Returning Home Ch. 02

Passing the first pool table, he palmed the cue ball and let the sleeve of his flannel shirt conceal part of that hand. As he passed the second table the largest of the college kids positioned himself in front of Jim and bumped into him.

He leaned forward, into Jim's personal space, looking at the scarring near his eye. "What's wrong with you, man? You blind or something?"

Jim wondered if that is what passed for clever in college these days. "Just getting a beer." Jim started to step past the kid.

"No apology? Just keep walking through? Here, have mine, asshole."

Jim patiently waited for the kid to grab his pitcher and toss the beer at him. Slow. Slow and predictable. Amateur.

He looked over at the bikers, who were watching intently, leaning forward. Spectators, like leather-clad tourists. The short one who brokered the deal was different. His eyes were cold, appraising, waiting. The others wanted a show, maybe a little payback. This one was smarter. He was taking stock of Jim. Assessing the opposition. Regretfully, Hector might keep the bikers from fucking with him, but they had no qualms about using the kids to push things.

Jim swung forward and ducked to the kids left, the pitcher in the kid's hand missing his head. He slammed the cue ball into the side of the kid's temple, dropping him like he was shot. As he hit the ground, Jim's boot crushed his face, splattering blood on the floor, ruining a cheekbone and maybe a jaw.

Jim turned back to the bikers as he stepped towards the nearest table. "One."

The second college kid was quicker on his feet and moved with confidence towards Jim, pool cue in hand. Probably an athlete. From his grip, likely baseball. When he was seven feet away, Jim kicked a chair towards the kid, who hesitated as the cue ball rocketed towards him. Bone and cartilage crunched as the ball found its home in the center of his face. He was tough and stayed on his feet as he staggered back.

Jim picked up the chair and crashed it over the athletes head. As he fell to his knees, Jim sunk his foot into his ribs. He would have gone easy on any of the kids if they'd been alone, but three on one offended his sensibilities, and Jim needed to put on a show for his audience.

He looked over at the bikers again. "Two." Jim heard Tilly gasp and saw the dealing biker nod his head in her direction. The rest watched, silent, taking stock.

The third kid, the ringleader, looked at his friends on the ground, shifted his gaze to the bikers and then to Jim. He ran for the door. Jim hurled the remains of the oaken chair, striking him in the back. He strode to the downed mastermind and knelt as he slammed his head into the floor. He rolled him over and rammed his fist repeatedly in the face. Jim took a ragged breath and, with difficulty, stopped.

Still kneeling, Jim looked once more at the bikers. "Three."

They were looked at him differently now. One of them nodded his head at Jim. Not a sign of respect. No feeling of camaraderie. It seemed to be a simple acknowledgment that they had put him in the wrong category.

Jim wasn't one of the townspeople. He was a predator. The bar's atmosphere ionized, charged, on edge, as if possibilities were being unlocked, tumblers spun and dice were falling. Anything was possible.

He knew the bikers were close to ignoring Hector's admonitions. He was no longer an annoyance to be put away, he was a threat to be dealt with. Electricity coursed through him. The smile started. He had cultivated it while in the Sandbox and by now it was second nature. It was purposefully unnerving. The scars helped. This is where he belonged. He was alive. He wondered how many he could get if they pulled on him. At least two.

He didn't need to look at the staff. They would do nothing. This was a backwoods bar serving bikers that openly dealt to the customers. Cops wouldn't be called. Bodies would either disappear or be dumped in front of a hospital. If you wanted justice or the comfort of the law, you were in the wrong place. Jim wanted neither. He wanted this. The pulsing in his veins. Being able to feel again. A challenge to push against.

Looking back down at the college punk he still straddled, it all fell apart. The blood, the broken bones, the future that Jim had just altered. Unease hit his gut, wrenching at who he'd become and who he wanted to be.

Jim stood up, wiped his bloodied hands on his worn jeans, and called out. "Sorry, Tilly. Gotta get home for supper. Tell Liam I'll see him soon."

