Fortunes fool chance mcc.., p.34
Fortune's Fool : Chance McCabe Book One, page 34
"What're you giving it to me for?"
"Because you're going to shoot him in the head."
"Why am I doing it and not you?"
"Does it matter?" said Ray.
"No," said Jesse, "but it makes me curious."
Junior sighed. "Your brother and me have work to do. We need you to kill him, then take this gun and drive out to his house. He lives out off Butcher's Road."
"I know where he lives," said Jesse.
"Good. When you get there, shoot his wife and the little boy, too. Make sure they're dead. Then drive back out here, wipe all your prints off the gun, and put it in his hand."
"Why?" asked Jesse.
"Why what?" asked Junior.
"Why am I taking the gun and then bringing it back?"
”That's a need-to-know thing, son. Above your pay grade."
"If you want me to do it, then I need to know."
Junior sighed again. "We're concocting a narrative here. It ain't like the old days. You can't just solve a problem like we used to. He's a consent decree hire. The feds forced him on us and the feds are gonna want to know what happened. They need a story. A story they can believe. You understand?"
"What's the story?" asked Jesse.
"Just go kill the bitch," said Ray.
"I need to know you ain't setting me up," said Jesse.
"You want to know the story?" said Junior. "Here's the story. Deputy Taylor had been under a lot of stress here lately. We all saw it. I saw it. Virgil saw it. The Sheriff saw it. He just wasn't fitting in. The job was too big for him. And, on top of that, he'd been having marital difficulties at home and the poor man just snapped. Killed his wife and little boy. Then when he was heading into town, likely to shoot up the Sheriff's office, he was so distraught by what he'd done he crashed his vehicle. He got out, walked a little ways off the highway. Stopped right here and blew his brains out. That’s why you need to bring the gun back here after you kill his family."
Jesse thought it over. "That's a good story."
"I'm glad you approve," said Junior. "Now, will you do what your brother said and go kill the goddamn bitch?"
"Can I fuck her first?" asked Jesse.
"Just shoot her in the fucking head and get back out here," said Ray.
Junior unslung his rifle, checked the load. "Pretty sure I saw some tracks on the side of the road. Soon as we find and kill that fucking thing, we can start putting this whole nasty chapter behind us."
"Wait," said Jesse. “What did you say?”
"Just go do what you were told," said Ray.
"Nah, fuck that!" Jesse's voice went higher. It always went higher when he got agitated or angry. "You're not talking about shooting Killer! Fuck no! You ain't killing my fucking liger!"
Junior looked at Ray with exasperation. "I thought you explained this to him."
Ray looked down, shook his head.
"That's why you're sending me off? So you can shoot Killer? Fuck you. You ain't killing my liger!" said Jesse. "Ain't nobody shooting him! We're gonna find him and then I'm going to put him in the back of the truck and we're going to take him back to JB's and put him in his cage!" He looked at Ray. "That's what you said! That's what you said we were doing."
"Son, listen to me," said Junior. "We're out of options here. This can't drag on any longer."
Ray stepped forward, shoved Jesse. "We've looked for that fucking thing for days. But we're done with that shit." He unslung his rifle and held it out in front of him for Jesse to see. "What the fuck do you think I've been walking through the swamp with a 30-06 for, huh? You think I was just going to scare it with this? You think you can sweet talk it into the truck and just drive it back to JB's? Do you really fucking think that, you goddamn moron? Do you? It ain't a dog. You can't call it and it'll come to you. You ain't getting it back in the truck and you ain't taking it to JB's like nothing ever happened. Like you never let it get out. That was never going to work. This is your fault. You let the fucking thing out. If you hadn't done that, we wouldn't be in this spot. But you did! You fucked everything up like you always do and now we got to fix your problem."
"You ain't killing him," said Jesse. "You ain't shooting my liger."
"Son, listen to me," Junior said. "Your brother's right. Sometimes we got to make hard choices. This is one of those times."
