Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

  He put his mouth one inch from the senator’s ear. “Listen, Archie. Adjust the veil to aid vision. The gobbler’s coming right at us. You can blink, but don’t move anything else. If you itch, use willpower.”

  The Kid gathered up the guns, along with Samantha’s seat, to make her follow. A snatch of the head did the trick, placing the chair, not between two seven-foot cedar trees, but four feet back at the middle, to give her a semicircle to swing the gun. Without a sound, she sat. She did the unexpected by laying the .410 on the leaves and picking up the Kid’s pump shotgun.

  He swallowed a lump; he swallowed another.

  The disease had ravaged her. Before him was a drooped living corpse. Under each eye, she had a dark patch, and two vacant eyes sat buried into her skull. The formerly nimble hands were now gnarled, while the once-supple skin stretched across the no-longer-pretty face. Perhaps the most pathetic feature, revealed by a torn sleeve, was a broomstick arm, and her rolled-up ripped trousers showed a leg the diameter of a baseball bat barrel.

  The Kid bit his bottom lip. His hands trembled. He locked them together. She doesn’t have the muscle strength to raise the 12 gauge, but her heart will lift the shotgun.

  Try another cluck. No, a purr.

  The tom triple gobbled.

  The gobbler drew closer.

  Like a crab, the Kid scurried to Archie. He whispered. “He’s sixty yards at the rear of the forest curtain. Scratch your tail or whatever. Get still— he’ll be here soon.” He carried the same message to the others. Scrambling to Samantha, he knelt on his left knee. He touched her hand and whispered into her ear. “Show time, Baby.”

  His cold sweat tickled her.

  She thought. This is really living. I’m alive. He must be somewhere straight ahead. Wait. That cluck came from the left. There, I see him in front of a rock. I see him. I see him. Oh my gosh, it must be Goliath. Those colors: the red, white, and blue head, with brown and black scattered on the body, lots on the tail. He’s strutting showing shimmering shades. Are they bronze or gold? Oh my gosh, another tom’s stepped out. They’ve puffed up. Oh, my gosh. Listen to the sound they’re making, bum-barum, and bum-barum over and over. The sound’s deep, like the Kid’s voice.

  Whoa! Has something spooked them? A coyote, fox or what? They’ve stopped strutting. The sounds coming from the smaller turkey must be alarm clucks. I’ve read about those in the Kid’s books.

  Heeding the warning, Goliath and his counterpart ran at an angle between cedar trees and joined with other brush, thus allowing Samantha privacy from those four radar eyes. This seclusion would last seconds. She grasped the stock and slipped the thumb safety off. Her right-hand index finger glided into the trigger guard, while her other palm skated to the forearm with robot precision. Though she was sitting, she maneuvered her body to the proper shooting posture.

  The two scampered, and the smaller tom closed the distance and sped twelve inches behind Goliath. Opaque objects aided their escape but gave Samantha concealment. A rock. She stood. Ready position. Their toes tore and slashed and pushed and thrust the ground backwards, while necks strained in the manner of guitar strings. Accelerating, faster, faster. With the cover of trees they ran. She swung the pump. Solid rocks, swinging, dense brush, swinging. In the open, swinging. swinging, swinging. Snap to shoulder. Trigger.

  Ka-Boom.

  She failed to tilt forward. The recoil from the four drams of powder crashed her backward, to the left, and over the Kid.

  “Kid! Kid! Kid! Did I get him? Did I get him?”

  The Kid dropped on her. His blood raced. “Sweetie.” He wept. “You nailed both of them. The lesser tom got caught with the back part of the pattern. Oh my! Be glad you didn’t wait a millisecond, because Goliath’s head lurched toward the armor of a white oak tree two feet in diameter.”

  “Who’s better than you, Kid?”

  “You are, Sweet Pea.”

  Jim danced and spun around.

  Alotta cried. She held up her camera. “Pictures,” she sobbed. “I got lots of them.”

  Archie sat, rocking, with sounds coming from his throat.

  The Kid rolled over on his back. Spiffy flopped on him. The Kid cried “Spiffy!” while Spiffy exclaimed “Kid.”

  Samantha rubbed her shoulder. “I think my shoulder’s broken, and you two just cry and repeat one another’s name.”

  Spiffy gained a little control. “You’ll live.”

