by Larry Enmon
The choices we make in life define us.
Her dad said that to her once. But more often than not circumstances do as well. If her dad were still alive she’d be in another place—not doing this. He’d always been so sure of her. That she’d make something of herself. That she’d do great things in life. As a kid, all she’d ever wanted was to please him. What would he think of her choices? How ashamed would he be to call her his daughter? She still recalled the excitement of their first hunt.
Jesse had just turned six the week before. She stared out the pickup truck window at the featureless landscape around Laramie, Wyoming. The fresh coffee aroma filled the cab. Her dad drank a lot of coffee. He was a good dad. His warm, reassuring touch could calm her from a bad dream and encourage her when she had doubts.
“How’s the collection going?” he asked.
Jesse had received a stamp collector starter kit as a birthday present. “Okay, I guess.”
“I bet you’ll find something rare in that stack of stamps that came with the kit. Maybe an Inverted Airmail.”
If she did, they’d all be rich. Those drew over $40,000, according to the booklet.
“So you sure you’re up for this?” he asked.
He had one hand on the wheel and held a McDonald’s cup with the other. Steam rose from the top, and he blew on it before taking another sip. His smile told her he was kidding about being up for today. He kidded a lot. Not like her humorless mother who never smiled—never kidded.
“Uh-huh,” she replied. She stroked the head of Buddy, the family beagle on the seat between them. He let out a dog sigh and nuzzled a little closer. The heater was busted in the old truck again, and the morning chill made Jesse shiver. In a quiet voice she said, “What’s it like?”
Her dad shifted his gaze from the road to her. “What?”
“To shoot something?” If anyone would know it was him. He’d hunted all his life and downed elk, deer, and anything else to put meat on the table.
He didn’t answer at first. His lips pulled tight and he stared straight ahead. Finally he said, “It’s kinda like a game.”
She studied his face, but it gave nothing away. “Game?”
“Yeah, the animals know humans are dangerous. And we know that they know. So we try for some advantage. We have to outsmart them—a game.”
She wasn’t satisfied with the answer. She stared out the window as a herd of cattle grazed in the cool September morning. “Why didn’t Mama come?”
Her dad frowned and shook his head before taking another sip. He didn’t make eye contact. “She’s not a hunter, like us.” He reached over and goosed her until she giggled. Buddy hardly moved, only releasing another lazy sigh.
There were things Jesse didn’t understand. Things about her mom and dad that were never discussed. Like why they hadn’t slept in the same room for the last year, why her mom never smiled or, for that matter, hardly even spoke to her dad. Why her mother sat in her bedroom with no lights on when Jesse and her dad watched TV or played cards. Her mother rocked for hours in that old chair, humming some song from long ago. She wasn’t a happy person. She loved Jesse, in her own way, but her daddy never held back, as if all the love and attention he couldn’t give Mama, he showered on her.
She had looked forward to this day for months, but her nervousness made her scared. Scared she’d mess up. She eyed her dad. He’d wanted a son so bad that that when she came along he named her Jesse, spelling it the same way a boy’s name was spelled. That’s what Mama told her. He’d turned his girl into a first-rate tomboy.
If daddy wasn’t working, he spent every moment with her. Taught her how to fish, skin animals, and stalk prey. After much pleading, her mother finally relented and allowed him to teach her to shoot for her fifth birthday. The day she held a rifle for the first time, something happened she couldn’t explain. Something about the feel of the cool metal and slick wood stock sent chills through her. It wasn’t much of a rifle. A one-shot .22 with iron sights. But that feeling stayed with her each time she handled it. Did everyone feel that way?
Most days, after her dad picked Jesse up from kindergarten, they’d set up targets and shoot. At first, the expectation of a sudden explosion so near her face made Jesse flinch before pulling the trigger. Her dad helped her to relax and explained that if she knew when the shot would come, she’d always flinch—and miss. She must become the master of the surprise shot. A slow, even squeeze of the trigger that caused the rifle to shoot by itself without jerking the trigger.
