A Swollen Red Sun (9 page)

“Looks like we got us a sewer problem, Officer,” Fish said, opening the door, trying to catch Hastings off guard, though he hadn’t.

“Yeah, I thought I smelled shit,” Hastings said. A response that would have made Banks proud.

Fish stepped onto the porch a little too quickly, and Hastings didn’t like it. He halted and stood his ground and threw his left hand up. “No, sir. You stop right there.” He flipped open his holster with his right hand.

Fish stopped. “Oh, big man, gotta gun. Well you cain’t tell me what ta do in my own house.”

Hastings’s jaw flashed muscle. “Listen here, fella, you’ll do whatever I tell ya. We gotta call from your wife. Said you beat her up. Now, where is she?”

Fish snorted and his upper body jumped around, though his feet were planted firmly. “Oh, tough talk. Like I’m supposed to be scared of you.”

Hastings took a step forward and pulled the mace from his other holster. “Don’t make me spray you, cuz I’m a pretty good shot.”

Some cops missed, it happened—he’d seen it happen—but Hastings wouldn’t miss. He practiced. Banks taught him to hit a coffee filter held to a tree branch with a clothespin.

“Where’s your wife?” Hastings yelled for her. “Raylene?”

Fish moved quickly, angry and wired from crank. As he came at the deputy with all he had, Hastings fired a burst of mace, which thoroughly doused Fish’s face, exactly where Hastings aimed.

Even with chemical in his eyes and nose and mouth, Fish charged him.

But Bo Hastings prepared for it. Threw a forearm into the face of his assailant and tried to sidestep him.

As they collided, Bo dropped the mace and spun toward Fish, grabbed him by the throat and held him. Fell to the ground and drove his knee into Fish’s chest. Heard a rib snap like a dead branch.

Fish gasped and lost his wind, but Bo kept driving. Had to use momentum. Had to use everything he had until he could reach his gun. This was real life. It was happening, and the only thought in Hastings’s mind was survival. He brought down a hard left and struck Fish in the jaw, and Fish’s head snapped off the ground and he went limp.

The deputy heaved himself off and went to stand but lost his footing in the sewage. Fell on his back. Fought for his breath, and with a gut instinct for survival, thought of Kenny’s wife, Raylene.

If domestic violence had taught him anything, it was that no matter how badly she’d been beaten, as soon as she saw handcuffs,
she
, the wife, or the girlfriend—bloody and swollen-faced and blackened-eyed—would recant her story. Because, in the end, despite all they’d been put through, they still did what they could to protect them.

So it would not surprise Hastings to look up and see her standing there with an ax or a shotgun. With tweakers high on dope, you never knew. Crank ruined people. Bo had seen it. Time and time again. Friends and neighbors and relatives. It took hold of them in ways they could not have imagined.

Half the county was on dope. Every week, without fail, arrests were made for possession of product, or precursors, or attempt to manufacture.

Hastings, buried in mud and shit, came to his knees and drew his weapon. Looked around with caution. Had to make sure Fisher’s wife hadn’t made a move.

He crawled toward Fish and removed his cuffs and hooked them around each wrist. Clicked them. Sat down and took a deep breath, then picked up his mace and shook the can and sprayed it in Kenny’s face.

Fish screamed, as much as he could, and gagged. Tried to roll over but couldn’t.

Hastings stood and spun around. Still waiting for an ax-wielding wife or a shotgun-brandishing next-of-kin to confront him.

Fish spit mud and mace from his mouth and threatened the kid.

“You’re goin’ to jail, you dumb son of a bitch.”

Fish kicked blindly at Bo and cursed him.

Once he caught his breath and his heart rate slowed down—though it still had not returned to normal, probably wouldn’t for a half hour—Hastings called Gasconade Central and requested an ambulance.

Then, because he deserved it, he kicked Fish in the ribs that weren’t broken and sat down on the hood and waited.

Jackson Brandt woke up with a shotgun in his mouth.

Banks jammed the metal pipe between Jackson’s teeth. “Wake up, cocksucker.”

Jackson’s eyes were white moons covered in red veins. He could not speak, though he tried.

“Don’t talk, just listen.”

Jackson shook his head up and down.

“You’re a dog turd on the bottom of my work boot, boy. You ain’t nothin’ but trash to me. You understand that? Cuz it’s real important to me you understand that.”

Jackson tried to stay calm, but the tube was in his mouth. He tried to talk, and the cop shoved the barrel deep into the back of his throat. It felt like he was dying.

