Renewal 8 - War Council (8 page)

“Those women must have gone through a lot,” I said when the silence became too heavy.

“Yeah, more than I want to think about,” Arturo replied. “You know what your dad was saying?”

“Yeah. I know that men did bad things to them just because they’re women. I know that Dad’s almost stupid happy to be alive after that.”

“You’re a smart kid, Bill. How about you? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I think so. I was scared when he grabbed me, but I never thought I would die. I knew somebody would save me,” I said, just then realizing it was true.

“I wish I had your faith,” Arturo said sadly.

“You do. We’re all family now. The same people who would save me would save you too. I know that if my mom hadn’t shot him, you would have.”

“Well, I was trying to get there, but you know, there are no guarantees.”

“That’s why we have faith.” I said, as if it made perfect sense.

Arturo sat in silence for a long time.

Eventually, Mom was curious enough to see what we were doing. She looked out the back window of the kitchen and saw Dad sitting on the garden bed. She stepped down from the back porch and talked to Dad for a few minutes. The conversation ended with a long hug and a quick kiss. She went back inside and brought out the two boys. Jimmy and Tommy were bundled up and carrying two sleeping bags. Apparently the penis curse extended to them as well. They followed Dad back to the barn with long serious steps. They knew they were on a mission.

Once they were up in the loft, they felt the freedom from harsh feminine despair, and began to talk and play. Jimmy ran to his father and gave Arturo a big hug. Then he stood up tall and gave his dad a congratulatory noogie with his tiny fist on Arturo’s dark hair. Arturo laughed loudly, breaking his melancholy spell for the moment, and Jimmy took that as a sign it was time to sing and dance. It was the theme song from a cartoon show that I was surprised to remember at all, it felt like so long ago.

Sally showed up fifteen minutes later with a pot of chili and enough bowls and spoons for all of us. She left her lantern glowing in the hayloft while she went back for powdered lemonade for us, and a glass bottle full of brown liquid, which she handed to Arturo.

“That looks like the bottle George gave us,” Arturo said, holding the bottle up against the lantern.

“It’s the same stuff,” Sally replied. “This is some of his oldest work. He said it was in the barrel for twelve years when he gave it to me, and that was quite a while back. I’m not much for drinking, so stuff like this tends to sit. Tonight seems like a good night.”

“How’s it going in the house?” Dad asked.

“Depends... We got one hysterical lady, one who thinks she’s still in the shed, one who wants to kill all ya’ll for getting her in trouble, and the girl. I think she’ll be all right. Kids are more resilient than us old coots.” Sally threw her head back and laughed.

“I know what you mean,” Dad said.

“That reminds me... Arturo, been meaning to have a word with you,” Sally said.

“Ok. What can I do for you, Sally?”

“Would you mind if I take a look at your leg? I noticed you been limping around pretty hard, and it’s been about a year since you got shot,” Sally said.

“About a year...” Arturo replied, thinking out loud. A quick review of the year triggered a stormy expression on his face. “Ok, sure. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“Well, do me a favor and take off those britches. Unless you’re going commando under there. That’s probably more than this old lady needs to see.” Sally smiled as if she wouldn’t mind too much.

Arturo laughed and said, “My mama always said never get caught without clean underwear.” He slid his canvas pants down his legs and sat on the blankets in a loud pair of plaid boxers.

Sally pulled the lantern over to his leg and took a look. We could all see the scars, puckered around the bullet’s entry and exit points. Little Jimmy traced some patterns in the air. It looked like he was trying to measure what he saw. Sally put both hands on Arturo’s leg, one to each side of the bullet path. She closed her eyes and moved her lips like she was talking silently to herself. After fifteen seconds, she opened her eyes and removed her hands from his thigh. “Pretty much what I thought,” Sally said.

“What?” Arturo asked.

“Now this ain’t no doctor’s office, and I expect it’ll take a lot to convince you, but there ain’t nothing wrong with your leg. It’s completely healed except for those scars to remind you.”

“It hurts all the time,” Arturo said.

Sally grabbed a handful of his thigh and squeezed hard. “This hurt?”

“Not especially,” Arturo said, surprised by her gesture. “Just like always.”

“Well, that’s what I’m talking about.” She gave his leg another squeeze. “That’s because it doesn’t hurt here.” She poked him right in the forehead. “It hurts here.”