She stood behind the counter, hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Stepping out the door, Jim's lupine smile fell. Back ramrod straight, stomach queasy, he got in the truck and pulled out onto the highway. After the first exit, he pulled to the side of the road and lost whatever was in his stomach.

There were three of them, and he knew what they would have done if they were capable. He would have been lucky to make it to a hospital. A ditch on the side of the road was more likely. But they were sheep who thought they were wolves. He could have just left. He could have talked them down. He could have pulled the .45 and forced them to back down.

Jim vomited again, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and got back in the truck. He found a half-empty bottle of water, rinsed his mouth out with it and sat there behind the wheel, afraid of what he'd become.

* * * * *

The swelling in his hands had gone down overnight. Gripping the wheel wasn't as uncomfortable as it had been driving home yesterday.

Jim's father taught him how to hunt when he was young. Patience was king. His military training reinforced the lessons his father imparted. The principles remained, regardless of the prey. If Liam was hiding, he would flush him out. Pushing down his frustrations, he saw the large government building in the distance as he drove up.

Parking his truck outside the building, Jim surveyed the parking lot. Most of the cars the State Police used were in the back, near the maintenance shed, but there were more than a few here. He grabbed the folder on the seat next to him, got out and headed towards the door. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he was concerned that his smile was more predatory than mirthful.

As he approached the door, he called out to the two officers about to enter.

"Hey, you got a second?"

Turning to look at him, the smaller of the two answered. "Sure, what can we do for you?"

Jim opened the folder and took out a flier. "I'm looking for an old friend. Name's Liam Bissle. Seen him around?"

The two men looked at the image for a second and then at each other. "I'm sorry, Mr...?"

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm Jim." He reached out as if to shake the mans hand.

"Jim...?" hoping for a last name.

"Yup, Jim."

He shook Jim's hand as he spoke. "Can I ask why you're looking for this man?"

"He's an old friend. Haven't been able to track him down yet. I thought you guys might be able to point me in the right direction."

The officer looked at Jim, down at the flier with Liam's mugshot, and back up. "No, don't know him, but if you leave us your contact information, we'll be happy to give you a yell if we hear anything, Mr..."

"Jim's good. My phone's on the back. Keep the sheet. Thanks guys."

Jim made his way inside to the wall near the community service desk, pulled out a sheet from the bottom of the pile and the stapler from his jacket pocket and affixed the mug shot to the public bulletin board. This copy had Liam's name and some text on the bottom, as well as Jim's phone number.

"Jim, you got a minute?"

Smiling to himself, Jim turned.

"Hey, Vic. Good to see ya. Sure, what's going on?"

Vic looked like a smaller version of his cousin Hector, but without the tattoos. His thick, black mustache and bald head lent him a distinctive appearance. "Let's head over to my office."

They wound their way through desks occupied by State Police and staff as they headed towards Vic's office. Jim looked at the stenciling on the door. "Wow. Captain now. Nice, Vic."

"Yeah, it's Captain." The furrowed lines on Vic's forehead grew deeper, and Jim got the impression that he wasn't fond of being called by his first name.

"So, what can I do for you, Vic?"

"What's going on with the questions about Liam?"

"Just haven't been able to get in touch with him. I thought we should have a talk. I've been away for a while."

"Yeah? This has nothing to do with Ann?"

"Ann? Why would it have anything to do with Ann? I mean, your guys looked into that, right Vic? Nothing there, case closed, right? You shut that down."

"I know she's your cousin, but I'm not going to discuss the investigation with you."

"Sure, Vic. I get it. I understand completely." He looked at his watch. "Shit, gotta go. If you see him, tell him I'm looking for him. Good to see ya, Vic."

As Jim stepped outside the door, the voice called from behind him.

"Don't do anything stupid, Jim."

"You got it, Vic!"

Jim passed out a few more of the fliers as he left. As he got in the truck, his phone rang. Surprised at how fast the fliers provoked a reaction, he saw that it was actually Ann calling.

"Hey, Ann. What's going on."

"Jill's brother's got a bunch of venison. Can you swing by to grab it and bring it over in the afternoon? I'll make dinner."

He realized he couldn't say no.

"Sure. Text me their address."

