Red Dog Saloon (26 page)

“Mom!
Mom!” Ben screamed as Agnes and Helen joined him, all three throwing their
combined weight against the door, finally getting the chair that blocked it to
give way.

Their
arrival was too late. He would again stand over his mother’s casket and cast a
white rose into an open grave. He had lost two mothers in less than a week.
This time he was truly alone.

He
left SMHI following the funeral carrying only a single box to represent Gina’s
entire life. While it came as no surprise that much of her belongings were
sketches and drawings since that was her hobby, the subject of her art did
surprise him – they were drawings of him at various times of his life. She had
kept up with him, perhaps through letters or even e-mails from Elizabeth.
Despite giving him up at birth, she had never forgotten about him. She had been
watching his life from afar, afraid to get involved lest her secret be
revealed.

Unknown
to the Red Dog conspirators, the ending of Gina Foster’s life also meant the
end of their lives. Ben resolved to memorialize his birth mother the best way
he knew how – with revenge.

“I
love you too mom. I love you too,” Ben whispered to himself, refusing to shed a
tear, knowing he had waited too late to say the words.

The
revelation that Gina Porter had a son changed the game for Sheriff Delaney. The
mysterious offspring automatically climbed to the top of his suspect list.
Actually, he was the only one on the list since the lawman had no one he could
call a suspect when he arrived at SMHI a few hours ago. His next move would be
to locate Gina’s son so he could either eliminate him as a suspect or perhaps
link him to the crimes.

“So
what was your impression of their relationship?” Sam inquired of the facility
administrator. “I mean, were they friendly or was it a stormy thing between
them?”

Agnes
straightened the folders in the box as she digested the sheriff's question.

“Frankly,
I don’t think they even knew what their relationship was,” Agnes replied. “From
what we understand, Ben didn’t even know his mother was alive until a few days
before he showed up here.”

“Who
raised him then? I mean if his mother didn’t, he had to be raised by somebody,”
Sam wondered aloud.

Agnes
began rifling through the box of records, finally finding what she was looking
for a minute later. She thumbed through the pages before handing the folder to
the sheriff.

“From
her records it would appear a friend raised him,” Agnes noted. “She never
revealed the identity of who adopted him but from what the record says, whoever
it was lived in Easton since that’s where he was raised.”

“He
did tell me he was staying in Easton,” Helen interjected “He didn’t say where
though. We never got that far before his mother's death. He seemed so nice.”

Helen
dropped her head as she recalled that fateful day. She darted her eyes up at
Agnes to see if she had overstepped her bounds.

“He
was here when she killed herself,” Agnes explained. “Actually, he brought in a
bottle of wine, which is against regulations here for safety reasons since she
was a suicide risk. She broke the bottle and used it to cut her own throat. I
think he felt responsible.”

Agnes
sat down at the desk as she continued to look over Gina’s records, dedicating her
time to the pages where Gina referred to her child. In the meantime Sam
continued speaking with Helen only to find her knowledge of Ben was limited to
the short conversations they had during his pair of visits nearly three months
ago.

“I
can tell you the person who raised him was a friend that was with her the night
she was molested at that bar,” Agnes said as she scanned Gina's clinical
records. “But once again, there’s no name.”

Sam
thanked the women for their help. Their information had at least provided him
something to go on. He had spent more time than anticipated at the institution
and, glancing at his watch, realized he needed to get back to Castle County. It
would already be after sundown by the time he made it back and if history was
any indicator, someone would die tonight unless he could prevent it.

The
snow had continued during his time at SMHI. The roads were already beginning to
frost over again despite the salt road crews had caked on the blacktop. It
would take the full two hours to get home but in the meantime the sheriff would
let his cellphone do some work for him. His first call, however, got him
information he didn’t want to hear.

“Bart
has disappeared,” Bo declared “He must have taken one of the cars on the lot
this afternoon.”

That
meant Bart was on his own. That might not be a bad thing since their attempt to
protect the mayor the night before had failed miserably. After all, Bart had
avoided the killer this long, whether it was by luck or design.

