BLOOD ON THE CREEK BANK
by Jeremy Perry
This story is a hat-tip to the neo-western. The main character, Sheriff Randall King, I would say has some Raylan Givens (Justified) qualities, although Sheriff King is a little rougher around the edges.
The old single-story house looked like other rural homes in the region, except in this house lived the honorable Judge Butch McIntire and his wife, Hazel. The judge had never been a fancy man who needed a fancy house or a fancy car. He enjoyed taking Sunday drives with Hazel in his old Chevy pickup truck. He was an ordinary man who had lived in Scott County all his life, besides when he’d gone off to college and law school.
The house sat deep in the southern Indiana backwoods. Large maple trees planted fifty years prior threw a blanket of shade over the front and back yards. A gravel lane in the rear of the house led to a barn that stored a garden tractor and a disc harrow; freshly turned earth clung to the round blades. In the loft, an orange barn cat chased a mouse. Across the yard from the barn was a fifty by one-hundred-foot garden plot. Its bounty would help feed the families in the county who frequented the farmer’s market come middle-to-late summer and early fall.
Judge McIntire grabbed the handle on the barn door and strained a little to slide it open, rollers squeaking in the metal tracks above his head. He had meant to grease those rollers last summer but still hadn’t gotten around to doing it. The long walk to the barn and the resistance of the door caused a patch of sweat to form across his liver-spotted forehead.
The judge had retired from criminal court five years ago. Now at the age of seventy-two, he devoted his summer to tending the garden and working around his house. He’d enjoyed his old line of work but didn’t miss the time involved overseeing case after case, day after day, especially as he became older.
A spooled garden hose hung on a hook mounted on one of the wooden posts that were throughout the inside of the old barn. He lifted the hose off the hook and headed back out the door. He had thought of installing an automated watering system for the garden, but it seemed costly, and the way the judge had it figured, it was the lazy man’s way of working.
He dropped the hose next to the yard hydrant ten yards from the newly-planted garden. He screwed on the hose, lifted the handle on the hydrant, and began his morning routine of walking up and down alongside the plot, watering and nurturing his wonderful creation.
A hundred yards away, across a pasture, hidden up on a wooded hillside, a man stood peering through a set of Realtree camouflaged binoculars with a 45 Smith & Wesson holstered on his right hip. He adjusted the focus wheel slightly and observed the judge who was oblivious to anyone watching him and to what was about to happen.
Another man shouldering a high-powered rifle looked through a scope with the crosshairs centered on the judge’s right temple.
“Say when,” said the man with the rifle.
The man with the binoculars hesitated, then said, “Not yet.”
“I’m locked in. Just say the word.”
“I said not yet.”
The man with the binoculars was Mack Wheeler. Two weeks ago, he had been released from state prison after a ten-year stint for holding up Huck’s Fuel Mart. He’d stood before Judge McIntire for his sentencing and McIntire had rendered his judgment without hesitation.
“I’m tired of looking at your face, Mr. Wheeler. You’ve passed through my courtroom many times over the years. I hope this will be your last. And I hope you learn something this time.”
Wheeler had learned something all right. While doing his time, he learned how to hate. He hated that he’d missed his daughter’s graduation and other milestones. He hated that he’d missed his daddy’s funeral. Instead of blaming himself, he blamed one man. He’d spent his nights lying in his bunk visualizing the day he would enact his revenge.
Now, that day had come.
The man holding the rifle was Carl Blaylock. He was a former Marine who had spent two tours in Iraq. After the war, he resented everything to do with the government, including the judicial system. Wheeler and Blaylock were also old high school buddies. While in prison, Wheeler had received word that Blaylock would carry out the objective if he’d wanted him to, but Wheeler sent word back to wait. He had missed his daughter’s graduation and his daddy’s funeral, but he’d be damned if he’d missed taking out that son of a bitch McIntire.
Wheeler watched through the binoculars as the judge unhooked and then wound the garden hose. Next, he poked his arm through the spool, heaved it up and over his shoulder, and headed back to the barn.
“Looks like he’s finishing up,” Blaylock said.
“Yeah,” Wheeler said.
“Best do it now.”
“Not yet.”
Through the scope, Blaylock watched as the judge disappeared back into the barn. He lowered his rifle. “Now what?”
Wheeler lowered his binoculars but held a steady gaze toward the McIntire homeplace. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tube of ChapStick, uncapped it, and applied it to his dry lips. He recapped the tube and slid it back into his pocket.
“Change of plans,” Wheeler said.
“Yeah?” Blaylock said. “What kind of change?”
“You’ll see.”
In the barn, Judge McIntire slipped the garden hose back over the hook. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead, face, and neck. He enjoyed the hard work. It beat the days of sitting in a dull courtroom. He slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket. He tinkered in the barn for another half-hour before deciding to go inside the house for a cold glass of sweet tea. He stopped briefly when he saw the orange cat in the corner chewing on the remains of a dead mouse.
“Good boy,” he said to the cat.
He headed toward the exit but stopped when the two men blocked his path.
“Hello, Judge. Long time no see,” Wheeler said. Blaylock stood with his rifle pointed.
The judge had forgotten many of the convicts he’d put away, but he hadn’t forgotten Wheeler. “Heard you were getting out. Seems you didn’t learn a damn thing while in prison.”
“I guess I didn’t. But I’m about to teach you a thing or two. Let’s go.”
The lake water was smooth as glass. The only disruption came from the oars and the boat as it cut across, heading to the fishing hole Randall had frequented ever since he was a boy. His son, Chase, watched from the stern as his excitement grew.
“How long are you on vacation?” Chase asked his dad.
“One whole week, buddy. Just you and me.”
Chase smiled. It had been a month since they had spent any valuable time together. The regular weekend visits had been inconsistent. Randall’s schedule made it difficult to keep commitments. Randall’s ex-wife, Mandy, often reminded him of his piss-poor abilities as a father and as a role model for their son.
Randall guided the boat into a shaded cove and dropped anchor. They baited their hooks with redworms and hurled them out into the water. For Randall, the moment wasn’t about catching fish. This was about spending time with his only son. Free time didn’t come easily, and he was taking advantage of this rare occasion.
Birds chirped their songs as Randall settled in. Calm. That’s what he felt. A big difference from the often chaotic and stressful office. Sometimes Randall wished he’d chosen a different line of work, one that wasn’t time consuming, one that wasn’t dangerous, one that hadn’t been the major cause of his marriage falling apart.
After an hour of only nibbles, Chase grew bored. He paid no attention to the bobber in the water. He yawned, stretched his skinny legs, but then glanced above to see a red-tailed hawk fly over. The bird screeched twice, which echoed through the cove. They watched as the hawk flew away, over the trees, and out of sight.
“That was cool,” Chase said, his excitement returning.
“Maybe we’ll see a bald eagle too.”
“Really?”
“We might. There’s a nest not far from here.”
“I hope so. I’ve never seen one except on TV.”
Randall enjoyed seeing his son’s enthusiasm for the outdoors. He’d been taking Chase fishing since he was able to handle a pole. He’d also taught him to shoot and respect firearms. He explained the importance of respecting Mother Nature. He said that hunting and fishing wasn’t for sport, that an animal’s life was as important as his own. If he intended to kill, he should do so understanding that the animal would provide strength and nourishment for his body and someday for his own family.
The morning faded into the noon hour and they had caught and released only three small fish between them. Chase sat at the opposite end of the boat from his dad, back to barely noticing his pole. His young mind set adrift far beyond the boat and lake. But then, gliding ten feet above the water was the majestic bald eagle. Chase came alive as he saw the bird swoop upward, circle back around, and dive toward the water where sharp talons hooked into a largemouth bass. Flying away, Chase imagined the eagle heading back to its nest to devour its fresh bounty.
The oars cut and churned the water as Randall navigated the boat out of the cove, calling it a day. Coming around a bend, clearing a bank of cattails, Randall saw across to the parking lot and boat ramp where Deputy Sheriff Wesley Ross waited next to his cruiser. Before leaving for vacation, Randall had given strict orders not to be bothered with petty shit. Wes was the sheriff’s best deputy, so he knew his reason for tracking him down had to be important.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Wes said as the boat floated up to the dock.
“Deputy,” Randall said evenly.
“Do any good?”
“Caught a few.”
“We saw a bald eagle, Wes,” Chase said, stepping out the boat and onto the dock.
“No kiddin’?” Wes said.
“We sure did. It was the coolest. It flew down and grabbed a fish right out of the water.”
“Holy smokes! That is the coolest.”
Chase unzipped out of his life vest. “I gotta go pee.”
“Okay, son,” Randall said as Chase ran off to find a spot over in the trees. “Well, I know you ain’t here to see how the fish are biting.” Randall stepped out of the boat and tied it to the dock.
“I wish that’s all I was doing. I reckon you haven’t heard yet?”
“Heard what?”
“Seems Judge McIntire has gone missing,” Wes said.
“Missing?” Randall perked up. “How long?”
“Been at least twenty-four hours. Mrs. McIntire said she came back from her hair appointment, went out to the barn to check on him. The barn door was open but he wasn’t nowhere to be found. His truck’s still in the driveway too. She said in forty-five years of them being married, he’s never taken off for no reason.”
“Has anyone been out to walk the property?”
“Not yet,” Wes said. “I’m gonna make a few more calls to see if any of his poker buddies know anything or saw him lately.”
Randall nodded.
“Mrs. McIntire sure was hysterical,” Wes said.
“I can imagine.”
“She also specifically asked for you, Sheriff. Wanted to know why you or your department wasn’t doing anything about it.”
Randall knew his deputies were competent and could manage the situation but, to the public eye, if he himself didn’t become involved, it would look bad for him and his department.
“I’ll be in soon as I can,” Randall said as Chase came running back to join them.
“Let’s go to the Dairy Queen next, Dad,” Chase said.
“Okay, buddy, let’s go to the Dairy Queen.”
A hot, steel blade to the heart was what it felt like for Randall after he told Chase he was taking him home because he had to go to work. Randall wheeled the truck and boat trailer along the curb in front of his ex-wife’s house, his old house, then stopped and cut the engine.
“But you said we had all week together,” Chase said with tears welling in his eyes. He held his cup of melting ice cream with sprinkles on top.
“I know I did, buddy. I’m real sorry. When I’m done, I’ll be back to get you.”
“You always say that!”
Chase opened the truck door, scooted out, and slammed it shut. He ran across the yard, dropped his ice cream along the way, and went inside the house.
Randall reached for the key in the ignition to fire up the truck but stopped when he saw Mandy coming across the yard.
“Ain’t this just great. Just what I need, a lecture,” Randall said to himself.
Mandy opened the passenger door and spoke across the cab.
“Seems you’ve broken his heart yet again, Sheriff.” She emphasized the word, reminding him he’d once again chosen his job over his son.
