Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“Die.” He took two steps toward me, the knife in front of him.

“Wait.” I needed to stop him.

He hesitated.

“Did Stan have anything at all to do with this?”

LeRoy smiled. For the first time.

“Stan? Stan wouldn’t have understood any of it. In case you hadn’t noticed, he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the circuit. Stan and the full-timers were loyal only because of the money. When we wanted them to help us with a project, I would call Stan and he would get them all together. They were paid quite well. Money, women — ”

“He was a stooge?”

LeRoy shook his head. “A soldier. Not a very bright soldier, but a soldier nonetheless.”

“You made it look like suicide. You used Cashdollar’s gun. His Glock. So Stan appears to be the master criminal who killed Fred Long. The guy who shot Barry Romans.”

“He was a soldier. We needed him to do his part.”

“His part?” I watched LeRoy’s eyes. I’d always heard that you can tell what someone is going to do if you watch his eyes. But all I could see were black pupils that stared directly back at me.

“This is getting tedious.” He took a step toward the desk and I backed up. “Stan will be accused of the murders. It was necessary for the ministry.”

“You’re crazy. Do you know that? You’re bonkers — off the chart.” I had to try to get him off balance. Somehow I had to get out of that door.

“There are agencies that were looking for Senator Long’s murderer. We just handed them their killer.”

“The FBI?”

“Are you part of that agency?” He raised his voice. His eyes grew wide and I knew I’d tapped into the true secret. The guy was a raving lunatic.

I had him going. Because of Styles, I knew more than he could possibly imagine. “No. I’m not a part of any agency. But you’ve got notes on your computer that suggest you think I’m FBI.”

Outside I could hear a roar and I realized the service was still in progress. The noise, the confusion, would cover up any sound of my death. I assumed LeRoy was counting on it.

“Brother Eugene, you are about to join your friend, Daron Styles.”

He took two more steps around the desk as I backed up.

“You guys poisoned Michael Bland, the FBI informant. You did, didn’t you? And you’re going to point a finger at,” I felt sick to my stomach and kept my eyes focused on LeRoy, “Daron Styles. You’re going to blame him. And you killed Cashdollar’s girlfriend? Ten years ago.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Little Cabrina Washington. No. I didn’t. But that’s in the past, Eugene.”

“Cashdollar? He did it? Tell me. He strangled Cabrina Washington? And Cashdollar is the shooter, am I right?”

He came around the desk. “I sent you a friendly note. I told you to move on or you might be a victim, but apparently you and your friends don’t take a hint.”

“You stole our money?”

He stared at me. “Eugene, I have money. I have no need of yours.”

Damn carneys.

“There is nowhere else for you to go. You and your friend here have caused enough problems. It’s time to put an end to them.”

The trailer door slammed open and he spun around. The wind, one of the full-timers, it didn’t make any difference. A momentary distraction was all I needed. I was about to save a life. Mine. I reached under my T-shirt, pulled out the gun that had been digging into my gut for four or five hours, pointed it in the general direction of Thomas LeRoy, and pulled the trigger. Twice. He went down and didn’t get up. I hoped I hadn’t killed him. I remember whispering a silent prayer. And then, I hoped I had.

Em stood in the doorway with her mouth hanging open. Finally she looked at me, her eyes as big as saucers. “Oh my God, Skip, I can’t believe you did that.”

“I can’t either.”

She was shaking. I was shaking. I dropped the pistol on the floor and stumbled to her, hugging her as she sobbed. I may have sobbed too. It was an emotional time and I can’t account for my actions.

T he cell phone rang. “Hey, dude, Cashdollar is on the radio.” James was at work boiling the crab, and listening to an all news station.

“And what’s he saying?” I looked down and saw I was on empty. I still had about five miles to go to my next appointment, and I couldn’t remember a gas station anywhere nearby. I couldn’t afford gas, anyway. Sales were slow, and we’d pretty much gone through any profit we made at the revival meeting.

“Same shit. He says he was not aware that Thomas LeRoy was working behind his back. He says he is astounded that LeRoy and possibly Stan were going around killing people without his knowledge.”

“So he’s not going to help defend LeRoy?”

“Doesn’t sound like it. According to the interview, when LeRoy gets out of the hospital, he’s on his own.”

“And Cashdollar gets off, no questions asked?”

“Amigo, there’s no proof.”

“The gold Bible, James. Jesus.”

“You know what they said, pard. No Cashdollar fingerprints on the weapon or the Bible. And you know they found that second gold Bible, with Cashdollar’s fingerprints, and no pages cut out to hold a gun.”

I knew it all. It had been front-page news for a week. Cashdollar had been on Larry King just last night. I also knew that Cashdollar was guilty as sin.

“James, let me know what else he says.” The radio in my used Prius had crashed two weeks ago.

“Will do. Eventually, LeRoy is going to go after Cashdollar, but it could take a long time.” He paused. “Pard, have you heard from the cops?”

I hadn’t. Not since that night, and five hours of being interrogated. I did have an attorney. Em’s dad stepped up and hired a guy to represent me if there were any charges. So far, there hadn’t been. “Since we were taken in for questioning I haven’t heard anything, James. No news is good news.”

“Solid. And the pistol?”

“The last I heard, nobody had ever registered it. And Em’s and my fingerprints were the only ones they could recognize on it.”

“Not Crayer’s?”

“They claim that any other prints were not identifiable.”

“Man.”

The phone beeped. “James, hold on.”

“Hey, you.”

“Em.”

“Are we on tonight?”

“Yeah. Something very cheap, okay?”

“You bring a bottle of wine. I’ll provide the entertainment.”

I liked the sound of that.

“Skip?”

“Same question.”

“Same answer. I haven’t heard a thing about Crayer. No one knows where he is or even who he is.”

“It bothers me. A lot.”

“I know. I’ll see you tonight.” I pushed the button and James was back.

“What do you think, James? How did he do it?”

“I don’t have the answer, bro. Just a guess.”

“Yeah, you and your friends have some pretty good guesses.”

He was silent for a moment. “I think the rev walked up to them, pulled the Glock from the Bible and shot them. Put the Glock back in the Bible and walked away. As simple as that.”

“How about your tires?”

“LeRoy. I’d bet on it. Trying to scare us off.”

We were both quiet. Finally, I said it. “I really came down on you about Styles. I’m sorry. He turned out to be a stand-up guy. Really.”

“Amigo, I still don’t understand. He normally wasn’t the kind of guy who just jumped into other people’s problems with both feet.”

“Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. But he did.”

“He did. And I miss him. Hey, I’ve got to go. There’s a line of people waiting for food, and you know how that is.”

I did.

Two days later I got a call from an unidentified number. I’m one of those guys who picks up anything. I’ve been sorry once or twice.