by R.M. Haig
September 16th, 2016. 10:20AM
Waycroft, Indiana
The drive to Safe & Secure Self Storage was brimming with suspicion and and anxiety, both feelings justified and appropriate for what he was about to do. The root of the suspicion was obvious; it was the anxiety that was harder to explain and understand. It was likely due, in part, to the fact that this was about all he had left. If he found something as innocuous as Christmas decorations, as Rusty had suggested, inside of unit 33-L, he and his case would be essentially dead in the water. He would have nothing, and nothing was unlikely to sway a jury in the face of whatever evidence Ron Boudreaux and his department had dreamt up to present against Chucky and his interests in the death of Billy Marsh.
Outside of that, the anxiety was probably due to that familiar and now wearisome sense that he was being followed. He was positive about it this time, just as he'd felt positive about it every time before. It would be different this time, though, because if there was, in fact, a Buick LeSabre on his tail again this morning, whomever it was behind the wheel would likely take umbrage at the fact that he was fixing to cut the lock off of Rusty and FGSI's storage unit to expose its contents to the world at large.
Perhaps that would lead to a confrontation...
Perhaps that would lead to the revelation of a second suspect, the man who aided and abetted Rusty Parker in his crimes against the small town of Burlwood, Indiana. Perhaps the driver would be the man who snatched Timmy Lane right out of the night so many years ago. Perhaps it would also be the man who lured Billy Marsh to his death. The man who helped Rusty stay out of prison, even when the bright lights of the Federal Bureau Of Investigations were beating down on his forehead in the heat of the original investigation.
Perhaps in the storage unit there would be solid evidence that Russell Davis Parker had been The Butcher Of Burlwood all along. Perhaps there would be a missing Cadillac, a missing Dodge van, old implements of murder and dismemberment, old clues that were never discovered by the authorities and brought to bare against one of their prime suspects. Perhaps there would be a collection of thumbs and decomposing remnants of mummified children's penises taken from them while they hung upside down in some deranged ritual slaughter so long ago.
Or, alternately, perhaps there would be nothing, which was exactly what he was afraid and anxious of. Either way, it was just a matter of time until he would know as he saw the sign of Safe & Secure rising from the horizon. His heart pounding, he guided the Malibu into the drive that led to the familiar perimeter path that encircled the compound. Once again he took the narrow alley that was signed J-M and cruised along between a multitude of storage lockers, two buildings of them sandwiched tightly around the pothole infested and poorly maintained service way. Before long, he was in front of 33-L and was shifting the Malibu into park.
Patting at his side to be sure the Beretta was firmly in place, that it was ready to pull at a moment's notice, he turned his vehicle off and removed the keys from the ignition. There would be no vehicle chase this time, he intended to stand his ground in the face of anything that may come. Taking one last breath before a period in which he would likely be breathless, he reached into the backseat for the bolt cutters that Daryl Lane had given him and opened the driver's door to step out. Looking in both directions, looking up in his extreme paranoia, he approached the garage door of the unit and examined that sparkling chain that stood in contrast to those rusted relics that hung on all of the units around him.
As he prepared himself for whatever he was about to see, he was momentarily tempted to bow his head and pray for a result that favored his case. This was an incredible shock to his system, as the thought of praying to anyone or anything hadn't crossed his mind in more years than he could count or remember. The very notion was ridiculous, and in recognition of this he paused and wondered what in the hell was becoming of him. Perhaps he'd lost more of his mind than he knew in this endeavor, perhaps he was too far gone to return at this point, even if he wanted to.
After his moment of sheer disbelief at himself and his decaying psyche, he shook his head ferociously to eject such futile thoughts and ideas from his mind. When they were gone and absent, as they should've been from the beginning, he set the business end of the bolt cutters down on the broken pavement so that he could get his hands on both of the operating handles firmly. His fingers settling into the grooves along the back of the red rubber grips, he squeezed them tightly together in what may've been a far too tardy test of the tool's functionality. If they'd been broken all along, this would be a little late to figure that out.