By the end of the school year she’d learned all the basics. That summer she’d improved so much that her dad entered her in the kids’ target shoot at the county fair. When they placed the trophy in her hand, it was the proudest day of her life, and her dad’s. No one so young had ever claimed that prize. Her picture appeared in the paper days later. She kept a copy tacked up on her bedroom wall. Her achievement. Something she did on her own.
Jesse rummaged through her suitcase and took out the folder. She opened it and smiled. This relaxed her, made her feel like being back home. She fitted the jeweler’s glass in her right eye socket, slipped on the sheer cotton gloves, and picked up the tweezers. She ran her fingers across the stamps. Yeah, she’d screwed up, but the truth always won out. She downed the last of the drink before getting to work on her collection.
16
Frank and Rob meandered back into CIU just as Terry stepped from Edna’s office.
“Guess what?” Frank said.
Terry stopped in midstride. “I give up.”
Frank didn’t have a delicate way to say this so he just blurted it out. “There’s a contract on Levern out of New York.”
Terry blanched and spun around, directing him and Rob into Edna’s office.
“Well, shit!” Edna exclaimed after hearing about their lunch with Ford. “Nothing on this Jesse guy?”
“Nope,” Rob said.
She glanced at Terry. “Do we have a responsibility to warn Levern?”
Terry shook his head. “Regular folks would get a warning, but if we divulge information that screws up a federal wire for a crook, we’ll never hear from Ford again.”
Edna tapped her pen on the desk a few seconds, her gaze thoughtful. “The chief’s office is going crazy about these killings, doesn’t matter that it’s drug dealers. A gang war is still a gang war. That child getting hurt when the trailer exploded only makes a bad situation worse. If Levern gets whacked, that’ll just torque things up another notch.”
Frank and Rob went back in their cubicles. Frank didn’t like stuff he couldn’t explain. He stared at his wrist again and rubbed it. If you dug deep enough there was always a reasonable explanation for anything. He took the magnifying glass and scanned it. The soreness had almost disappeared. What did Alma put on it?
“What’cha doing?” Rob craned his neck watching him.
“Nothing.”
“What did you do to that thing? It looks 100 percent better. Figured you’d need a stitch.”
“I put something on it,” Frank mumbled. Carry a little in my purse all the time.
Frank wasn’t sure where he came down on things like ESP and other supernatural phenomenon. Might have some valid aspects. Probably not.
But what happened next caused him to rethink his position. As he pondered last night with Alma his cell rang—it was her.
“Frank, I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed last evening. You’re a great cook. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her voice took on a smoky sexy tone. “In fact, it got better as the night went on.”
What does she mean by that? He must have waited a little too long to reply, because she said, “Hello … still there?”
Frank came awake. “Yeah, sure. I enjoyed it too.”
Now the hesitation came from her end of the line. Frank waited.
“So … I wondered if you’d join me for dinner tonight?” she asked. “Have a roast.”
Frank
wanted to see her again. In fact, he’d planned to give her a call in a few days and suggest another dinner date. She’d beat him to it. Did that mean something?
His chest tightened. “Yeah, sure. That would be great. Can I bring anything?”
“A bottle of that delicious red.”
“Give me your address.”
Frank hung around the office late. Nothing to do but kill time until he drove to Alma’s. The rest of the unit had cleared out. In the quiet of the empty squad room, his mind drifted back to that night at Ricardo’s. That’s what kicked off this gang war—the hit on Ricardo. With all that had happened since, that single fact had gotten lost. Frank still had too many unanswered questions about that night. Waiting for forensics was like watching the first part of a mini-series, and three months later seeing part two. What rendered the two guards unconscious? A plant-based substance? Who killed Ricardo? Why was he killed? If Alma wasn’t the redhead, who was?
Frank doodled on the notepad and got into his full slouch position. Tomorrow he would deconstruct the whole Ricardo killing piece by piece. If his death wasn’t just a coincidence, what did that mean? Still, a feeling he was missing something nagged him. Something as big as Dallas and he just couldn’t see it.