“I can’t help it, Mandy. The judge is missing and if I don’t get involved, it’ll look bad for me and the department.”
“How about looking bad in the eyes of your son,” Mandy said. “He needs you, Randall. Just step up and be there for him. One day he’ll be grown and it’ll be too late.”
“I know. I feel damn horrible about it. I’ll be back to get him when this is over. I promise.”
“Ha! How many times have you said that? Don’t bother. You worry about you, and I’ll take care of my son.” She slammed the door and headed back inside to console Chase.
“Son of a bitch,” Randall whispered to no one in particular as he fired up the truck and drove away. But then again, maybe he was saying it to himself.
Randall ignored the No Trespassing signs as he wheeled his cruiser onto Rhonda Wheeler’s property. Deputy Ross trailed in his own car down the long, rutted driveway until they reached the house that was known to keep some of the local hardcases. A porch with a rusty tin roof stretched along the front of the house. The house itself was wrapped in faded blue aluminum siding. A hailstorm from long ago had left the house pockmarked and forever damaged.
Wearing his trademark aviator sunglasses, Randall stepped out of his cruiser, hit his unfiltered Pall Mall one last time, dropped it on the ground, and snuffed the cherry with the end of his cowboy boot. He unclasped his holster, giving easier access to his Glock 17, as Wes joined him. They turned the volume down on their radios.
“Looks dead,” Randall said as he gazed around the property. A broken-down Ford pickup with rusted quarter panels sat in the middle of a field. Tall, thick grass grew around the tires. Two small outbuildings and a large pole barn needed paint and repairs. Crushed beer cans lay scattered over the porch. A pint bottle of Jim Beam, half-filled, sat on the bottom step.
“Used to be a lively place,” Wes said.
“I remember coming out here ten years ago and seeing a felon everywhere you turned.”
“Time’s have changed, I reckon,” Wes said.
“Yeah,” said Randall, “they’re all in prison or dead.”
Rhonda Wheeler was once known in the county for taking in local drug dealers, thieves, and other criminals when they had no place to go. Over the years, she had invited many into her home, hoping to instill a strong work ethic and rehabilitate the men who were, in her mind, simply lost and unloved. In the beginning, some men gave an honest effort to turn their life around. In the end, they all failed, falling back to their old criminal habits but staying on with Miss Wheeler for a warm bed to sleep in and a hot, homemade meal to eat. Randall knew that no matter how good her intentions were, Rhonda couldn’t rehabilitate the devil’s army.
About that time, the screen door swung open, the springs squeaking their rustic tune as they had done for the last twenty years.
“Can I help you, Sheriff?” Carl Blaylock said as the door slapped closed behind him. He stepped to the edge of the porch, looking down with bloodshot eyes on the sheriff and deputy. Before walking out of the house, he’d tucked a handgun behind his waist in plain sight for the sheriff and deputy to see.
“Carl Blaylock,” Randall said. “Never expected to see you here.”
“Come by every now and then to help Miss Wheeler. Been doing it for a while now.”
“Is that right?” Randall said. “By the looks of things, you’re behind on your chores. Hell, I figured Mack would be the one helping his momma, since he’s out of prison now.”
“Of course, he helps. He lives here. Why wouldn’t he help?”
“Always knew he was a good boy,” Wes said.
“What do you want? Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”
“I didn’t see any signs. Did you see any signs, Deputy?” Randall asked.
“Not a one,” Wes said with a grin.
“We were hoping to talk to Mack. See how he’s doing. See if he’s adjusting to society after his release,” Randall said.
The screen door opened again and stepping out to join Blaylock was Mack Wheeler.
“How you doing, Sheriff? What can I do for ya?” He nodded at Wes. “Deputy.” He uncapped his ChapStick, applied it to his lips, recapped, and slid it away into his pocket.
Mack’s greeting was pleasant, almost neighborly, but the sheriff wasn’t buying his bullshit.
“We came by to see how you was doing,” Randall said. “Making sure you’re staying out of trouble.”
“Sheriff, my days of causing trouble are over,” Mack said with the sincerest tone he’d ever muttered. “I’ve no intentions of going back to the joint.”
“That’s good to hear,” Randall said.
“What the hell do you all want?” Carl said as he made his way to the bottom step. “This isn’t no social call.” He grabbed the Jim Beam bottle, unscrewed the cap, upturned it, and drank.
Randall and Wes glanced at each other and grinned.
“You caught us, Carl,” Wes said. “We’re here on business. We came to see if you know anything about Judge McIntire’s disappearance. Been missing a couple of days now. Mrs. McIntire is at her wits’ end. Poor lady hasn’t slept or ate in two days.”
“Why in the hell would we—”
“Take it easy, Carl,” Mack interrupted. “They’re just doing their job. We didn’t even know the judge was missing, Sheriff.”
“Is that a fact?” Randall said. “Now I know there ain’t no love lost between you and Judge McIntire. Hell, everyone in the county knows that. I find it quite strange that soon as you get out of prison, our county’s beloved judge goes missing.”
“Sheriff, I’ve been mighty nice to you and your deputy, even though you’ve come in here without a damn warrant, not to mention you’re trespassing on private property. I’ll let that one slide. But you two have some big balls to roll up here and accuse me of such a heinous crime.”
“Take it easy, Mack,” Randall said. “We just want to ask a few questions. No harm in that, is there?” Truth was Randall wanted to haul this son of a bitch away for good. He was tired of looking at his mangy face.
“Take your damn questions and shove ‘em up your ass,” Blaylock said then swilled again from the bottle and swallowed. “We know our rights.”
Randall ignored the drunken insult. He watched Blaylock’s hands, making damn sure he made no sudden moves toward his firearm. He didn’t see him carrying, but he suspected Mack had a gun tucked away out of sight. Wes was also watching. He was no slouch when it came to police work. He’d been in the department for many years and knew what it took to survive.
“Your momma still have that cabin back there in the woods?” Randall said, nodding toward the woods on the backside of the property.
Mack walked down the steps, past Carl, onto level ground with the sheriff and deputy.
“I reckon it’s still back there,” Mack said, looking back to the woods in question. “I haven’t been back there in years. Probably since I was a kid. I’d imagine it’s rotted and about to fall in by now.”
“Do you mind if me and my deputy walk back and have a look around?”
“You’ll not go no further than where you stand,” Carl said.
“For somebody that comes by just to help out, you sure act like you have a lot of say around here,” Wes said.
“I say what the hell I want,” Carl said. “I’m a damn veteran. A combat veteran at that.”
“Like Carl said, Sheriff, you can look from where you stand and be damn happy to get that,” Mack said.
The screen door opened. This time, Rhonda Wheeler shuffled onto the front porch with a walking stick in her right hand bearing her lopsided gait.
“I’ve heard everything you’ve said, Randall,” Rhonda said. “There’ll be no more questions. My boy is doing right by the law now. You ain’t got no right to come out here and harass him the way you all are doing. You best be on your way.”
“Ma’am, we’re only trying to locate the judge,” Wes said.
“That doesn’t concern me or my boy. Now go on and get.”
“We’ll be seeing you, Mack,” Randall said.
As the sheriff and deputy got into their cruisers, turned around, and headed back up the driveway, Mack’s gut turned. A sickness paraded around on his insides. Playing nice with the law wasn’t easy for him. Next time, he wasn’t sure he could be so hospitable.
The cabin sat far back in the woods on the north side of the Wheeler property. Mack had told Sheriff King that he hadn’t visited the old family cabin in years. That was the truth…up until now. Hours after the sheriff and deputy had left, night came and now as Mack approached the cabin, thirty yards away, he saw the glow of a lantern through one of the windows. In one hand he held his 45 Smith & Wesson, and with his other he shined his flashlight far out into the darkness, scouring the outskirts of the cabin and woods, looking for any signs of trespassers. He stopped ten yards from the cabin’s front door.
“Ray, it’s me. I’m coming in.” There was no answer but Mack approached without hesitation. He turned his flashlight off and pushed open the door. Inside the two-room cabin he saw the new, rough-cut timber that had replaced the old, dry-rotted boards. Not a great deal of work completed, but the new work stood out from the old. He thought Carl had done decent work on the place while he was away in prison.
He placed his flashlight next to a lantern that sat on top of a cookstove. Walking out of the small room, holding a second lantern, was Ray Kinzer, Mack’s twenty-four-year-old second cousin who would do whatever Mack told him to do. In his other hand, Kinzer held a .38 snubnosed revolver.
“Me and Carl strapped him down pretty good, Mack. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Just inside the extra room, Ray hung the lantern on a nail that stuck out from the wall. “Take a look.”
The lantern illuminated the small room that had been added five years after the original structure had been built. Strapped to a chair in the middle of the room was Judge Butch McIntire. Mack lifted the lantern off the nail and walked over to get a closer look.
The judge sat on a ladderback chair with his wrists bound behind his back. Ray had lashed rope around his ankles and another piece around his torso, securing him to the back of the chair. A red handkerchief covered his mouth. Mack held the lantern up to the judge’s face, the light also shining brightly on his own face. The old judge showed no fear as he looked deep into the eyes of the man he had sent away ten years ago. His gaze held steady, not once glancing away. Mack had always considered courage the greatest characteristic a man could have. He saw the judge’s courage and developed a little respect for him because of it. Moving the lantern to the left side of his face, Mack saw a one-inch gash and dried blood under the judge’s eye.
“Ray here been treating you okay?” Mack said. “Give you anything to eat? Drink?”
“I offered him a baloney sandwich,” said Ray. “He wouldn’t eat it. Drank a little water though.”
“Can we get you anything, Judge?” Mack said. “Sorry, the amenities aren’t much out here. But it sure is peaceful, isn’t it?” The judge muffled something through the handkerchief. “Get that thing off him.” Ray came around and slipped the handkerchief off the judge’s face.
“You won’t get away with this, Wheeler,” the judge said. “I guarantee the entire sheriff’s department is scouring the countryside as we speak. This is a lost cause, boy.”
“‘A lost cause’? Shit, this is the greatest cause ever. I’ve been waiting ten years for this moment. All those years you sat up there on your bench, wearing your fancy robe like some big shot, always looking down on the rest of us in the county, always thinking you were better than everyone else. Well, look at you now. You’re no superman. You ain’t shit, Judge. You’re in my world now!” Mack aimed his gun directly into the judge’s face, wanting desperately to squeeze a round into his head. Killing him would be so easy, he thought, but not yet.
Then a loud knock came from the front door.
“Who the hell’s that?” Mack said in a low voice, pulling his gun and attention away from the judge. He knew it wasn’t Carl, who was tending to other business. He looked back to the judge, who held a contented look upon his face. Mack handed the lantern off to Ray as he headed toward the front door. “Should be no one out here this time of night,” he muttered.
