Chapter 61
“How do you know what you saw is accurate?”
“Because it always is,” Lucky Barrett swiftly replied. “It is always right. Ask my wife…if you could. But you can’t. You will have to take my word for it.”
The comment raised an animosity inside of Ashe that roared from his chest into his face. He wanted to see Lucky Barrett hung by his throat, a masked hangman by his side. He wanted to hear the rope snap as the executer let the bastard fall and swing. It was a hatred void of understanding and sympathy, which went against Ashe’s very being. It was an instinctual need to see the sorry sack of shit in front of him die. It was that simple. And it was unabated by any form of logic and compassion. It was an ancient form of thinking, something that had stuck around inside of mankind since the days of caves and newly found fire. It was pure. And it scared the hell out of him.
“But it can change,” Ashe pointed out to Lucky. “You’ve done proven that. And so has Scott. And so had your brother Franklin.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, startled. “What can change?”
“Death. The moment of its occurrence, that is,” Ashe clarified. “Apparently what you see, or think you see, can be changed. Scott avoided his roommate shooting him. Franklin has apparently avoided getting killed for money. You…you have avoided your own death who know how many times, I would assume, based on several circulated news stories along with the few tall tales whispered amongst the dive bars and back room poker games. It makes what you were shown completely and utterly void. No longer true. You changed it. Right?”
“What are you getting at?” he demanded.
Ashe tilted his head a little further, looking at Lucky Barrett like an amused dog, his expressions filled with bafflement and light curiosity. It was a planned move on his part, aimed at getting underneath of the Lucky’s skin, under it enough to throw him further off balance. It better have the expected affect, Ashe thought. If not, he might simply be poking a pissed off bear. That would end badly. It always ended badly. “How do you know what the pill has recently shown you to still be accurate…up to date? Is all I’m saying.”
Lucky did not answer right away.
“You do not, is the answer,” Ashe revealed.
“But…I have not changed anything,” he replied. Ashe could clearly see the condensation of sweat as it continued to pool within the folds of Lucky’s forehead. Like Scott’s tears, it reflected the illumination of the low lying lantern.
“No,” the psychologist concurred. “But the pill might have.”
“The pill?” Lucky stopped fidgeting and became eerily still.
“One pill being involved is simple,” Ashe began. “However, both Scott and your daughter also took the same pill. Two more pills have become involved in the mix. Maybe even add Franklin in the pot to spice it up a bit. Things become quite convoluted, muddied. Who knows what happens when multiple pills cross paths and intersect. I have to say that all bets might be off, at that point. The future could be continuously altering at this point, without a single outcome set in stone. And you wouldn’t know it. Would you? The outcome of this mess could be the outside police putting a bullet into your skull. There might be an exit wound…or there might not be. You don’t know.”
“I will know it,” Lucky insisted and began to pat the pocket of his expensive pants. His suit jacket had been allowed to remain on his upper torso. He checked the chest pocket of it, as well. “Where is it?” He then glared at Scott. “You have it. You took it from me.” The addict lunged over to Scott and back handed him, drawing blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Stop!” Ashe called out. “Don’t do that!”
Lucky slapped Ashe as well, with the same hand that had struck Scott. Ashe Walters refused to bleed, out of sheer spite.
“Where did you put it? Where the hell is it?” Lucky Barrett appeared distraught and mentally disheveled. He began to desperately put his hands in and throughout Scott’s pants pockets. He was searching any pocket that Scott had while swearing and cursing nonstop in short, aggressive bursts of air. Lucky was having no luck with his search. “Where did you put it? Where did you hide it?”
“Paranoid?” the psychologist inquired. “Uncertain of your future, Mr. Barrett? Fate no longer your play thing?”
“Give it to me!” he screeched at Scott, who remained still and silent.
“I think I dropped it,” Scott chose to admit, “while I was running away from your goons. I’m not sure, though. It might be upstairs. Maybe in the hallway or the bedroom”
“Liar! You hid it from me,” Lucky accused, pulling back from Scott.
