Byron Starr - Doppelgänger

Oh God, not little Jimmy too, Greg thought.

“It killed’em,” James continued. Greg noticed with no small amount of relief that James had said it killed them, not you killed them. In the distance Greg heard sirens approaching.

Oh, hell, Greg thought. That would probably be Chad. He was the other deputy on duty tonight. Greg felt he almost had the situation under control, but since James didn’t know Chad or any of the other deputies very well, their presence might be more of a curse than a blessing.

At the sound of the sirens, James started looking confused.

Oh hell, Greg repeated in his mind.

“That’s going to be Chad Hudspeth. You know him, James. He was at my Fourth of July party this year,” Greg said in a soft, calm voice, but James still looked confused. Outside Greg heard Chad’s cruiser slide into the driveway behind his car. He could see the reflection of the patrol car’s lights on the wall beside him. Greg then heard the car door slam followed by footsteps running toward the house

Oh hell.

Chad Hudspeth was two years younger than Greg and James. He was originally from Fort Worth. Chad had only been a deputy in Newton County for ten months. He had proven to be a hard worker and was already well liked throughout the county. Chad wasn’t the brightest person in the world, but he was turning out to be an efficient deputy. However, like most rookie deputies, Chad was a little on the gung ho side.

Greg was still in the doorway when Chad came up behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chad’s pistol on his left outstretched and pointing at James. “Put the gun down, now!” Chad shouted.

James looked confused, and, worse yet, he looked scared.

“Everything’s under control, Chad. Put your gun away.” Greg said in the same calm voice he had been talking to James in.

Chad acted as if he didn’t even hear Greg. “Put the damn gun down!” he shouted.

James’ grip once again tightened on the gun and he shifted his aim to the right, away from Greg and at Chad.

“No, James, aim at me,” Greg said.

James, still looking confused, did. Then Greg cut his eyes at Chad to tell him to put his gun down when he saw that the hammer of the.38 revolver was coming back as Chad applied more pressure to the trigger.

Greg acted fast. Greg’s hands were slightly raised in a surrendering gesture to set James at ease. This placed his left hand only inches from below the barrel of Chad’s gun. Greg’s hand flashed upward hitting the muzzle of Chad’s pistol just as the gun went off, firing into the ceiling. Almost simultaneously James pulled both triggers on the old shotgun firing both barrels into Greg’s chest. Greg flew back through the door, his flailing left arm bringing Chad down with him.

As Chad scrambled to his feet, Greg weakly told him. “Don’t shoot. He’s empty.”

This time Chad listened. He came through the door and there stood James, his gun now down by his side and his mouth agape. “What have I done?” he muttered.

The two caskets rested beneath the green tent, they would not be lowered until the family and friends dispersed from the cemetery. The people milled about under and around the tent, talking among themselves. Occasionally they glanced down the hill to the solitary figure standing near the back of the cemetery. Most of them felt sympathy for the boy, others felt pity, and a few, including George Lambert, Angie Taylor’s father, felt anger.

James had been this way throughout the wake and the funeral. He seldom interacted with any of the visitors except to occasionally mutter a quiet thank you to the numerous people expressing their sympathy. While he was burying his wife and son in the Lambert family cemetery, he was also buried himself beneath a heavy pall of self-loathing.

One of the pallbearers took a long look down the hill. Unlike the others, he didn’t sigh and turn away. After placing his boutonniere on the head of one of the caskets he started down the hill to join his friend.

Two nights ago, Greg had been lucky — he didn’t always wear his vest, but he’d had it on that night. His ribs were severely bruised and every breath he took pained him — it had taken the better part of five minutes just to get on his jacket this morning — but it could have been a lot worse.

Greg walked up behind James, approaching to within a few feet, but, unsure of what to say, he stopped there.

James turned slightly, saw who it was and turned back to face the woods. “Hey, Greg,” James said, his voice weakened from crying and slightly muddled by the heavy dose of medication the doctor had prescribed. Over the last couple of days, the medication had proved beneficial in two ways: it not only calmed his nerves, but it also made him sleep harder. In fact, he slept so soundly he was no longer troubled by the dreams.

“Chest gettin’ any better?” James asked.

“Doesn’t bother me at all,” Greg replied, lying just a touch. He felt his pain was irrelevant here. “I’m fine. I’m just worried about you.”

“Oh… I’ll be all right.”

Greg slowly approached, coming up beside his friend.

“I’m sorry,” James said.

“Hey, it’s nothing.”

“Oh, please. I shot you, Greg,” James said flatly.

“You didn’t mean to. If Chad hadn’t screwed up everything would have been fine.”

James lowered his head, “Not everything.”

“No, I guess not,” Greg said, suddenly wishing he could take back his last statement.

James sniffled once and his chest heaved. He raised his head and said, “It wasn’t really Chad’s fault either. I mean, he doesn’t know me like you do and I was standing there with a gun aimed at him. I hope like hell he didn’t get in trouble on my account.”

“Nah, after I got back from the doctor ole Sheriff Oates took us into his office and gave us a long talk, but I explained the situation and he let Chad off the hook.” Greg left out the fact that this long talk had been one of the ass-chewing variety, and that talking the sheriff into not suspending Chad had been simple when compared to another daunting task — talking Sheriff Oates out of pressing charges on James for attempted murder of a police officer.

“Good,” James said. “And thanks for letting me stay at your house for the last couple of days. I don’t think I could have managed to go home.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I think I can handle it now.”

“I don’t think you can.”

James paused. He swallowed a heavy lump in his throat and started to say something but Greg interrupted.

“Why don’t you stay a little while longer? I think it’ll be good for you.”

James shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Greg replied. “I insist.”

James started to renew the argument, but Greg could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “Okay, but just for a day or two.”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yep, I’m kidnapping you for two weeks. Maybe I’ll let you go home after one week if you’re good,” Greg added with a light nudge.

James slowly nodded, “A week, maybe two.”

For the next five days James stayed at Greg and Sandy O’Brien’s house. Sandy, who was a teacher’s assistant at the local high school, was always at work during the day and Carissa went to daycare, but Greg had been given two weeks off to let his ribs heal. However, after the first day, Greg found his friend had rather be alone, so he promptly found something to do — anything just so James was happy and not having to stay in the house where his family was killed, even if it meant giving up his own house for a while. As a result James had the house to himself during the day. He appreciated Greg’s efforts, but he didn’t imagine it would be any worse at home, although he certainly didn’t think it would help. For James, the O’Brien’s couch had become his new home, although he felt it more qualified as a cell than a home. James stayed on the couch most of the time. He slept there at night, and during the day he watched the TV from his couch/cell in a half-stoned stupor. James even ate his meals on the O’Brien’s couch, not wanting to sit at the table and see the barely hidden scorn in Sandy’s eyes.