  “No, I won’t.” She burst with laughter.

  Everyone laughed.

  Too soon, the party ended. They examined the turkeys.

  The Kid hefted Goliath. “He’ll weigh over twenty-five pounds, my gosh. Samantha, you may own the Virginia record!”

  Tears streaked her face. She looked at him. “I owe all to you. Mirrors tell me I’ll die soon. Heck, listen to me.”

  “Okay, gang, listen. My watch says six-thirty. The sun sets at eight sixteen. Remember— going back isn’t downhill. We need to get Samantha out of here and into bed. We’ll stay at a motel in Danville.”

  “I’ve taken good pictures. Wait. Please let me to go to the station. I got a real story to break.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Alotta, take Little Archie with you. Put him on camera. Say good things about him. I’ll back everything up. I’ll check with you. Another report may be coming. No, an additional story will surface.”

  The Senator got to his feet. “You won’t mention the snake incident, I hope.”

  The Kid grinned like an opossum eating persimmons. “What snake’s he talking about?”

  All shrugged.

  ***

  The Kid shouldered Goliath. Spiffy carried the other turkey. At seven-thirty, they arrived at Billy Goat Rock. He ordered a rest. He put Goliath down, walked from the group, and grinned at the others before flopping under a tree. Ten minutes later he issued an order. “Little Archie, with Alotta’s help, can you two carry these turkeys a bit? The rest of us need to discuss a situation.”

  No one understood what the Kid thought, but his bass voice held a peculiar ring. Archie swung Goliath to his shoulder. “Alotta, grab the other. He’s in charge. He says go, we leave--you too, Samantha.”

  The Kid’s brain went into a ready mode: ready for bald-faced lies, ready for deviousness, ready for friendship, and ready for killing.

  He waited until they walked away. “You with us, Ross?”

  Mr. Slaughter stepped from behind Billy Goat Rock. “Yes.”

  He strode forward with a grin, while fully clad in a tan suit, carrying a violin case, a riding crop, and sporting a black string tie.

  Jim pointed a finger at Ross. “He’s duh killer. The law ain’t never been able to prove nuten’, but he’s da’ one. Put dat gun on him, Kid.”

  He pumped Samantha’s spent shell from the shotgun. “Grab thu empty, Spiffy. Samantha’ll want it.”

  Jim shuffled his feet. Then they pointed away from the group toward the forest. “Good, Kid. Use the live ammo. Shoot the son-of-a-bitch. We’ll drag’em in the woods— society will be better off. Lot cheaper too. Cost one shell.” Nervous laughter sprang from his mouth.

  The Kid nodded. “You’re the killer, Jim.”

  Jim pointed at Ross. “Ain’t so, Ain’t so! He is!” Jim dropped his arm, and his eyeballs flitted like bats from one person to the next.

  “Jim, I talked to Swampy Joe,” said the Kid. “You did hunt with him in South Carolina. He never cleans that nasty piece of transportation of his—I’ll bet your fingerprints are on the passenger side, but you vanished. He figured you left. The truth is you kidnapped Gretchen and killed her, like the rest buried here.”

  Spiffy lowered his voice to a whisper. “I researched everything, Jim. All the papers referred to her as Gail, but her birth certificate lists her first two names as Mary Gretchen, with her last as Thompson. In Columbia, an individual told me the family nicknamed her Gail. She lacked good looks—even harelipped, retarded, and black. On top of everything, they lived in an old tr
ailer. The public soon forgot her. Betcha you did the awful deed. Most of all, I went to Buncombe County. A record exists of an Arthur Reginald Smithson leaving you an inheritance of $6,266.34, not the five hundred thou’ you bragged about. How did you live these many years?”

  “All that stuff proves nothing.”

