were lined with glass cases filled with rifles, carbines, and shotguns, while the cases below housed revolvers, semiautomatics, and enough ammunition for a third world army. Best of all, the featured assault weapons were currently available to the general public, thanks to the former President allowing the ban to expire.

  Bo took a deep breath, his mind reeling with the futility of it all. His eyes probed the room, seeking the face he had memorized from the bogus driver’s license. He saw children much younger than the Columbine kids who shot up their school, some the same age as the first grade victims at Sandy Hook. Their little noses were pressed against the glass cases, hopeful that Santa would leave a shiny new gun under the tree.

  Then, as Bo’s gaze traveled up to adult level, he spotted the ponytail. The shock of seeing the preacher, just as he had visualized him in his nightmares, caught him off guard. The man was smaller than h
e had imagined---clad in boots, jeans, and a black tee shirt sporting the agonized face of Christ on the cross. He was showing his Beretta Minxto the man behind the counter, asking to buy a magazine of cartridges.

  For a split second, the preacher turned and they were face to face. Bo struggled to keep his expression neutral, but when the preacherregistered surprise, then anger, then unconcealed hatred, Bo had to turn away. The man’s eyes glowed like the burning coals of hell. Was it racial prejudice, or had Bo been made? With as much cool as he could muster, Bo turned and casually left the store. If a confrontation was inevitable, it would be better if it occurred outside.

  The sun blinded him--- it was much like a dream. The heat shimmered in slow motion just above the pavement. All colors were so intense they hurt his eyes--- bright blue metal case for the local paper, orange case for the Charlotte Observer. Outside the barred window, a white ice chest hummed like crickets on a hot night.

  Bo casually dropped two quarters into the orange case and lifted out a newspaper. As he leaned against the wall and pretended to read, he saw the preachercoming out. The Berettawas still in his hand. He shoved in the magazine.

  Then three things happened at once:  The blond man stepped out of the Escort and pulled a gun out from under his jacket. From across the parking lot, Bobby spotted the gun and climbed from his truck, holding the red gym bag. Finally, the preacher lit up a cigarette.

  That was the signal! Bo could hardly breathe. The preacher had the balls to flick his lighter while balancing his weapon and cigarette in the other hand. He grinned and winked at Bo, then turned his back, cupping his hands to shield the flame from the wind. Bo reached under his jacket for his Glock, but the preacherspun to face him, his gun pointed at Bo’s chest.

  Bo viewed the barrel point blank and the words Jesus Loves You on the front of the preacher’s shirt. He heard the explosion and felt the bullet pass through his hand before it entered his heart.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  TWENTY-NINE

   

   

  The distant wail of sirens…

   

  Bobby’s eardrums shattered with the explosion as Beaufort jolted backwards, then lay lifeless on the concrete. Bobby dropped the red bag, while Beaufort’s blood gushed in a river down towards his shoes. At the same time, the blond man rushed at Bobby, his weapon drawn.

  Adrenaline flooded Bobby’s veins as he dove behind the door of his truck. Lying prone on the seat, he lifted Jed’s shotgun from its hiding place in the boot, then rolled outside, using the door for cover.

  The blond man pointed his gun, but hesitated a moment to reach down and grab the red bag. In that split second, Bobby aimed the old Winchester and fired. The blast sent the blond man reeling across the lot, but then Bobby heard another explosion. A searing, red-hot pain ignited his shoulder and his head cracked against concrete.

  Every fiber of his being screamed at him to rise and run, but Bobby couldn’t move. Gravel burned his cheek while his arm was twisted all wrong under him. Through a haze of pain, he saw the man with the ponytail disappear around the building and heard the distant wail of sirens before his world turned black.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  THIRTY

   

   

  The hush of death…

   

  The elevator lurched upwards, leaving her stomach on the first floor. Diana clung to Matthew’s arm as the numbered buttons blinked, then chimed, and the door sighed open, spilling them into the brightly lit hallway of the Critical Wing.

  Muffled hospital sounds always filled her with dread. “You okay, Matthew?”

  “I’d rather be fishing.” He smiled half-heartedly and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  All they knew about yesterday’s tragedy was gleaned from the evening news: bungled ransom exchange…federal agent dead…two men injured. Not much to go on. Only one week ago, at the Open House, unspeakable violence had entered Diana’s life and it would not go away. She didn’t know why it knocked at her door, but she was sick of speculating. Though the violence was indirect, like an assault on her neighbor’s house, she remained dizzy with guilt and grief.