Luckily enough, when he moved the handles together he saw the small mouth of the cutting blades close in overtop of each other, just as they were designed to do. Looking around once more and taking another preemptive breath, he pulled the handles wide apart and watched the device open up. Lifting it up was awkward, as much of the weight was in the actual scissored end, and putting the blades around the shackle of the Masterlock padlock was just as challenging. In time, he had the tool in place and was ready to make the cut... ready to expose the secrets of this unit, ready to find the final nail that would seal Rusty into his coffin, just as he deserved.
Flexing his pecks and shoulders, he muscled the device through the steel of the lock and watched it split in two with only the quietest of clicks. The strength of the drop-forged steel meant nothing in the face of the cutting blades, just as anything but a guilty verdict for Rusty meant nothing to Jake. The intentions of whomever placed the lock meant nothing in the face of a challenge issued by Jacob Gigu?re to prove that Rusty's hands were clean and clear of bloodstains both long dried and freshly wet. Pulling the cutters away, he surveyed his work and found it satisfactory, for a change. He could now turn the body of the lock and slip the shackle out of the chains it had once held captive. With that done, he could pull one end of the chain through the clamps of the door and it would be unlocked. Its secrets would be protected no more, the contents of the unit would be open to all who wished to see them.
Pulling the chain through a link at a time, his heartbeat jumped tempo and maintained a hurried pace until the mechanism was free and open. Bordering on hyperventilation, he grabbed hold of a handle near the bottom of the door and prepared to make entrance to the unit.
Ready to see anything, ready to see everything, he lifted and pressed with a Herculean thrust and the corrugated aluminum wall flew up in loud protest into the interior of the building, objecting angrily with a trail of dirt and dust raining down beneath it. Some of the dirt blew into Jake's eyes, and more than a reasonable amount ended up in his open mouth as he was mid-grunt in the effort. Spitting and trying to rub his vision back into being, he wished he hadn't been so cavalier in the big moment. Surely, opening the door slowly would've done just as well.
When he had wiped enough that he could finally see again, he peered eagerly into the space that might serve to answer so many questions. A space that could potentially hold evidence that would exonerate Chucky of all the charges brought against him. A room that could take a man off of death row and put another on an execution table in his place.
It was dark inside, save for the first few feet of the unit, and he could see nothing. Where the sunlight fell on the concrete pad inside, this unit was empty. That meant little, considering it was twenty feet deep and could house anything in the dark recesses beyond where the sun agreed to enter.
Bent on finding the things he was after, Jake took a few steps inside as he retrieved his phone and turned on the flashlight. Still pressing forward, he directed the glowing LED to the right side of the ten-by-twenty -- where he still saw nothing. Sure that the answers must be on the left side of the unit, he took a few more steps and swept the light slowly from one end of the space to the other -- where he also saw nothing.
In disbelief, he continued his march and pressed on with his mission, moving forward and sweeping the light side to side in search of anything besi
des vacancy; anything besides what he was seeing. Moving slowly, scanning side to side and up and down, he found that the entirety of the space was filled with nothing. There was no Dodge Ram van, there was no Cadillac Brougham, there was no bloody bandsaw, there were no bony remnants of thumbs stolen from small children, there were no boxes of false financial statements or methamphetamine, there were no Christmas decorations -- there was absolutely fucking nothing.
Forcing himself to start breathing again, Jake noted immediately the smell of oil and gasoline inside the small space. As he walked deeper and deeper in, he nearly lost his footing as his shoe slipped on a particularly slick patch of concrete beneath him towards the back of the space. Turning his phone to the ground, he saw a spot of black in the center of the unit that could only be the stain of old motor oil left behind by a leaky block. There had been a vehicle here at some point recently, and it wasn't a sparkling new Lexus or BMW that called this place home. It was something old, something of vintage. Something that was gone now, and for a reason.
They knew he would be here...
They knew he would break in, that he wouldn't be satisfied with not knowing.
