Peckerwood (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

TERRY

His head was clearing, unfortunately. As the painkillers wore off, the more sober he grew, the more he regretted it. Cal was dead. Shit, that sucked. Layla was gone, his truck was totaled, his fingers were useless and there was a powerful itch between his shoulders he couldn’t reach.

The sorrier he felt for himself the stronger he grew. When he got out of here, he was going to fuck some shit up. He was going to burn down the world. He’d been bluffing with that whole Chowder Thompson thing. Just wanted to get out so he could split. He’d visit Cal’s aunt Jeanette and get the cash out of her diaper bag then maybe he’d grab Wendell and they’d hit the road, hold up gas stations all the way to Mexico. Put some hair on the kid’s nuts. He’d turn out alright after all.

What the shit was taking so long? His lawyer oughtta have been here by now. Must be sending some hotshot from Jeff City on account of the case he could bring against Chowder.

That must be it. Still hungry. Still thirsty.

MONDALE

He was still officially on personal time, but it didn’t raise any eyebrows when he showed up at the station. He hadn’t thought to bring a picture of baby Lilly and was kicking himself for that, but he got plenty of “grandpa” comments and slaps on the back from the day crew. He smiled at them until he’d shut his office door.

A moment later, there was a knock followed by Bob Musil entering his office. Musil shut the door and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on kneecaps, and waited for Mondale to speak.

When they’d finished their pow-wow the deputy left.

The afternoon disappeared in a haze of small tasks he’d put off for too long. Vacation time, what a joke
.
Still, he felt better getting things done. It was going to be a long day and whatever he could eat up time with, helped.

CHOWDER

Hettie let out an involuntary gasp when her husband emptied the bag of cash on the bed. “What’s it for?”

Chowder said, “Emergencies.”

“What’s going on, hon?”

“Pack up.” He indicated the pile of cash. “It should be plenty to last us.”

“Last till when?”

“I’m not sure, Het. Shouldn’t be too long.”

TERRY

They finally cut him loose around eight in the evening. His lawyer never showed, which was fine with him long as he got out. One of the deputies drove him home. They left through the station’s back door and that probably should have sent up some red flags, but he was just glad to be going home.

Wendell wasn’t there when he came through the door. There was hardly a sign he’d been there all week. Kid was damn near invisible. He’d have to call Beth’s house in the morning and hope the kid picked up. If not, he could steal a car and pick him up at school, maybe. Regardless, his plan was to take his son on a real old-fashioned crime spree and for once he felt a swell of pride. Wendell had done well driving that first time he’d used him. Terry’d come out of the convenience store walking fast, the grocery bag lifting off the back of his head and another small bag in his left hand, two-hundred thirty-six dollars inside. A small score, but Wendell’s first and he hadn’t chickened out. Of course he hadn’t, he was a Hickerson and had Terry’s genetic code running through him. He could be taught. Terry just needed to give him some time and attention. Now that Cal was gone, that’s exactly what he was going to do.

He found a half-full bottle of scrip meds for pain and swallowed four with a glass of tap water. Kid had finished off his beer. Good for him. That was more like it. He turned on the TV and flipped to channel fifty-one. There was Brother Eli wearing extra make up and sounding something less than his old self to Terry, but nonetheless doing a new program. He was talking about repentance and judgment, Sodom and Gomorrah, Jerusalem and Nineveh, send money and all manner of Bible places Terry didn’t quite follow. He watched until the meds kicked in and he passed out sprawled across the couch in Layla’s favorite spot.

MONDALE

He stepped out of his house at seven-thirty and locked the door. He was going to pick up Julie and take her to the Red Lobster in Springfield for dinner. He’d dressed in slacks and a jacket, then had decided that it made him look old and he changed into pressed blue jeans and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled back. He’d wanted to leave his piece at home, but felt naked without it and ended up settling on an ankle holster. He hoped Julie wouldn’t play footsie and blow his toes off.

When he turned to step off the front porch he saw Tate Dill watching him, leaning against a car parked across the street. He stood and waited for the skinny jackoff to walk over.

“Evening, Sheriff.”

“Tate. The hell you doing at my house?”

“Need to talk to you.”

“’Bout what?”

“The future.”

CHOWDER

He came in through a jarred window in the back of the house. It was dark inside and smelled like a thousand kinds of decaying organic matter. The bedroom was empty, and he moved to the front room where the TV was on. He looked down at Terry Hickerson sleeping like innocence. Innocence trying to stuff busted fingers down the front of its pants.

TERRY

Something foul-tasting was being stuffed into his mouth. He tried to get his hand there to remove it, but it was useless, tied behind his back. What the fuck? He opened his eyes and saw Chowder Thompson standing over him with evil writ on his face.