“What? That’s cra...”

“Crazy?” Sally asked. “That’s why they call me Crazy Sally around these parts. But it’s not crazy. It’s just how we work. You take a man that hurts when there’s no reason to keep hurting, and I’ll say he’s just feeling bad about something.” Sally looked up and made sure she looked us all in the eye for a moment. “I want you all to hear this. We’re in hard times, and bad things are going to happen. We do the best we can and we move on. We don’t have the luxury of carrying stuff around with us like we used to. Nothing we can do but move on. So when I say to you, Arturo, that it ain’t your leg hurting you, I mean look around in your head until you find what is, and let that thing go. As soon as you do, you’ll be running like a deer again.”

Sally walked to the loft doors and whistled into the darkness. The soft thuds of Bear’s paws sounded on the bare dirt, and seconds later he was in the loft, panting softly. Little Jimmy ran right up to the dog and wrapped his thin arms around Bear’s massive head. “I’m glad to see you, big buddy!” Jimmy said with delight. Bear pulled his jowly lips back into a grin, making us all forget the serious speech for a moment.

“Bear, you being afflicted with the same male equipment as these gentlemen, I want you to keep ‘em company tonight. Seems one of our guests don’t think much of dogs.”

Bear woofed once.

“All righty then. Goodnight ya’ll.” Sally turned towards the steep stairs and walked to the opening in the floor, and said one final thing. “Forgiveness is the only real magic.” And she was gone.

We watched her cross the yard and enter her house. The homemade screen door slapped hard as she let it go. We were left with a great deal to consider. We ate chili instead.

Chapter 8 – 10

Kirk was angry. It was so simple. He was riding under a canvas tarp in the back of the Junior Dragon’s truck, wedged among the random gear and junk at four in the morning. All he had to do was kill this asshole and bury him in the woods. No one would ever find him, and no army of white-robers would feel the need to come to Kirk’s land to fight. Bill had made it clear, though. “Find out where he’s going and what he has when he gets there. We’ll have to clean up that mess sooner or later, so we need to know what we’re up against.”

Knowing Kirk’s penchant for easy and deadly solutions, Bill had made the point repeatedly, just to keep Kirk from doing exactly what Kirk so desperately wanted to do. Knock on the window, wait for the truck to stop, and put a bullet in this idiot’s head. Instead, he lay low, waiting to see where he would end up. Kirk fumed. Bill didn’t trust him to let the man live, but he somehow trusted Kirk to escape with his hide intact from Dragon HQ. Here’s hoping... Kirk thought.

Any minute, something could happen that even Bill would not be able to deny. Someone could look under the tarp. If that happened, Kirk was certain that person would die, and the Junior Dragon would die by sheer misfortune of knowing Kirk was there. That would be too bad.

As it turned out, the white-robers were just as bad at security at home as they were in Nashville and the Jenkins farm. Gary Tucker, Jr. drove his truck right through his father’s front gate and into the five car garage. Kirk stopped breathing as the truck’s engine died, and the door opened. He sent all his energy into his body and senses, preparing to strike like a cobra if the tarp moved. He heard the wooden door, presumably leading into the house open and close, waited ten seconds and slid out of the truck. The sky through the eastern window was just turning from gray to a peach color as Kirk made his silent steps across the polished concrete floor. The garage held three exotic sports cars, and one empty slot, besides the truck he had just left. A long set of cabinets and workbenches lined the back wall, neatly covered with reloading equipment and small machine tools. Kirk had a decision to make.

He pressed his ear to the door leading into the house, and hearing nothing, he decided to make his way inside. The other option would be to head out the door to his right and to lose himself in the trees down the hill. He was here for reconnaissance. He would do his best. The door opened smoothly, and he found himself inside a stark white laundry room. It was clean, but had none of the smells of detergent or clean clothes. He surmised that electricity was not easy here, or not available at all. That was good. He would hate to think these jerks were as well prepared as the folks in Teeny Town. He continued into the house, expecting to encounter a bunch of unhappy servants any second. That was the way of these tin pot dictators, of which he had encountered many.