Jesse looked at the senior deputy, then brought Taylor's service revolver up and pulled the trigger. A little blue dot appeared on Junior's forehead and a spray of blood, brains, and bone fragments erupted from the back of his head.
"You ain't fucking killing my liger!" Jesse shouted as the senior deputy's lifeless body crumbled to the ground at his feet.
Ray grabbed Jesse by the shoulder and spun him around. "What the fuck you do that for? What the fuck, you moron!"
Jesse looked at his brother, at his one good eye and the flap of skin over the empty socket where his other should be. "You ain't fucking killing my liger."
Ray shoved Jesse again. Jesse stumbled backward, tripped, and fell.
Ray looked down at the body of the senior deputy. "Jesus Christ! You shot Junior!"
Jesse sat up. He brought the revolver up again, aimed it at Ray, and pulled the trigger. Ray hit the ground next to Junior.
Jesse dropped the revolver, stood and picked up Ray's rifle, holding it by the barrel like it was a baseball bat. He swung it down, striking Ray across the back. Again and again, he swung until the stock broke. He dropped the broken rifle across Ray's body.
"You ain't fucking killing my liger!" Jesse yelled at him. "You understand me now, motherfucker? You ain't killing my liger."
Jesse's chest heaved, growing angrier with each halting breath. Ray rolled over, somehow still alive. There was a hole in his shirt, off center of his chest. Blood was soaking quickly through his shirt. His one eye was open, staring up at Jesse. Ray's mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.
Jesse stood over Ray, looking down at his brother. “You got something to say, motherfucker? Do you?”
Ray’s mouth moved, his breathing ragged.
Jesse kicked Ray. “Speak up! I can’t hear you!”
Ray closed his mouth, stopped trying to speak.
Jesse spit on Ray. Then unzipped his fly and pulled out his dick. The stream of piss hit Ray in the eye. It flowed over his face and down the side of his head.
Jesse shook out the last few drops, then tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up. He picked up the deputy's sidearm from the ground, but when he turned around, Deputy Taylor was nowhere to be seen.
seventy-one
They waited until dark to drag Virgil's body out the front door. Sandy continued cleaning, soaking up the blood with more towels, and wiping everything down with bleach. She then showered and put on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that pushed the definition of distressed to new levels.
McCabe kept watch out the front window, still hoping that Sandy's brothers would come home so that he might shoot them both dead and they could dispose of three bodies instead of one. Or perhaps even stage a scene to make it look as though the three had gotten into some sort of altercation resulting in Virgil being stabbed, but not before fatally shooting both Ray and Jesse. It was a fanciful idea and one he doubted he could've pulled off convincingly. And he'd never get the chance, anyway. The brothers never came home.
Sandy found Virgil's keys on his duty rig and unlocked the door of his cruiser. McCabe dragged the body to the passenger side door and put Virgil in the seat, letting the body slump over. The corpse was still pliable. Rigor mortis had locked Virgil's face into his death grimace but hadn't had time yet to affect his limbs.
Sandy brought out the shopping bag with the household items McCabe had collected. Lighter fluid, a plastic jug of vegetable oil, and a half-empty five-pound sack of flour. She put the bag in the backseat and handed McCabe the keys.
"Oh, shit!" she said. "I almost forgot!"
She ran back inside the house and came out with Virgil's pants, his shoes — he was still wearing his socks — and his duty rig. She'd holstered his revolver as McCabe had told her to do.
"Should we put his pants back on him?" she asked.
McCabe shook his head. "Give them to me."
She handed him the pants. McCabe reached into a pocket and took out Virgil's wallet. Inside were four twenties, a five, and a couple of ones. McCabe pocketed the cash.
"You're taking his money?" asked Sandy. “Really?”
"You stuck a pair of scissors in his neck and you've got a problem with this?"
"It oughta be mine," said Sandy.
"Consider it payment for helping you with this shit."
