But my rage knew no end. I went to him. Kicked him in the side. I stomped his ankle, breaking it. Moved up to his knee, stomped it twice. I went into a frenzy, kicking and stomping his back and kidneys and shoulders.
The sound of sirens screamed onto the scene and through the clamor and fury I somehow heard Jim Black’s voice behind me. He was screaming, begging for me to stop. But I could no more stop than I could stop seeing my dead wife’s face and hear my little baby girl’s screams.
I’d made it to his neck and head and I saw the perfect kill shot, right where his spine connected to the base of his skull. I raised my foot… aimed…
I didn’t hear the shot, but I felt the impact as the slug of copper jacketed lead took me in the shoulder and shoved my one-legged stance off balance. I landed on my butt and saw Jim Black, tears streaming down his face, holding the gun he’d just fired. I tried to get up on my feet, but two cops grabbed me by the arms and pulled me back.
Jim yelled for them to cuff me and they pushed me face down and dragged my arms behind my back. I wanted to fight, to claw my way back to Majoqui Cabrera and finish what I needed to finish. But there was nothing left.
They carried me to a police car and drove me to the hospital.
68
The cavalry arrived and the war ended. Both gangs had been pretty much decimated, leaving the playing field clear for the Bloods to reassert control… that whole thing about nature hating a vacuum and all I guess.
I lay in the hospital bed, reading the after action reports of what was being dubbed the Front Street Trailer Park Battle. Nine dead, seventeen wounded. Among them, James Arthur Washington Jr., the Crip I’d made my agreement with. I recognized him from his picture. Tamera Sun, former owner of the yellow VW and girlfriend of one Majoqui Cabrera also dead. Jim shot her after she shot him.
Except for Jim, Pilgrim and me, no law enforcement officers had been injured or killed. One woman, in a trailer on the other side of the park, had a bullet pass through her wall, stinging her left cheek and leaving a cut about a quarter inch in length and a sixteenth deep, before denting her refrigerator and falling to the floor. All other casualties were gang members.
Pilgrim somehow made it through with just a grazing flesh wound.
Majoqui Cabrera rested in a drug induced coma in the basement area of Denver General Hospital in the Denver Sheriff’s Department’s prisoner section, under twenty-four hour guard. He’d suffered multiple broken bones, a massive concussion, a ruptured kidney, lacerated spleen and the loss of an eye. He was expected to live.
I’d failed again.
I had two bullets removed; one from my thigh where Majoqui Cabrera shot me and the other from my shoulder where Jim Black shot me. The vest had stopped the two to my chest. I suffered three broken ribs, a broken nose, two broken knuckles, a concussion, about thirty stitches, a thousand or so bruises and abrasions, and I was still peeing blood nearly a week later. Other than that, I felt fine.
Only I didn’t.
I’d had my chance — three really — after he’d shot me, when I had my hands around his throat, and when I was trying to stomp the life from him — and I’d completely failed. Maybe he really was demonically protected.
The door opened and my father in law, Nathan Bale, walked in.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said. He looked a decade older to me.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” I said.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping resignedly. “I’d hoped you’d come to terms with their deaths.”
“Their murders,” I corrected.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“I have come to terms with it. I told you my terms the last time you visited me.”
He looked at me from under thick gray brows. “You’re a fool.”
That one surprised me.
“Just leave,” I said.
He walked over to the bed and picked up the controller, the one for calling the nurse. He set it out of my reach on a cabinet.
“No,” he said. “Not this time.”
I shook my head. “Really? All I have to do is yell.”
“Are you so afraid of what an old man has to say to you?”
“I’m not afraid. I just don’t want to hear it.”
“Why not, have you got something else to do? Someplace else to be?”
I set the papers down on my blanket covered legs. “God let them die. You know that. He could have stopped it. He didn’t. He let that monster murder your daughter and granddaughter right in front of me. All he had to do was give me the strength to move and I would have stopped him. Instead, he made me live with this. And you can accept it? You?”
“I accept it, yes. Because I understand why He allows it.”
“Right,” I said, “right. It’s all for His glory. I’ve heard it before.”
“No,” he interrupted. “No, Gil. This didn’t happen for God’s glory. God didn’t want this to happen. He’s grieving with us over this. He hates that this happened. He hates that you and I have to suffer and that we will have to wait to see them again one day. He hates all of this.”
I felt the rage build and burn through my passivity. “Then why did He let it happen?”
Nathan took a step closer. “Because the alternative is worse.”
“Worse? WORSE? What could be worse than my life… my love… my wife… my little baby girl being ripped away from me…murdered while I had to watch and listen… powerless to stop it or go to them or help in any way? You tell me what could be worse than that.”
