by Ethan Cross
Allen pursed his lips. “There was some strange, metallic disc hovering over the field, and I think I saw it beam one of the neighbor’s cows up into its belly. But other than that, it’s been a pretty quiet night.”
The Sheriff laughed. “That problem falls beyond the realm of my jurisdiction. If you do see anything unusual that’s a bit more my speed, be sure to let me know. In the meantime, lock yourself and the family up tight and don’t open the door for any strangers. Do you have a weapon in the house?”
“No, I don’t believe in guns,” Allen said.
Marcus wondered if Allen’s pistol was registered. He wasn’t familiar with the way things worked in Texas, but he knew that the Sheriff could probably run Allen’s name and discover that Allen did own a gun.
The Sheriff nodded. “If you do see anything, just barricade yourself in the house and contact us. Don’t try to be a hero. I know that you’ve got more sense than that, but I’m telling everyone the same thing—just in case. There are a lot of people that think they’re going to save the day like some scene from a movie, but what ends up happening is that they get themselves or others killed.”
“All right, Sheriff. If we do see anything, trust me, you’ll be the first to know. Good night and good luck catching your fugitive.” Allen waved and walked back toward the porch.
“We’ll need all the luck we can get. He’s a slippery one. Good night, Allen.” The Sheriff and his men began to pile back into their vehicles.
Marcus couldn’t believe his eyes. They had actually pulled it off. If he had the power to give Allen an Oscar for his performance, he would have done so without hesitation. Since he had no Oscars to give, he would instead reward the burly, old English teacher with a big hug and kiss—whether he wanted them or not. Finally, some good luck for a change.
Just as the Sheriff was about to get back into his cruiser, he rested one hand on the open car door and said, “Allen, one more thing.”
Allen turned back to the Sheriff.
“I’m truly sorry.”
“For what?”
As soon as the words left Allen’s mouth, the Sheriff raised his gun. Marcus counted seven pops. Seven bullets into Allen Brubaker’s chest. Allen’s lifeless husk fell to the steps of the porch with a dull thud.
His eyes widened with horror and anger. He wanted to run from the house like a madman and strangle the Sheriff with his bare hands, but he tried to keep his emotions in check. He had a responsibility to Allen’s family.
Loren ran toward the door, but he blocked her.
He took aim at the Sheriff. He knew that he could end the man with a single pull of the trigger. The red shroud descended over his eyes.
A voice in his head urged him to squeeze, to kill. The man had just murdered Allen. He had every right to strike him down where he stood.
The alleyway back in New York, the scream, the blood … No. I can be better than this. I’m better than him. I’m not a murderer.
He had always been amazed at how books and movies sensationalized cops gunning down the bad guys without a second thought. Everyone thought that taking all that someone was and would ever be was an easy thing to do, if it was justified. Maybe it was for some, but not for him.
The Sheriff moved toward the house.
He lowered his aim and fired two shots in the dirt at the Sheriff’s feet. He swung the gun toward the deputies and placed a bullet in close proximity to each, driving them back to cover and stopping any advancement.
Loren fell to the floor, screaming and crying. The children just stared out the window, probably trying to wrap their minds around the finality of what they had just witnessed.
Allen Brubaker’s life had been cut short by the same type of injustice that he had spoken out against. A good man had been slain for no reason. In death, Allen had become a testimony to the injustice that he knew plagued the world.
Marcus knew that bad things sometimes happened to good people, but if it was the last thing that he ever did, he would make sure that bad things happened to the bad people as well. Not vengeance—but justice.
29
Alice was one step shy of insanity. How can I choose?
She could turn the gun on Ackerman, but what if he didn’t load the gun this time either. They would all be dead for sure. Her mind was a hurricane of questions for which there were no answers, a maelstrom of confusion that thrashed with such violence that it threatened to rip her apart from the inside out.
“Excuse me, Alice,” Ackerman said, as if he were asking her to pass the salt. “I don’t mean to convey the impression that I’m not thoroughly enjoying our little game or watching you sit there trying to bring order to all this chaos, but can we please speed this up a bit? I do have a few other things I planned on accomplishing this evening.” In the same calm, nonchalant manner, he added, “And if you don’t hurry up, I may do something that you’ll regret.”
She dropped the gun and wept.
“Shut up!” Ackerman pounded his fist against the table.
She could see his anger rising, hellfire creeping into his eyes.
“You’re going to pick up that gun and play the game. Do you want to know the true meaning of suffering, Alice? If you don’t pick up that gun, I’m going to show you. Now pick it up.”
Out of pure fear, she reached down and retrieved the gun.
“Good. Now I’ll save you the trouble of your next decision. Your son goes next. Point the gun at him and pull the trigger.”
She pointed the gun at her son.
She put her finger on the trigger.
She tried to numb the horrible sensations that crept over her consciousness and convoluted her capacity for coherent thought. Once again, she tried to rationalize the situation and tell herself that the only hope of saving any of their lives was to do as she was told. But like almost every other difficult decision faced in life, there was no black-and-white, clear-cut answer.