“I might know who it is, Mack,” Ray said.
“What? Who?”
Before Ray could answer, Mack flung the door open and pointed his gun toward the intruder. Standing outside was a short, petite girl holding a twelve pack of Coors and a bottle of Fireball.
“Jesus Christ! Don’t shoot!” the girl said. “I thought Ray was here.”
“Easy, Mack! She’s with me,” Ray said, hustling over.
“For Christ’s sake, Ray, what are you thinking?” Mack said, lowering his gun.
“This is Layla. I invited her here. I thought she could keep me company. Layla, this is my cousin, Mack.”
“Nice to meet you, I think,” Layla said, easing her way into the cabin. She crossed the room and sat the beer and Fireball on a table in the corner.
“Your company is in there,” Mack said to Ray, pointing with his gun barrel to the next room. “I need you focused. Not horny and shitfaced.”
“What’s he talking about, baby?” Layla said. “Who’s in there?” She investigated the other room and, through a shadowy haze, saw the judge bound to the chair. “Holy shit! What the fuck’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” Ray said. “Just watching over the judge for a bit. That’s all.”
“No-no-no. I didn’t sign up for all this shit,” Layla said, waving her hands in a panic. “I’m outta here, Ray.”
As she made for the exit, Mack cut her off. “Sorry, hon, but you just signed up whether you wanted to or not. Ray, I need you to not fuck this up. This better be fixed by the time I get back in the morning.”
“Don’t worry, Mack. You can count on me,” Ray said.
“For your sake, I hope so,” Mack said, exiting the cabin.
Throughout the single-wide trailer were the tell-tale signs of a man who lived alone. Muddy hunting boots slung in the corner by the front door. A rod and reel and tacklebox sat in another corner, never making it back to the shed outside. A flannel jacket hung on the back of a kitchen chair. Only two pictures hung on the walls. One was a school picture of Chase and the other was of Jesus. A shoulder mount of a twelve-point buck Randall killed five seasons ago occupied another wall.
Randall sat on his couch studying a notebook that had scribbles and illegible markings on one of the pages. A classic George Jones song came over the radio as he reached for the half-empty can of Busch Light on the coffee table in front of him. He let two swallows roll down. In a ceramic ashtray, a cigarette burned steadily, its smoke rising to the ceiling. He traded the can for the cig, drew in a lungful, and then released a double stream cloud out his nose.
The notebook page contained details of the Judge McIntire case. Names of those he or his deputies had spoken to. Places or landmarks they had searched. They had searched the judge’s property and found nothing telling. They had spoken to the judge’s poker buddies and no one had seen him. Dead end after dead end. The only place he hadn’t searched was the Wheeler property and the cabin. Rhonda Wheeler was a proud woman who, like most in the county, wanted to be left alone. Her refusal to allow Randall or his deputy to investigate her property without a warrant was not unusual. People like her across the county looked at the law with a skeptical eye. And based on the lack of evidence, there wouldn’t be a warrant issued anytime soon.
He tossed the notebook onto the coffee table, grabbed the beer, and drank until he drained it. He sat the can on the table next to the other five empties. He took one last pull from his cig and then crushed it out into the ashtray. To Randall, the judge’s disappearance circled back to one man and one man only. He didn’t need a damn notebook to figure it out. He didn’t need the detectives coming to investigate, as some had recommended, including the judge’s wife. Randall knew the answer, but to get the answer he would need to handle this his way instead of waiting on warrants and other so-called legal bullshit which only held him back.
The George Jones song ended and then Conway Twitty came through the speakers on the radio and Randall’s mind went from his job to his son. God damn this job, he thought. Was it worth the losses? He wasn’t sure. Growing up, he’d watched his daddy as he’d been a lawman in the county, and Randall had wanted to be just like him. He had seen the respect his daddy received when he walked into any business in town. He saw him put away many hardened criminals. He saw him give breaks to those who were down on their luck. He was a fair man. But like Randall, he was never around. Didn’t take him fishing. Never played catch. A drinking man…much like Randall. His momma, as most wives did back then, accepted life as it came and simply endured. Tough women back then, Randall thought. Tougher than most men in a lot of ways. Mandy was also a tough woman but in a different way. She was a good mother who’d had enough of a man who continuously chose his job over his family. Randall couldn’t blame her. He’d never blamed her for walking away. Sometimes he felt like walking out on his own self.
He found his smokes and lighter on the coffee table, shook one loose from the pack, poked it into his mouth, and lit up. Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. Vicki walked out wearing nothing but a towel, her breasts protruding out the top, exposing ample cleavage. Her wet, auburn hair fell over her delicate shoulders. She sat on the couch beside Randall.
“I’m glad you called me,” Vicki said. “I hadn’t heard from you in a while. You haven’t been by the bar lately.”
Randall thumb-flicked a loose ash into the tray. “A lot going on, I reckon.”
Vicki saw the notebook on the coffee table. “Any breaks in the McIntire case?”
“Not really. Not officially anyway,” he said with fading interest in the topic. “But I’m working some stuff out.” He hit his cig, exhaled, and placed it on the ashtray. He stood and walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “You want a beer?” Vicki shook her head. Randall pulled out another cold one, cracked it open, and had a healthy drink.
“I’m glad you came by,” Randall said. “I guess I’ve been a little distant lately. I know one thing,” he said as he sank back onto the couch, “I don’t care who goes missing next time. When this is all over, I’m taking a vacation and getting the hell out of here…me and my boy. That’s if he still wants to. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.”
“Hell, Randall. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. That boy loves you and you know it. I’ve seen the way he acts around you. It’ll all work out. It always does.”
Randall drank from his can. “Suppose you’re right. One day you and me are gonna take a trip somewhere too. Maybe the Smokey Mountains. I ain’t been down there in years.”
“I’d like that,” Vicki said. “But let’s worry about right now.”
She stood and whipped her wet hair around off her shoulder. She undid her towel and allowed it to drop to the floor next to Randall’s feet. He couldn’t help but admire Vicki’s beauty and what she had to offer. She turned to head down the hallway. “You staying up all night drinking or you coming to bed with me?”
He smiled as he watched the cheeks of her ass bounce all the way down the hall and into the darkened bedroom.
“I reckon it is getting late,” he said snuffing out his cig. “I’m right behind you.” He turned the radio and lights off and headed down the hall.
Two hours after Mack had left the cabin, Ray and Layla were well into their beer and booze. Layla still had trouble wrapping her mind around what was taking place. Ray explained that he was just watching the judge until cousin Mack returned in the morning. “There’s no harm in that,” he tried to convince her.
A Lorrie Morgan song played from an iPhone, sounding compressed and shallow coming from the small electronic device, robbing the listener of the full listening pleasure and Morgan’s voice of its artistic beauty. In his inebriated haze, Ray held Layla close as they slow-danced around the cabin.
“Glad you came,” he said.
“Yeah.” Her mouth said the word but her mind was elsewhere. Like everyone else in the county, she had heard about the judge’s disappearance. She had no personal connection with the judge or his family, but she did have a damn conscience. If it were her dad or papaw who had gone missing, she would be losing her mind right about now. How could anyone stoop so low? What is wrong with these damned people? She didn’t have the answers but hoped one would come to her.
The song ended and Layla pulled away from Ray. “Beer is going right through me. I got to go pee,” she said.
“You’ll have to go find a spot outside,” Ray said. “No indoor plumbing. If you’re afraid, I can go with you.” He smiled a drunken smile, thinking his remark was a clever one.
“You act like I’ve never taken a piss in the woods before.” She headed toward the door.
“Okay then,” Ray said, beginning to slur his words. “But you just yell if you need my assistance.”
“I got it, Ray,” Layla said with a shade of annoyance behind her words. She shut the door behind her.
She walked behind the cabin where the moonlight hit best and found a spot next to a tree. As she did her business, she couldn’t help but think of the judge. She had asked Ray several times what Mack intended to do with him, but Ray would only laugh and answer, “what the hell do you think?” And left it at that. Every time she mentioned the topic, Ray became more annoyed. She would allow the subject to cool. She would stop asking questions. Layla didn’t want to be a part of this bullshit…but here she was…a part of this bullshit. She finished and hiked up her shorts.
She thought of running. She could take off and never look back. By the time Ray figured out she was gone, it would be too late. But that wouldn’t help the judge, she thought. The old man would still be at the mercy of the drunken lunatic.
She headed back around to the front of the cabin. She walked inside and heard Ray cussing and yelling from the next room, followed by the sound of a loud thump.
“You son of a bitch!” Ray said.
The lantern cast its glow about the room as Layla rushed in. She saw the judge turned over and Ray straddling him with both hands wrapped around the judge’s neck.
“You bastard! I’ll teach you to spit on me! I’ll choke the life out of you!”
“Get off him, Ray!” Layla said with both hands tugging on his shoulders. “You’re gonna kill him!”
Ray reared his fist and landed solid knuckles under the judge’s eye, breaking the skin, causing blood to flow down his face to the cabin floor.
“Fucking stop it, Ray!” Layla screamed. “This is bullshit!”
Finally, Ray backed off.
“The son of a bitch spit on me,” Ray said. “I was trying to be nice. I took off the gag so he could breathe better, then he fuckin’ spit on me.”
“You deserved it,” said the judge through coughs and gasps for air.
Ray’s fury rekindled itself and he again gripped his hands around the judge’s neck.
“Mack’s not gonna kill you…‘cause I am!”
“Fuck this, Ray! I’m leaving!” Layla said and fled the room.
Ray snapped from his rage. Slowly, his grip loosened and his hands fell away from the judge’s throat. “Wait, Layla, don’t go!” He raced after her, catching her before she opened the front door. “Don’t leave,” he said, stepping between her and the exit. “It won’t happen again. I’ll leave him alone.”
When Layla started dating Ray, she had no idea this was the kind of life he led. In many ways, he was still like a little boy, and when they first began hanging out, she thought he was fun, but now it was different. And the longer she allowed this to go on, the better the chance the authorities would consider her an accessory to this crime. If she was going to help the judge, she needed to do it soon.
“Okay, but no more violence,” Layla said.
“Sure, babe,” Ray said. “No more violence. Come on. Let’s have some more drinks.”
The morning sunrise was topping the eastern tree line as Mack and Carl skirted the Wheeler property on their way to the cabin. Rifles were slung over their shoulders and sidearms were strapped to their waists. Mack had decided against Carl taking the kill-shot the other day because he wanted the judge to suffer. If Carl had squeezed the trigger, there would have been no pain involved. The judge would have died immediately without knowing what had hit him. That wasn’t the way Mack wanted it to go down. He wanted the judge to feel anguish at the highest levels. Not only physical anguish, but also mental anguish. He wanted the judge, and his family, to suffer. And why not? Over the course of his prison term, Mack and his family suffered every day. Rhonda Wheeler had written to her son expressing her heartache and misery caused by his absence. He had written back reciprocating the sentiment. To Mack, there was no other way for this scenario to end except by way of brutal retaliation. And the day for revenge had finally come.