He looked at me from those bushy brows again, his blue eyes, still so bright and powerful, blazing at me. “To have never known their love at all. That’s what would be worse and that’s why God allows bad things… allows sin… to happen in the world. Because the alternative is to make us a bunch of puppets, playthings, toys that He manipulates, placing every thought and word and action into our minds and hands and mouths. God could easily make there be no chance of sin, of anyone ever doing anything bad or harmful ever. But to do that, He would have had to make us without free will. To not have the ability to truly love and care and feel love in return. And that’s not what He wants. That’s not why He made us. He made us to have an eternal relationship with Him, with the real, true ability to share and interact with Him because we want to. Because we see that His way is THE way and that we want to be like Him.”
I shook my head, the rage boiling like molten lava. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want there to be a reason.
“Look,” he said, “before you and my daughter decided to have a baby, you knew there would be risks. You knew there would be bad days. That Marla would get sick, disobey you, and who knows, maybe even grow to hate you and turn to drugs or maybe even murder someone. You had to know that possibility existed, because it did. No matter how good of parents you and Jolene would be, there was always the chance. A bad friend, drugs, a child molester, bad choices, whatever. You, being a cop, had to know that better than anybody. And not only that, but since this is an evil world with evil people who do evil things, you had to understand that there was always the possibility that Marla might get sick, or hurt. She might have an accident. She might die or even be… murdered.”
I clenched my teeth and my fists.
“So knowing all that,” he continued, “why in the world would you take the chance of having her? Why not just go buy a nice, safe doll? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re just like God in this instance. Because you didn’t want a play thing. You wanted to be able to love and be loved. To be able to shower your child with all the treasures and happiness you could possibly give her and for her to be able to actually experience and enjoy those treasures. Not just pretend, but for real. And that is why God took the biggest chance in all of creation and breathed His very spirit into us. He gave us life… true life… sentience… and with that, in order for it to be real and true, for us to be as real and true as He is, He gave us what He has… free will. Because what would
Marla’s happiness be, what would her love be if she didn’t have free will? The ability to not be happy, to not love… even you?” He held out his hands. “It would be a lie… pretend… make believe. And how can you have a real relationship with that?”
He walked right up to me and I saw tears in those eyes. I saw pain.
“That’s what would be worse than losing my daughter and granddaughter in such a horrible way. Worse by a million times. That they never had the ability to really love. That they were nothing more than dolls and that we are all just playthings of God’s mind. That we… who we really are… are nothing more than God’s thoughts. That my Jolene was never really mine at all. That she never loved me. That I never loved her or Marla or you. That this is all make-believe. A game. That… that is what would be worse.”
The tears spilled and I felt ashamed that it was me that had caused him to have to say what he was saying. That it was me that was costing him so much.
He put a hand on my shoulder.
“God knew, from the very beginning, that we might fall. That we might choose to disobey him, to hurt Him, ourselves and each other. He hoped it wouldn’t happen. He hopes all things good, just as we do. Just as you and Jolene did when you decided to create Marla. You knew the dangers, the possibilities, but you chose to hope because of love… because of love. And now there’s pain… such horrible pain. But I ask you, if you could… would you take it all back? Would you choose for them to have never existed at all? Would you?”
I tried to hold onto my hate — my fury — my rage — I tried — I tried so hard — I wanted to hate God — for it to be His fault — His fault and not mine.
I shook my head, my own tears falling now. I saw Jolene, I felt her, I heard her laugh. I kissed Marla’s sweet face, her tiny lips, feeling her breath against me. My voice sounded like grinding boulders to my ears. “No. No, not for anything.”
69
Four months later, I sat at my computer looking at pictures of Majoqui Cabrera in a courtroom, wearing a business suit, as his sentence was announced by a woman judge. He’d refused to wave his right to a speedy trial and was found guilty on all counts in record time. The article’s headline announced “Seven Consecutive Life Sentences for Mass Murderer”. Seven life times… that was a long time for me to have to wait to get another shot at him.
I felt better. Most of my injuries had healed… the physical ones at least. The departmental psychiatrist said I was a mess… his actual words… but that I was finally showing some progress. I rubbed Pilgrim’s big melon as he slept at my feet, a fresh scar running from the edge of his eyebrow to the top of his thick skull. The gunshot wound hardly affected him at all; tougher than a Sherman Tank.
My war with God was over. He’d won. It took a lot of soul searching and several weeks of arguing and discussion with both God and Jolene’s father. But in the end I caved. My father-in-law’s logic was too solid. God’s character too good. I think I’d known it all along, but the pain and guilt had been too great. Thankfully, He’s a forgiving God.
The Sheriff’s Office, on the other hand, is not so forgiving. Earlier this morning I received my final disposition of the Internal Affairs Investigation concerning my involvement and attempted murder of Majoqui Cabrera. The basics boiled down to this; they would forgo criminal charges if I resigned without protest and agreed not to talk with the press about the case. Jim Black wanted to take it all the way, attempted murder, the whole works, but the Sheriff and the District Attorney shot him down and they offered the deal.
My lawyer wanted to fight it, but I said no. Too many memories. It was time to move on. The Sheriff let me keep Pilgrim, and that said a lot.
