Echoes of a Distant Summer (78 page)

“What the fuck is goin’ on out there? Can’t you assholes keep it quiet?” The growling voice originated from a room farther down the darkened corridor.

Carlos rolled into the room with his gun at the ready, but the room was empty. Jackson stood in the hallway, panting and nervous. He stared down at the man he had shot and it was not a pretty sight. There were big, red holes in the man’s chest and there was blood puddling
slowly beside his body. A smell of bile filled his nose. It was sickening, yet Jackson could not tear his eyes away from watching the man’s last twitches and movements before the life left his body. Killing the man did not make him feel powerful; instead it nauseated him because he realized that he himself could be killed just as easily; he too could be killed by a stranger who merely reacted out of fear. Carlos tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to a door farther down the hall. Jackson followed Carlos and focused his thoughts on Elizabeth because he knew that he would kill a roomful of men to get her back.

Tavio went into the room where the man had fallen and closed the door, leaving Jackson and Carlos in darkness as they continued down the hall. The doorway whence the growling voice had originated was cracked open. Looking through the crack, Jackson saw four men sitting at a long collapsible table. A fifth chair had a jacket upon it, but it was unoccupied. Two of the men had their backs to the door, while two were facing it. Carlos pushed open the door and Jackson followed him into the room. It was a big bright room, lit by overhead banks of fluorescent lights. All along the walls were stacks of folding tables and chairs. This room with its smooth hardwood floor had served as Tree’s prep and bag room, and when in operation it had been a busy place with more than forty employees. It was where pills and tablets were pressed and counted, where freebase rock cocaine was cooked, and the heroin was cut. However, since Tree had shut down his action, the room was not in use.

The conversation between the four men at the table stopped and the two men who were facing away from the door turned and looked over their shoulders. Jackson was ready for any sudden action. His trigger finger was twitching again. He was determined not to die at the hands of these fools; he would kill them all first. An overweight, heavyset man with a disfiguring scar across his face pushed back from the table and growled, “What the hell you motherfuckers want? You here to jack me up for some dope?”

Jackson was not in the mood to answer questions. He demanded, “Where does Deleon DuMont live? Where can we find him?”

Jackson recognized the bald-headed man to the left of the big man with the scar as the attorney who had represented Delbert at Johnson, Wyland & Johnson the week before, but he couldn’t remember his name. The attorney nudged the man with the scar and said, “That’s him, Tree! That’s Tremain!”

Tree guffawed. “You mean to tell me he was fool enough to walk in here? Well, ain’t he a cherry for pickin’?” He turned to one of the other men at the table and said, “Dwayne, go get my cherry picker. The shiny one!”

Jackson warned, “Stay where you are!” He pointed his pistol directly at Tree’s head. Fletcher had identified John Tree as one of the men who had had a hand in the death of Jackson’s father. That thought kept flashing across his mind. He was filled with such unanticipated anger that briefly he considered pulling the trigger and blowing off the top of Tree’s head, but it did not seem penalty enough.

Carlos patted them down for weapons as Jackson stood guard. Tavio entered the room and assisted Carlos. Two revolvers and three knives were confiscated and the guns were emptied of bullets. Tavio went and stood at the rear of the room next to two closed doors.

Jackson walked over to the table and studied the four men. He forced himself to look into each one of their faces. He and Carlos had agreed beforehand that he would take the lead and Carlos would speak only if absolutely necessary. Jackson said to the men, “This can be easy, or it can be difficult. Frankly, I don’t care which it is. I need some information. Where can I find Deleon DuMont? Who knows where he’s staying?”

The attorney smiled and fingered his Van Dyke as he said, “We shouldn’t be talking with guns in our hands. We should be sitting down and negotiating.”

“What’s to negotiate?” Jackson asked, pacing around the table. Another one of Carlos’s team entered the room and conferred with Carlos. Carlos turned to Jackson and tapped his watch. Jackson nodded in response and repeated, “What’s to negotiate?”

The attorney smiled as if he had caught Jackson asking a trick question. “I think there are a wide spectrum of issues that—”

Jackson interrupted impatiently, “I know who you are, you sleazy bastard! So don’t give me your bullshit! There are only two issues I want you to focus on and that’s where is Deleon and where is Braxton?”