Edna startled him sticking her head from her office. “Going to sleep there tonight?”
“Just thinking.” Frank blew his nose.
She strolled out with her briefcase, switching off her light. “Why are your eyes so red?”
“High pollen count today.”
Edna opened her purse and dropped a couple of gel tabs on his desk. “Try these. The grass pollen this time of year does a number on me too. These are the only things that work. They’re prescription.”
Frank scooped them up. “Thanks.”
She sat on the edge of his desk. Frank always enjoyed it when just the two of them were alone in the office. That’s when the real Edna came out. He loved the real Edna.
“I want you to contact Levern.”
He tried reading her neutral expression while tearing open the allergy tabs package.
“Let him know his life might be in danger—no details. Just put him on his guard.”
“Why do that for a crook?” Frank asked. He was happy she’d decided to do it but still wanted an explanation.
She stared at the floor for a moment, her lips becoming tight lines. “I have enough rotten memories for a lifetime from when I worked uniform.” She looked up. “Don’t want to carry around any extra baggage.” Her expression softened.
Frank popped the tabs in his mouth and took a swallow of water from his bottle. He had saved a half dozen lives in his police career. When he thought of Levern, his mind automatically defaulted to that night when he rolled up on the young black kid bleeding and almost dead. To save a life was to give another a second chance. Sometimes he thought it would have been better if Levern had just died. But he didn’t. Frank wanted to believe that everyone could find redemption—even him. He still didn’t want to give up on Levern—not yet.
“I understand,” Frank said. “Thanks, Edna.”
She nodded as she turned to go.
He left five minutes later and swung by a liquor store to pick up the wine. The mid-October sunset was the best he’d seen—a broad streak of orange, red, and yellow across the western sky. He always put himself in position to view sunrises and sunsets. Rob said he was weird, but for Frank, it was necessary. Perhaps even spiritual. He drew energy from the sun. Call it a vitamin D thing or whatever. Nikola Tesla believed it. Days without sunlight sent Frank into a Seasonal Affective Disorder spiral during which he’d go for hours and never utter a word. Couldn’t survive in the Pacific Northwest. When these bouts happened, everyone gave him space.
Alma said she lived near White Rock Lake. Just before sunset he turned on West Lawther. Bikers, dog walkers, and joggers crowded the hike-and-bike trail that circled the lake. He scanned the million-dollar homes. Pretty nice neighborhood for a university professor. Before he got to Jackson Point, he found the address and swung into the drive beside the house.
As he stared at the place, a sense of déjà vu swept over him. He gazed at the small, natural stone cottage with the white picket fence and yard overflowing with wild flowers.
He had been here before.
* * *
Jesse adjusted the scope tighter on her target’s head. She stood under an ancient oak, behind a junkyard fence in southeast Dallas. This dirt alley between the fence of the junkyard and the fence of the homes to the south offered the perfect shooting location. Her car was parked a few feet away with the back passenger’s door open. The shadows of the tree camouflaged her from a distance. The rifle stock rested on the fence, and filtered sunlight painted a dim shadow of the rifle’s suppressor on the grass. Early morning and early evening shots were the best. The sun could be used to highlight or blind the target. She shifted to a more comfortable standing position and studied him pacing behind the hip-hop club, talking on his cell.
According to an old Texas Monthly article, her target ran the local chapter of the Crips—one of Levern’s associates. He wore a wife-beater tee shirt and baggy black cargo shorts. He motioned with his hands when he spoke. Probably trying to cut another dope deal. Jesse moved the scope to the right and took slow, even breaths. A couple of his guys stood by the club’s back door watching their boss rattle on. They looked bored, as if they wished they were anywhere else.
Jesse moved the scope back to the target. He was in his mid-twenties, maybe late twenties. He lit a cigarette and laughed, unaware of how close he was to death.