As he did the night before, Mack approached the cabin with caution. Everything looked as it did on his previous visit. All was quiet and nothing seemed out of place. The men stepped to the front door.
“Ray, it’s Mack and Carl. We’re coming in.”
Mack opened the door, stepped inside, and saw Ray sleeping over in a corner, his snores echoing throughout the cabin.
“Jesus Christ,” Carl said. “Look at this shit.”
Empty beer cans were scattered here and there. The half-empty bottle of Fireball was turned over, lying next to Ray’s head. Carl put a boot to Ray’s ribs to wake him while Mack went to investigate the other room. He cleared the door and found it empty. No judge. No Layla. He stomped over to Ray. Mack leaned his rifle against the cabin wall and yanked his cousin off the floor. Ray’s eyelids snapped open as he looked at the face of a deranged madman.
“Where the fuck is the judge, Ray? You were supposed to be watching him. And where is your little girlfriend? They’re both gone when they should be here with you!”
“What? What do you mean? They’re right here,” Ray said looking around through groggy, bloodshot eyes and seeing no one except Mack and Carl.
“They’re gone, asshole,” Carl said. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him, Mack. This boy is nothing but a pain in the ass. I should’ve been the one to stay.”
“Never mind that,” snapped Mack. “When was the last time you saw them, Ray?”
Ray tried to recall. He searched deep and hard in his hazy, hungover brain. “I-I-I…I’m not sure.”
“You best be figuring it out!” Mack said. “And I mean right now!” He pulled his pistol and shoved the barrel under Ray’s chin.
“S-s-s sometime last night. Or e-e-e early this morning. Maybe three or four this morning. I don’t remember. I’m so sorry, cousin. Don’t kill me!” He pawed for his gun in his waist but it wasn’t there. He saw it over on the table, out of reach.
Silence fell inside the cabin. Mack felt a strong urge to squeeze the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. Ray’s daddy was Mack’s first cousin and someone he loved like a brother. Mack holstered his gun.
“You’ll be dealt with later,” Mack said. “Come on. Let’s go find ‘em.”
The terrain was a thick jungle of cedar, hickory, oak, and other trees indigenous to the region. Judge McIntire and Layla were an hour into their escape but had gained minimal ground trying to traverse the unforgiving land. On many occasions, hanging briars, sprawling patches of stinging nettle, and other natural obstacles blocked their path, forcing them to backtrack and take a different course. Neither of them knew exactly which direction to go. Nonetheless, they wanted to put as much distance between them and the cabin as possible. Finally, the trees, briars, and nettle thinned away and they were able to increase their pace.
“You should’ve left me,” the judge said as he and Layla trekked onward.
“I couldn’t do that. You’d likely be dead by now. Ray told me they were coming first thing this morning to kill you. I’d say they know we’re gone by now.”
“I’d say you’re right,” the judge said glancing back over his shoulder. He knew he was slowing them down. He thought it noble of the girl to help him escape but knew she would fare better if she took off and left him. But no matter how many times he insisted, she stayed right by his side.
They came to a creek that was about twenty feet wide and snaked through the woods as far as the eyes could see in both directions. Where they stood, the water flowed over rocks and then dropped over a series of natural shelves and collected in deep, clear pools. They could cross here but would have to swim part of the way. On down, they saw what looked like a shallow spot where crossing would be easier.
They came to the shallow section and Layla and the judge eased into the creek. Layla led the way as they stepped carefully placing one foot in front of the other, trying not to rush over the slick, moss-covered creek rock. The judge wasn’t as sure-footed as Layla and began to fall behind.
“We need to hurry,” Layla said. She extended her hand to the judge. As he was about to grab it, his ankle turned causing him to slip and fall into the water and onto the sharp creek bed below.
A blast of pain erupted on his right side, deep within his hip.
“Are you okay?” Layla asked.
“I don’t know,” the judge said, grimacing in pain. “Wished you’d just leave me. Go get help. I can find a place to hide until you get back.”
“I’m not leaving you. Can you stand?”
“I’ll try.”
Despite the pain, the judge climbed to his feet and hobbled out of the creek. He made it only a couple of yards on dry land before he collapsed to the ground.
“I can’t go anymore. I think my hip’s broken. You go for help. I’ll hide in those weeds over there.”
There wasn’t a choice. Layla had to leave him and go for help. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The judge nodded. “Go on. Get out of here.”
As she was about to take off, she glimpsed someone in the distance, approaching in their direction. And then she saw another person behind the first. She hunkered down beside the judge. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. She and the judge scooted to the tall weeds and hid.
Peering through the weeds, the judge saw the two men coming toward him and the girl. The distance was too far for him to determine who the men were, although he feared the worst. When the lead man came within twenty yards, the judge saw who he was and wasted no time.
“Sheriff, over here!” He sat up, raising his hands, trying to get Sheriff Randall King’s attention. Following the sheriff was Deputy Wesley Ross. Their plan had been to sneak in on the backside of the Wheeler property to get to the cabin. “We’re over here, Sheriff. It’s me, Judge McIntire!”
“Holy hell. There he is, Wes,” Randall said. “Come on.”
They took no more than a couple of steps when a gunshot rang out. Both Randall and Wes jumped for cover, hunkering down with their high-powered rifles at the ready.
“You hit?” Randall yelled over to his deputy.
“I don’t believe so,” Wes answered, looking himself over.
Across the way, Ray had slipped in from behind, surprising the other two. After firing a shot, he hid behind Layla, using her as a shield, holding his revolver to her temple.
“Don’t come no closer, Sheriff!” Ray said. “I’ll blow her damn head off!”
“Ray Kinzer, is that you over there?” Randall said.
“Sure is, Sheriff. I’m taking this pretty girl and the judge back with me. So don’t try to stop me!”
Then another gunshot blasted throughout the woods. Ray didn’t know what hit him. The bullet entered behind his left ear and exited through his right eye. He dropped where he stood.
Layla screamed.
“Grab his gun,” the judge said, feeling no remorse for the dead man.
Hands shaking, Layla picked up the gun and handed it to the judge. They hunkered down in the weeds, out of sight from Mack and Carl, and waited.
Fifty yards away, Carl Blaylock lowered his rifle, smoke oozing from the barrel. “Couldn’t stand that boy,” he said under his breath.
Seeing Ray shot dead didn’t bother Mack in the least. He was glad he didn’t have to do it himself.
“Sheriff, I know you’re over there,” Mack said. “You and your deputy shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your affair. You and Ross head on back the way you came!”
Randall clicked the safety off on his rifle. “Mack, you know the deputy and me can’t do that. We didn’t come all the way out here to leave empty-handed. Judge McIntire and the girl will be leaving with us. And that’s that.” He looked at Wes who hand-signaled that there were at least two people with guns across the way. Randall nodded. He already assumed Carl Blaylock was over there too and was the one who had shot the Kinzer boy.
“I don’t know if you remember, Sheriff,” Mack started, “but I never gave you permission to be on my property. You never produced that warrant. You’re trespassing. Now get the hell out of here!”
Randall let out an audible laugh. “Trespassing? Ha! You’re mistaken, Mack. This side of the creek is state-owned property. No one’s trespassing except your dead cousin over there. But if I did have a warrant right now, I’d walk over there and shove it up your boyfriend Carl’s ass!”
“Go to hell, Sheriff!” Carl said. “Step out where I can see you.” The longer the conversation continued, the more irritated Carl became. Someone needed to act. If Mack wasn’t going to do it, he would. Ten yards to his left, next to the creek, was a large oak tree. Carl thought he’d have a better angle on the deputy and sheriff from there. He didn’t hesitate. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, pulled his handgun, and bolted for the tree, firing shot after shot toward the sheriff and deputy as he ran. The bullets went high and wide, slamming into trees, severing limbs and bushes behind and around them. Carl made it halfway to the oak tree when the crack of another gun rang out.
The bullet from Wes’ rifle smashed into Carl’s chest, obliterating his right lung. On unsteady legs, Carl staggered a few yards more before dropping his gun and collapsing into the creek, landing face down in the water. A cloud of crimson formed under Carl’s unmoving corpse and began to flow downstream.
“Looks like you’re the last man standing, Mack,” Randall said. “Drop your guns and do the right thing. Turn yourself in now and maybe you’ll only get another ten years or so. Maybe you can work out a deal with the prosecutor.” Randall threw out the proposition but knew damn good and well it fell on deaf ears. When a man is backed into a corner, he becomes desperate and Randall knew Mack Wheeler was one such man.
“I ain’t going back to the joint, Sheriff. You can count on that. Let’s get this god damned party started!” With that said, Mack wasted no time. He let out a yell only a madman could produce, stepped from the tree, and squeezed the trigger, one shot after the other. He charged onward, splashing across the creek, shooting toward the sheriff and then the deputy. As soon as he made it to the other side of the creek, several gun blasts came from his right. One bullet penetrated his neck, severed his esophagus, and exited the other side. The rifle fell from his hands as he went to his knees clutching the gaping hole in his neck. And not long after, he collapsed onto his back.
The judge, like many in the county, was no stranger to firearms. He aimed the revolver, prepared to shoot another round into the son of a bitch that was Mack Wheeler. He waited until the gasping and gurgling stopped and then lowered the gun.
The deputy and sheriff approached.
“You two okay?” Randall asked.
“I’m okay,” Layla said, climbing to her feet but visibly shaken.
“My hip feels busted,” the judge said. “Might be able to walk out of here with a crutch.”
“Just hold tight. We’ll get an ATV back here to haul you both out.”
Wes glanced from one dead body to the other. In the years he’d been a lawman, he could never get used to this part of the job. Just another day at the office, he thought, trying to convince himself. He turned to Randall. “Guess you can get back to your vacation now, Sheriff.”
Randall also noticed the bloody carnage that lay scattered along the creek bank. He shook his head, desperately having wanted a different outcome. But he knew situations like this one brought no other type of ending.
Randall turned to Wes. “I reckon I just might do that, Deputy. And if I see you in a week, it’ll likely be way too soon.”
Jeremy Perry is an American writer from southern Indiana. He is the author of the Brothers of the Mountain series, the Sheriff Randall King series, Moonshiner's Justice, Moonshiner's Honor, and other works. He writes westerns, historical fiction, rural and smalltown fiction, and working-class stories. His short stories have appeared in magazines such as Cowboy Jamboree, New Pop Lit, Revolution John, Lamplit Underground, and other online publications. Stay up to date with Jeremy's writing and publishing news and other ramblings at https://www.jeremyjperry.com/.
by Jeremy Perry
This story is a hat-tip to the neo-western. The main character, Sheriff Randall King, I would say has some Raylan Givens (Justified) qualities, although Sheriff King is a little rougher around the edges.