“You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Jackson nodded. His eyes watered. Banks worked the stock back and forth until Jackson puked into the barrel and it ran back down in his mouth.

“I am a God-fearin’ man, Jackson Brandt. Yes, I am. And because I’m a God-fearin’ man, I know it is my sworn duty to eliminate shit bags like you and make this world a better place for my kids.”

Jackson did his best to say no and shook his head.

“I’m gonna ask you a question—and if you lie to me, I’ll blow your throat out through the back of your head.”

Jackson screamed into the gun barrel and cold puke bubbles seeped from the barrel and ran down his cheeks into his ears.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, boy. I’m a cop, so I won’t do it. But lemme tell you somethin’, son. Take a good look at this gun. This is
your
gun.”

Jackson tried to turn his head. His eyes looked to his left, to the corner, where his 20-gauge was supposed to be.

“You lie to me and you’re just another white trash bum who ate a shotgun.”

Jackson tried to speak, but he was choking. He begged the deputy with his eyes.

“Don’t you lie to me.”

Jackson could not breathe. He swore with his nods and his gestures.

Banks removed the shotgun and words began to spew from Jackson’s mouth along with a burst of vomit. “It was Jerry Dean that done it. It was Jerry Dean, man. I swear. If you’s gonna shoot somebody, shoot him.”

“Was Jerry Dean done what?”

And with that, Jackson was alarmed. Did his best to proceed with caution.

Was there a cop in his room because of Fish, or because of Jerry Dean? Or maybe it was the prison guard who got busted—
not that he should know about him
, but sometimes Jackson heard things. Some things he remembered; some things he forgot. But he had not survived the game for as long as he had by talking to police and answering questions.

Banks asked again. “What about Jerry Dean?”

“It … it was Jerry Dean Skaggs took my uncle’s truck and shot his dog, man… . It was him. Honest. I didn’t want no part of it, man, I swear.”

Jackson sat up, tried to catch his breath. He pointed to his bottom lip, the wound from Jerry Dean’s fist still mending. “He done this, too.”

Banks reached down and slammed Jackson in the mouth with a straight right and his lip busted open.

Jackson screamed, “You sumbitch, why’d you hit me? Ah, goddamn, that hurts!”

“I ain’t even asked you a question yet, dipshit.”

Jackson rolled onto his side. “If that ain’t what you wanna know, then why the hell’re you here?”

“I was just gonna ask about that ridin’ mower you got for sale out there in your mama’s yard.” Banks threw the shotgun at Jackson and bounced the stock off his head. “Get up, you piece of shit.”

“Ouch! You … this is bullshit, man. This is police brutality. I know my rights.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You pulled a gun on me, man. You coulda
kilt
me.”

“The gun ain’t even loaded, you dummy.”

Jackson moaned and cried, and Banks flipped the cap on his holster.

“But this gun here, this one
is
loaded, fucknuts, and I’ll drop you where you lay and say you pulled on me. Different scenario, same result. Now get your ass outside. You’re comin’ with me.”

Banks drove gravel roads to the farm with Olen’s nephew in the backseat and his dog in the trunk. He told Sheriff Feeler he was taking the rest of the day off to tend to Sandy’s disposal and feed Olen’s cattle.

Sheriff Feeler said that was a good idea.

“Why I gotta ride back here?”

“Keep talkin’ and you’ll switch places with the dog.”

“Man, that’s fucked up. I know he loved that old dog.”

“Then why’d you do it for? You robbed your own kin.”

Jackson didn’t have an answer. He wanted crank and that was the easiest way. “I didn’t think he’s gonna get hurt, man. You gotta believe me.”

Banks spit brown tobacco juice into a Mountain Dew bottle, then returned it to the cup holder. “You’re about as worthless as titties on a catfish.”

“Man, I’m scared of Jerry Dean. Fucker’s crazy, man. He said it’d be easy. My uncle had insurance.”

“You make me wanna puke.”

“He said my uncle’d make good money from it. Said I’d make a lil’ money, too. I just went along with it.”

“Where’s the tanks?”

Jackson went silent for the first time since the gun was in his mouth.

Banks looked into the rearview mirror, and their eyes connected. “The tanks?”

“Jerry Dean took ’em.”

“No shit. Just know I’m only askin’ once.”

“What’re you gonna do this time, shoot me in the backseat?”

“No. I’ll pull over and shoot you—’n’ bury you in the same hole as the dog.”

