Fenn just shrugged, his eyes glazed over with pitch-black indifference. Smoke redirected the heat of his stare at Arnie. This was all about to come to an end and Arnie knew it, but his brother was safe. At least his little brother had a chance—he hoped. Someone would find him. Someone would help him. More tears streaked his ruined face. Smoke shook his head as if flies had begun to swarm around him. “That was very stupid, Arnold. Very stupid. Now you have just killed your own family. You know this, because you know me. I will find this boy and I will kill him. I will kill him with no mercy. I’ll also keep him alive to feel all of it. I want you to know that. He will die like an animal and it will be your fault—yours.”
Arnie fought through the pain in his face and turned his head slightly to look at the side table next to the bed. Smoke kept ranting. “You have killed your own family today, Arnold—not me—you. I offered you hope and you spit it back in my face.” He wiped at some of the blood on his cheek and rubbed it between his fingers. “I want you to remember that and take it with you wherever you go from here. Let that be your final thought. You killed them all. This is all your fault.”
Arnie had almost no strength in him, but he lifted his arm and pointed to the end table. He was barely conscious as he listened to Smoke drone on, but he kept his hand in the air and continued to point at the table. Smoke finally stopped talking and took notice. He stood up. “What, Arnold? Is there something over there you want me to see?” Smoke walked over to the side table and pointed to the drawer. “In here?”
Arnie tried to nod but he couldn’t. His head just hung against his chest as if the only thing holding it to his body was an invisible length of string. He curled his fingers a few times in a give me gesture before letting his arm collapse back down to his side. Smoke studied the table, seeing nothing on it but the laminated TV channel guide and the motel’s green binder of amenities. He looked at Arnie, who couldn’t look back, and then slid open the side table’s drawer. Inside he saw a green Bible embossed with gold lettering across the cover. At first he wanted to laugh, thinking that Arnie was asking for help from his American Jesus, but then he saw what he thought Arnie was asking for—a small unlined notepad of stationery with the motel logo printed at the top of each page and a matching ink pen. Smoke removed the notepad from the drawer. “This, Arnold? Is this what you want?”
Arnie still couldn’t move his head to confirm, but he tapped his fingers on the carpet as a response. Smoke slid the notepad under Arnie’s hand. He removed the pen and allowed Arnie to take it. It took some doing, but Arnie was able to write on the top page.
Dont hurt Willie
Please
Smoke read it and asked calmly for a third time. “I will not hurt the child if you tell me where my money is.”
Arnie wrote again.
Your word
“Yes. Yes, of course, Arnold. You have my word. Unless you lie. Then the child dies.”
Arnie wrote one more thing on the page. The sting of betrayal should’ve been something he was used to by now, considering all the people he’d sold out throughout the years, but it wasn’t. It felt like the claws of a stray cat scratching down his spine as he wrote the name and address of his friend and condemned him to death.
Bobby Turo
313 Regan Drive GA
Arnie laid the pen down on the carpet. Smoke picked up the notepad. He studied Arnie’s eyes for any sign of a lie and saw nothing but blank shame. He stood and slipped the entire notepad into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, then lifted the suitcase holding Arnie’s take of the money—over five hundred thousand dollars in cash—and walked to the door. “You can finish him now, Fenn. Take as long as you want, but keep in mind that we have a long ride ahead of us. You will drive.”
Fenn nodded. First, he removed a small plastic bottle of lighter fluid and a Zippo from a baggy pocket on his left thigh. He tossed them on the bed. “For later,” he said, seemingly to himself in his unusual high tenor, and with his back still turned to Arnie, he twirled the baston like a propeller between both hands. When he turned to face the broken man on the floor, it was the first time Fenn had let any real emotion play out across his face. He looked pleased. The talking was over. The screaming would begin.
Smoke turned to leave and opened the motel door. He didn’t flinch or show any reaction at all when he found himself standing face to face with a young Cuban kid in a janitorial uniform. His nametag said MARIO, and he stood there holding a stack of fresh towels in one hand and a fist still held up in front of him mid-knock. Without any hesitation at all, Smoke lifted a towel from the top of the stack and used it to wipe the spatter of Arnie’s blood off his face. “Thank you—Mario,” he said, as if he’d called for the towel service himself. The young custodian dropped the rest of the towels on the cement and burst into a full sprint. Smoke stepped out of the room and onto the sidewalk. He watched Mario disappear around the corner of the building and then, using the towel in his hands, he eased the motel-room door closed behind him to quell some of the sickening sounds coming from inside. Fenn would not be happy about having to work faster, but Smoke didn’t care as long as Fenn made sure to burn it clean. Smoke tossed the suitcase into the trunk of the stolen car, climbed into the passenger side, and waited impatiently. The drive would be long and they had more stupid to deal with.
“Fucking Americans.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dane stared out across the rushing water of Bear Creek. His head was all over the place this morning, but still it remained stuffed full of ghosts. Soon enough he was talking to himself again. Or, rather, talking to her. “I love you, Mrs. Kirby.”
The wind answered him. It always did. After all these years, he’d still never forgotten the sound of her voice. “I love you back, Chief Kirby.”
Dane closed his eyes and let the rich smell of moist dirt and grass take him back to his favorite memory. “Whoa,” Dane said, this time in his mind. “Don’t jinx it. I’m not wearing the white helmet yet.”
Gwen smirked. He smiled wider. He knew he had the job. The commission had already told him so. He was just waiting on the vote to be ratified—a formality. Gwen knew it, too. That’s why she’d asked him to meet her out here at the same park where he’d proposed a few years back—to celebrate this new chapter in their life. He lay back on a huge chunk of rock and allowed himself to soak in the memory of his wife. The way she lay in the green grassy ocean of Noble Park. The warm sunlight dancing off her skin and how she glowed. She wore a sleeveless yellow sundress with a paisley lace print on it that day. The one she wore at her sister’s wedding. Dane loved that dress and she knew it. She really poured it on that day to make it a special one for him and it was fair to say that in that moment, lying in that great wide open, Dane Kirby felt like the luckiest man alive. He finally had the job he wanted. He had good friends—real friends. He lived in the place he’d grown up—the place he loved. But even without all that—he had the girl. Not just a girl, but the girl. Gwen was, at that moment, as she always had been since high school, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He was in awe of her. He was even more in awe of the fact that she had chosen him to spend the rest of her life with. He thought about a Rod Stewart song he’d always hated, but it fit the moment. The lyrics rushed his brain.