The old single-story house looked like other rural homes in the region, except in this house lived the honorable Judge Butch McIntire and his wife, Hazel. The judge had never been a fancy man who needed a fancy house or a fancy car. He enjoyed taking Sunday drives with Hazel in his old Chevy pickup truck. He was an ordinary man who had lived in Scott County all his life, besides when he’d gone off to college and law school.
The house sat deep in the southern Indiana backwoods. Large maple trees planted fifty years prior threw a blanket of shade over the front and back yards. A gravel lane in the rear of the house led to a barn that stored a garden tractor and a disc harrow; freshly turned earth clung to the round blades. In the loft, an orange barn cat chased a mouse. Across the yard from the barn was a fifty by one-hundred-foot garden plot. Its bounty would help feed the families in the county who frequented the farmer’s market come middle-to-late summer and early fall.
Judge McIntire grabbed the handle on the barn door and strained a little to slide it open, rollers squeaking in the metal tracks above his head. He had meant to grease those rollers last summer but still hadn’t gotten around to doing it. The long walk to the barn and the resistance of the door caused a patch of sweat to form across his liver-spotted forehead.
The judge had retired from criminal court five years ago. Now at the age of seventy-two, he devoted his summer to tending the garden and working around his house. He’d enjoyed his old line of work but didn’t miss the time involved overseeing case after case, day after day, especially as he became older.
A spooled garden hose hung on a hook mounted on one of the wooden posts that were throughout the inside of the old barn. He lifted the hose off the hook and headed back out the door. He had thought of installing an automated watering system for the garden, but it seemed costly, and the way the judge had it figured, it was the lazy man’s way of working.
He dropped the hose next to the yard hydrant ten yards from the newly-planted garden. He screwed on the hose, lifted the handle on the hydrant, and began his morning routine of walking up and down alongside the plot, watering and nurturing his wonderful creation.
A hundred yards away, across a pasture, hidden up on a wooded hillside, a man stood peering through a set of Realtree camouflaged binoculars with a 45 Smith & Wesson holstered on his right hip. He adjusted the focus wheel slightly and observed the judge who was oblivious to anyone watching him and to what was about to happen.
Another man shouldering a high-powered rifle looked through a scope with the crosshairs centered on the judge’s right temple.
“Say when,” said the man with the rifle.
The man with the binoculars hesitated, then said, “Not yet.”
“I’m locked in. Just say the word.”
“I said not yet.”
The man with the binoculars was Mack Wheeler. Two weeks ago, he had been released from state prison after a ten-year stint for holding up Huck’s Fuel Mart. He’d stood before Judge McIntire for his sentencing and McIntire had rendered his judgment without hesitation.
“I’m tired of looking at your face, Mr. Wheeler. You’ve passed through my courtroom many times over the years. I hope this will be your last. And I hope you learn something this time.”
Wheeler had learned something all right. While doing his time, he learned how to hate. He hated that he’d missed his daughter’s graduation and other milestones. He hated that he’d missed his daddy’s funeral. Instead of blaming himself, he blamed one man. He’d spent his nights lying in his bunk visualizing the day he would enact his revenge.
Now, that day had come.
The man holding the rifle was Carl Blaylock. He was a former Marine who had spent two tours in Iraq. After the war, he resented everything to do with the government, including the judicial system. Wheeler and Blaylock were also old high school buddies. While in prison, Wheeler had received word that Blaylock would carry out the objective if he’d wanted him to, but Wheeler sent word back to wait. He had missed his daughter’s graduation and his daddy’s funeral, but he’d be damned if he’d missed taking out that son of a bitch McIntire.
Wheeler watched through the binoculars as the judge unhooked and then wound the garden hose. Next, he poked his arm through the spool, heaved it up and over his shoulder, and headed back to the barn.
“Looks like he’s finishing up,” Blaylock said.
“Yeah,” Wheeler said.
“Best do it now.”
“Not yet.”
Through the scope, Blaylock watched as the judge disappeared back into the barn. He lowered his rifle. “Now what?”
Wheeler lowered his binoculars but held a steady gaze toward the McIntire homeplace. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tube of ChapStick, uncapped it, and applied it to his dry lips. He recapped the tube and slid it back into his pocket.
“Change of plans,” Wheeler said.
“Yeah?” Blaylock said. “What kind of change?”
“You’ll see.”
In the barn, Judge McIntire slipped the garden hose back over the hook. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead, face, and neck. He enjoyed the hard work. It beat the days of sitting in a dull courtroom. He slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket. He tinkered in the barn for another half-hour before deciding to go inside the house for a cold glass of sweet tea. He stopped briefly when he saw the orange cat in the corner chewing on the remains of a dead mouse.
“Good boy,” he said to the cat.
He headed toward the exit but stopped when the two men blocked his path.
“Hello, Judge. Long time no see,” Wheeler said. Blaylock stood with his rifle pointed.
The judge had forgotten many of the convicts he’d put away, but he hadn’t forgotten Wheeler. “Heard you were getting out. Seems you didn’t learn a damn thing while in prison.”
“I guess I didn’t. But I’m about to teach you a thing or two. Let’s go.”
The lake water was smooth as glass. The only disruption came from the oars and the boat as it cut across, heading to the fishing hole Randall had frequented ever since he was a boy. His son, Chase, watched from the stern as his excitement grew.
“How long are you on vacation?” Chase asked his dad.
“One whole week, buddy. Just you and me.”
Chase smiled. It had been a month since they had spent any valuable time together. The regular weekend visits had been inconsistent. Randall’s schedule made it difficult to keep commitments. Randall’s ex-wife, Mandy, often reminded him of his piss-poor abilities as a father and as a role model for their son.
Randall guided the boat into a shaded cove and dropped anchor. They baited their hooks with redworms and hurled them out into the water. For Randall, the moment wasn’t about catching fish. This was about spending time with his only son. Free time didn’t come easily, and he was taking advantage of this rare occasion.
Birds chirped their songs as Randall settled in. Calm. That’s what he felt. A big difference from the often chaotic and stressful office. Sometimes Randall wished he’d chosen a different line of work, one that wasn’t time consuming, one that wasn’t dangerous, one that hadn’t been the major cause of his marriage falling apart.
After an hour of only nibbles, Chase grew bored. He paid no attention to the bobber in the water. He yawned, stretched his skinny legs, but then glanced above to see a red-tailed hawk fly over. The bird screeched twice, which echoed through the cove. They watched as the hawk flew away, over the trees, and out of sight.
“That was cool,” Chase said, his excitement returning.
“Maybe we’ll see a bald eagle too.”
“Really?”
“We might. There’s a nest not far from here.”
“I hope so. I’ve never seen one except on TV.”
Randall enjoyed seeing his son’s enthusiasm for the outdoors. He’d been taking Chase fishing since he was able to handle a pole. He’d also taught him to shoot and respect firearms. He explained the importance of respecting Mother Nature. He said that hunting and fishing wasn’t for sport, that an animal’s life was as important as his own. If he intended to kill, he should do so understanding that the animal would provide strength and nourishment for his body and someday for his own family.
The morning faded into the noon hour and they had caught and released only three small fish between them. Chase sat at the opposite end of the boat from his dad, back to barely noticing his pole. His young mind set adrift far beyond the boat and lake. But then, gliding ten feet above the water was the majestic bald eagle. Chase came alive as he saw the bird swoop upward, circle back around, and dive toward the water where sharp talons hooked into a largemouth bass. Flying away, Chase imagined the eagle heading back to its nest to devour its fresh bounty.
The oars cut and churned the water as Randall navigated the boat out of the cove, calling it a day. Coming around a bend, clearing a bank of cattails, Randall saw across to the parking lot and boat ramp where Deputy Sheriff Wesley Ross waited next to his cruiser. Before leaving for vacation, Randall had given strict orders not to be bothered with petty shit. Wes was the sheriff’s best deputy, so he knew his reason for tracking him down had to be important.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Wes said as the boat floated up to the dock.
“Deputy,” Randall said evenly.
“Do any good?”
“Caught a few.”
“We saw a bald eagle, Wes,” Chase said, stepping out the boat and onto the dock.
“No kiddin’?” Wes said.
“We sure did. It was the coolest. It flew down and grabbed a fish right out of the water.”
“Holy smokes! That is the coolest.”
Chase unzipped out of his life vest. “I gotta go pee.”
“Okay, son,” Randall said as Chase ran off to find a spot over in the trees. “Well, I know you ain’t here to see how the fish are biting.” Randall stepped out of the boat and tied it to the dock.
“I wish that’s all I was doing. I reckon you haven’t heard yet?”
“Heard what?”
“Seems Judge McIntire has gone missing,” Wes said.
“Missing?” Randall perked up. “How long?”
“Been at least twenty-four hours. Mrs. McIntire said she came back from her hair appointment, went out to the barn to check on him. The barn door was open but he wasn’t nowhere to be found. His truck’s still in the driveway too. She said in forty-five years of them being married, he’s never taken off for no reason.”
“Has anyone been out to walk the property?”
“Not yet,” Wes said. “I’m gonna make a few more calls to see if any of his poker buddies know anything or saw him lately.”
Randall nodded.
“Mrs. McIntire sure was hysterical,” Wes said.
“I can imagine.”
“She also specifically asked for you, Sheriff. Wanted to know why you or your department wasn’t doing anything about it.”
Randall knew his deputies were competent and could manage the situation but, to the public eye, if he himself didn’t become involved, it would look bad for him and his department.
“I’ll be in soon as I can,” Randall said as Chase came running back to join them.
“Let’s go to the Dairy Queen next, Dad,” Chase said.
“Okay, buddy, let’s go to the Dairy Queen.”
A hot, steel blade to the heart was what it felt like for Randall after he told Chase he was taking him home because he had to go to work. Randall wheeled the truck and boat trailer along the curb in front of his ex-wife’s house, his old house, then stopped and cut the engine.
“But you said we had all week together,” Chase said with tears welling in his eyes. He held his cup of melting ice cream with sprinkles on top.
“I know I did, buddy. I’m real sorry. When I’m done, I’ll be back to get you.”
“You always say that!”
Chase opened the truck door, scooted out, and slammed it shut. He ran across the yard, dropped his ice cream along the way, and went inside the house.
Randall reached for the key in the ignition to fire up the truck but stopped when he saw Mandy coming across the yard.
“Ain’t this just great. Just what I need, a lecture,” Randall said to himself.
Mandy opened the passenger door and spoke across the cab.
“Seems you’ve broken his heart yet again, Sheriff.” She emphasized the word, reminding him he’d once again chosen his job over his son.