Sandy frowned. "Fucker." She held up the duty rig. "You want his gun, too?"
McCabe had actually given that some thought. The Glock was a better sidearm than his snub-nose, but it wasn't worth the risk. If anything went wrong in getting out of the county, the last thing he wanted was to get caught with the service weapon of a dead cop.
"Put it all at his feet."
"Is there a GPS or anything like that in the car?" Sandy asked. "Will they be able to tell he was here?"
"Assume there is," he said. "You should expect them to come by and question you. Get your story straight and stick to it."
"Are you asking me what the story is?"
"I don't care."
"I wasn't fucking him because I wanted to."
"None of my business. If you say he got what was coming to him, that's good by me."
A phone rang. McCabe looked at Sandy.
"Not mine," she said.
McCabe went to Virgil's body and pulled a phone from his shirt pocket. The caller ID said 'Momma'. He showed it to Sandy.
"Oh shit," she said. "She called him earlier. Asked what time he'd be home for dinner."
"He lives with his mother?"
"Well, not anymore."
"What time did he say?"
"He said around 6:30."
McCabe looked again at the phone. The display showed 7:17. “He’s late.”
"She's wondering where he is," said Sandy.
McCabe threw the phone on the floorboard. "Let's get this over with." He handed Sandy the keys to the truck he’d bought from Jake Tucker. "There's a black Ford pickup parked about a hundred yards down the highway. You drive it. I'll drive his car. Follow me."
"Where are we going?"
"To the old Indian Mound. Park the truck on the side of the road behind me and wait for me. Keep the engine running."
seventy-two
Sandy Wiggins found the beat-up, black Ford pickup parked where McCabe said it would be. The door was unlocked. She climbed behind the steering wheel and put the key in the ignition.
“You’re shitting me,” she mumbled to herself. “A fucking stick shift? Really?”
She had learned to drive on a manual transmission but hadn’t driven one since she was a teenager. She wasn’t sure she remembered how.
She pressed the clutch and turned the key, but before the truck cranked, the passenger side door opened, the dome light came on, and a man hurriedly slid into the seat next to her. He had a large handgun pointed at her face.
“Where’s McCabe?” he asked.
Sandy recognized the man. She had served him breakfast at the Smiling ‘Possum. He was the one with the missing fingers on his left hand.
“Don’t fucking lie to me this time,” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.
The man struck her across the mouth with the gun. Her head snapped back. She felt a tooth crack and could taste blood in her mouth. Then the man was on her, pushing into her, holding her face against the window with his bandaged left hand, while pressing the barrel of the gun into her temple.
“Lie to me again, cunt. I know he drove this piece of shit here. Now where the fuck is he?”
Sandy swallowed, tasted blood. “He’s at my house.”
“Why’s he at your house?”
Sandy didn’t answer. The man pressed the gun harder. The barrel felt like it was going to break through her skull. “You can tell me or I can put a bullet through your brain and go find out for myself. Why are you in his truck while he’s at your goddamn house?”
“He’s... he’s helping me with something.”
“Helping you with what? Quit fucking playing games with me!”
“Getting rid of a body.”
The answer seemed to take the man by surprise. He still pressed her face against the window but eased up on the pressure of the gun against her temple. “Who’d he kill?”
“Nobody. He’s helping me.”
“Helping you? Who’d you kill?”
She swallowed hard. More blood.
“Answer me, bitch. Who’d you kill?”
“A cop.”
“You killed a cop?”
She nodded. “The one in the diner the day you were there.”
“The one who showed you his dick?”
“Yeah.”
“And McCabe’s getting rid of the body for you?”
“Uh-huh.”
The man laughed. “You killed a fucking cop?”
She nodded.
“You killed a cop and he’s getting rid of the body? You must suck cock like a motherfucking demon.”
The man lowered his bandaged hand, releasing her face, but kept the gun aimed at her head. “What’s he doing with the body?”
