Shattered Lives (27 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Eureka, Missouri

Their cells went off almost simultaneously, either buzzing or chiming or a musical ringtone, depending upon whose cell it was. 

Pete called Jeremy.  Stephen called Randy.  Tim called George, and Brett called Patrick.  Billy and Danny knew something big had happened and were hoping it wasn’t someone dead or dying.  The boys mostly listened and seldom spoke.

Typical of him, George was stoic, devoid of expression thus giving away nothing.  Being polite, Randy had a habit of speaking softly and turning his back on anyone who happened to be in the room when he spoke on the phone, and this night was no different.  Patrick paced, head down, one hand holding his phone and the other on top of his head.

The first inkling that it was good news was when Patrick pumped a fist in the air and yelled, “Yes!” 

George, who had been sitting on the floor by the inter-room door, nodded and smiled up at him, then smiled at Danny and Billy and then nodded at something that was said on the other end.  Randy hadn’t turned around, but hugged himself as he listened.  That left Billy puzzled.

“Brett wants to talk to you,” Patrick said, holding the phone out to George.  Then he turned to Billy and Danny and said, “Brett shot his uncle, and his uncle was arrested!  Brett’s safe!”

“Tim, can I give you to Patrick?  Brett wants to talk to me,” George said. “Yeah, sure. Talk to you soon. Bye.” 

He held the phone out to Patrick who took it and began speed talking.  Billy and Danny listened closely as Patrick retold the story he had received from Brett.

“Hi, Brett,” George said. “Tim told me what happened.”

“Yeah.”

George waited, but frowned when nothing further came from him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Brett spoke quietly.  “Can we talk . . . in private?”

George stood up and stepped outside the hotel room, shut the door behind him, and sat down beside the door.  Noise from the pool area below their balcony echoed off the walls and glass ceiling.  The smell of chlorine caused his eyes and sinuses to burn. 

The closest person to him was several doors down, and he was holding a can of Miller Lite and staring at someone or something in the pool below them.

“You okay?” George repeated.

“I think I’m fucked up,” Brett said.

George couldn’t tell whether Brett was crying or not.  His voice didn’t have the confidence he normally had.  George pictured him in darkness, by himself and alone somewhere either in his house or in his yard.

“What do you mean?”

Brett sighed.  He couldn’t put into words what he was feeling.  He had never felt the way he did and had no reference for identifying it.

“Can I ask you a question?  I mean . . . just you and me?  No one else?”

“Sure.”

“When you killed that man that one night, what did you feel?”

George had tried to bury that memory and those feelings as deeply as he could, but when he shot the tires of Cochrane’s car at the hospital in Chicago, that same feeling came back to him.  Especially when Cochrane shot and killed himself.

“Not good.”

“What do you mean?”

George waited until a mother and daughter had walked past him on their way to their room three doors down.  The girl, about five or six, looked at him curiously and then smiled.  George smiled back.  The mother carried three bottles of soda and a bottle of water while trying to open their door.

“Navajos respect life.  We don’t believe in killing another human being.  We only do that if there is no other way.  That man didn’t leave me a choice.  He tried to shoot me and then kept going for his gun.”

Brett longed to speak with him face to face.  He wanted to read George’s expression and study his body language.  Being two states away, the only thing he could do was listen closely to the tone of his voice and the words he chose. 

“Why do you ask?”

George was certain Brett was crying.  He heard muffled sobs and sniffles.

“I think I’m fucked up.”

“Why?”

“When I shot my uncle . . . the first two shots were to get the gun out of his hand.  I wanted to make sure he couldn’t use his right hand.  Then I shot his right knee because I didn’t want him coming after me or Bobby or my mom.  Then I shot his left hand because his gun was close, and I knew he could shoot with either hand.”

This made sense to George, and he nodded in agreement.

“But then . . .” Brett sobbed. “I shot him in the leg again.”

George didn’t understand why this upset Brett because he thought Brett was just trying to disable him.

“Then, I don’t know,” Brett said.  “I was pissed.  I kept thinking of all the stuff he did to me . . . all the stuff he did to Bobby.” George waited patiently. “He was sitting on the floor holding his legs.  He was bleeding all over the place.  I stood over him and shot his balls off.”

George blinked and reflexively drew his knees up to his chest.