That’s what people do. They go about their lives never thinking about death. Then one day it comes calling, and they all want more time.
Death didn’t bother Jesse. The thought of it actually warmed and consoled her. She’d lost so many people in this life. So many she’d loved and who loved her, the idea of joining them in the final great adventure calmed her.
Jesse ranged the distance at a little over seven hundred yards—easy shot. But she liked her targets stationary. Leading a target from this distance could be tricky, especially with the cross breeze—she could wait.
* * *
Her dad made her understand that getting the kill on the first shot was the most important thing a hunter could do. That day when she was a kid shooting in Uncle Bill’s pasture changed everything.
The bump of the cattle guard signaled they’d arrived. Her uncle’s half-mile-long dirt road led to the house and barn. It looked like an island in a vast sea of pasture. They drove past dozens of Black Angus grazing on either side. When her dad stopped, Uncle Bill came out to meet them. He shook hands with her dad, and she gave her favorite uncle a hug. Buddy sprang from the truck and greeted Uncle Bill’s dog, Skeet. While Uncle Bill and her dad visited, Jesse ran inside to see what Aunt Janet had made. After milk and chocolate chip cookies, they left her aunt at the house to make lunch and drove to a back pasture. Jesse had been there many times. Her dad made the drive about once a month to visit his brother and shoot prairie dogs. Uncle Bill had several colonies living in a ten-acre stretch.
They unloaded the equipment from the pickup, and her dad rolled an old quilt onto the ground. Jesse always loved the grassy smell of the back pasture—a rich fresh scent. Back there, away from the road and the house, only the wind, sky, and lush green grass remained. She’d spent many hours sitting on the tailgate, watching her dad and Uncle Bill shoot the little hole-dwelling critters. Today it was her turn. She licked dry lips and rubbed her hands down the legs of her jeans.
“Okay, Sis.” Dad always called her Sis when she was on the range. His way of helping her relax and focus. “You know how it works. Pick your target and stay on it. Don’t shoot when it’s moving. Wait for it to settle down.”
Uncle Bill stood in the bed of the truck with a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes. He scanned from left to right. “Lordy, lordy, never seen ’em so thick.” He jumped to the ground and pointed. “
The most are over there, just this side of that little rise on the left.”
Her dad adjusted the quilt and an old sand bag for the rifle rest. He held the .22 while she dropped to the prone shooting position. Even after the snack, her stomach felt hollow, her mouth so dry she couldn’t even spit.
Her dad checked the .22 and made sure the bolt cycled properly. Uncle Bill leaned against the tailgate of the old Ford and sampled the pint of whiskey he kept hidden from Aunt Janet. He screwed the cap back on and folded his arms. All eyes were on her, and the excited, nervous feeling wouldn’t go away. She’d never experienced this on the shooting range.
Jesse took a deep breath as her dad slipped a bullet into the chamber. He closed the bolt, winked, and took a knee, handing her the rifle.
“Keep your finger off the trigger while you select your target,” he said. “Once you have him, cock it, and ease your finger into the trigger guard.”
Her sick-looking smile must have given her away because he patted her back. “You’ll be fine—just remember what we talked about.”
She lowered her gaze to adjust the sight picture. Keeping the top of the front sight level and between the rear sight, she scanned the landscape looking for a suitable target. Her eye picked up movement to the left. Jesse zeroed in on the prairie dog. Without taking her eyes off him, she cocked the rifle. She took a breath and released half as the front sight became crystal clear on the thing’s head. Her finger moved to the trigger and she jerked it. The shot went wild to the right. A puff of dirt rose behind the critter. She dropped her head and her heart sank.
“That’s okay,” her dad whispered and stroked her hair. “Take a minute and relax.”
How could she relax? Her stomach was so twisted and knotted she felt like she’d throw up.
Her dad spoke in low comforting tones. “This isn’t like target shooting. It’s different. When you’re getting ready to end a life, it feels different than just poking a hole through a piece of paper. It’s more serious.”