So here I sat. Inactive Marine, former cop, house on the market. No job, no family, no prospects. Then the phone rang. I looked at it for three rings, wondering if I should answer it.
“Hello?”
“Gil, it’s Sam Ponsiago, do you remember me?”
Sam was my first Field Training Officer back when I started with the Sheriff’s Office. He had retired shortly after.
“Of course,” I said. “How’s retired life?”
“Who knows,” he said. “Not my style… yours either, if what the Sheriff tells me is true.”
I went on guard.
“Really, how’s that?”
“We’re close, me and him. He told me everything. Quite the ordeal. I’m truly sorry for your loss. I’m sorry you didn’t get to kill the piece of garbage too. But hey, it doesn’t sound like it was for lack of trying.”
I didn’t know what to say to that so I just stayed silent.
“You still there?” he asked.
“Why are you calling, Sam?”
“I want you to work with me,” he said.
“Work with you,” I echoed.
“Yup.”
I certainly hadn’t expected that. “Doing what?”
“Private Investigation. Philip Marlow stuff. It’s a blast.”
“You’re a P.I.?” Most cops placed P.I.s about one step above security guards and bounty hunters.
“Have been since I left the department. Took my retirement and invested it in a small agency. I’ve built it up pretty nicely, if I do say so myself.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I can’t quite see myself spying on cheating husbands and wives, no offense meant.”
“None taken,” he said. “I farm those cases out for a small referral fee, but that’s not what we do here.”
“So what do you do?”
“I help people.”
Again, I stayed silent.
“Really, I mean it. I specialize in missing persons. I also help out police departments and other governmental agencies on certain types of cases. I think you’d be a good fit.”
“Look, Sam, I appreciate the offer, I really do, but…”
“I’m not offering you a job, Gil; I’m offering you a partnership.”
That set me back.
“A partnership? Why?”
“I’ve gotten too big, or the agency has anyway. I can’t handle all the cases by myself. I’ve been looking for a partner, the right kind of partner, for a while now. And here you are.”
I started to say no, paused.
“Look,” he continued, “I know the man you were back when I trained you. The Sheriff says you’re still that man, only better, more mature. I’m sure the Marines were a challenge, just like being a cop. Those jobs give you the chance to be a… well, sort of a real life super hero. You come work with me and I promise you, we’ll take that to the next level. You won’t be sorry.”
I told him I’d give it some thought and we agreed to meet on Monday. I hung up and sat there thinking. Pilgrim came over and stuck his cold wet nose into my palm. I snuggled his massive head.
A stage of my life was passing away. That’s always hard. I looked at the phone. Superhero? I didn’t feel like a superhero. I didn’t feel like any kind of hero. Heroes don’t try and murder the bad guys. I looked at the pictures of Jolene and Marla lining my hallway, then back at Pilgrim. Yes, one stage passing away, but another was just beginning.
* * *
The End
Gunwood USA
To my beautiful wife who lived through the rough times of both Gunwood and the Gyrines.
* * *
I love you, Becky.
Part I
1
The Cop
* * *
Gatling Gams
* * *
They both stared at the bloody organ, neither of them able to fix its identity or state its exact species of origin. Having followed the blood trail from its initial landing point, a smeared red splat taking the place of the proverbial “X,” they charted its dribbling, meandering course through the sawdust and dirt to its resting place near a ladder and several slabs of sheetrock.
Officer Sarah Hampton hunched down, inspecting the bedraggled chunk of meat more closely. Maybe seven inches long, with weird folds of flesh at both en
ds, and covered in blood, dust and plaster powder.
The nose-splint bothered her. Secured to her face by strips of white medical tape, the blasted thing itched like the devil, and her eyes had an annoying way of crossing every time her vision caught an edge of the tape in her line of sight. The beer mug that busted her nose two weeks ago had failed to knock her unconscious, but succeeded in making her lose her temper, something she despised. Wrapping her fist in the double rings of her handcuffs, she’d fractured the drunk’s jaw and sent five of his teeth rolling across the bar room floor like dice from a Yahtzee cup. But now she had to deal with this stupid splint.
Looking at the egg roll shaped object, she prodded it with her nightstick.
“What is it?” asked the lisping property manager of Gatling Gams Strip Bar; still under construction and several months from completion.
Sarah poked the spongy mass a last time. “Penis.”
“What?
She looked at him, then lower. “Penis. You know,” she flipped the baton expertly, bringing it up between his legs to tap his crotch lightly, “as in Mr. Happy, AKA your wang.”
“Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!” his voice rose hysterically.
Officer Hampton levered the stick higher making him yelp. She stood, one finger pressed to her lips. “Shhhhh. There might still be someone here.” She pointed toward the door they had come in. “I want you to go outside and wait in your car.” Putting her baton away she unsnapped her holster and pulled out her gun.
One long fingered hand flew to the property manager’s thin throat, the fingers splayed across his unbuttoned shirt, a few links of finely honed gold chain sparked as the rising sun’s rays found their way through seams and partitions of the unfinished structure.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 68