Jackson saw the fourth man at the table glance involuntarily at the jacket on the unoccupied chair next to him. Jackson walked over and checked the jacket’s pockets. He found a wallet in an inside breast pocket and when he flipped it open, it was Braxton’s. A strange excitement suddenly filled him. The one who had masterminded the attacks against his family was also close at hand. He turned to Carlos. “Braxton!
He’s here somewhere! Watch these men. I want to find him. Tavio! Diego! Check all the doors in the hallway. Don’t take any risks. Spray the walls with bullets; that may encourage him to give up easily. I’ll check behind the two doors at the rear of this room. These walls don’t seem that thick,” Jackson commented as he pointed his .45 waist high at the rear wall and fired measured shots into it every four feet. The smack of crushed Sheetrock and the splintering of wood drowned out the soft bark of his silenced weapon. He was halfway across the rear wall when he heard commotion behind the door on the right.

All vestiges of hesitation were gone. Jackson emptied the rest of his magazine into the walls around the door behind which the sounds had originated. He dropped an empty magazine on the floor and popped in a new one. Once he had chambered a bullet, he opened the door cautiously. He let the door swing open all the way and with his gun at the ready, he entered a short hallway which led to an office. It was a small office with a heavy wooden desk and cheap leather furniture. Other than the dim light which flowed through the doorway that he had entered, the office was unlit. Jackson checked the iron-grille-covered door on the far side of the desk and the small toilet and shower which adjoined the office. It was only when he stood examining the huge padlock that was still locked tightly on the grille door that he noticed the window behind the curtains. It was a large double-hung window which had its lower section pushed open. He saw that there was blood on the windowsill and that the window’s outer metal grille was unlatched and opened. He leaned out the window and saw in the shadows of the unlit alley fifteen feet below a dimly outlined pile of black plastic garbage bags. He thought he saw a human leg sticking out of the pile, but when he pointed his gun down toward it, he saw a police car stop at the end of the alley and focus its spotlight down the length of the alley. Jackson pulled the window’s grille closed and stepped behind the curtains.

Frustration and anger swept through him. So close, yet so far. Momentarily, Jackson considered firing his gun into the pile of plastic bags, but he could not be sure that the flare of his weapon’s discharge wouldn’t be seen. He did not want to arouse the suspicions of the men in the patrol car. He waited by the window listening for sounds of a human scrambling to his feet, but there were none. The police car remained parked at the end of the alley, although it turned out its spotlight. After a few minutes Jackson shut the window and walked
back through the hallway to the main room, slamming doors behind him. “The bastard must’ve jumped out the goddamn window!” he explained to Carlos. “I think he’s still down there, but a police car is sitting at the end of the alley.”

The attorney interjected, “You don’t have a lot of time now! If you want to—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jackson growled, pointing his pistol in his direction.

The attorney forced a frightened chuckle. “If you kill me, you’ll never find out what you want to know!”

Jackson stared at him for a minute, saw the smirk on his face, and thought, I don’t have time for this bullshit! He did not hesitate; he pointed his pistol and shot the attorney in his left foot. The man screamed and bent over the table. Jackson was getting angrier and angrier. These men were wasting his time, and in doing so they were preventing him from getting to Elizabeth. A new and different feeling was welling up within him and it was eagerness. He wanted the men to take some precipitous action that would justify the infliction of pain. He watched unsympathetically as the attorney gasped in agony, then he demanded, “Do we have a failure to communicate? Have I focused your attention, or do I have to shoot you someplace else?” Jackson moved around to shoot the other foot that was under the table.

The attorney panted, “Yes! Yes! I’m focusing! Please, no more!”

Tree growled, “You mighty brave when you got all this backup! You gon’ be this brave when the police get here?”

Jackson had difficulty looking into Tree’s face because every time he did, he wanted to kill him. There was no conscious thought about it. It was simply a desire that originated somewhere deep within him. He had to restrain himself from filling the man’s chest with lead.

Tree suggested with a smile, “Them police boys is probably coming for their weekly payoff!”

Jackson turned and looked at Tree. “Before he died, Fletcher told us all about you. You’re the one who always brags about setting my father up, aren’t you?”