  The Kid’s tongue flicked out. “This story made the news. The authorities found a body in the Dan River, in North Carolina near Milton, NC, wearing a life preserver and a yellow ribbon tied around his neck. The sheriff’s office identified multiple lacerations and contusions on the head and evidence of, most likely, a .38 special round through the skull that finished the job. Afterwards, inability to determine the location of the murder, whether in North Carolina or Virginia, threw the jurisdiction of the case to the FBI. Two days later, a scoutmaster called the authorities. He had some scouts camping near a deserted boat ramp in Virginia. During the night, three boys started rambling and they spotted, with the help of a three-quarter moon, someone dragging something along the walkway on the launch. Bet that was you, Jim. Could you have stepped in a little blood and tracked the sample into your truck? The forensic boys and girls are at work. The Feds took fingerprints from the victim. Little Archie encouraged the Feds to feed me all the info. These prints showed the deceased had numerous felony convictions in four states. At the time of his death, he worked as a bagman while hanging around a seedy establishment near Wake County. A man along with a woman at the hangout say they can identify an interesting person who visited, made friends with, and maybe left with the illicit money handler. A hooker at the joint said the killer drove a blue-and-white pickup. Come on, Jim. How many trucks around with those colors? I’ll bet you disposed of the body in a different way to throw the authorities off-track, but before him, you killed a restaurant owner named Wong Lee. In a struggle, he grabbed your hair.” He withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket. “This container contains a sample of your fecal matter Spiffy gathered in the woods. We sent a portion to two detectives who enlisted our help. This evidence proves you killed Mr. Lee. The DNA matches the samples in Wong Lee’s hand. I talked to a detective this morning. They’re on their way to arrest you now.” He pointed at Ross. “Have a hunch you killed all in the graveyard on his property. Yeah, Jim— black hair bleached blond.” While shaking his head, he pursed his lips. “Always liked you, Jim, but the eyes say one thing, while the body says another, not to mention the times I caught you ogling young teen and pre-teenage girls. Kinda’ noticed a person or two along the way edgy about you, too.”

  “Like Archie’s wife, you mean.”

  “Yeah, her.”

  Spiffy grabbed Jim, shook him, and shoved him backwards. “Why don’t you give us the whole story?”

  Jim took five more steps back. “Made certain not to get caught. Wid a little research, I learned that Ross, in his younger days, fought in bars like the Kid. Later, he earned a fortune in Pennsylvania speculating in land. Never found out where his seed money came from. I picked people with some past trouble with the law. Mos’ of the time, I selected absentee landowners who seldom if ever visited their property. This helped keep my graveyards secret.”

  “Thought I might need this.” Ross stepped to the side, and pulled out a phone. He filmed.

  Jim paid no attention.

  Spiffy balled his fists. “Graveyards?”

  “Yeah, ‘tween here and California, got ten of ‘em. The men I killed for money, credit cards, cash, and sometimes jewelry. All women is miserable sluts. ‘Dear mother’ beat me raw with a tobacco stick. Afterwards, she locked me in a dark closet. Killed her, too. Dad disappeared on my first birthday. In school, the principal paddled me because I pulled a girl’s pants down and felt of her. A father slapped me for feeling of his daughter. I enjoyed killing them after taking what I needed. The older fat ones, such as those nurses at the hospital, proved to be easy. Say nice things and tell them I loved them, and they laid down. No thrill to kill them, though. The kicks came when I killed the young ones for sex. I orgasmed as they died. I wanted Samantha for the big prize. Bitch, she acted like she’s better than me. Wouldn’t even hold hands to cross a stream. Most played the same role. Sides, she looked similar to the girl the principal whipped my tail for. Didn’t get the moment. Never knew where the Chameleon might be hiding. I’m different from the rest of the serial killers.”

  Cradling the shotgun with his right, the Kid placed his other hand on his hip. “How?”

  “The others get caught. They play games with the police, the media, and the public. Me, I love the woods, the freedom. I ain’t going to jail.”

  Reaching up his sleeve, he pulled out a tantō and held the knife shoulder high as if to stab.

  The Kid swung the shotgun, pointing the muzzle at Jim’s right kneecap. “Believe in miracles? Don’t.” He slipped the safety to the off position. “We’re taking ya’ in. Wanta go to prison as a one-legged man? Better think. You raped and murdered, among many others, a poor retarded thirteen-year-old black girl with a harelip, yeah, a small child with little chance in this world. Jim, imagine a prisoner in the broom handle hotel with stovepipe arms, holding a yellow-handled broomstick.” At that point, his voice turned to display a mixture of false generosity, arrogance of spirit, with a touch of sarcasm… “While three or four others support you on one knee. Kinda’ tough, huh? Oh, maybe not, a number of the trustee prisoners might keep you from the ground to take the pressure off the single joint, while a few will weep for a helpless one-legged person. “Yeah, Jim, only a witch can do more tricks with a broom handle than the prisoner with cast iron arms. You’ll tell where poor little Gretchen lies.”

