Midnight Lullaby

by James D F Hannah

  Simms raised an eyebrow. "I don’t, but you've peaked my curiosity with that."

  I told him about Mitch Fisher asking me to look for his sister, and everything that had happened so far, including the beat down by the skinheads. At the rate I was telling the story, it would make the newspaper, and Billy would have something new to complain about.

  "I doubt Walters is a bigot," Simms said. "Walters is a scumbag who wouldn't care who showed up at his office door so long as they had a cashier's check for the retainer. On the question of the skinheads, however, I have a fair idea who one of the two guys would be." He sat back behind his desk, scribbled something on a scratch pad, tore the sheet off, and slid it across the desk. It was a name—Earl Teller—and a local address. "I'll bet that's the kid. Teller’s not what you'd call a 'deep thinker.' Used to have dealings with him, juvie type stuff, and he kind of fell into the Brotherhood several years back."

  I folded the paper and put it in my coat pocket. "What do you suppose will happen if I find out Walters is attached to the Brotherhood?"

  "Hell if I know," Simms said. "Maybe people won't care. Maybe they will. Most folks don't seem to mind the Brotherhood much so long as they mind their own business."

  I pointed at Simms. "But what about you?"

  "Me? I wouldn't give a shit if the whole compound blew up. They're an annoyance whenever a news show comes to town, wants to explore 'hate in small-town America' or whatever they're blathering about, and traffic gets tied up for a week. Plus, I'm not a fan of the narrow-minded and willfully ignorant. They give the good people of this county a bad name."

  I shook my head. "Lofty as that speech was, I more meant what happens for you? You think you can win your wife back with this?"

  Simms' expression soured, as if he'd been crop-dusted in a grocery store aisle. He pivoted around in his chair to stare out the window. "Carl, can you drive Mr. Malone back home?'

  Thompson placed one of those baseball mitts he claimed to be a hand on my shoulder. "Sure thing, Sheriff."

  I shrugged. "Guess it's my time to go then."

  Still with his back to me, Simms said, "Guess it is."

  17

  Woody and I found Earl Teller at his house, laying underneath a car on blocks, fiddling away on it, stopping occasionally to drink a beer. It was about nine in the morning. We were in Woody’s pickup, parked down the block from Teller’s house.

  "Think this kid knows anything?" Woody said.

  "I doubt he knows not to stare at the sun, but he's what we've got," I said. I looked over at Woody. "What d'you do before you did whatever it is you do now?"

  "Things."

  "That's vague. Narrow things down?"

  "Different things."

  "Thanks for clearing it up. Were you a cop?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I'm curious. You owning an arsenal isn't all odd. Owning canister grenades could be seen as slightly unusual. Also slightly illegal." I tapped fingers across the dashboard. "You’ve been my sponsor a while, and I realized I don't know much about you."

  "You never asked," he said. "You knew enough, you asked for help."

  "Yeah, but I'm a dumbass. Didn't have anyone else to call."

  "This isn't making me feel sparkly, Henry."

  "I suppose I thought maybe knowing something about you might be good."

  "I don't do touchy-feely, Henry. I'm your sponsor, and apparently I'm your sidekick. You want more than that, call your therapist."

  Then he turned up the radio.

  Woody and I didn't say much to one another the rest of the day. Teller went and hung out at someone's house for the afternoon. About three in the afternoon, Teller left and drove to Browne's Hardware on Miller Street. The faded and chipped letters on the storefront sign proclaimed "Established 1947."

  We parked and watched Teller go inside.

  "Old Man Browne," Woody said. "Bennett Browne. His dad owned the store when it started, and Browne's run it since the 70s. Son decided he didn't want the place, but he went to WVU, got a civil engineering degree, moved to Pennsylvania, left Old Man Browne to keep plugging away, showing up every day."

  I remembered the store. Billy used to go there all the time when I was growing up, getting pipe or soldering supplies. I wasn’t a kid with much curiosity in anything like that, though, so Billy’s efforts to teach me something were met with disinterest at best, abject failure at worst.

  A few minutes passed and Teller walked out, a large box under his arm. He dumped it into the back of his car and drove off.