His
next call was a long shot but he had to try.

“Cliff,
I need you to do some research for me,” Sam told the old reporter as the
sheriff was leaving the institution’s parking lot in Shelby.  “I need you
to go up to your paper archives and look up the story around the time of the
Red Dog fire.”

“Are
you on to something, sheriff?” Cliff asked.

“I
may be,” Sam admitted. “I need to know exactly how long ago the Red Dog burned
down plus, if you can, and I would owe you big, I need to find out the name of
the girl who was with Gina Foster that night.”

“So
you do have a suspect?” Cliff queried.

“If
you can come up with that name, I may just have one,” the sheriff confirmed.
“This is top priority. I need you to do it right now and call me back. I’m
driving in from Shelby.”

Cliff
assured him he would diligently research his question but couldn’t guarantee he
would be able to recall the girl’s name.

“You
get the exclusive when I break this,” Sam assured the reporter as he hung up.

The
light was already getting dim behind the light gray snow clouds. Darkness would
soon fall on Castle County.

Bart
found the car in which Ben concealed the remains of his security force. Both
men had their necks turned backwards. The macabre scene reminded him of an
owl’s neck. Just as Ben had said, both of his body guards had their necks
snapped. Ben was a real expert. He was able to stalk and kill two cut-throats
with relative ease. They were two of the toughest thugs Bart knew. He had
hand-selected them for their ruthlessness.

The
one thing they lacked, however, was intelligence. That was Bart’s strong suit.
He was always the leader. Most importantly, he was smart enough to have others
do his dirty work. But, when others would shy away, Bart wasn’t timid about
getting his hands dirty. He had done his own wet work that night at the Red
Dog. He had also killed with his own hands when he slipped the zip tie around
Glenn’s neck the night before.

Bart
was no fool. He knew it was either him or Glenn. He realized Glenn would do
anything to protect his reputation and, with the rest of the old gang gone, he
could ensure the secret was buried forever if Bart was no longer around.
In Bart’s book, he had simply beaten the honorable mayor to the punch.

While
he would never know it for sure, Bart’s reckoning was right. Glenn had ulterior
motives for accepting Bart’s generous offer for refuge the night before.
Concealed in his back waistband was a thirty-eight caliber pistol, a gun police
found when they moved his body from his car after his murder. Glenn had planned
to eliminate his old friend in his sleep with a double tap to the back of the
head. He would then leave for holiday as planned, the dark man blamed for the
murder. It was a perfect plan except for the fact Bart beat him to the punch.
 He had used the distraction caused by the dark man to surprise his old
friend. He had choked the life out of him before he could get his hand on his
gun.

Bart
believed if he could outsmart the veteran politician, who was every bit as
crooked and calculating as he was, he could outsmart the dark man. Sure, the
mysterious killer could have easily cut his throat the night before, but he
didn't. That would be his biggest mistake. Bart vowed the dark man would rue
the day he declared war on him. Furthermore, the killer had showed his hand,
arranging their clandestine meeting allowing Bart to scheme how he would turn
the tables on the killer and be the sole survivor.

Bart
stuck to the back roads despite the continued snow. He didn’t want to risk
picking up a tail from law enforcement if he were to return to the main roads.
He realized he was being watched, again. He wanted it to be just him and the
dark man - no one else. The meeting, of course, would not be on equal footing
if Bart had his way. The crafty reprobate was already formulating a foolproof
plan to eliminate his antagonist.

The
sun had long since set. Bart roamed the side roads without passing a single car
in almost an hour. It was about time to head toward his appointment. His
attention, however, was grabbed by a light up ahead shining through the blowing
snow. It was a church with a single car parked outside. He recognized it to be
that of Father Dan O’Brien, priest of the only Catholic church in
Baptist-dominated Castle County. He recognized the low-mileage, good-as-new,
lightly-traveled dark blue four-door sedan that was parked outside. Bart had
sold it to him just months before.