“Is this the kind of man you choose to follow?” Ashe called out to the remaining armed man. The soldier had remained nearby, but chose to give himself a secure distance from what had been taking place. “A drug addict? How can you trust an addict? You can’t. You can never, ever trust an addict. It’s psychology 101, my dear boy.”
The armed man didn’t seem fazed or affected in the slightest.
Lucky Barrett began to pace the floor. His paranoia was eating away at his mental stability and he had no pill to give him the instant assurance he craved. He was coming undone. It was exactly what Ashe had wanted to happen.
He had extensively considered the man with the gun and was positive that he was no psycho. Ashe was sure of it. The man was most likely ex-military, former mercenary, turned gun for hire to men like Lucky. He had been intensely, acutely programmed to blindly follow orders from those with authority, and nothing created authority more than piles of spendable cash. But, as Ashe silently concluded, if the faith in those giving the orders was destroyed, if a possible of not getting paid arose, the allegiance would in turn suffer the effects.
That had been Ashes hope the whole time he had been knocking Lucky Barrett of his already wobbly axis. But would it work? Could he turn the minion against the master?
“Are you going to stand by his side?” Ashe continued questioning the hired soldier. “He is losing his mind right in front of you and will take you with him. Will you follow this madman to the depths of hell? I sure hope not. You don’t look like a complete moron to me.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Lucky commanded. “Give me your gun. Now! Give it to me!”
“Don’t,” the psychologist pleaded. “Use your head…your common sense. Trust your alarms, I know that they are going off right now, loud and blaring in your ears.”
But the former soldier didn’t listen to Ashe. He hesitated for a few seconds but then handed over the silenced pistol to his boss and stood at attention, like the good soldier he turned out to be. The psychologist helplessly watched as Lucky Barrett, a man on the verge, slowly unscrewed the silencing tip from the pistol. He let the piece of metal fall. It clanged against wooden floor boards. Whatever Lucky was about to do, he wanted to make a lot of undeniable noise.
It was obvious that the tension was also getting to Scott, because he chose the moment to speak, to beg, to plead with Lucky for the knowledge that he so gravely desired. “What is the pill, Lucky? Please. I need to know. Why did it show me a way to stop my own death when I only ended up in this mess, in this chair? Why did it do this to me?” His voice was cracking with emotion. “I don’t understand. What was the point?”
“You think there is a point?” Lucky spat.
“If it was God,” Scott continued, “shouldn’t there be a point?”
“You don’t believe in God,” the mad man reacted.
“Where did it come from then?” Scott continued to question. “It is not just a drug, I’m not dumb enough to believe that.” Turning to his father, “It isn’t dad, I swear.” Looking back at Lucky, “but I don’t know what it is. You do, though. Don’t you? You have to know. If you don’t, then who? Who?”
“Calm down, son,” Ashe implored.
“Why do you think that I know?” Lucky replied.
“Because you have to know,” Scott replied, growing troubled. “How could you not? So…Tell me! All of this…this had to be for a reason. It couldn’t have been for nothing. I need to make sense of it! Please!”
Lucky Barrett then unloaded the clip of bullets into Scott’s chest. Scott didn’t see it coming and before his brain could register the pain, he was dead and gone.
“He didn’t see that coming, did he?!” Lucky screamed into Ashe’s face. “Or maybe he did. Maybe he took the pill he stole from me and knew it was going to end this way. Either or. Neither nor. Now…I have killed someone. Go figure. It was inside of me the whole time. What a relief. I thought I would remain a virgin forever.”
He began a laugh that was loud and all encompassing. His entire body shook with it.
For Ashe, the man’s words became background noise the instant that the lead was pumped into his son’s heart.
There was so much blood.
“Oh god,” he bellowed. “Oh god, Scott. Hang out, son. Hang on. Oscar will be coming any minute. Oh god. Don’t leave me, Scott. Please. Please Scott…no. No. Look at me. Scott. Look at me, son. No. Jesus Christ. Jesus.” The words turned to basic groans and whimpers. He lost the ability to create words.
Ashes to Ashes Page 61