  Teller made three more stops—another hardware store, and two pharmacies—and came out a few minutes later each time, carrying big boxes or bags each time. By then the sun was setting and street lights were coming on and businesses in Serenity were hanging up the "Closed" signs. Teller headed home, and we followed.

  "Hardware stores and pharmacies," Woody said.

  "I doubt Teller has either an interest in home improvement or the world's worst allergies, which leaves another possibility, doesn't it?"

  "It does."

  "That possibility being our boy is farming the ingredients to cook meth."

  Woody nodded. "They grow up so fast these days."

  "And they're so fucking stupid when they do."

  18

  Doria pulled her car up next to mine, cop-style, driver's side to driver's side. We were in the Walmart parking lot outside the town limits. I was drinking coffee and eating a burrito I'd nuked in the microwave at One Stop before driving over.

  "That's disgusting," she said, wrinkling her nose at the burrito.

  "You smoke," I said. "This is worse?"

  "You smoke too."

  "I'm not a hypocrite about it."

  "Calling me out on hypocrisy won't earn your way back into my lacy underthings, so you know."

  "Understood. How's things in the office?"

  "Glorious and boring, Alice. Walters didn't bother to show up yesterday and dragged in late today. There're whisperings that the other partners aren't real happy with him."

  "Good."

  "Good for you; for the rest of us, not so much. Lawyers are crabby, ungrateful fucktards on good days. When someone slaps them on the wrist, they get pissy."

  I took a bite of the burrito. Solid ice. "Fuck this," I said, and chucked the rest out onto the parking lot.

  "You’re littering," she said.

  "It'll bio-degrade." A beat. "Eventually."

  "That thing will outlive cockroaches and Keith Richards in the nuclear apocalypse."

  "Haven't you heard? Nukes are out. The apocalypse will be all about zombies."

  I looked toward the Walmart entrance. A woman in stretch pants warped to the fabric's limit rode a motorized shopping cart out of the store. Her basket overflowed with snack cakes, frozen pizzas and Mountain Dew.

  "You think Walters killed Bobbi?" Doria said. "Or had her killed?"

  "No clue," I said. "But I figure I'll keep poking around until something happens. Folks might not be happy with me and that could bounce back on you, if they connect us. These guys, they're not afraid to get physical."

  Doria reached into her glove compartment and produced a semiautomatic pistol. Out of her purse she brought a snub-nosed revolver. She pointed at the semiautomatic. "This is the one I keep in the car," she said. She gestured to the revolver. "That one lives in my purse. And not that you looked, but I've got a few others at my place, so if someone shows up and they want to cause trouble, them trying to get physical won't be an issue. While we're on the subject of getting physical, when do I get to see you again?"

  "When would you like to?"

  "Tonight? If you'd like that."

  "I'd like that. Can I call you?"

  “Works better than sending me a letter. Let’s do my place. Your crib is too much like a dorm at the saddest college ever.” She smiled and started up the engine, rolled up the window, blew me a kiss and drove off.

  I sat there. "Gal's got an arsenal," I said to myself
. "Why's everyone got more guns than me?" My knee chose that moment to throb, a kicking answer to my question.

  "Point taken," I said, and pulled out of the parking lot.

  19

  Teller got an early start to his day; he picked up his supplies from the pharmacies and hardware stores then drove to Sheetz and headed inside. We followed him, because we didn't have much else to do, and parked outside.

  Woody reached under his hoodie and brought out a Sig Sauer. "You carrying?"

  I had the gun Woody had given me in my coat pocket. It was heavy and awkward, and I hoped I didn't have to use the damn thing, but I sure as hell wasn't going anywhere without it these days.

  Woody put his gun back in his hoodie pocket and opened his door. "Come on," he said. I followed him to Teller's car. He leaned against the hood and rested a foot on the bumper.

  Teller came walking out with a "don't give a fuck" strut, lighting a cigarette and cradling a twelve-pack of Natural Light. He snarled at the sight of us.

  "Get off my car, fuckers." He looked at me and a dim light of recognition flashed behind his eyes. "I remember you. What you want, faggot?"