Tree’s eyes narrowed. “You know where Jesse is?”

Jackson smiled. “Good old Jesse. He and Fletcher are feeding the fish.”

“You done killed my nephew?”

Jackson confirmed, “Damn straight!”

The man sitting across from Tree stood suddenly and shouted at Jackson, “You goddamn motherfucker!” Tavio shot him before he was all the way erect. The man jerked as the bullet hit him then crumpled to the floor. Tavio walked around the table to make sure that he had made a killing hit. The man was still breathing, but not for long. The bullet had just barely missed his heart. This time neither the body nor the blood held any fascination for Jackson. He felt no remorse for this man. He was ready to move on to the next. He began to pace around the table once more. “Once again, where is Deleon DuMont? Where can I find him?”

“You fuckin’ pieces of shit killed Dwayne! I ain’t tellin’ you a goddamn thing!” Tree declared. His face, with the scar tugging at the right side, was a lopsided snarl. He pointed at Jackson and taunted, “You just a jive-ass punk with a gun! Shit, if I was to go hand to hand with you, I’d eat you up like I did yo’ daddy! Whachoo think of that, punk?”

He could not be sure at what point he stopped hearing Tree’s voice. Jackson had never considered the anger he might feel toward a man who had actually participated in his father’s murder. The heat of indignation flared out across his thoughts, filling his mind with blazing color, like flames rising in the wind above a raging fire. He had no sensation. All he knew was that his fingers were tingling and his mouth was dry. He turned and stared at Tree, who was mouthing some words which Jackson could not even hear. Jackson had no conscious awareness of when his hearing returned, but suddenly he smelled cigar smoke and was back firmly in the room with his enemies. He glanced around the room for the source of the smoke and then his gaze fell on Tree.

For the first time in his life Jackson felt true hatred. He tasted its bitterness and it completely erased any thoughts of compassion and sympathy. Suddenly, everything that his grandfather had said became clear to him, and with that realization came the understanding that he would be the one to collect on the family’s debts. But more than that, he now
wanted
to be the one to collect. He went over to where the confiscated weapons lay on the floor and picked up one of the knives. It was a switchblade. He tossed the knife at Tree’s feet. “Get up, asshole!” Tree said nothing. He looked down at the knife but made no move toward it. Jackson prodded, “You’re going to die one way or the other! I’m giving you a chance to die with a weapon in your hand!”

Tree stared around the room at Carlos, Diego, and Tavio. “Yo’ peoples is just gon’ shoot me if’en I gets up!”

Jackson shrugged. “If you’re afraid to fight me, you can die by torture.”

Tree bent down and picked up the knife, flicked it open, then launched himself right at Jackson. The knife flashed in his hand as he stabbed for Jackson, but his fifty-two-year-old body could not match the reflexes of the younger man. Jackson was prepared and eluded his charge easily. He held up his hand as a signal for Tavio and Carlos to hold their fire.

Tree, who had landed on the floor, got to his feet slowly and bellowed, “I’m gon’ kill you like I did yo’ mama and yo’ daddy!” He brandished the thin, six-inch blade in his right hand.

Jackson handed Carlos his gun and turned to face Tree. “Come on out here where there’s some open floor,” he beckoned to Tree as he backed away from the table.

“Not a good idea. We don’t have time for this,” Carlos admonished.

“Give me two, three minutes,” Jackson replied. He knew that Carlos was warning him again that a bulletproof vest wouldn’t stop a knife thrust. Jackson didn’t care. He had already palmed the knife like his grandfather had taught him and had the blade hidden in his grip. He felt the primal call of revenge; it spoke to the core of him, the tribal man, and its fundamental intensity swept him away. Everything that the old man had taught him came rushing to the surface. It was a ritual. He would repay this part of the debt with the spilling of Tree’s blood. He would stare into Tree’s face as he delivered the killing stroke and watch death take him. He beckoned Tree closer.

Tree was hesitant. He looked from Carlos to Tavio, but they backed out of his way. He came toward Jackson more confidently. He carried his knife underhanded so that it was positioned out in front of him. He gave Jackson a toothy grin. “It’s just you and me now, ain’t that right?”