“Pull the trigger. Death is not the execution. It’s the pardon. Murder is an act of mercy. It’s the amnesty granted to spare someone the burden of living a life of pain and anguish. The world is chaos. Life is pain. Release him, Alice. Pull the trigger.”
She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it. There has to be a way out of this. There has to be. Then, it came to her.
The devil that had violated her world required a sacrifice of blood and would not be appeased until the debt had been paid. So, I’ll sacrifice myself.
Her only hope was that her death would not be in vain and that, by her actions, her children would be spared.
She pointed the gun at her own head and pulled the trigger.
30
Surveying the grief-stricken world that surrounded him, there was only one way Marcus could describe what he saw—darkness. In the absence of the light of Allen’s life, darkness had descended upon the home of the Brubakers.
The children and Loren huddled together in the corner, swaying back and forth and sobbing. He wanted to comfort them in some way. He wanted to tell them that everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. Number one, things would never be the same for them. Number two, they were all well on their way to joining Allen.
He looked back out the window and saw the Sheriff and his men appraising the situation from behind the cover of their vehicles. He had to keep them pinned down, so they couldn’t circle around the house. So far, they hadn’t tried to return fire, but that fact didn’t fill him with any false hopes. He knew the Sheriff had a plan, and even as he formulated his own plan of attack, he had to assume that the Sheriff’s plan was already in motion.
He should have shot the Sheriff dead where he stood, but he had vowed to never do such a thing again. If it came down to their survival, he hoped that he would be able to break his pledge. But in all honesty, he wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to pull the trigger. He had to find a way to make sure that it didn’t come to that.
A voice called out from behind the cover of one of the cruisers. �
��Come on out, kid. Let’s not make this any more difficult or bloody than it has to be. You’re the one we want. If you come out peacefully and surrender, we’ll let Loren and the kids live. Nobody else has to die tonight.”
“You’re right, Sheriff. Nobody else has to die tonight. All you have to do is turn yourself in, and I’ll let you live. I’ve got you surrounded, and I’m ready to accept the terms of your surrender. Throw out your guns and come out with your hands up.”
“Don’t play around now, kid. This is the only chance you have, and it’s the only time I’m going to offer it.”
In response, Marcus took aim and fired. He placed two rounds in the vehicle’s hood, a foot in front of the Sheriff. Then, he fired two rounds into each of the four tires visible from his position, crippling both cruisers.
An icy silence hung in the air. “If that’s the way you want to play it, kid. Then, that’s the way we’ll play it.”
He ejected the spent magazine and slammed a fresh one into the weapon. As he chambered a round, he said, “If you or any of your men make a move toward this house, you’ll find out exactly how I’m going to play it.”
The Sheriff didn’t respond.
He hoped that his actions would make them hesitate for a few minutes, but it wouldn’t be long before they tried something. The officers were too exposed, though. Their vehicles were too far from any type of cover. They were probably waiting for backup. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it soon. The longer he hesitated, the more their chances of survival decreased. He had to do something that the Sheriff wouldn’t expect. He always felt that the best defense was a good offense, so that’s what he would do. He would go on the offensive.
“Loren, I know it’s hard, but I need your help if we’re going to get through this.”
She wiped the tears from her eyes and pulled herself up from the floor. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked like a strong gust of wind would blow her over. But he knew that she would do what needed to be done. She was tough. He had seen her in action earlier.
“Where’s your car parked?”
“In the barn, right there behind that row of cop cars.”
He looked out at the barn. There was no way they could make it, none he could think of anyway.
From across the room, Charlie said, “My car’s parked around by the back door.”
His wheels began to turn.
If they made it to the car, the Sheriff wouldn’t be able to follow with flat tires. The Sheriff wasn’t stupid, though, far from it. The elder cop could have had the entire perimeter covered in one way or another, even if it was just one sentry. They might have dropped one man off in the dark before approaching the house. But maybe not? Regardless, Marcus knew that he had to play it as if they had.
For some reason, the Sheriff seemed to want them alive. Otherwise, the vigilante could have just burned the house down with them in it. He tried to quell a lingering sensation in the back of his mind that the Sheriff was one step ahead of him and had been since the beginning.
Adapt, improvise, and overcome. “Do you have any other weapons in the house?”
Loren thought for a moment and then said, “My husband has an old double-barreled shotgun. He used to go hunting. He hasn’t been in years, but I think he has a few shells left. Other than kitchen knives, those are the only real weapons we have.”
He looked out the window and checked on the Sheriff. “It’ll have to do. We need to hurry. I need the shotgun, an old t-shirt, a can of hairspray, a coffee can or a small trash can or something like that, a lighter, some matches, and all the bullets you can find.”
31
Click. The first squeeze of the trigger didn’t end her life.