  Woody smiled and looked at me. "Tough guy."

  “Balls made of marble, I bet,” I said.

  Teller took a deep drag off his cigarette. "You cocksuckers need to get off my ride and haul your fag asses back to where ever you came from." He gestured toward me with his cigarette. "Done kicked your ass once. I got no problem doing it again."

  "I wouldn't say it was a fair ass kicking," I said. "Clubbed me upside the head, tied me up, bitched about my beer and my cable. Besides, it was two of you, and only one of me." I motioned toward Woody. "You didn't beat him up."

  Teller smiled, and the cigarette angled upward between his lips. "Whatever, faggots.” He spit the cigarette out, set the beer on the ground, pointed at Woody. "I'm gonna fuck you up." Pointed at me. "Then I'm gonna fuck you up." He smiled again, a mouthful of yellow teeth. "Then I'm gonna find your mom, and I'm gonna fuck her in the ass, because that's how she likes it." He rolled his shoulders back, twisted his head until his neck cracked, cranked his body toward Woody, and put up his fists. "You first, fucker."

  "Sure thing, sport." Woody pushed himself off of the hood of the car, unzipped his jacket, and let swing a right hook that caught Teller in the jaw. Teller's head snapped and his body whipped back "Matrix"-style. He spun on his toes like a ballerina and face-planted on the pavement.

  Woody patted Teller down and tossed a set of car keys to me. "You drive his," he said as he hoisted Teller over his shoulder and carried him toward his truck. "Follow me."

  Woody threw the bucket of water on Teller. Teller snapped back to the real world with a start and a scream, followed by the realization that he was naked and handcuffed to a flagpole. We were outside Woody's house; I shivered under my coat. The temperature was dropping and snow was sputtering from the sky.

  "See," Woody said. "I told you he wasn't dead."

  Teller was so skinny, he hurt to look at, his sinewy body covered in bad Nazi ink. There were swastikas and more SS lightning bolts, the death's head, an assortment of runes. Along the left side of his rib cage in someone’s piss-poor excuse for handwriting, was "We must secure the existence of our people, and a future for White Children." Underneath that was "14/88."

  He banged at the flagpole with the handcuffs. "You faggots get me the fuck off of here," he said. "Let me go or I'm coming back here with my white brothers and we'll fucking destroy you."

  "Uh huh," I said. "Asshole, you've got no negotiation room here. You, or that shriveled up roll of dimes you call a dick."

  He curled his lip back. If he thought it made him seem tough, he was wrong in many, many ways. "This some queer sex shit? Fucking faggots. You think ass-fucking me gonna make me one of you?" His gaze whipped back and forth between Woody and I. "This is an AIDS thing, ain't it?"

  I open-palm smacked him upside the head. "Teller, if we were gay, do you think you’d be our first choice? No one in his right mind would put his dick anywhere near that pathetic shit-chute you call an ass."

  His teeth chattered an insane, uneven rhythm, and his body convulsed as a wave of cold rolled over him. He closed his eyes and sucked in some breaths. "What do you want then?" he said as he calmed down.

  "Answers."

  He steeled his face up into grade-school stoicism. "My name is Earl Teller, a blood member of the National Brotherhood for the Advancement of European Heritage. I have sworn an oath to follow to the death the pledge of the 14 Words—"

  "Oh fuck this." I stood up and said to Woody, "Have at him."

  "With pleasure," Woody said. He raised the water hose and opened up the spray. The water shot straight into Teller's face, and he tried to scream, but he choked and gagged as the stream caught in the throat.

  I let it carry on for a few seconds, enough to scare Teller, before I made a slashing motion across my throat and Woody cut off the water. Teller shivered and pulled at the cuffs and flung himself around wildly. I figured he’d be stupid enough to dislocate his shoulder.

  "I want to know about what's going on with the stores in town," I said.

  Teller looked at me with dead, empty eyes. "The National Brotherhood for the Advancement of European Heritage has sworn to uphold and protect the ideals of the natural superiority of the white race, and as such—"

  "Hit him again," I said.