MONDALE

Julie would just have to forgive him.

CHOWDER

He pulled over, popped the trunk and hauled the wriggling peckerwood out by his belt. The eyes were wide and he was straining against the socks taped inside his mouth. As much as Chowder wanted to just get this over with, he figured there was no harm in hearing the asshole’s last words.

PART III

Dennis Jordan rounded the last corner to the homestretch of his morning run. His mind was clear and his conscience clean. Nothing like some physical exertion to wipe his psychic slate.

After his three-mile jog, he stripped down and hopped in the shower.

It was nearly seven A.M. and he needed to be in Springfield by nine to take testimony from a protected witness. Toweling off, his thoughts turned to Spruce and a reflexive smile spread across his face. He was immensely enjoying fucking with the policeman and the gangster. He’d be happy to prosecute either one of them, though without cooperation from one or the other it was going to be more work.

Charles Thompson’s daughter Irma was a constant source of good material too. He’d been trailing her since Tate Dill had run into trouble in Olathe on a possession with intent bust and claimed he had important information to trade. Jordan’s office had been called and with his nose for a solid resource, he’d made the drive himself and negotiated Tate’s release. Dill hadn’t been very forthcoming, but Jordan had sensed a potential goldmine and cut the little shit loose to scurry back to his hidey-hole and carry on fucking up. Meanwhile, Jordan kept his informant top secret. The only name Tate had really talked about was Irma Thompson, which had meant dick to Jordan, but Tate had claimed she was the daughter of a former Buccaneer and forever badass named Chowder Thompson who’d been running a quiet little business in the Ozarks for over a decade now. Tate had insisted that Irm was worth looking into, as she was eager to take up where her daddy had hung up the outlaw life.

Whatever. Jordan had looked into it, ‘cause he liked to play the angles. If it didn’t cost anything, why the hell not? He’d dug up records for Spruce, for Charles Thompson’s businesses and property, tax records for the town and the leading citizens. He’d looked at arrest records and found Tate Dill’s name attached to only one in his adult life, for possession of an illegal substance, which Dennis found hard to imagine. He’d met the little prick and seen his type often enough to know a habitual offender and opportunist when he encountered one.

So, he’d dug deeper. And he’d done it alone. As a politician, he was always looking for footholds and secret ones were always better.

And Irma Thompson had not disappointed. Her style was fast and sloppy-loose. She made her father look like a model of restraint and maturity. He’d staked out the Bait ’N More personally, and when she’d left in the middle of her shift that night, he’d tailed her all the way to her own stake-out of the Hickerson character. On the way there, a heavy rain had commenced and she’d sat outside his place, maybe waiting for a break in the storm, for a long time before the excited sounds of a dog and the slamming front doors of the pick-up parked in the drive had got her attention. He’d followed Irm following the truck out of town and stayed with her when she passed it up. Before long, she had turned around and he’d been forced to keep going, so as not to draw attention to himself. When she’d disappeared in his rearview, he slammed on the brakes and nearly went off the road, but recovered and turned around, killing his lights.

He thought he’d lost her until brake lights popped up, out of nowhere, a hundred yards in front of him. She was driving dark too. A moment later, the pickup came around the bend and Irm hit her brights, scaring the piss out of the oncoming driver, who swerved on the wet road and went right over the side a second later.

Turned out to be the sheriff’s girl in the truck, and that was the wedge he was driving between his quarry: one’s child had killed the other’s. If Chowder didn’t come to him in the next twenty-four hours ready to cut a deal, he’d take that information to Mondale and then sit back and watch the fireworks. He wouldn’t need proof - there was enough tension in their relationship already. All he’d have to do is whisper to the high-strung sheriff and step back.

He hung up his towel the way his wife liked him to and came into the bedroom where his clothes were waiting for him, pressed and ready to go. From the back of the room, a gruff female voice startled him and he turned to see Irma Thompson lurking in the bedroom doorway. She said, “Morning, counselor.”

He recovered without looking too foolish, no grabbing desperately to cover himself up. He worked hard enough at it, he knew he looked good. His nakedness was nothing to be embarrassed about. “Ms. Thompson? Did we have an appointment?” He flashed his Paul Newman smile, but it went unappreciated.

“Yup, but don’t worry, you’re not late. Just relax now.” She started toward him and instinctively he took a step backward.

“I’m going to ask you to call my office next time you need-” He bumped into something that hadn’t been there the moment before. He spun around and saw a very large man with long stringy hair and a Metallica t-shirt standing behind him. The man wrapped massive arms around his head and neck in some kind of sleeper hold.

Dennis Jordan struggled vainly against the man’s grip, but the embrace was immutable fact and soon he felt himself slipping out of consciousness. As his legs failed and he went limp, the large man gently sat down with him on the bed. Irm hovered over him and spoke one word that swirled around and above as he felt the void reaching up for him, and he grasped at it like a drowning man, though it didn’t seem to mean anything.