“I can’t help it, Mandy. The judge is missing and if I don’t get involved, it’ll look bad for me and the department.”
“How about looking bad in the eyes of your son,” Mandy said. “He needs you, Randall. Just step up and be there for him. One day he’ll be grown and it’ll be too late.”
“I know. I feel damn horrible about it. I’ll be back to get him when this is over. I promise.”
“Ha! How many times have you said that? Don’t bother. You worry about you, and I’ll take care of my son.” She slammed the door and headed back inside to console Chase.
“Son of a bitch,” Randall whispered to no one in particular as he fired up the truck and drove away. But then again, maybe he was saying it to himself.
Randall ignored the No Trespassing signs as he wheeled his cruiser onto Rhonda Wheeler’s property. Deputy Ross trailed in his own car down the long, rutted driveway until they reached the house that was known to keep some of the local hardcases. A porch with a rusty tin roof stretched along the front of the house. The house itself was wrapped in faded blue aluminum siding. A hailstorm from long ago had left the house pockmarked and forever damaged.
Wearing his trademark aviator sunglasses, Randall stepped out of his cruiser, hit his unfiltered Pall Mall one last time, dropped it on the ground, and snuffed the cherry with the end of his cowboy boot. He unclasped his holster, giving easier access to his Glock 17, as Wes joined him. They turned the volume down on their radios.
“Looks dead,” Randall said as he gazed around the property. A broken-down Ford pickup with rusted quarter panels sat in the middle of a field. Tall, thick grass grew around the tires. Two small outbuildings and a large pole barn needed paint and repairs. Crushed beer cans lay scattered over the porch. A pint bottle of Jim Beam, half-filled, sat on the bottom step.
“Used to be a lively place,” Wes said.
“I remember coming out here ten years ago and seeing a felon everywhere you turned.”
“Time’s have changed, I reckon,” Wes said.
“Yeah,” said Randall, “they’re all in prison or dead.”
Rhonda Wheeler was once known in the county for taking in local drug dealers, thieves, and other criminals when they had no place to go. Over the years, she had invited many into her home, hoping to instill a strong work ethic and rehabilitate the men who were, in her mind, simply lost and unloved. In the beginning, some men gave an honest effort to turn their life around. In the end, they all failed, falling back to their old criminal habits but staying on with Miss Wheeler for a warm bed to sleep in and a hot, homemade meal to eat. Randall knew that no matter how good her intentions were, Rhonda couldn’t rehabilitate the devil’s army.
About that time, the screen door swung open, the springs squeaking their rustic tune as they had done for the last twenty years.
“Can I help you, Sheriff?” Carl Blaylock said as the door slapped closed behind him. He stepped to the edge of the porch, looking down with bloodshot eyes on the sheriff and deputy. Before walking out of the house, he’d tucked a handgun behind his waist in plain sight for the sheriff and deputy to see.
“Carl Blaylock,” Randall said. “Never expected to see you here.”
“Come by every now and then to help Miss Wheeler. Been doing it for a while now.”
“Is that right?” Randall said. “By the looks of things, you’re behind on your chores. Hell, I figured Mack would be the one helping his momma, since he’s out of prison now.”
“Of course, he helps. He lives here. Why wouldn’t he help?”
“Always knew he was a good boy,” Wes said.
“What do you want? Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”
“I didn’t see any signs. Did you see any signs, Deputy?” Randall asked.
“Not a one,” Wes said with a grin.
“We were hoping to talk to Mack. See how he’s doing. See if he’s adjusting to society after his release,” Randall said.
The screen door opened again and stepping out to join Blaylock was Mack Wheeler.
“How you doing, Sheriff? What can I do for ya?” He nodded at Wes. “Deputy.” He uncapped his ChapStick, applied it to his lips, recapped, and slid it away into his pocket.
Mack’s greeting was pleasant, almost neighborly, but the sheriff wasn’t buying his bullshit.
“We came by to see how you was doing,” Randall said. “Making sure you’re staying out of trouble.”
“Sheriff, my days of causing trouble are over,” Mack said with the sincerest tone he’d ever muttered. “I’ve no intentions of going back to the joint.”
“That’s good to hear,” Randall said.
“What the hell do you all want?” Carl said as he made his way to the bottom step. “This isn’t no social call.” He grabbed the Jim Beam bottle, unscrewed the cap, upturned it, and drank.
Randall and Wes glanced at each other and grinned.
“You caught us, Carl,” Wes said. “We’re here on business. We came to see if you know anything about Judge McIntire’s disappearance. Been missing a couple of days now. Mrs. McIntire is at her wits’ end. Poor lady hasn’t slept or ate in two days.”
“Why in the hell would we—”
“Take it easy, Carl,” Mack interrupted. “They’re just doing their job. We didn’t even know the judge was missing, Sheriff.”
“Is that a fact?” Randall said. “Now I know there ain’t no love lost between you and Judge McIntire. Hell, everyone in the county knows that. I find it quite strange that soon as you get out of prison, our county’s beloved judge goes missing.”
“Sheriff, I’ve been mighty nice to you and your deputy, even though you’ve come in here without a damn warrant, not to mention you’re trespassing on private property. I’ll let that one slide. But you two have some big balls to roll up here and accuse me of such a heinous crime.”
“Take it easy, Mack,” Randall said. “We just want to ask a few questions. No harm in that, is there?” Truth was Randall wanted to haul this son of a bitch away for good. He was tired of looking at his mangy face.
“Take your damn questions and shove ‘em up your ass,” Blaylock said then swilled again from the bottle and swallowed. “We know our rights.”
Randall ignored the drunken insult. He watched Blaylock’s hands, making damn sure he made no sudden moves toward his firearm. He didn’t see him carrying, but he suspected Mack had a gun tucked away out of sight. Wes was also watching. He was no slouch when it came to police work. He’d been in the department for many years and knew what it took to survive.
“Your momma still have that cabin back there in the woods?” Randall said, nodding toward the woods on the backside of the property.
Mack walked down the steps, past Carl, onto level ground with the sheriff and deputy.
“I reckon it’s still back there,” Mack said, looking back to the woods in question. “I haven’t been back there in years. Probably since I was a kid. I’d imagine it’s rotted and about to fall in by now.”
“Do you mind if me and my deputy walk back and have a look around?”
“You’ll not go no further than where you stand,” Carl said.
“For somebody that comes by just to help out, you sure act like you have a lot of say around here,” Wes said.
“I say what the hell I want,” Carl said. “I’m a damn veteran. A combat veteran at that.”
“Like Carl said, Sheriff, you can look from where you stand and be damn happy to get that,” Mack said.
The screen door opened. This time, Rhonda Wheeler shuffled onto the front porch with a walking stick in her right hand bearing her lopsided gait.
“I’ve heard everything you’ve said, Randall,” Rhonda said. “There’ll be no more questions. My boy is doing right by the law now. You ain’t got no right to come out here and harass him the way you all are doing. You best be on your way.”
“Ma’am, we’re only trying to locate the judge,” Wes said.
“That doesn’t concern me or my boy. Now go on and get.”
“We’ll be seeing you, Mack,” Randall said.
As the sheriff and deputy got into their cruisers, turned around, and headed back up the driveway, Mack’s gut turned. A sickness paraded around on his insides. Playing nice with the law wasn’t easy for him. Next time, he wasn’t sure he could be so hospitable.
The cabin sat far back in the woods on the north side of the Wheeler property. Mack had told Sheriff King that he hadn’t visited the old family cabin in years. That was the truth…up until now. Hours after the sheriff and deputy had left, night came and now as Mack approached the cabin, thirty yards away, he saw the glow of a lantern through one of the windows. In one hand he held his 45 Smith & Wesson, and with his other he shined his flashlight far out into the darkness, scouring the outskirts of the cabin and woods, looking for any signs of trespassers. He stopped ten yards from the cabin’s front door.
“Ray, it’s me. I’m coming in.” There was no answer but Mack approached without hesitation. He turned his flashlight off and pushed open the door. Inside the two-room cabin he saw the new, rough-cut timber that had replaced the old, dry-rotted boards. Not a great deal of work completed, but the new work stood out from the old. He thought Carl had done decent work on the place while he was away in prison.
He placed his flashlight next to a lantern that sat on top of a cookstove. Walking out of the small room, holding a second lantern, was Ray Kinzer, Mack’s twenty-four-year-old second cousin who would do whatever Mack told him to do. In his other hand, Kinzer held a .38 snubnosed revolver.
“Me and Carl strapped him down pretty good, Mack. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Just inside the extra room, Ray hung the lantern on a nail that stuck out from the wall. “Take a look.”
The lantern illuminated the small room that had been added five years after the original structure had been built. Strapped to a chair in the middle of the room was Judge Butch McIntire. Mack lifted the lantern off the nail and walked over to get a closer look.
The judge sat on a ladderback chair with his wrists bound behind his back. Ray had lashed rope around his ankles and another piece around his torso, securing him to the back of the chair. A red handkerchief covered his mouth. Mack held the lantern up to the judge’s face, the light also shining brightly on his own face. The old judge showed no fear as he looked deep into the eyes of the man he had sent away ten years ago. His gaze held steady, not once glancing away. Mack had always considered courage the greatest characteristic a man could have. He saw the judge’s courage and developed a little respect for him because of it. Moving the lantern to the left side of his face, Mack saw a one-inch gash and dried blood under the judge’s eye.
“Ray here been treating you okay?” Mack said. “Give you anything to eat? Drink?”
“I offered him a baloney sandwich,” said Ray. “He wouldn’t eat it. Drank a little water though.”
“Can we get you anything, Judge?” Mack said. “Sorry, the amenities aren’t much out here. But it sure is peaceful, isn’t it?” The judge muffled something through the handkerchief. “Get that thing off him.” Ray came around and slipped the handkerchief off the judge’s face.
“You won’t get away with this, Wheeler,” the judge said. “I guarantee the entire sheriff’s department is scouring the countryside as we speak. This is a lost cause, boy.”
“‘A lost cause’? Shit, this is the greatest cause ever. I’ve been waiting ten years for this moment. All those years you sat up there on your bench, wearing your fancy robe like some big shot, always looking down on the rest of us in the county, always thinking you were better than everyone else. Well, look at you now. You’re no superman. You ain’t shit, Judge. You’re in my world now!” Mack aimed his gun directly into the judge’s face, wanting desperately to squeeze a round into his head. Killing him would be so easy, he thought, but not yet.
Then a loud knock came from the front door.
“Who the hell’s that?” Mack said in a low voice, pulling his gun and attention away from the judge. He knew it wasn’t Carl, who was tending to other business. He looked back to the judge, who held a contented look upon his face. Mack handed the lantern off to Ray as he headed toward the front door. “Should be no one out here this time of night,” he muttered.