  Woody opened up the hose on Teller. It was longer this time, and Teller’s body spun and tried to get away from the water and couldn't.

  Once Woody had turned the water off again, I said to Teller, "We've got nothing else to do today, and hypothermia’s not out of the question if you wanna keep up your 'white power brotherhood' bullshit, so it'd be in your best interest to answer a few questions for us."

  Something that might have been intelligence shone in his eyes. Synapses dormant for years sparked for a moment, and then the moment was gone, replaced by the look of a wild animal, acting on instinct.

  "The National Brotherhood—" he said.

  I heaved a sigh. "Do it."

  Woody opened the nozzle full blast. Spray misted toward me, and it felt like needles against the exposed skin of my face. I couldn’t imagine what it was like on Teller. I didn’t want to, either.

  Woody stepped closer toward Teller, and the force of the water hit Teller harder. Woody angled the hose up to catch Teller in the face. Teller struggled to pull away from the stream, and fear registered on his face. Legitimate fear. That fear that people get when they realize how deep the shit is that they’re standing in, and somewhere I saw that Teller thought he might die today.

  I looked to Woody. "Shut it off." Woody took another step forward. Teller's body vibrated, and he wrenched himself in different directions, his body contorting itself in painful positions. The handcuffs clanged against the pole like a fire alarm bell, and Teller's sinews stretched and popped in his arms. Blood dripped from his wrists, mixing into the water pooling around him.

  I smacked Woody across the shoulder.

  "Goddammit, I said to shut it off," I said.

  Woody turned the water off. His mouth did that almost-smile thing. "Sure thing," he said.

  Teller shivered uncontrollably, and his teeth chattered so hard they might crumble to pieces.

  I crouched back next to him. I said to him, "You wanna try this one more time?"

  He sucked in air through his nose. “I'll tell you, I'll tell you, just so long as you don't fucking spray me again. Okay?"

  "Talk."

  He sighed. "The stores, they're giving us the shit, and we take it and make meth." He hit me with a look that was equal shares hatred and exhaustion and fear. "Now let me the fuck go."

  "Good lad." I smacked him lightly on the cheek. His skin felt like a slab of fresh fish. "See how simple that was?"

  We cuffed Teller’s hands behind his back, and we kept him naked since he seemed less likely to do anything stupid that way, but we took him inside
and draped a blanket over him and let him sit on the living room couch once Woody had put towels down.

  Woody and I drank coffee. Steam rolled out of the cup and Teller eyed it with envy.

  "How'd it get started?" I said.

  Teller might have shrugged; he was shaking so hard it was difficult to be certain. "Don't know. I got told to pick up supplies from these places two or three times a week, and that was it."

  "That National Brotherhood bullshit about 'purity of body and spirit,' how's that fit into this?" I said.

  He looked at me. "I do what I'm told. They said to make these pickups, and it's what I do. You live here, watch the news, see how people are, how they live. Meth makes money, it’s that simple. We make the shit and sell it to the mongrels and the race-mixers, and they eat it up. We can't make enough."

  Earl Teller was a charmer, I had to give him that.

  I drank more coffee. "What about Walters? How's he fit into this?"

  Teller shrugged. "Fuck if I know. I do what I get told to do, that's all." He shrugged again. "I'm cold."

  "I bet you are. And my face hurts where you and your buddy tried to loosen my teeth. Pain is part of life, ain't it?"

  Teller stared at the ground. "Wasn't nothing personal. I got told to get you to leave the lawyer alone."

  “And you never thought to ask why?”

  "I'm a sworn blood member of the Brotherhood and a soldier in the army to keep the white race free. I'm not in the 'asking questions' part of shit. I'm in the 'getting shit done' part of shit."

  Woody laughed this time. "That makes you a bitch then, right?" He came up out of his chair and went halfway across the room and looked at Teller. Teller puffed his chest out, a small bird trying to make himself seem bigger, tougher. "That's all you are, is a bitch. You're the bitch boy for a goddamned brotherhood—" Woody tossed air quotes around "brotherhood" "—of bigots, rednecks and crackers."