John Miller - Side by Side

As he rounded the first curve in the road to the metal barn, he almost hit the twins. They were standing in the road with their backs turned-shotguns over their shoulders-watching the fire like a couple of cows.

Peanut hit his brights and smacked the horn. Burt and Curt bolted off into the weeds about a second before he would have run them both over. If he hadn’t figured he would need them, he wouldn’t have honked or braked.

“What happened?” he hollered out his window as it went down.

“Looks like it’s a fire at the barn,” Burt said.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Peanut hollered.

“You said to stay here,” Curt answered.

“Get in the truck!” Peanut snarled.

The twins scrambled into the bed and squatted, one on either side of the cab. As Peanut roared off, they put their faces out in the slipstream like dogs enjoying the wind.

Peanut roared along, braking to avoid hitting a group of deer. When he made it around the final bend, he involuntarily sucked in a deep bracing breath. The place looked like one of those fireworks plants on the news that ran plumb out of luck in the unfortunate-spark department. Twisted corrugated metal was scattered everywhere. Blackened sheets of the steel had curled away from the barn’s I-beam superstructure like the petals of an orchid. The steel skeleton-beams and ceiling struts-had come from a Winn-Dixie that had been damaged by Hurricane Hugo, which Peanut had bought from the insurance company for a song.

Peanut hoped the damned volunteer fire department didn’t show up and come on his land, but with the explosion visible for God knew how far off, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if all sorts of authorities came sniffing about, even knowing as most did that he didn’t allow anybody on the place he hadn’t invited. If the Dockerys’ bodies were in this mess, he sure as hell didn’t need anybody snooping around. Buck’s or Dixie’s corpse he could explain, but not the Dockerys’. He had to make some calls and head that off or get the hell out of there.

The shed was on fire. Inside, what had been the tractor, the four-wheelers, Buck’s 1500, the twins’ Blazer, and Dixie’s 1970 GTO were all part of the burning whatnot. Peanut wondered about how much insurance he could collect on all of it. Enough to rebuild. The agent would give him whatever he could think of that was or wasn’t actually in there.

“Buck! Dixie! Buck! Dixie!” the twins hollered out in a steady stream.

“Stop yelling,” Peanut told them.

“You think they’re dead?” Curt asked.

“Maybe Buck went off to do something like he does,” Burt said.

“Don’t know,” Peanut said. He didn’t either. Who knew what the hell Buck was liable to do when he got something in his head?

By the looks of things, Peanut figured there wouldn’t be much left of anybody that had been in the structures. Buck might have caused the fire and run off, knowing he’d catch almighty hell for it. Might have done it because he was pissed off. Peanut regretted he hadn’t let Buck have his fun with the Dockery woman, because at least this wouldn’t have happened.

He decided it would be best not to tell anybody about Dixie and Buck being here right off. Except for the insurance policies he had on them, he couldn’t see why anybody needed to know anything right off. He’d discuss how to get the policies claimed with Mr. Laughlin before he decided. Nobody he could think of would miss Buck enough to ask after him. The people from Dixie’s church would wonder about her, but he could say she moved to California or some happy crap. Wasn’t one in the whole congregation could out-think a rock.

Peanut saw the steel door frame was still in place, though the metal skin had been blown off. The padlock was still there. When his heel sank into something, he looked down and realized it was a blackened hand and forearm.

Peanut squatted down and lifted it up by the thumb to get a better look. Buck’s Jolly Roger tattoo that he’d gotten put on his forearm before going into the Marine Corps was easy to make out. Born 2 Kill, read the words in the banner under it. On Buck’s other arm he’d had a funny cartoon of a bulldog dry-humping a skull that read, Devil Dog Sex.

Peanut held the limb up to let the twins get a good look at it.

“Holy crap!” Burt said.

“Daw-gone,” Curt muttered.

“Boys. It’d be best if you didn’t mention this to your mother. No point upsetting her.”

In the same manner a man would throw a piece of wood, Peanut slung the last of Buck off into the hottest part of the fire. For a few seconds he watched the fire and contemplated his two dead children. More than most, his kids knew how dangerous life was. It was a shame to die violent deaths, but he reckoned that it was all spoiled milk under a bridge. And the Dockerys were supposed to be killed anyhow, and it didn’t pay to worry about things that didn’t matter.

“Boys, y’all can remember that your brother and sister did their duty to the family. Want y’all to go on back up to the gate and tell anybody that thinks about coming in, that this is private property. Any those volunteer fire idiots show up, tell them our trailer and barn burned up and there ain’t crap to do about it but let the fire finish up. The woods are too wet to burn, and we Smoots handle our own troubles out here. Tell ’em if they try and come in, you’ll blow their damned heads off. Tell ’em if they don’t like it, to go screw a mule.”

“Walk all the way back there?” Burt said.

“You could have just left us there,” Curt added.

Peanut just glared.

As the twins turned away to go back to the gate, Peanut opened his cell phone and made a call to Max Randall. Max would want to know about this development. He’d wait until later to tell Mr. Laughlin, because the lawyer had taken his firm’s jet to Miami and wouldn’t get back until just before court on Monday.

“It’s a damn shame about the dogs,” Curt said as he took his shotgun out of the bed of the Dodge.

Clayton Able had his phone to his ear. Major Antonia Keen was pacing the floor in her suite, a phone to her ear as well.

“Yeah?” Clayton said. “You’re sure? Hold on.” He snapped his fingers. Holding the phone away from his mouth so he could read the screen, he saw who was trying to break in and said, “Keep me posted.” He brought the other caller up.

“Okay, shoot,” he said.

Antonia said, “I’ll get back to you when I know. You just be ready to scramble at a moment’s notice to where I need your team.” She closed her phone and turned to face Clayton.

Clayton listened to the second caller without interrupting. “Damn it,” he said. “Damnity, damn, damn it. Anything else Massey-related pops up on the radar, call me.”

“The team’s on standby,” Antonia told Clayton when he shut the cell phone. “What’s the deal on Massey?”

“A couple of things. His truck, with about a hundred bullet holes in it, has been found wrecked in a field about a half a mile from the building where he picked Click up. Cops reported an unidentified male belted inside his truck wearing a bathrobe. We can safely assume that was Mr. Ferny Ernest Smoot.”

“And Massey, too, right?”

“There were two additional unidentified corpses dressed in BDUs found just off the road, both head shots. There was no second vehicle.”

“Where’s Massey?”

“I presume he’s driving around somewhere in a Tahoe with a frightening amount of ordnance inside it.”

Antonia sat heavily on the bed and put her face in her open hands.

“I don’t have to tell you that Massey was your sister’s bright idea.”

“He nailed two of Randall’s team,” Antonia answered. “And stole their vehicle.”