“He didn’t say. Just told me to get in the truck and follow him.”
“Follow him where?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” She wasn’t sure why she lied.
“What’s he driving?”
“The cop’s car.”
“He’s driving the cop car?” The man seemed incredulous. “What? Is it unmarked?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“What does it look like? Does it have a light bar on top? Decals on the door? Or is it just a regular car?”
“It’s a cop car,” said Sandy. “It looks like a cop car.”
“And the cop’s body is in the car?”
She nodded.
The man laughed again. “Is it all the inbreeding or is there something in the water down here that makes people fucking stupid? He wasn't this stupid a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t know.”
Headlights appeared, coming from the driveway up ahead.
“Is that him?” asked the man.
“Yeah.”
The man waggled the gun at her. “Drive. Do what he told you.”
“You want me to follow him?”
“Yeah, I want you to fucking follow him.”
Sandy cranked the truck, pressed on the gas, and eased off the clutch. Or tried to. She let out on the clutch too fast and the truck bucked and sputtered.
“Do you know how to fucking drive?” asked the man.
Sandy didn’t answer. She accelerated, shifted into second gear.
“You gonna turn on the headlights?”
Sandy reached around the console. “I don’t know where they’re at. It’s not my truck.”
“It’s right there on the fucking column.”
Sandy found the switch, turned on the headlights. The high beams stretched out into the darkness. Before she could dim them, the man said, “No. Leave the high beams on.”
She shifted into third gear, closed the distance between them and Virgil’s cruiser. She could see McCabe’s silhouette behind the wheel.
“Hang back a little. Don’t get too close,” said the man with the gun. “But don’t lose him. I want to see what he’s up to before I kill him.”
“Then you’re gonna kill me, too?”
The man smiled, kept the gun trained on her. “You do what I tell you and stay out of my way and you can look forward to sucking a lot more cocks.”
seventy-three
"Where the fuck is he going?" asked the man with the gun, as they bounced along the winding, one-lane dirt road cutting through the thick woods.
Sandy Wiggins kept her hands on the steering wheel and her eyes on the road. She tried not to think about the gun pointed at her head. She could see Virgil's police cruiser, with McCabe at the wheel, about a hundred yards ahead of them.
"There's an old Indian mound at the end of this road," she said.
"You call this a fucking road?" the man said.
Sandy kept driving and didn't answer. In the distance, she could just make out the silhouette of the mound. For decades it had been Hatchootucknee County’s go-to spot for underage drinking and illicit fornication. But that was on the weekends. On a weeknight, it would be as empty as an apology that begins with if.
"Don't get too close," said the man. "If he makes me, I'm gonna paint the windshield with your brains."
Sandy kept her distance. She downshifted, slowing as McCabe's brake lights came on. The dirt road ended in an oblong-shaped turnaround at the sprawling base of the mound. It jutted to a height of about fifty feet and was covered in tall pine trees. If you didn't know it was a mound, it could easily be mistaken for just another hill. They watched as McCabe parked the cruiser in the middle of the turnaround. Sandy brought the truck to a stop about a hundred feet away from the cruiser.
"Is this good?" she asked.
The man nodded. "Yeah. Here is good."
Her foot slipped off the clutch as she fumbled for the parking brake, and the truck bucked forward.
"What the fuck!" said the man.
"I'm not used to a stick-shift!" She found and engaged the parking brake, then turned off the ignition. She reached for the light switch, but the man poked the gun into her jaw.
"Keep your lights on."
Sandy lowered her hand.
McCabe got out of the cruiser and looked back at the truck. He waved his arms and shouted something, but with the windows up, Sandy couldn't hear him. She didn't need to.
"He wants me to dim the lights," she said.
"Keep them on bright."
"What if he comes over here?"
"What the fuck do you think I'm trying to get him to do?"
Sandy swallowed and looked back at McCabe. He didn't take the bait. He shook his head and turned back to the cruiser.