“I might know who it is, Mack,” Ray said.
“What? Who?”
Before Ray could answer, Mack flung the door open and pointed his gun toward the intruder. Standing outside was a short, petite girl holding a twelve pack of Coors and a bottle of Fireball.
“Jesus Christ! Don’t shoot!” the girl said. “I thought Ray was here.”
“Easy, Mack! She’s with me,” Ray said, hustling over.
“For Christ’s sake, Ray, what are you thinking?” Mack said, lowering his gun.
“This is Layla. I invited her here. I thought she could keep me company. Layla, this is my cousin, Mack.”
“Nice to meet you, I think,” Layla said, easing her way into the cabin. She crossed the room and sat the beer and Fireball on a table in the corner.
“Your company is in there,” Mack said to Ray, pointing with his gun barrel to the next room. “I need you focused. Not horny and shitfaced.”
“What’s he talking about, baby?” Layla said. “Who’s in there?” She investigated the other room and, through a shadowy haze, saw the judge bound to the chair. “Holy shit! What the fuck’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” Ray said. “Just watching over the judge for a bit. That’s all.”
“No-no-no. I didn’t sign up for all this shit,” Layla said, waving her hands in a panic. “I’m outta here, Ray.”
As she made for the exit, Mack cut her off. “Sorry, hon, but you just signed up whether you wanted to or not. Ray, I need you to not fuck this up. This better be fixed by the time I get back in the morning.”
“Don’t worry, Mack. You can count on me,” Ray said.
“For your sake, I hope so,” Mack said, exiting the cabin.
Throughout the single-wide trailer were the tell-tale signs of a man who lived alone. Muddy hunting boots slung in the corner by the front door. A rod and reel and tacklebox sat in another corner, never making it back to the shed outside. A flannel jacket hung on the back of a kitchen chair. Only two pictures hung on the walls. One was a school picture of Chase and the other was of Jesus. A shoulder mount of a twelve-point buck Randall killed five seasons ago occupied another wall.
Randall sat on his couch studying a notebook that had scribbles and illegible markings on one of the pages. A classic George Jones song came over the radio as he reached for the half-empty can of Busch Light on the coffee table in front of him. He let two swallows roll down. In a ceramic ashtray, a cigarette burned steadily, its smoke rising to the ceiling. He traded the can for the cig, drew in a lungful, and then released a double stream cloud out his nose.
The notebook page contained details of the Judge McIntire case. Names of those he or his deputies had spoken to. Places or landmarks they had searched. They had searched the judge’s property and found nothing telling. They had spoken to the judge’s poker buddies and no one had seen him. Dead end after dead end. The only place he hadn’t searched was the Wheeler property and the cabin. Rhonda Wheeler was a proud woman who, like most in the county, wanted to be left alone. Her refusal to allow Randall or his deputy to investigate her property without a warrant was not unusual. People like her across the county looked at the law with a skeptical eye. And based on the lack of evidence, there wouldn’t be a warrant issued anytime soon.
He tossed the notebook onto the coffee table, grabbed the beer, and drank until he drained it. He sat the can on the table next to the other five empties. He took one last pull from his cig and then crushed it out into the ashtray. To Randall, the judge’s disappearance circled back to one man and one man only. He didn’t need a damn notebook to figure it out. He didn’t need the detectives coming to investigate, as some had recommended, including the judge’s wife. Randall knew the answer, but to get the answer he would need to handle this his way instead of waiting on warrants and other so-called legal bullshit which only held him back.
The George Jones song ended and then Conway Twitty came through the speakers on the radio and Randall’s mind went from his job to his son. God damn this job, he thought. Was it worth the losses? He wasn’t sure. Growing up, he’d watched his daddy as he’d been a lawman in the county, and Randall had wanted to be just like him. He had seen the respect his daddy received when he walked into any business in town. He saw him put away many hardened criminals. He saw him give breaks to those who were down on their luck. He was a fair man. But like Randall, he was never around. Didn’t take him fishing. Never played catch. A drinking man…much like Randall. His momma, as most wives did back then, accepted life as it came and simply endured. Tough women back then, Randall thought. Tougher than most men in a lot of ways. Mandy was also a tough woman but in a different way. She was a good mother who’d had enough of a man who continuously chose his job over his family. Randall couldn’t blame her. He’d never blamed her for walking away. Sometimes he felt like walking out on his own self.
He found his smokes and lighter on the coffee table, shook one loose from the pack, poked it into his mouth, and lit up. Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. Vicki walked out wearing nothing but a towel, her breasts protruding out the top, exposing ample cleavage. Her wet, auburn hair fell over her delicate shoulders. She sat on the couch beside Randall.
“I’m glad you called me,” Vicki said. “I hadn’t heard from you in a while. You haven’t been by the bar lately.”
Randall thumb-flicked a loose ash into the tray. “A lot going on, I reckon.”
Vicki saw the notebook on the coffee table. “Any breaks in the McIntire case?”
“Not really. Not officially anyway,” he said with fading interest in the topic. “But I’m working some stuff out.” He hit his cig, exhaled, and placed it on the ashtray. He stood and walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “You want a beer?” Vicki shook her head. Randall pulled out another cold one, cracked it open, and had a healthy drink.
“I’m glad you came by,” Randall said. “I guess I’ve been a little distant lately. I know one thing,” he said as he sank back onto the couch, “I don’t care who goes missing next time. When this is all over, I’m taking a vacation and getting the hell out of here…me and my boy. That’s if he still wants to. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.”
“Hell, Randall. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. That boy loves you and you know it. I’ve seen the way he acts around you. It’ll all work out. It always does.”
Randall drank from his can. “Suppose you’re right. One day you and me are gonna take a trip somewhere too. Maybe the Smokey Mountains. I ain’t been down there in years.”
“I’d like that,” Vicki said. “But let’s worry about right now.”
She stood and whipped her wet hair around off her shoulder. She undid her towel and allowed it to drop to the floor next to Randall’s feet. He couldn’t help but admire Vicki’s beauty and what she had to offer. She turned to head down the hallway. “You staying up all night drinking or you coming to bed with me?”
He smiled as he watched the cheeks of her ass bounce all the way down the hall and into the darkened bedroom.
“I reckon it is getting late,” he said snuffing out his cig. “I’m right behind you.” He turned the radio and lights off and headed down the hall.
Two hours after Mack had left the cabin, Ray and Layla were well into their beer and booze. Layla still had trouble wrapping her mind around what was taking place. Ray explained that he was just watching the judge until cousin Mack returned in the morning. “There’s no harm in that,” he tried to convince her.
A Lorrie Morgan song played from an iPhone, sounding compressed and shallow coming from the small electronic device, robbing the listener of the full listening pleasure and Morgan’s voice of its artistic beauty. In his inebriated haze, Ray held Layla close as they slow-danced around the cabin.
“Glad you came,” he said.
“Yeah.” Her mouth said the word but her mind was elsewhere. Like everyone else in the county, she had heard about the judge’s disappearance. She had no personal connection with the judge or his family, but she did have a damn conscience. If it were her dad or papaw who had gone missing, she would be losing her mind right about now. How could anyone stoop so low? What is wrong with these damned people? She didn’t have the answers but hoped one would come to her.
The song ended and Layla pulled away from Ray. “Beer is going right through me. I got to go pee,” she said.
“You’ll have to go find a spot outside,” Ray said. “No indoor plumbing. If you’re afraid, I can go with you.” He smiled a drunken smile, thinking his remark was a clever one.
“You act like I’ve never taken a piss in the woods before.” She headed toward the door.
“Okay then,” Ray said, beginning to slur his words. “But you just yell if you need my assistance.”
“I got it, Ray,” Layla said with a shade of annoyance behind her words. She shut the door behind her.
She walked behind the cabin where the moonlight hit best and found a spot next to a tree. As she did her business, she couldn’t help but think of the judge. She had asked Ray several times what Mack intended to do with him, but Ray would only laugh and answer, “what the hell do you think?” And left it at that. Every time she mentioned the topic, Ray became more annoyed. She would allow the subject to cool. She would stop asking questions. Layla didn’t want to be a part of this bullshit…but here she was…a part of this bullshit. She finished and hiked up her shorts.
She thought of running. She could take off and never look back. By the time Ray figured out she was gone, it would be too late. But that wouldn’t help the judge, she thought. The old man would still be at the mercy of the drunken lunatic.
She headed back around to the front of the cabin. She walked inside and heard Ray cussing and yelling from the next room, followed by the sound of a loud thump.
“You son of a bitch!” Ray said.
The lantern cast its glow about the room as Layla rushed in. She saw the judge turned over and Ray straddling him with both hands wrapped around the judge’s neck.
“You bastard! I’ll teach you to spit on me! I’ll choke the life out of you!”
“Get off him, Ray!” Layla said with both hands tugging on his shoulders. “You’re gonna kill him!”
Ray reared his fist and landed solid knuckles under the judge’s eye, breaking the skin, causing blood to flow down his face to the cabin floor.
“Fucking stop it, Ray!” Layla screamed. “This is bullshit!”
Finally, Ray backed off.
“The son of a bitch spit on me,” Ray said. “I was trying to be nice. I took off the gag so he could breathe better, then he fuckin’ spit on me.”
“You deserved it,” said the judge through coughs and gasps for air.
Ray’s fury rekindled itself and he again gripped his hands around the judge’s neck.
“Mack’s not gonna kill you…‘cause I am!”
“Fuck this, Ray! I’m leaving!” Layla said and fled the room.
Ray snapped from his rage. Slowly, his grip loosened and his hands fell away from the judge’s throat. “Wait, Layla, don’t go!” He raced after her, catching her before she opened the front door. “Don’t leave,” he said, stepping between her and the exit. “It won’t happen again. I’ll leave him alone.”
When Layla started dating Ray, she had no idea this was the kind of life he led. In many ways, he was still like a little boy, and when they first began hanging out, she thought he was fun, but now it was different. And the longer she allowed this to go on, the better the chance the authorities would consider her an accessory to this crime. If she was going to help the judge, she needed to do it soon.
“Okay, but no more violence,” Layla said.
“Sure, babe,” Ray said. “No more violence. Come on. Let’s have some more drinks.”
The morning sunrise was topping the eastern tree line as Mack and Carl skirted the Wheeler property on their way to the cabin. Rifles were slung over their shoulders and sidearms were strapped to their waists. Mack had decided against Carl taking the kill-shot the other day because he wanted the judge to suffer. If Carl had squeezed the trigger, there would have been no pain involved. The judge would have died immediately without knowing what had hit him. That wasn’t the way Mack wanted it to go down. He wanted the judge to feel anguish at the highest levels. Not only physical anguish, but also mental anguish. He wanted the judge, and his family, to suffer. And why not? Over the course of his prison term, Mack and his family suffered every day. Rhonda Wheeler had written to her son expressing her heartache and misery caused by his absence. He had written back reciprocating the sentiment. To Mack, there was no other way for this scenario to end except by way of brutal retaliation. And the day for revenge had finally come.