“Cinnamon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MONDALE

Jimmy called Bob Musil and said he’d be by to pick him up. In the car he explained it the way Tate Dill had laid it out for him. Tate was taking over for Chowder with an outfit out of Kansas City. Chowder was done for, whether he wised up and fled the hills or stuck around and went to prison, he wouldn’t be running shit by this time next week. Tate had found the K.C. outfit and approached them on his own, laying out the plan and letting them sniff around for themselves. And guess what? It looked A-okay to them. Worth investing in.

“So what’s our play?” asked Musil, pulling up outside the back of the station where deputy Townsend was waiting, holding a shotgun in each hand and wearing his Kevlar and sunglasses at sunrise, badass via accessories.

Jimmy winced at the image, but it was better than the alternative: scared and unprepared. Without a word, Townsend opened the door and slipped into the back seat. He laid both shotguns across his lap and removed a Mountain Dew pop from one of the cargo pockets down the leg of his pants. When he cracked the tab and took the first noisy sip, Jimmy turned to look at him and received a thumbs-up.

Mondale addressed Musil across the front seat from him. “There’s a meet ‘n greet set up in an hour. I’ll think of something by then.” He started to put the car into gear, then turned back to Townsend again. A beat passed and the deputy, mouth full of soda pop, cocked his head slightly in a silent question, which Jimmy answered.

“Seatbelt.”

TERRY

He had to ride in the trunk again. No socks in his mouth this time, though. Little better. He had all the way to Jeanette’s house to think about his family and all the friends and strangers he’d caused to suffer in his lifetime. He didn’t though.

CHOWDER

The pictures had made him laugh for sure. He hadn’t known Eli’s name, but as soon as Terry’d described him, Chowder’d known exactly who he meant. He was glad he hadn’t killed the little shit without giving him a chance to talk.

Even if the money wasn’t where he said it’d be, these pictures were worth something. Chowder reevaluated Terry Hickerson. He had balls - Chowder had seen the proof - and he had a plan. But he was just too stupid not to fuck it up. Hell, why was he sticking up Mexican liquor stores with his buddy while they were waiting on a big score to pan out? Because they were losers. Adrenaline cowboys. Get a little liquor or coke or crystal in em and they couldn’t sit still.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when they turned onto the street Terry had indicated. Chowder pulled up in front of the yard with the pickup. He looked up and down the street for signs of life before popping the trunk.

He hauled Terry Hickerson’s skinny ass out and pointed him toward the front door. Terry nodded and led the way up the drive with Chowder’s gun leveled at the base of his spine. Terry tried the door first, but it was secure. He reached into his pocket for something to pick the lock with, but Chowder just motioned him out of the way before expertly and easily busting through the old frame.

The noise wasn’t much outside, but from within they heard that someone was now stirring from sleep. An elderly woman’s voice called out, “Who’s there?” Terry looked at Chowder and then answered.

“Terry Hickerson, ma’am. I’m Calvin’s friend.” They moved through the darkened front room, the musty smell of age assaulting their senses and growing stronger as they approached the back of the house.

“Calvin’s not here,” Jeanette called out. “Go away.”

Terry and Chowder reached the bedroom and Terry paused before pushing the door open. Before them stood Jeanette Dotson dressed in a nightgown worn to near transparency and clutching a handgun that would surely break her wrists if she fired it. She gestured with the gun. “Go away,” she repeated. Terry stepped backward and Chowder let him. When the old bat took a step toward them, Chowder reached for her hand and easily tipped the pistol out of her grip. “Oh,” she said, and Chowder followed Terry into the room.

“Where’s your diaper bag?” said Terry delicately.

Jeanette looked from face to face as if to decide whom she should be addressing. “What?”

Chowder bent to retrieve her gun and spoke in his gently commanding voice, “Calvin left something for us in the bag. He told us to come get it.”

“Calvin’s dead.”

Terry went into to the bathroom, turned on the light, opened the medicine cabinet and began tossing the contents onto the floor. Then he looked through the cabinets beneath the sink and above the toilet. When he finished searching the room, he came back out and headed for the closet. He threw open the door and got on his hands and knees to rummage beneath the hanging clothes. “Where’s the fuckin diaper bag?”

Jeanette just looked confused. Chowder gestured for her to have a seat on the bed and helped her ease down. Between the bed and a nightstand, Chowder spotted a vinyl toiletries bag. He reached down and picked it up. Inside he found a two-thirds full box of Depends, some wet wipes, ointment, baby powder. He took the box of adult napkins out and pulled the diapers aside. Behind them, he found a padded manila envelope.