“I didn’t have to, but I was pissed.  You told me not to lose focus.  You told me to be in control.” Brett sobbed and said, “Fuck, George.  I didn’t have to shoot him there.  I didn’t have to.”

George couldn’t put himself in Brett’s place.  He didn’t have any experience like this.  Killing the man that was sent to kill him, Jeremy and the twins, was defensive.  He didn’t do anything . . .
additional
, nothing that was more than
necessary
.  The man left him no choice but to kill him.

“What’s wrong with me?” Brett sobbed.

“Nothing, Brett.”

“But I didn’t have to do that. I know what he did to me, Bobby, and the others, but I didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Am I . . . I don’t know . . . bad or something?  Evil?” Brett sobbed again.

“No, Brett. You’re not evil.”

“But when I shot him, I wasn’t in control.  I think I liked it.  But I don’t now.  If I could take it back, I would.”

“That is why you are not evil,” George explained. “If you were evil, you would not feel like you do now.  You are sad.  You are not happy about it.”

“Fuck no!” Brett said with a sob. “I feel awful!”

“That is why you are not evil.  You have a good heart, Brett.”

Brett sniffled back, and George pictured him wiping tears on the front of his shirt or on his sleeve.

“I don’t think I have a good heart.”

“You do, Brett,” George said with a sad smile. “If you didn’t, you would not feel this way.”

“You think so?” Brett asked hopefully.

“I am sure.  I would not like you if you did not have a good heart.”

There was silence.  Even though it went on quite long, neither felt compelled to break it.

Finally George said, “My grandfather told me that in all of us, there are two wolves.  One is good and one is evil. We make a choice each day to feed one wolf or the other.  The one we feed the most determines whether or not we are good or evil.  I believe you feed the good wolf.”

Brett was silent and the only thing George heard was sniffles.

“You don’t think I’m fucked up?”

George shook his head and said, “No.”

“I wish I could be there with you.”

“Me, too.”

“Are we still friends?” Brett asked shyly.

“Yes, Brett. We are friends.”

“Okay.”

Brett sniffled again, took a deep breath and said, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t tell anyone what we talked about, okay?” Brett asked, and then added, “Please?  Not Jeremy or Randy or anybody.  Okay?”

“I won’t.  I promise.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Well, okay,” Brett said sadly. “Well, goodbye.”

“Navajos don’t say goodbye,” George teased. “There’s no such word.”

“So what do we say?” Brett said with a small laugh.

“We say, ‘‘Yá'át'ééh’’.  It’s a greeting from one friend to another.”

Brett said, “I remember.  How about if I say, ‘Talk to you again soon’?”

George laughed and said, “I’d like that.”  And then on impulse, George said, “Brett?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you, and you are my friend.”

“Me, too.”

George turned off his phone and sat with his head pressed against the wall and his eyes shut. 

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Eureka, Missouri

             
He had a bad feeling. 

He had not heard or seen his grandfather, but he had a bad feeling.

George stared up at the ceiling, listening to night sounds and waiting . . . for what?  He didn’t know.

              He turned to his right.  Patrick was curled up against Billy.  One arm was thrown over Billy’s chest, his head on Billy’s shoulder sleeping quietly, peacefully.  His mouth was partially open and a bit of drool had seeped out.  Billy had turned slightly towards Patrick, their heads touching.  He turned to his left.  Randy lay on his back, arms out to the side, right leg up.  Danny faced the window and away from Randy, but up against him.

              George looked at the window.  The heavy rust-colored curtains weren’t pulled all the way shut.  Just the thin, white privacy curtain was pulled.  It allowed ambient light into the room but didn’t allow anyone from the outside to see in.  At the side of each door along the hallway, there was a small light that allowed someone to walk comfortably and securely, which was important on the second, third and fourth floors.   

He saw a shadow of a man appear at the window, stop and peer into the room and then slowly pass by.

George sat up, and without thinking, slipped his feet into his moccasins, and he took hold of his knife that was on the nightstand.

“What?” Billy asked groggily, raising his head from the pillow. 

Patrick hadn’t stirred.

George motioned to him to be silent, and Billy slowly sat up in bed and absently wiped the drool off his shoulder while he stared at George and then at the window. George waited, frozen in his spot, not ready to relax even though the shadow had moved on.