But who were they?
They were FGSI, whatever the fuck that was...
They were Rusty and Ron Boudreaux... and possibly someone else, possibly an accomplice, possibly several accomplices, there was no way for him to know.
They were afraid of him knocking on the door of 33-L again, so they moved whatever was in here, and they had followed him...
Fuck, they were probably watching!
No sooner than he thought the thought, he heard the squealing of tires down the alley of a road that led him to this place.
"Fuck!" He exclaimed to himself, unbuttoning his third button and reaching into his shirt for his Beretta.
Snatching it from its holster, he clicked off the safety and racked the slide before pointing it down in front of him, preparing himself for action. He raced to the mouth of the unit and flattened himself with his back to the wall, right next to the wide open door, the Beretta aimed up at the ceiling in a state of readiness to fire. He peered down the road and saw just what he expected... a fucked up blue Buick LeSabre, hauling balls in his direction with loose rocks and a trail of dirt firing up behind it as the nose bounced like a boat over all of the potholes in its path.
Checking his safety again, he prepared himself mentally to step out and face his tormentor. He would demand to see who it was, demand that they step out of the car slowly. If they didn't, he would fire, lest they have a chance to fire first.
When the vehicle came to a sliding stop just behind the Malibu, almost colliding with it again, he spun out from his hiding place and leveled the Beretta off with his sights locked on the blacked out windshield where the driver would be seated.
"Get out of the fucking car!" He shouted, his finger twitching on the trigger and ready to blast this bastard to kingdom come if necessary, whoever he was.
The vehicle still rocking on its loose suspension, the driver's door flew open and an all too familiar face appeared in the space between the frame of the door and the side of the windshield. The face was older than when he'd last seen it, it was more pronounced and manly than he ever expected it would become, but it was still undeniable who the strong features belonged to. It was Louie Rambo, and he too held a pistol in his hand... his was a police issue Glock, and he held it professionally in a two handed grasp, pointed directly at Jake's head.
"Put the weapon down, Jake!" Louie ordered, and -- in shock -- Jake partially obeyed. He lowered it to side, but still held it there while his face showed his surprise. He didn't drop it in his shock, which is what the officer was likely commanding him to do. He was too stunned to drop it.
Why was Louie Rambo in the blue LeSabre?
Had it been him behind the wheel the whole time? Following him? All along? From the beginning?
Had it been Louie Rambo that he played chicken with speeding down the roads of Waycroft just a few days ago? Had it been Louie Rambo watching him drop Nikki off after the incident at the track? Had it been Louie Rambo watching him leave her trailer a few mornings later? Had it been Deputy Louie Rambo watching him pay a visit to Chucky?
If so, why? Why had he been following him since he got back to town?
Why was he speeding down this busted up road in defense of a storage unit belonging to Rusty Parker and FGSI Services?
"Louie?" He asked, surprised at the masculinity of the fully grown version of the final member admitted to The Burlwood Boys. He was in full Elsmere County police garb, and he was speaking with the authority of that department as he started unblinkingly down the sights of his service weapon.
"Now drop it, Jake!" he ordered.
Still shocked, still shaken, Jake just stood there in disbelief. He heard the command, it registered in his mind, but he was unable to act on it because he still just couldn't figure out why.
Then, without warning, he got his answer... he knew why... on all counts...
"Yes, Jake," another familiar voice called out. The passenger door of the LeSabre was opening too, and from behind it was where the voice came. Stepping out, obscured for a moment by the door itself and the black window, was the chubby frame of none other than Sheriff Ronald Fucking Boudreaux, the self-professed and publicly elected King of Elsmere County. He stood on the pavement, glaring through his trademark amber sunglasses, and closed the door to stand beside the car. He was taking no cover from Jacob Gigu?re, he had no fear that the man might shoot. As he adjusted his pants up around his oversized gut, he looked directly at Jake and issued his lawfully sanctioned order. "Drop the weapon, son..."