In
a move that surprised even himself, Bart guided his car into the church parking
lot. Aside from rare visits on Easter and Christmas, Bart rarely darkened a
church door, figuring he may be struck down by lightning by merely taking a
seat on one of the hardwood pews. But, given the mission before him, he could
use all the help he could get. Plus, for the first time in his life, Bart
realized his own mortality. A voice somewhere deep inside was asking what
happens after life ends. Bart had been able to keep that voice muted until now.

“Maybe
he isn’t here,” Bart mumbled to himself as he timidly mounted the church steps
and pushed open the door.

“Anybody
here?” Bart asked.

He
walked between the pews and nervously eyed the large crucifix that sat behind
the choir loft. He was ready to turn around and walk out. 

“Someone
here for confession on a night like this?” came the voice Bart immediately
recognized as that of Father O’Brien. “You must have done something really
bad.”

The
smiley face of the priest appeared from behind the choir loft where he had been
placing song books for mass the following day.

“Ah,
Bart. You're a sight for sore eyes,” the father said in a faint Irish accent
followed with a hint of a chuckle. “Tell me you haven’t come to confess to
selling me a lemon because I don’t know if there’s forgiveness for that.”

Bart
didn’t know what to say since the father was right on both matters. First he
had done something really bad and second, the car he sold him was in fact a
lemon.

“I
was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in and maybe make sure things
are right between me and the man upstairs,” Bart said coolly.

“Ah,
confession is good for the soul, my friend,” the priest said. “Let me get on my
confession-hearing stuff and I’ll meet you in the confessional. It’s right over
there.”

Glancing
at his watch as he plopped down in the confessional chair, Bart realized he
would have to make a quick confession of his long list of sins since time was
flying and he had an appointment to keep. Maybe he could get blanket
forgiveness on the whole lot of them. The priest joined him moments later,
taking a seat on the other side of the curtain.

“So
how do we do this?” Bart asked.

“Well,
my son, you tell your sins and ask for forgiveness,” the priest explained.
“Then I tell you what to do and if there is penance required.”

“Does
what I say here, stay here?” Bart asked. “I mean there could be stuff that is
pretty bad ... just saying.”

The
priest laughed on the other side of the curtain.

“This
isn’t Vegas, but yes, it stays here. And by the way, I’ve heard it all,” the
father replied. “There’s nothing that would surprise me.”

The
priest couldn’t be more wrong. Bart’s list of sins were large by any standard.
Plus, even as they spoke, a pair of corpses lay frozen solid in his trunk
outside.

“What
if I’m not sorry,” Bart asked, his question surprising even Father O’Brien. “I
mean, do you have to be repentant to get forgiveness?”

“Well
yes. That’s how it works,” the priest responded. “How can you be forgiven if
you aren’t sorry for what you’ve done?”

“Can
you forgive me for something I’m about to do?” Bart asked.

“No,
my son. I don’t think I can do that either,” the priest replied. “What are you
about to do that’s so bad?”

“I’m
sorry father. This was a bad idea,” Bart said as he stood up and left the
confessional. “I need to be going. I’ve got to be somewhere in a few minutes.”

Father
O’Brien emerged from the confessional and watched as Bart walked briskly toward
the door.

“Come
back when you get things straight,” the priest called after the unrepentant
soul.

“Tell
you what father,” Bart said as he paused before going out the door. “If things
go my way tonight, I’ll be at church tomorrow.”

With
that Bart turned to leave.

Sam’s
phone rang just as he passed the Castle County line. His eyes were starting to
cross from straining them into the blowing snow that pelted his windshield.

“Well
I think I’ve got what you want,” Cliff revealed. “I went back and looked up the
old story and let me tell you, I was kind of surprised. Do you realize it’s
been nearly twenty-two years since that old bar burned down? Time flies doesn’t
it?”

Time
had flown, yet, in a way it seemed to Sam it had just happened yesterday. He
could still see the Red Dog in his mind’s eye just as if it was still standing.

“What
about the girl?” Sam asked.

“Well
that’s a funny thing,” Cliff began. “I couldn’t for the life of me remember her
name, that is, until I went back and looked up the fire.”

“And?”
Sam interjected, hoping to get the old journalist to the point.