David Putnam - The Replacements

I drove out to Waterman Avenue and headed north. In the trunk, Jonas was quiet, no kicking or yelling. Waterman went straight up into the foothills, and farther up into the mountains. I drove up into the mountains to a wide dirt turnout that led to a fire road blocked with a locked, metal-arm barricade. Others had gone around in four-wheel drive vehicles and knocked down a semi-path. I took Mack’s Thunderbird around. The undercarriage banged and bumped. Still, not a whimper from the trunk. I would have liked it better if he had complained.

The dirt road had developed rain-eroded trenches that grew deeper the farther I ascended. I came to a point where the risk of getting stuck overruled any further travel. We’d gone far enough, no one would hear this far into the hills. I put the car in park right in the dirt path and got out. I stood at the back of the car and tried to get up my nerve to do what had to be done. Three years earlier, before I’d gone to prison, when I still worked with Robby Wicks on the Sheriff’s Violent Crimes Team, this would have been standard operating procedure. I could hear Robby now behind me whispering in my ear: “What’s the matter, pussy? You turn soft? You want your daddy to do this for you? Stand aside, you pussy, I’m only going to show you one more time.”

In the end, Robby had turned into a narcissistic asshole, but I still wished him to appear and help me with this unholy task.

I tried to keep out the image of the child, Jonas Mabry, bleeding in my arms as I rolled code three up Atlantic Avenue, the other deputies risking punishment to blockade the intersections. I shook those images off and pulled the Glock from my waistband, unlocked the trunk, and stepped back.

The trunk deck popped open. I half-expected an evil clown to bob up like a jack-in-the-box.

Jonas didn’t move. Maybe when we bumped across those deep divots he banged his head. Maybe he was knocked out and needed emergency aid. I took a step forward to peer in and caught myself. Don’t fall for a simple trick like that. I stepped back and leveled the gun at the opening. “Come out.”

From in the trunk: “What’s the matter, big man? You a scared of a skinny, pencil-necked geek like me?” His voice mimicked a small child.

“Come on out or I’ll shoot some rounds right through the side.”

His hand appeared over the bottom lip of the trunk. “Hold your water, big man. I’m coming out. But we both know you won’t shoot. I’m too important to you right now.” His face appeared next, his smile full with the black hole. He swung his leg out. “You know this is all a waste of time. We should just skip this part and move on to the next.” He climbed out. “You know you can’t make me tell you what you want. You can’t threaten me with death. That’s a bite without teeth. You can’t kill me. You’ll never find those cute little children. And, of course, the big factor with you is that I have super powers. You see, you’d never take a life that you saved, you’d never do it.”

I needed to take back control of the situation. “Turn around and assume the position.”

He held up his hands. “Or what, big man? What are you going to do?”

I rose up and kicked him right in the chest. He flew back. His head banged into the trunk deck as the rest of his body folded into the trunk.

“You aren’t listening to me, are you? I said get out of there. Now.”

He gave a wilted cackle as he again climbed from the trunk, one hand holding his head. He stood on shaky legs and pulled a bloodied hand away from his head. Blood covered his hand and rolled down his wrist.

Scalp wounds bleed a lot.

“Now,” I said, “turn around and put your hands on the car. I’m going to pat you down for weapons.”

“Little late for that, don’t you think? You asshole.”

Finally, some emotion . He turned slowly. I helped out, kicked him again in the ass. He flew forward and banged his forehead on the open edge to the trunk deck. Another laceration. Blood ran down the side of his face.

His injuries didn’t bother me, and I only had the urge to beat the shit out of him more as my anger rose. I had to control my emotions. I grabbed the back of his shirt. With my other hand I put the gun in the back of my waistband and patted him down.

Under his sock, taped to his leg, I found a dirk, a double-edged knife. A felony. Taped to the small of his back I found a.44 derringer. Two felonies. I tore it off. He had nothing else, no wallet, no bits of paper, just some money and a prescription bottle with four Demerol tabs.

I stepped back and looked at the gun in my hand, a reminder he’d made me nothing more than a pawn in his game. I hadn’t played this smart. I should’ve patted him down before he went in. If he’d wanted to kill me, he could’ve had the gun ready when I opened the trunk. I thought of Marie and the kids back home. I kicked him from behind, right between the legs. He fell to the ground. His bloody head flopped in the dirt as he writhed in pain, his hands clutching his crotch.

“You going to tell me, or are we going to keep this little game of pain going until you’re nothing but a bloody lump of flesh?” I asked.

He gasped. “You’re an asshole, Deputy Johnson. And you’re going to pay for everything you do here today. So think carefully.” He coughed and spit, got up on his hands and knees, his head lolling, dripping blood. “I’m not telling you a thing. Think about it. Do you think I haven’t mentally prepared for this? Do you think we’ve come this far for me to simply roll over and beg forgiveness? We want the money. You owe my mom and me a million dollars. Not money from the FBI. And not money from some person concerned over the little brats, but money from you. It has to come from you. Call it poetic justice.”

My anger rose up again, and I kicked him in the ribs. The air blew out of him in a huff. “I’m the asshole? I’m not the one who’s kidnapped three helpless little children, huh? And, putting all that morally corrupt mess aside, how, exactly, how do you figure I owe you a million dollars?”

He coughed and choked and let out a crazed laugh. “You know, asshole, you know.”

“I don’t, so tell me.”

He looked up, blood running in his eye. “Because you had to be a big man that day. You had to kick our door in. If you’d have done your job the way you were supposed to, you should’ve just walked away. But no, you had to be the big man and kick the door in. We would’ve died like we were supposed to, me and Bella. Me and my mom would’ve died with my sisters like we were supposed to. Instead…instead look at me. You created me. You’re a son of a bitch, a monster maker.” He kicked out and missed.

I took a step back, awed at the intensity of his insanity.

Another piece to the crazy puzzle fell into place: Micah Mabry. The only person who could’ve told him about that day, about kicking in the door when I didn’t have to, was his father. I said, “Did you kill your father?” Micah Mabry was old and could have succumbed to age. The government had not done an autopsy.

Jonas rolled over onto his back, chest heaving. “I would’ve killed my old man, believe me. I would have. I planned on torturing him, just like you’re doing right now. Only he told me about you without any prompting at all. He told me what you’d done, the whole dumb-assed story. Then I told him what I was going to do to you for what you did to me and Mom. He died right there, grabbed his chest and keeled over like some kinda weak pussy, asshole.”

“That was two years ago. Why did you wait two years to do this?”

“What? Wait a second, you don’t know, do you?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s a good one. Believe me when I tell you, that’s really a good one. You’re not only an asshole, you’re a big dumb asshole. Come on, big man, break me up a little more, let’s get on with this little dance. Figure out that I’m not going to tell you shit about those cute little children so we can get this thing going.”