Joel Goldman - No way out

The collision threw Eldon backward, his head bouncing off the gun rack, his body rebounding against the air bag as it exploded out of the steering wheel. The deer catapulted over the hood and through the windshield, head first, its antlers piercing the air bag, impaling Eldon and pinning him against the seat. The F-150 skidded sideways to a stop, blocking the road. The trailer broke free from the hitch and rolled onto its side, the doors flying open, guns spilling out.

Eldon felt the buck writhing, trying to free itself, its antler digging deeper in his chest, surprised that he could feel anything at all. With his right hand, he groped across the seat, finding the Glock, wrapping his fingers around the grip, wondering if he could raise his hand and pull the trigger and, if he could, whether he should shoot the buck or himself, both of them needing to be put out of their misery.

He heard an engine, blinked when high beams invaded the cab, heard doors open and slam closed, one man saying “Holy shit,” another adding “Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.” He turned his head toward them and saw that the engine belonged to a gray Dodge Ram pickup. One of the men was wearing a ball cap pulled low on his face. Another man opened the driver’s door on the F-150, looking at Eldon, then at the deer, raising a handgun. It was the Redhawk. The man stepped back, firing once, a bullet to the deer’s brain. Eldon nodded and closed his eyes for the last time.

Lucy Trent wanted a short end of ribs with pit beans, crispy fries, and cold beer. I wanted the same thing, the only difference being that I wanted it while sitting in my easy chair in front of my television. It was Sunday in October, a day intended for artery-busting barbeque and football.

We were at LC’s, a dive on Blue Parkway, a road that ran through Kansas City’s east side. The name was a misnomer; the closest parks were the ballparks where the Chiefs and Royals played, a few miles away off of I-70. LC’s sat next to Parkway Auto Brokers. LC ringed his place with wrought-iron security bars, Parkway preferring chain link and razor wire. They knew their neighborhood.

LC was behind the counter, ribbons of heat rolling over him from the open smoker as he checked slabs, briskets, and chickens, wiping sweat from his dark brown forehead. The fifty-inch television hanging from one corner of the ceiling was on the fritz, all snow and no football.

“Quit moping,” Lucy said. “You’ll be home in time for the late-afternoon game and the night game.”

“Yeah, but I’m missing the first game.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Who cares? What matters is that I’m not watching.”

“Poor Jack Davis. He lives a life of unrelenting cruelty.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“If you have to ask, it’s not nearly as much fun.”

“Order up,” LC said.

Lucy brought our food to the table carrying a tray in one hand and a brown bag, grease staining the paper, in the other.

“Simon’s dinner,” she said, setting the bag on an empty chair.

Lucy was an ex-cop, ex-con, and private investigator for Alexander Investigations. Her boyfriend and my best friend, Simon Alexander, was the owner. Simon specialized in cyber crime. Lucy worked the human side, investing her heart in her clients. I was her part-time gun. A convicted felon, she couldn’t possess a firearm, but I could even though I had a movement disorder that made me shake and had forced me to retire after twenty-five years with the FBI. Who said justice was blind?

“Simon gets barbeque and he gets to watch the game?” I asked.

“Yes,” Lucy said, patting me on the head. “And you got barbeque and a trip to the Municipal Farm to visit Jimmy Martin. Aren’t you the lucky man?”

“Luckier than Jimmy. Did you really think he’d tell us where he buried his kids?”

“Evan and Cara are missing. No one says they’re dead.”

“Evan is six and Cara is eight years old, and they’ve been missing for three weeks as of yesterday. How many of those kids come home?”

“Not many. I know. But that doesn’t mean he killed them.”

“Let’s see,” I said, ticking the facts off one by one. “Jimmy and his wife are in the middle of the divorce from hell. She threw him out and had to get an order of protection against him. He can’t see Evan and Cara unless it’s with a court-appointed social worker. The kids disappeared the same day he was arrested for stealing copper wire and tubing from a construction site.”

“I know. I know,” Lucy said. “We’ve been over this. His lawyer asked the judge to release him on his own recognizance since he wasn’t a flight risk because he wanted to be with his kids.”

“And?”

Lucy leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, reciting as if she was being coerced. “And, his wife was in the courtroom and whispered to the prosecutor to ask Jimmy where the kids were, and Jimmy refused to answer, so the judge said no bail and sent him to the Municipal Farm because the county jail was full. He didn’t even take the Fifth. Just acted like he didn’t hear the question.”

“That’s the great thing about the privilege against self-incrimination. You can’t exercise it without everyone thinking you’re a criminal. So, either he killed his kids so his wife couldn’t have them, or he’s torturing her by making her think he knows where they are even though he doesn’t. I don’t know why you were so hot to talk to him. If he won’t tell his wife or the judge what he knows about the kids, assuming he knows anything at all, he sure as hell isn’t going to tell us.”

“I get that, Jack. But it can’t hurt to try. Their mother hasn’t given up hope. That’s why Peggy hired us. So, I’m not giving up either.” Lucy slowly stirred the pool of ketchup on her plate with a cold french fry. “It’s just so hard to believe he’d let her suffer like that, make her wonder what happened.”

“Never underestimate an angry man’s capacity for cruelty. There was a case in Alabama where a father killed his four children, threw them off a bridge, to torture his wife.”

“Which is worse? Mourning their deaths or never knowing if you can?”

I took a deep breath, thinking about my dead children. “I’ve done both and wouldn’t wish the choice on anybody.”

“I know,” she said, taking my hand, “and that’s why I asked you to go with me to see Jimmy Martin. You don’t really miss watching that football game, do you?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Not for a minute. Eat your lunch before it gets cold.”

Two women and a man were sitting at a corner table near the television. They had more on their plates than ribs. The man was facing us, the women giving us their backs; the other eight tables were empty. They gave off a vibe of bad news getting worse. I couldn’t help picking up on it, blaming too many years spent finding trouble before it started.

Their postures were stiff, their voices rising and falling, the buzz from the television muffling what they were saying. One thing was clear: They weren’t having a party.

The man’s totem head was square. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the left one lazy. His neck was short and squat, his shoulders rolled with fat. I put him at forty, maybe less. He drummed meaty fingers on the Formica tabletop, his lazy eye drifting my way, catching me watching them, his glare telling me to butt out.

The woman sitting on the end of the table pointed her finger at him. He grabbed her hand, squeezing until the woman sitting next to the wall pulled them apart, the man gritting his teeth, folding his beefy arms over his chest, the first woman slumping, elbows on the table, her face in her hands.