Aric Davis - The Fort

“Scott, my man,” said Carl, finishing the beer and grabbing a fresh one from the cooler at his feet. “How’s it hanging?”

Not sure how to respond, Scott finally settled on “I’m doing good. What are you making?”

“Steak,” said Carl, between swigs of beer. “You and I are celebrating. I got some New Yorks from the butcher, and he says they are going to melt in our mouths. I took him at his word and bought the biggest two that he had. Sounds good, right?”

“Yeah,” said Scott. “It sounds awesome. But what are we celebrating?” Carl finished the second beer in epic time, then cracked a third and took a deep swig. “Well,” said Carl, “between the two of us, I just got promoted at work. Which is pretty cool. Not quite beer-on-a-Tuesday cool or, hell, steak-on-a-night-that-your-mom-works cool, but still pretty cool.

“And there’s an even cooler part. This wasn’t just a little old raise, this was the spot I’ve been gunning for, and you know what? No more waiting tables for my wife, guaranteed. No more truck leaking oil, either, at least once we get used to the larger checks. I am officially going to be managing a team of guys, instead of just running a machine. Nice, eh?”

“Mom will really be able to stop working?”

“Yep. I even considered stopping by her work and making her quit tonight, but I know Beth would have said no, and would have insisted on putting in her two weeks so she doesn’t screw anybody over. This is pretty good news for us, Scott. For all three of us.”

“It’s amazing.”

“Yep, but there’s something else amazing that I need too. Go run down to the basement and fetch up one of my jars of steak sauce. These are good cuts, so no A.1. tonight. We’ll use my morel sauce.”

“Sweet,” said Scott. He’d had the morel sauce twice, and it was amazing. His stepdad went mushrooming for weeks in the spring, searching under fallen elms for the delicious and difficult-to-find wild fungus. Carl made the sauce once a year, and Scott was pretty sure his stepdad could bottle it for sale if he were able to find enough mushrooms to make it happen. That, of course, was never going to happen: morels commanded a hefty price at market, and the unpredictability of finding the things meant even the family supply was quite finite.

The only thing more surprising than sharing steaks and the sauce with his stepfather, though, was access to the basement. “Do I need a key or something?” For as long as Scott could remember, the basement was do not enter, all Carl’s.

“Nope,” said Carl. “Truth told, Scott, I haven’t locked it in years. I trust you, buddy. Maybe you trust me a bit too. Maybe this new job, and your mom quitting hers, will make you trust me even more. We’re a family, kid, a modern family. We don’t need blood to be one.” Carl paused, then said, “So go get a bottle of sauce, give the armory a look, no touching, and bring it back up.”

“Yes, sir,” said Scott, and he meant it.

The basement was cold. The summer was not hot in June of 1987, but being in a cooler environment was still very inviting. Scott figured it was below seventy degrees downstairs, maybe even cooler. Even better than just being cooler was that he’d never been down there without Carl, except to do laundry, and that was in a totally different room. At the bottom of the stairs, Scott walked past the washer and dryer to the door he had assumed was always locked, then turned the knob and walked inside.

On one wall was a long table, atop which was a table clamp, along with the tools necessary for the manufacture of ammunition. Also on the table were a few boxes of rifle ammunition that had been assembled, along with a few tins of powder and boxes of unloaded cartridges. Next to the table was a drop-front desk that was closed, and—Scott was sure without even checking—locked. Above the desk were three sets of whitetail deer antlers, all mounted in the European style, with just plates of skull and horns on display.

On the wall across from the desk and table were three gun racks, all of them festooned with various rifles and shotguns, including one rifle with an odd-looking stock that Scott had seen once before. It was an AR-7, manufactured by Charter Arms and chambered in .22 Long Rifle. The entire gun could be broken down and stored within the stock, and was easily assembled with no tools. Eugene Stoner, the man who had invented the M-16, had come up with the AR-7 earlier in his career as a compact weapon to be used by pilots who were shot down. Carl had purchased it to use as a sort of trail gun to shoot small game, or for highly unlikely self-defense scenarios, on a trip that had yet to be taken. It would be perfect for shooting at the target. The fort would eat up most of the noise, and the bullets wouldn’t travel far enough to hurt someone by accident. Scott ran his fingers over the black composite stock, then drew them away, as if it were hot.

Ashamed at his speedy betrayal of his stepdad’s trust, Scott walked to a rack at the back of the room covered in canned fruit, along with jars of homemade steak and barbecue sauce. He grabbed a bottle of the steak sauce, then walked back to the door, giving the racks of guns one final look before heading back upstairs. The AR-7 was dancing in his mind, and the conversation with the detective, along with the business card in his pocket, all but forgotten.

15

Hooper whistled as he walked through the hardware section at Meijer Wednesday morning. He was back, buying supplies to make a pair of different restraints, and was wearing sunglasses and a Detroit Tigers cap, just in case. His cart already held chains, heavy-gauge rope, ratcheting straps, a pair of locks, and a few short two-by-fours. He had also gone shopping on Division Avenue, near the stretch where he had happened upon Amy in the first place. There he bought a pair of leg cuffs, a pair of handcuffs, a metal collar that locked and had a steel ring hanging from it, a rubber ball gag, and an enormous purple silicone cock. The sales clerk had made no mention of what Hooper was buying, just took his cash and said, “Have fun.” Hooper couldn’t help smiling as he left the store. What a world, where a man could buy such things in a store.

After perusing all of the wonderful things the hardware section had to offer, Hooper walked his nearly full cart to the opposite side of the store. There he threw a couple bottles of mascara, some nail polish, and tubes of lipstick into his cart. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but figured he’d just have to start somewhere, keep experimenting with different colors or brands until he had her looking just right. It was going to be a learning process, and he couldn’t wait for it to begin.

Hooper also bought some groceries. He was used to subsisting mostly on rice and dehydrated foods, all stuff he’d grown accustomed to in the military, but he decided Amy’s palate was probably different from his. At least until she could tell him what she liked to eat, he bought a few cans of soup, another loaf of bread, and a bottle of orange juice. He also threw a large bottle of NyQuil into the cart, along with a fifth of 190-proof Everclear. Ready to leave, he checked out at the front of the store, paying cash for his odd assortment of goods.

Once everything was loaded into the car, he fired up the engine on the old Dodge and turned on the radio. Bon Jovi was playing “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and Hooper drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel along with the music. He couldn’t wait to get home, show her all the things he’d bought for her, and then put the ball in her mouth and lead her to the basement in chains. He didn’t want to keep her there, but she was the furthest thing from housebroken, and it would be easiest to keep her chained up down there with the gag in her mouth, especially while he built the rack. He could picture her fastened to it in his mind, and the mental images were wonderful. She was his little bird, and he couldn’t wait to admire her plumage.