  Jim’s eyes enlarged, a screech tore from his throat. He said. “I liked her mouth. Forgive me!” He trembled. “Johnson Gurganus Smith. Look for a map in my bedside table.”

  Raising the barrel to point at Jim’s head, the Kid eased the tip of his finger to the trigger, while waves of disgust, and anger, and revenge, rage, and possibly the worst, hatred, swept over him.

  To add power, Jim locked his left hand over the right. Together, they crammed the tantō into his stomach; he snatched the instrument sideways, dropped to his knees, and slumped to one side, with his lips curving and twisting as if chewing on a caustic substance. His eyelids fluttered. The face contorted. The damage set off by the razor edge started a waterfall of blood, which flowed to the hilt, to his hand, to his fingers, to the ground, forming a puddle, while a stream of scarlet surged from his mouth. His eyes rolled back. His tongue fell out, dripping blood. The warm red flow dripped on a train of ants.

  Ross stared. “Died fast. Six minutes.”

  The Kid nodded. “Shock.”

  Like eighty-year-old men viewing the stock market ticker on a television screen, they gazed with blank faces.

  The yellowing spread into Jim’s crotch, and as Jim’s urine stained the air, so too did his fecal matter, cold sweat, and blood lend their aroma to tarnish the forest. No breeze stirred; no birds sang; no animals appeared; no clouds covered the sun’s diminishing rays.

  Ross removed his violin from the case. “Unless someone objects, I will play for Jim Gunther and Mary Gretchen Thompson and the others. In the end, he came clean. Johnson Smith used to live on the one-acre lot about two miles down the road. The house burned down and now he lives with his brother in Cincinnati. I suggest the authorities search the property and Jim’s entire bedroom.”

  Before he performed, the Kid tapped him on the shoulder. “Let me and Spiffy add an old sick friend with the nickname of ‘Mean Man.’”

  He played Chopin’s funeral march.

  The Kid shivered.

  Concluding the piece, Ross brought the phone chest-high to punch in the numbers. “Alotta, Ross, here sends you information.”

  “Wait.” He pushed the safety back on the shotgun. “Tell her she gets an exclusive on this story, and to copyright what you text. Yeah, Ross, give her all the info, especially concerning Gail.”

  Ross nodded.


  Spiffy stared at the Kid. “Sherlock, concerning Wong Lee’s hair, you know I never found a DNA sample in the woods.”

  “Elementary Watson, I lied.”

  “Sherlock, the man with the ribbon lashed around the neck?”

  “Oh, Watson, a grain of truth here and there in all that crap. Johnny did tell me about the fingerprints and some details about the whorehouse. Little Archie didn’t get involved in any of that. I just made all that mess up. I put the odds on the blue and white pickup. Hell, just figured it had to be him. Betcha’ a couple of people popped in his head when I said ‘a man and a woman.’”

  Spiffy kept nodding, but his arms grew still. “Aw, yeah, but what if you had been wrong, Sherlock?”

  “Let’s don’t go there. Dr. Watson, ya’ know sumpin’— I think Swampy Joe’s filthy pickup got things going in the right direction.”

  He shook Ross’s hand. “Thanks— we appreciate everything.”

  “Sure, one more thing Kid; I enjoy the forest, too. Bought an option on the property with the old timey tobacco-ordering pit. Got a key with the deal. How does this sound? Think I’ll hire three feet of concrete poured in through the trap door. You know— raise the cellar floor level, store stuff in. Good idea, huh?”

  As he fought a smile, he turned his back to Spiffy, “Get the nylon rope out of my pack.”

  The Kid tossed the cord to Ross. “Use this item in the basement.”

  Ross chuckled.

  The Kid winked, “Stay in touch, Ross.”

  Chapter 26

  The Kid and Spiffy jogged up the slope to catch the others. Rounding a curve, they found them resting under a dogwood tree. The temperature had reached ninety. All were hotter than a half-bred fox in a forest fire. Samantha smiled at Spiffy. “Piggy-back time?”

  “Sure, Honey— who wouldn’t give the queen of turkey hunters a ride?”