* * * * *

EARLIER

11 Years Ago, Spring

There was a thud when the heavy plastic bag hit the table. Eighth grade was hell for Ann, and her greatest aspirations were to just be left alone.

Pushing her hair from her eyes, she looked up to see four girls had approached her. The clamor in the school's cafeteria died down, and one of the girls who put the bag on the table pushed it towards her.

"We chipped in and got something for your dad."

Ann prayed that a teacher or aid would wander by before the humiliation started in earnest. She kept quiet and continued looking down at the table, her hair acting as a curtain to obscure her from her peers.

Tina pulled the bottle from the bag and placed it none too gently in front of Ann. Tina leaned over and spoke in a stage whisper. "Times are tough. We thought we'd help out." Her friends giggled, and there was some laughter as kids from other tables saw the bottle of cheap whiskey.

"Hey, Ann." The new voice rang out from across the room.

Ann looked up and saw Mandy McAllister walking towards her. She had no idea why the high school cheerleader would be talking to her or why she was even in the middle school.

Mandy continued. "We're going to stop by around three to pick you up. We're driving into the city to do some shopping. Jenny's going, so is Carmen. We'll pick you up out front."

Ann pushed her hair back, looked to her right at the other kids with their lunches and then back at Mandy. Eyes narrowed in confusion, she remained silent, trying to watch everything without being obvious. She realized that no one was watching her. All the boys were staring at Mandy, the flower of the wealthiest family in the county. Their eyes were filled with the hormone driven lust that only a teenage boy can produce and all the girls were staring at her in envy.

Hearing the mention of the most popular girls in the high school, Tina moved closer. "Hey, Mandy. Uh, I'm Tina? Michelle's sister? You heading into the city?"

Mandy stepped forward to where Tina and Ann were the only ones that could hear her. "I know who you are, you little bitch, and if you don't back off I'm going to fucking ruin you." She placed an envelope on the table in front of Ann and grabbed the bottle. "Jim said this is for this afternoon."

Ann opened the envelope and saw some tens and twenties. She quickly shoved it into her pocket.

Tina stood there, mouth agape, as Mandy started walking towards the exit. Mandy called out over her shoulder. "See you at three, Ann."

Hurrying after Mandy, Tina was almost apoplectic, words tumbling, one after the other. "It was just a joke. We were joking around. She doesn't care. She—"

Mandy dropped the bottle in the garbage near the door, interrupted Tina's whispered explanations, and replied in a voice loud enough for the room to hear. "Enough! Look, I don't have a problem with what you do or who you do it with, but for the last time, I'm not into chicks. Give it up, Tina."

* * * * *

When he got back from putting the venison in the basement freezer, Jim saw her distracted look as Ann leaned over the filled sink, looking out the back window. "Whatcha thinking about, Ann?"

"Mandy McAllister."

"Mandy?"

"I feel stupid asking this, but you knew how much she was into you, right?"

Jim laughed, his tone incredulous. "What? No. We were just friends. I was on the team, she was a cheerleader. We were always in the same group."

"I just don't get you, Jim. I know that you're smart. How can you be that bright and so stupid at the same time? That girl mentally indexed the Kama Sutra every time you walked by."

"No, seriously. We hung out, but that's it."

She looked at him, head cocked like a dog hearing a confusing sound. "You could have had her anytime you wanted. You could probably have her now."

"Ann, you don't know what you're talking about. We were just friends. And she's married. She's got a kid, for crying out loud."

"Adultery something that bothers you now?"

* * * * *

He heard the Ironhead Sportster arrive and watched as Hector got off the Harley, walked across the field, six-pack in hand, and lay down beside him on the forty-yard line.

Jim offered a sympathetic grimace as he heard Hector's groans and his knee pop as the large man settled onto the ground. "Crap, I feel like I'm sixty."

They lay there, staring at the stars, neither seeming to mind the cold of the football field.

"You keeping an eye on me, Hec?"

"Nah, you're just predictable as shit."

"So you knew I was coming." he said, knowing they were both talking about something else.