  Matthew pulled her close as they hovered outside Bobby’s door, but her attention strayed to two uniformed policemen. They were guarding the Intensive Care unit at the far end of the hall. “The jerk who shot Bobby’s in that room,” Matthew informed her. “A nurse told me the buckshot tore him up pretty good. He’s in a coma.”

  Diana couldn’t muster any sympathy for Bobby’s attacker, but she was amazed by Matthew’s ability to elicit information from total strangers. She’d left his side for only a moment to visit the restroom, and he had used the opportunity to charm privileged information from some nurse.

  “I’d like to get a close look at that fella,” Matthew continued darkly. “From that picture they showed on the news, I feel like maybe I know him.”

  “How could you possibly know him? Besides, they won’t let you see him.” Matthew’s tone frightened her, but in fact, the snapshot of the boyish, innocent-looking young man shown on TV looked familiar to her, too. He resembled the blond she’d seen waiting in the car at the Open House.

  “Ready?” Matthew asked gently.

  In truth, she was terrified to enter Bobby’s private room, afraid of what she might find. Nothing made sense anymore. Bo Miller was dead, and little Juan was still out there somewhere--- alone, frightened, or worse. The image was so unbearable that everyone avoided speaking Juan’s name. This avoidance scared her even more, like evading the word cancer when everyone knew the patient was terminal.

  She swallowed hard as Matthew pulled her towards the room, but suddenly the door flew open of its own accord and Juanita Cruz burst into the hall. She sobbed and cursed in Spanish as she elbowed past Diana, then thrashed free of Matthew’s concerned grasp.

  “God, what’s wrong?” Naturally, Diana feared the worst. A bitter, antiseptic odor drifted into the hall, along with the hush of death. Diana tasted fear at the back of her throat as Matthew reached out to steady Juanita.

  “Leave me the hell alone! Bothof you!” Juanita broke loose and bolted for the elevator.

  “We best take a look…” Matthew’s voice was hoarse with emotion.

  But Diana couldn’t tear her eyes from Juanita, who pounded her fists against the elevator before staggering inside. “No, I’ll follow Juanita. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  Before Matthew could stop her, Diana pulled away. Seconds later, she was jabbing the elevator button, her heart pounding somewhere outside her chest. As she waited, the floor indicator lights followed Juanita’s progress to lobby level.

  When Diana finally boarded, the blasted lift stopped at the next floor to admit chat
tering interns headed for the cafeteria. When they finally reached the first floor, she shoved them all aside in time to spot Juanita’s purple halter-top flashing through the glass exit doors. Instead of heading towards the parking lot, Juanita ran across the lawn, scrambled over a stone embankment, and then jogged into a naturalized area that fell away to a pond. Diana sprinted after her. Clearly these grounds were off-limits to visitors, but Juanita kept running towards the water. Did the fool woman intend to drown herself?

  Diana’s sandals snagged in the heavy ground cover. Heat hit her like a wall, yet she managed to gain enough ground to see Juanita’s platform heel catch on the stony bank. She tumbled down the steep hill, barely latching onto a young willow that saved her from an unintended swim.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Diana panted. Juanita was sprawled out on the ground. Her hands and knees were skinned. Mascara streamed down her cheeks as she lifted agonized eyes.

  “It’s all my fault!” She choked as Diana looked on in horror.

  * * *

  Matthew’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. The room was unnaturally cold and reeked of antiseptic. The lump in his throat swelled as he observed the inert figure on the bed. Bobby’s entire torso was encased in a cast, his right arm strung up to a network of pulleys. A weak ray of sunlight bled through glass, illuminating bubbles in an IV bottle, its tube inserted in the patient’s left arm. Bobby’s eyes were wide open and unflinching---staring lifelessly at the door.

  “How are you feeling, buddy?”  Matthew’s words were barely a whisper.

  Gradually, Bobby’s eyes focused in recognition, and he waggled his fingers in a greeting. Matthew was so relieved to find his friend still alive, that he failed to sense another presence in the room. But as he stood in silence, smiling at Bobby, hairs began prickling on the back of his neck.

  Matthew jolted in shock when he saw the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”

  The man’s heavy neck and sagging face were silhouetted at the foot of the bed. An unlit cigarette dangled between his thick lips, and his pasty complexion was the color of death.