He caught a glimpse of movement as he entered the kitchen, but it was in the backyard, seen through the window. It was the Junior Dragon. He was heading for a small building out back. Kirk saw him bang on the door, and heard his voice. “Get out here! I’m back!” A minute later, a motley collection of tired-looking people filed out the door, wearing actual white uniforms, and lined up for a military style inspection. That gave Kirk some time. He roamed the ground floor at high speed, trying to memorize the layout of the house. Failing to find a good place to hide, he was heading upstairs just as he heard a sliding glass door open on the back of the house.

On the second floor, he found the usual collection of bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets. He quickly identified what he thought was Junior’s room by the nasty collection of equipment in the room. He, or possibly his father, had gone to great lengths to keep women from becoming too boring. When he heard footfalls on the stairs he made a rapid decision and slid into a closet in the most generic looking bedroom he could find. He hoped he had not completely misjudged the character of the Junior Dragon or he would be face to face with the kid in moments.

The Dragon’s house may not have had endless electricity, but it had running water. Kirk knew this because he could hear the shower, and Junior’s surprisingly pleasant singing voice. He took the opportunity to look around. A line of white-uniformed servants could be seen out the bedroom window, taking the gear from the truck and carrying it out to a shed in the back. Steam was beginning to rise from the vents and the laundry mystery was solved. From the other side, two more were riding bicycles down the driveway, no doubt rounding up the Junior Dragon’s lieutenants. As the shower shut off with a thunk of copper pipe, Kirk got back into the closet and prepared to wait.

He didn’t wait long. Vehicles approached the house. Heavy feet walked up the pavement and knocks sounded at the front door. Within an hour, the series of sounds dwindled to the point that Kirk was sure a meeting was about to start. From his survey of the first floor, he had a fairly good idea of where such a meeting would take place. Kirk stepped smoothly to the mostly likely bedroom, hoping that he wouldn’t encounter one of the small army of servants. He stretched out on the carpeted floor and laid his head on the vent. He was sure that no central air remained to start up and spoil his hearing. He could hear voices below, but not clearly enough. He moved to the next room and tried again. Better. He could hear every word being spoken in the room downstairs.

The Junior Dragon did him another favor by running the presumably innocent servants out of the house before the business meeting began. Kirk could relax and enjoy the show.

It started with some stilted, bullshit ritual based on the Brotherhood of the Knights of the White God. He knew from Charlie Bell’s report that the Junior Dragon didn’t believe a word of it, but from what Kirk could hear, Gary was well practiced and playing it to the hilt. Then came a one-sided and patently false version of events in Coffee County. Kirk expected no less, but he had to fight the urge to butt in and give his side of the story. By the end of Junior’s account, his men were restless and agitated. It was a good performance, and it was working. Gary presented his plan. Kirk listened carefully. He wanted to memorize every detail. It wasn’t hard to remember. Kirk could have written the whole thing on a paper napkin. In essence Junior said, “Round up everything we’ve got, drive up to Coffee County and kick ass.”

Simple enough, and to Kirk’s ears, stupid. Sure, there would be a bunch of white-robers attacking Teeny Town, but unless they came up with a little more subtlety, Kirk could simply treat the whole battle like a shooting gallery. No way could it be that easy. In the end, the Junior Dragon gave his men two days to get ready. They would leave on Friday morning, three days from now. That was all Kirk needed to know.

A cautious man would have waited until everyone cleared out before making his move, but Kirk had not made his reputation on caution. He checked his gear, got to his feet and strode across the upstairs landing. He ran down the stairs, his feet becoming a blur, and looked to his right as he made the first floor. He yanked a teargas canister off his vest and lobbed it in a perfect arc into the meeting room. The canister bounced twice on the long table, spewing smoke by the second bounce. All eyes in the room followed the natural path, watching the smoke bomb spin to a halt. By the time it occurred to anyone to look for the source, Kirk was gone.

He dropped two more smokers on his way out to the garage. He was old enough to remember hot cars from the old days and was  sorely tempted by the Italian sports cars, but there were too many unknowns in that path. He jumped into the truck, and found the keys waiting in the ignition. Idiots... The truck squealed like a dying pig as he punched the throttle and backed out of the garage. It didn’t stop squealing until he was halfway to the road. The cattle gap rattled his teeth as he swung the truck in a hard scrubbing turn onto the highway. He looked back up the hill, to see if they had mounted a pursuit yet. Maybe they went out the back.