They turned onto another gravel road and followed the branch to the right, along a country mile of rolling hills and sagging fence.

“Tanks?” Banks said. “Last time.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“I ain’t decided yet.”

Jackson knew you could not trust cops, but either way he went put him in a pickle. “If I tell you what I know ’n’ whatnot, you gonna let me go?”

“If you tell me what I wanna know, I’m gonna let you live.”

Jackson knew Banks from previous occasions and numerous arrests. If he were going to shoot him or arrest him, he’d have already done it. “What if I make you a deal?”

“I’m listening.”

“Jerry Dean’s got some pot plants growin’ on the Gasconade. He’s got a bunch o’—”

Banks cut him off. “I don’t give a damn ’bout no pot plants. I want them tanks.”

“Well, what’s in it for me if I tell?”

“How about not getting shot?”

“If you was gonna shoot me, you’d’ve done it already.”

Banks shook his head. Told Jackson he was wrong. He wasn’t shooting him until he buried the dog; he’d need him for another hour. That hole wasn’t gonna dig itself.

Banks watched Jackson dig a hole and sweat while he sat in the air-conditioning and talked on the phone. When Jackson finished digging to a depth that satisfied Banks, he popped the trunk and the smell of dead hide blew out.

Jackson held his breath, reached down, and scooped her up.

He groaned. Said, “Oh, shit, she’s heavy.”

“Walk her to the hole and set her down
gently
.”

Jackson did as he was told.

“Now fill it.”

Once Jackson finished, Banks pulled his handcuffs out and told him to turn around. “Put your hands behind your back, shit bird. You know the routine.”

“Aw, c’mon, man. I dug the hole. What more you want from me?”

Banks slapped the cuffs on tight and spun Jackson around and pushed him up against the car.

“What now?”
Jackson asked. “C’mon, man. What’re you gonna do with me?”

“You got any dope on you, boy?”

Jackson was appalled. “Hell no. Course not.”

Banks reached down to Jackson’s pocket and felt the glass pipe.

“What’s this? Feels awful hard to me, and I’m pretty sure it ain’t your little peter.”

“That ain’t mine.”

Banks said, “Uh-huh. Course it ain’t.”

Jackson had enough. “My lawyer’s gonna sue the shit outta you, pork. When he’s through with you, you’ll be workin’ the cash register at Fuel Mart.”

Banks shook his head slowly. Said, “You ’spect me to believe a man with a five-dollar truck livin’ in a seven-dollar trailer can afford a lawyer?”

“That ain’t my truck. It’s Jerry Dean’s.”

“Well, that’s nice to know, asshole. But it don’t matter. Jerry Dean’s name don’t come up on the tag. And bein’s possession’s nine-tenths of the law and all …”

“Oh, no, that ain’t mine. Jerry Dean
loves
that truck. He made me drive it home.”

Banks kicked Jackson’s feet apart and told him to spread ’em. “I ain’t gonna get jabbed with a needle if I reach in here, am I?”

Jackson was beginning to fall apart. He told Banks he could go to hell. “Wait till Jerry Dean gets through with y’all.”

Banks pulled a glass pipe from Jackson’s pocket and held it to his nose. “Smells like a possum’s asshole. How can you boys smoke this shit?”

Jackson kept quiet. Wondered if Banks heard what he’d said.

The deputy searched his other pockets. He found four dollars and a small torch, but no meth.

“Where’s the Bob White?” Banks asked.

Jackson kept a silent tongue, so Banks drove an elbow into his back and applied pressure. “Where’s the dope?”

Jackson squirmed and told Banks he was out of crank.

Banks spun him around. “I’m takin’ you in, peckerwood.”

“For what?”

“Well, where do we begin? Grand theft auto, assault with a deadly weapon, animal cruelty, possession of drug paraphernalia. But mostly just for bein’ an asshole.”

“Stop,” Jackson yelled. “Just lemme go, man. I done whatchya asked.”

Banks bore holes into Jackson’s face with his thousand-yard stare.

“C’mon, Sheriff, you know I ain’t done this. This ain’t me, man. It was all Jerry Dean.”

Banks pulled his pepper spray and held it to Jackson’s face.

“No!” Jackson screamed and turned away. “That shit burns like the dickens, man. It still burns from the last time I got sprayed.”

Banks grabbed him and shoved him out of the way so he could open the door.

“Jerry Dean knows y’all took his money.”