Alice hesitated before she pulled the trigger again. She didn’t want to die, and she had always been taught that suicide was a one-way ticket to the fire. She hoped that God would grant her leniency due to the extenuating and coerced circumstances surrounding her demise.
She hesitated for a second longer, but this time, she pulled the trigger over and over in quick succession. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. She paused and then squeezed again. Click. Click. Click. She was still alive.
The gun wasn’t loaded.
She dropped the impotent weapon to the floor. Her immediate reaction was great joy. After all, she was still alive. She had stared death in the face, and in the end, she had the guts to truly sacrifice herself to save her children.
The sense of joy lasted a split second before she realized that she had broken the rules once again.
She fixed her eyes upon Ackerman’s face to gauge his reaction. His gaze was cold, but devoid of stronger emotions. She could detect no signs of the rage she had seen burning in his eyes earlier. Now, she saw the black eyes of a shark. She wondered if this was the same look that the spider gave the fly.
Then, the darkness faded from his visage, and he smiled a warm, loving smile. It was as if a different person sat across from her. The man she saw now was handsome with kind eyes. Ackerman had transformed.
This transformation should have filled her with some small sense of hope, but she dared not let herself be optimistic. She knew what lay beneath the surface of these calm waters. Maybe this is only the eye of the storm?
“You remind me of my mother, Alice.” She thought of Norman Bates. He continued. “I believe it was Marion C. Garrety that said, ‘Mother love is the fuel that enables a normal human being to do the impossible.’ I also like a quote from some psychologist who said, ‘Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.’ It’s a powerful thing, the love of a mother. I would guess that it’s just some primal instinct that mankind has yet to exploit, corrupt, or filter out—but it’s astounding, nonetheless.
“In a world where everything else will fail you, where everything else falls away and doesn’t begin to live up to our expectations, a mother’s love remains true. I can think of no other bond or loyalty that is harder to break. I sometimes wonder how different my life may have been if my mother hadn’t passed away when I was young. I don’t remember much of her. She died along with my unborn baby brother due to a complication during her pregnancy. I don’t even remember her funeral or visiting her grave. But I remember her love.”
He took a deep breath before his gaze went distant. “I sometimes think that my whole life has been just one long nightmare, and at any moment, she’ll wake me up and tell me that it was all just a bad dream.”
Ackerman stood up from the table, and she noticed the beginnings of tears in his eyes. “Take care of your children, Alice. Don’t take them for granted. Go put them back in their beds, and when you wake up in the morning, convince them and yourself that this has been nothing but a bad dream.” He turned and walked toward the door.
She was still in shock at the sudden change in his mood. Joy overwhelmed a part of her, but another part wondered if he was merely toying with them. Before she even realized the words had come from her mouth, she said, “I told you there was a God.”
Ackerman stopped dead.
Idiot. Dwight had always said that she never knew when to keep her big mouth shut.
When the killer turned around, she saw no signs of animosity. He looked toward the floor for a moment and then back at her. “For my sake … I hope you’re wrong.”
“It’s never too late,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“To turn things around. To choose a different path. It’s never too late.”
He grinned. “I have a friend that tells me the same thing. Time will tell, I suppose.” He stared deep into her eyes. “Good night, Alice.”
With those words, he turned and left as silently as he had entered their lives.
She untied her children and held them tighter than she ever had before. From that moment on, she vowed to never take her simple life for granted. Every day was a blessing, each moment a gift. As she rocked back and forth and squeezed her children, she wondered if she would e
ver be able to let them go.
32
Charlie sat motionless on the hardwood floor of the old Victorian home’s parlor, his knees curled up to his chest. Marcus knew exactly what the teenager was thinking. He knew the symptoms of a guilty conscience all too well.
As he stared out the window, keeping a vigilante eye on the aggressors just beyond the porch, he said, “What’s on your mind, kid?”
“What’s it to you? You don’t even know me. If you hadn’t come here, my dad …”
“You’re right. Your dad’s dead because of me. But that’s not what you were thinking. You were sitting there replaying every hurtful thing you ever said to your father—every argument, every hateful look, every time that you cursed him under your breath. And you’re thinking how you’d give anything to take it all back and have one last chance to say that you’re sorry and that you love him. But you’re not going to get that chance this side of heaven, kid. So get over it. He knew.”
“Knew what?”
“How much you loved him. And he loved you more than anything. That’s why he rode you so hard. He wanted to help you become the good man that he knew you’d be someday.”
He glanced over and noticed for the first time that Loren stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor listening to their conversation. “Your dad died protecting his family. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He wouldn’t want you to be sad or guilty. He would want you to live a good life and be the best man that you can be, and I know that you’re going to make your father proud. Your family needs you to be that good man now more than ever.”
Charlie said nothing, but he could see a gradual softening in the boy’s eyes. Loren waited a moment and then entered the room. “We’ve gathered everything you asked for,” she said. “I’m not sure what you’re going to do with it, but you’ve got it.”