As he did the night before, Mack approached the cabin with caution. Everything looked as it did on his previous visit. All was quiet and nothing seemed out of place. The men stepped to the front door.
“Ray, it’s Mack and Carl. We’re coming in.”
Mack opened the door, stepped inside, and saw Ray sleeping over in a corner, his snores echoing throughout the cabin.
“Jesus Christ,” Carl said. “Look at this shit.”
Empty beer cans were scattered here and there. The half-empty bottle of Fireball was turned over, lying next to Ray’s head. Carl put a boot to Ray’s ribs to wake him while Mack went to investigate the other room. He cleared the door and found it empty. No judge. No Layla. He stomped over to Ray. Mack leaned his rifle against the cabin wall and yanked his cousin off the floor. Ray’s eyelids snapped open as he looked at the face of a deranged madman.
“Where the fuck is the judge, Ray? You were supposed to be watching him. And where is your little girlfriend? They’re both gone when they should be here with you!”
“What? What do you mean? They’re right here,” Ray said looking around through groggy, bloodshot eyes and seeing no one except Mack and Carl.
“They’re gone, asshole,” Carl said. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him, Mack. This boy is nothing but a pain in the ass. I should’ve been the one to stay.”
“Never mind that,” snapped Mack. “When was the last time you saw them, Ray?”
Ray tried to recall. He searched deep and hard in his hazy, hungover brain. “I-I-I…I’m not sure.”
“You best be figuring it out!” Mack said. “And I mean right now!” He pulled his pistol and shoved the barrel under Ray’s chin.
“S-s-s sometime last night. Or e-e-e early this morning. Maybe three or four this morning. I don’t remember. I’m so sorry, cousin. Don’t kill me!” He pawed for his gun in his waist but it wasn’t there. He saw it over on the table, out of reach.
Silence fell inside the cabin. Mack felt a strong urge to squeeze the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. Ray’s daddy was Mack’s first cousin and someone he loved like a brother. Mack holstered his gun.
“You’ll be dealt with later,” Mack said. “Come on. Let’s go find ‘em.”
The terrain was a thick jungle of cedar, hickory, oak, and other trees indigenous to the region. Judge McIntire and Layla were an hour into their escape but had gained minimal ground trying to traverse the unforgiving land. On many occasions, hanging briars, sprawling patches of stinging nettle, and other natural obstacles blocked their path, forcing them to backtrack and take a different course. Neither of them knew exactly which direction to go. Nonetheless, they wanted to put as much distance between them and the cabin as possible. Finally, the trees, briars, and nettle thinned away and they were able to increase their pace.
“You should’ve left me,” the judge said as he and Layla trekked onward.
“I couldn’t do that. You’d likely be dead by now. Ray told me they were coming first thing this morning to kill you. I’d say they know we’re gone by now.”
“I’d say you’re right,” the judge said glancing back over his shoulder. He knew he was slowing them down. He thought it noble of the girl to help him escape but knew she would fare better if she took off and left him. But no matter how many times he insisted, she stayed right by his side.
They came to a creek that was about twenty feet wide and snaked through the woods as far as the eyes could see in both directions. Where they stood, the water flowed over rocks and then dropped over a series of natural shelves and collected in deep, clear pools. They could cross here but would have to swim part of the way. On down, they saw what looked like a shallow spot where crossing would be easier.
They came to the shallow section and Layla and the judge eased into the creek. Layla led the way as they stepped carefully placing one foot in front of the other, trying not to rush over the slick, moss-covered creek rock. The judge wasn’t as sure-footed as Layla and began to fall behind.
“We need to hurry,” Layla said. She extended her hand to the judge. As he was about to grab it, his ankle turned causing him to slip and fall into the water and onto the sharp creek bed below.
A blast of pain erupted on his right side, deep within his hip.
“Are you okay?” Layla asked.
“I don’t know,” the judge said, grimacing in pain. “Wished you’d just leave me. Go get help. I can find a place to hide until you get back.”
“I’m not leaving you. Can you stand?”
“I’ll try.”
Despite the pain, the judge climbed to his feet and hobbled out of the creek. He made it only a couple of yards on dry land before he collapsed to the ground.
“I can’t go anymore. I think my hip’s broken. You go for help. I’ll hide in those weeds over there.”
There wasn’t a choice. Layla had to leave him and go for help. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The judge nodded. “Go on. Get out of here.”
As she was about to take off, she glimpsed someone in the distance, approaching in their direction. And then she saw another person behind the first. She hunkered down beside the judge. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. She and the judge scooted to the tall weeds and hid.
Peering through the weeds, the judge saw the two men coming toward him and the girl. The distance was too far for him to determine who the men were, although he feared the worst. When the lead man came within twenty yards, the judge saw who he was and wasted no time.
“Sheriff, over here!” He sat up, raising his hands, trying to get Sheriff Randall King’s attention. Following the sheriff was Deputy Wesley Ross. Their plan had been to sneak in on the backside of the Wheeler property to get to the cabin. “We’re over here, Sheriff. It’s me, Judge McIntire!”
“Holy hell. There he is, Wes,” Randall said. “Come on.”
They took no more than a couple of steps when a gunshot rang out. Both Randall and Wes jumped for cover, hunkering down with their high-powered rifles at the ready.
“You hit?” Randall yelled over to his deputy.
“I don’t believe so,” Wes answered, looking himself over.
Across the way, Ray had slipped in from behind, surprising the other two. After firing a shot, he hid behind Layla, using her as a shield, holding his revolver to her temple.
“Don’t come no closer, Sheriff!” Ray said. “I’ll blow her damn head off!”
“Ray Kinzer, is that you over there?” Randall said.
“Sure is, Sheriff. I’m taking this pretty girl and the judge back with me. So don’t try to stop me!”
Then another gunshot blasted throughout the woods. Ray didn’t know what hit him. The bullet entered behind his left ear and exited through his right eye. He dropped where he stood.
Layla screamed.
“Grab his gun,” the judge said, feeling no remorse for the dead man.
Hands shaking, Layla picked up the gun and handed it to the judge. They hunkered down in the weeds, out of sight from Mack and Carl, and waited.
Fifty yards away, Carl Blaylock lowered his rifle, smoke oozing from the barrel. “Couldn’t stand that boy,” he said under his breath.
Seeing Ray shot dead didn’t bother Mack in the least. He was glad he didn’t have to do it himself.
“Sheriff, I know you’re over there,” Mack said. “You and your deputy shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your affair. You and Ross head on back the way you came!”
Randall clicked the safety off on his rifle. “Mack, you know the deputy and me can’t do that. We didn’t come all the way out here to leave empty-handed. Judge McIntire and the girl will be leaving with us. And that’s that.” He looked at Wes who hand-signaled that there were at least two people with guns across the way. Randall nodded. He already assumed Carl Blaylock was over there too and was the one who had shot the Kinzer boy.
“I don’t know if you remember, Sheriff,” Mack started, “but I never gave you permission to be on my property. You never produced that warrant. You’re trespassing. Now get the hell out of here!”
Randall let out an audible laugh. “Trespassing? Ha! You’re mistaken, Mack. This side of the creek is state-owned property. No one’s trespassing except your dead cousin over there. But if I did have a warrant right now, I’d walk over there and shove it up your boyfriend Carl’s ass!”
“Go to hell, Sheriff!” Carl said. “Step out where I can see you.” The longer the conversation continued, the more irritated Carl became. Someone needed to act. If Mack wasn’t going to do it, he would. Ten yards to his left, next to the creek, was a large oak tree. Carl thought he’d have a better angle on the deputy and sheriff from there. He didn’t hesitate. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, pulled his handgun, and bolted for the tree, firing shot after shot toward the sheriff and deputy as he ran. The bullets went high and wide, slamming into trees, severing limbs and bushes behind and around them. Carl made it halfway to the oak tree when the crack of another gun rang out.
The bullet from Wes’ rifle smashed into Carl’s chest, obliterating his right lung. On unsteady legs, Carl staggered a few yards more before dropping his gun and collapsing into the creek, landing face down in the water. A cloud of crimson formed under Carl’s unmoving corpse and began to flow downstream.
“Looks like you’re the last man standing, Mack,” Randall said. “Drop your guns and do the right thing. Turn yourself in now and maybe you’ll only get another ten years or so. Maybe you can work out a deal with the prosecutor.” Randall threw out the proposition but knew damn good and well it fell on deaf ears. When a man is backed into a corner, he becomes desperate and Randall knew Mack Wheeler was one such man.
“I ain’t going back to the joint, Sheriff. You can count on that. Let’s get this god damned party started!” With that said, Mack wasted no time. He let out a yell only a madman could produce, stepped from the tree, and squeezed the trigger, one shot after the other. He charged onward, splashing across the creek, shooting toward the sheriff and then the deputy. As soon as he made it to the other side of the creek, several gun blasts came from his right. One bullet penetrated his neck, severed his esophagus, and exited the other side. The rifle fell from his hands as he went to his knees clutching the gaping hole in his neck. And not long after, he collapsed onto his back.
The judge, like many in the county, was no stranger to firearms. He aimed the revolver, prepared to shoot another round into the son of a bitch that was Mack Wheeler. He waited until the gasping and gurgling stopped and then lowered the gun.
The deputy and sheriff approached.
“You two okay?” Randall asked.
“I’m okay,” Layla said, climbing to her feet but visibly shaken.
“My hip feels busted,” the judge said. “Might be able to walk out of here with a crutch.”
“Just hold tight. We’ll get an ATV back here to haul you both out.”
Wes glanced from one dead body to the other. In the years he’d been a lawman, he could never get used to this part of the job. Just another day at the office, he thought, trying to convince himself. He turned to Randall. “Guess you can get back to your vacation now, Sheriff.”
Randall also noticed the bloody carnage that lay scattered along the creek bank. He shook his head, desperately having wanted a different outcome. But he knew situations like this one brought no other type of ending.
Randall turned to Wes. “I reckon I just might do that, Deputy. And if I see you in a week, it’ll likely be way too soon.”
Jeremy Perry is an American writer from southern Indiana. He is the author of the Brothers of the Mountain series, the Sheriff Randall King series, Moonshiner's Justice, Moonshiner's Honor, and other works. He writes westerns, historical fiction, rural and smalltown fiction, and working-class stories. His short stories have appeared in magazines such as Cowboy Jamboree, New Pop Lit, Revolution John, Lamplit Underground, and other online publications. Stay up to date with Jeremy's writing and publishing news and other ramblings at https://www.jeremyjperry.com/.