Jeff Jacobson - Growth

The tears were flowing now. But that was okay. He was here. He had bitten back a cry that almost escaped, because he wanted—no, needed —to wait until he was kneeling in the rows of corn to properly grieve for his son. He tried to tell himself that it was completely different from when he was a boy, running up the long driveway from the bus for the bathroom at home and failing every time, pissing his pants every time he had to come home from school and face that empty house.

He knew he was lying to himself.

It was exactly the same.

If he could just hold on to his control, hold on to his dignity, his manhood, then everything would be okay. His son would still be gone, true, but at least he would have shown the universe that Bob Morton Sr. was a man. A man who took care of his business.

Crying before he gave himself permission would make him weak.

He hit the brakes when the road ended in a T-intersection, knowing that he was too late. He was openly weeping now, tears and snot running down his face, and there was no hiding it. He barely managed to twist the key, killing the engine, before stumbling out into the humid summer air, wind alive in the cornstalks. He plowed forward into the rows, boots crunching across the countless caterpillar husks that carpeted the soil, before sinking to his knees, and finally, finally let out the scream that had been building ever since he had talked with the man from Allagro.

The Whistle Stop was way down on Highway 67 but was located just inside the town by a technicality, a strange quirk in the city limits. Chicago had its O’Hare Airport, and Parker’s Mill had its Whistle Stop. When it was built, the owner had bribed the town council to stretch the border of Parker’s Mill so it just barely included the roadhouse. During prohibition, it was easier and cheaper to pay off the town rather than the county sheriff. Subsequent town councils had condemned the corruption, but they weren’t stupid. Prohibition or not, the Whistle Stop brought in a lot of money as taxes or fines or special levies or whatever they wanted to call it.

The city limits had never been altered since.

It was Saturday night, and the place was packed. Sandy pulled in and parked right in front, one of the perks of being chief. She got out and spent a moment trying to decide if she should wear the hat or not. In the end, she decided it couldn’t hurt. At twenty-six years old, she stood only five foot, three inches, and weighed maybe 110 pounds. She was going to need all the help she could get.

She settled the hat on her head and squared her equipment, checking everything with a light touch. She now used a Glock Model 22, with fifteen .40 caliber rounds. These days, it didn’t seem right to carry a pistol that she’d used to kill a man, her being a peace officer and all. The Glock was locked and loaded, safety on. Radio on her right shoulder. Flashlight behind her pistol, next to the Mace. Two full clips heavy on her left hip. And a special new surprise tucked away behind the clips, riding lightly against her left butt cheek.

Godawful crappy modern country music spilled out from inside. The music was shit, loud as always, but the crowd noise was low. For a bar like this on a Saturday night, the place should have been roaring. Sandy made one last scan of the parking lot, looking for the father’s truck. As far as she knew, the only person to own a vehicle in that family was the father, Purcell. She couldn’t see it; either they parked around back or they had found a different car.

The front two doors were open. The bouncer was gone.

The song ended, and in the brief silence, Sandy could only hear some murmuring and faint laughter. Sandy went inside and immediately stepped sideways, slinking back against the wall. She didn’t want to linger in the open backlight of the doorway.

The Whistle Stop smelled of sweat and stale beer. It was built like a barn, or maybe a church. The middle was open, with a high ceiling. Long bars on both sides were chock-full of female bartenders in tight denim shorts and western shirts unbuttoned down to the centers of their chests. There was a stage up front, for when they could get live music. It wasn’t often. A digital jukebox served as backup. It was right up front, and pulled even more attention to the empty stage, which gaped like a missing tooth. And even that didn’t work right half the time, so the management just threw in seven CDs on shuffle. Most were country hits, of course, your Garth Brooks, your Rascal Flatts, your Shania Twain, your Toby Keith. And once in a while, just to keep everybody happy, they’d include an actual rock and roll album.

The next song kicked in. Heavy-duty guitars. The oldest brother, Edgar, sat alone on the stage, bouncing his head slightly to the only noncountry music recognizable down to the bone of every man, woman, and child inside that building. Power chords that struck a vibration throughout the entire universe. Sandy always gave a silent thanks whenever she heard something from the obligatory soundtrack to bars around the world, AC/DC’s Back in Black .

Most everybody else was clustered along the two bars, waiting for the situation to be sorted out. Nobody moved around a whole lot, except for the youngest brother. Axel Hillstrom Fitzgimmon. He was nineteen, a mean, arrogant little punk. Technically, he was underage and shouldn’t have been even allowed inside the Whistle Stop. He lived in a shack with Edgar they’d built themselves up the hill from their father’s house. Axel worked for an auto-repair garage in town, getting paid to carry heavy shit around all day and drive the tow truck once in a while. Tonight, he was putting on a show, having himself one hell of a good time all over the dance floor that stretched from the stage almost to the front door. He’d chased everyone off the dance floor by treating it as his own private mosh pit and jumped around as if the floor had an electric current.

She couldn’t see Charlie.

Fredriquo Guiterrez, the bouncer, better known as Freddy G, was over by the bar, holding a bloody bar rag against his mouth. Freddy G was over forty, balding hair pulled back into a ponytail, still finding work as a bouncer thanks to genetics. Stories floated around town that he had once lifted two full-grown men by their belts and thrown them in the mud. Nobody knew if it was true or not, but he was nearly seven feet tall with a football lineman’s gut and arms.

He knew she was here, but wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Charlie was the worry. Back from some sand country, full of pep, ready to rock and roll right along with the music. He was always deliberately vague about his deployment, and wanted folks to believe he was involved in some hardcore Black Ops, Company-style CIA-type shit.

She made herself a target. Stepped onto the dance floor.

Axel kept on flailing around. Edgar ignored her and bobbed his shaved head in stuttering, jerking movements along with the beat. He was the shy brother, and except for a nervous tic that made him giggle uncontrollably whenever he touched a firearm, she ignored him. Her presence had been noticed by the rest of the bar, though, and everybody else whispered and nodded. The minimal crowd noise faded away, until only the music filled the roadhouse.

Sandy knew the Fitzgimmon brothers couldn’t have made Freddy G bleed without being sneaky, so she was more than ready when Charlie tried to slip his forearm around her neck. She dropped her chin into her chest and stomped down with her boot, crushing his toes. His left forearm slipped off her forehead while his right fumbled for her handgun and couldn’t unsnap the leather.

She brought her right elbow back and caught him in the solar plexus. Air chuffed out of his lungs, whistling past her right ear. Her left hand found the second holster on her left hip and whipped out the Taser X26P, a handy little compact plastic fuck you .