Minutes passed.

Billy had lay back down, but his eyes were open.

George stood up and stepped silently to the side of the window, looking first in the direction the shadow had moved and then to the left.  There was nothing he could see without moving the curtain, and he dared not do that. Even though his vision was limited, he was not about to move the curtain.

Neither Randy nor Danny had moved.  Billy had raised his head and watched George.  He had a hand on Patrick’s back.

As George turned back to the window, the shadow appeared again.  Same height.  Same shape.  A man.

George heard Billy gasp, and again, George motioned for him to be quiet.

Mere inches from him on the other side of the glass and privacy curtain stood someone staring into the room.  Certain that he couldn’t be seen, George stood motionless, his knife pointed in the shadow’s direction.

Seconds passed, perhaps minutes.

The shadow moved off to the right again, but slowly.

George silently, but quickly picked up the stuffed, padded chair and placed it down against the door.  He stepped away staring at the door, certain that someone was on the other side.

George went to Danny, placed a hand over his mouth and spoke in a whisper.  Danny got up quickly, quietly, took his phone, turned it on and crouched down by the inter-room door.

George heard something at the door and then saw the knob move, but it was locked and the safety chain attached.

He stepped over to Randy, placed a hand over his mouth and whispered to him to get on the floor between the two beds, between the nightstand and the head of the bed.  Randy did so without question, eyes wide, but trusting George.

Billy watched as Randy and Danny had moved, and when George looked at him, he placed a hand over Patrick’s mouth and whispered into his ear.  He watched Patrick nod franticly and then Billy took him in both of his arms and rolled quietly over the side of the bed in the narrow space between the bed and the wall.

George moved backward still watching the door and stood next to Danny.  Between them and the door was a dresser with the flat-screen TV on top.  Feeling he needed to further secure the door, George whispered to Danny, who went to the TV and lifted it off the dresser.  When he did, George pushed the dresser against the chair tightly.  It had made more noise than he had hoped.

Danny had just replaced the TV back on the dresser and had moved back next to George, when the first of two quick, silenced shots went through the door zinging past them into the wall between the closet and the bathroom.

George pulled Danny to the floor, wrapped him in his arms, and laid down on top of him.  He watched Randy ball up and cover his head.

“I don’t wanna die, Billy,” Patrick whispered, more of a whimper.

“Shhh, George is going to take care of us,” Billy whispered back.

Two more shots that seemed a little louder than the first two spat through the door and the dresser, both inches above George’s head.  He pressed himself down on top of Danny who had his eyes shut tightly.

The door rattled.  Someone was trying to get in, so both George and Danny pushed the dresser as tightly as they could against it.

Seconds ticked by.  The shooting had stopped.

George whispered into Danny’s ear and felt him nod once in return.

Danny crawled out from under George and across the floor.  He reached up, turned the knob on the inter-room door and pushed the door open, crawled inside, and shut the door quietly behind him.

The shadow was at the window and there was no mistaking the gun in the shadow’s hand.

It spat through the window two, three times.  Chunks of glass rained down on the bed where moments ago Randy and Danny had slept. Their bed was riddled with bullets and glass fragments.  Two more shots to the head of the bed, not a foot from where Randy lay on the floor.

Patrick whimpered and cried, and Billy tried to reassure him.

Nine shots.  George knew the man was reloading.

“Boys! Are you all right?” Jeremy called out, not quite a yell, but not quite a whisper.

Neither Randy nor Billy answered and that was good.  To do so would betray their position in the room.  George answered for them.

“Call 9-1-1 and Agent Pete.”  And then as an afterthought he said, “Stay down and away from the window and door.

Shots rang out, this time in his direction.  More rang out, slamming into the back wall and the bed where he, Patrick and Billy had slept, penetrating the mattress and pillows.  The light on the nightstand above Randy shattered as a bullet slammed into it and the wall above him. 

The window had holes and chunks missing, but was surprisingly intact.

“What the devil is going on out here?”

In answer were two, three shots at the man and his family next door.  There were screams from the neighbor’s wife and children.  A yelp and groan from the man.

He had counted the shots. Three left.  He needed the man to empty it, so he grabbed somebody’s shoe and threw it at the window.  Two shots.  A third.  And a click on an empty chamber.

He had to act now.