"Yeah, Jim. I knew you'd be coming as soon as you'd hear about it. I just didn't know what to do about it. Whadda ya' doing here tonight?"

Jim's voice was even, slightly soft, as the past mingled with the present. "Just remembering. It's like someone else's life, ya know? It's like a movie. I can remember all the shit that happened, but I can't remember the feelings. Does that make sense?"

Hector's deep voice sounded tired. "I guess. We're not those kids anymore. Not you and me anyway. We've, I don't know, seen too much. I feel tired, Jim. It's not like it was. That high school heroes crap is gone. Like it never was."

He was silent for a minute before continuing.

"You remember telling the cops that weed was yours? Afraid they'd put me in juvie? And finding that kid at that party? He chop-blocked me our junior year and took out my knee for half a season. Didn't turn out be the party of the year for him and his friends. Three of us, five of them. We were legends." Hector paused, silent for a moment. "That's who you were, Jim. You were the guy that stood up. You always were. Yeah, I knew you were coming. I just didn't know when."

Hector coughed and spat before he went on, speaking in a rumble. "Me, everyone else on the team, we ran the school. We cut when we wanted to, we screwed any girl that'd let us. You? The worst thing you'd do was get us the keg for the party after the games. You know how many rumors they had about you? The girls all thought you were dating college chicks."

Jim bent his knee and stretched his bad leg while Hector continued.

"You didn't hang out, so they started saying you were out at bars, getting in fights and fucking older women. Imagine if they knew you were at your cousin's fixing up their shit?" He paused again, smiling at the night sky. "The dangerous loner all the girls wanted was actually painting fences and shit?" Hector laughed, a raspy sound filled in with cigarettes and hard living.

Jim smiled. "Yeah, I remember. I also remember the weekend after my folks passed and taking that car. Driving us down to get some beer and you seeing the cops. You forced me to pull over to the side and pushed me out of the car. I remember you sayin' it would kill gramma if she had to come get me from the station after she just buried her son. I sat in the tall grass while you told the cops you took the car. Don't go laying all this hero crap on me. I wasn't the only one that stood up."

"Whadda we gonna do, Jim?"

"It is what it is. You know what I have to do and you know I'm not going to walk away. Do what you gotta, Hec."

"This is all sorts of fucked up."

"Can't argue with you."

"Beer?"

"Sure."

* * * * *

Hands on his waist, Archie Moreland stood at the front entrance of the beer distributor, chuckling at the flier crudely taped to the wall. A tall, thin man with receding hair and a large head, Archie lived for his wife and kids. Their photos adorned his office and he spent half his work day calling or texting one or more of them. Rarely without a smile, friends, customers and employees blended into one for Archie. If you weren't a friend when you entered, there was a good chance that you would be when you left.

He walked to the first register, picked up the phone and punched in the number for the PA system. "Cort, get up here. Ya gotta see this."

Jose Cortez passed Jim as he headed towards the registers. Jim was throwing some snacks on top of the two six-packs in the cart. Cort smiled at his friend, patted his arm in passing and kept going. "Hey, Jim. Gimme a couple of minutes."

Jose spotted Archie at the register and walked over as he looked around. They usually paged him when some kid was shoplifting. "What's going on, Arch?"

"Check this out."

Archie led them to the vestibule and the flier. Below the first line of text was an image of Liam's head on a chihuahua's body.

Have You Seen This Lost Doggy?

Please call immediately.

I just want to spend some time playing with this little bitch.

Jose's eyes opened wide and his chin dropped. "Oh, shit."

Still whistling, Jim stood on line at the register when Cort and Archie walked back in.

Cort looked up at Archie. "What the fuck is he whistling for?"

There was a sad, but admiring tone to Archie's voice. "He's always been happiest when hunting."

* * * * *

Jim's folks' house was coming along. Always meticulous, Jim had the house as clean as before the last tenants moved in. He had been spending time doing all the heavy work and Ann lent a hand with the finishing touches. The window was open in the small room, offering ventilation for the paint fumes. They didn't speak much as they painted, but Jim needed that connection, that closeness.

He couldn't verbalize it, but Jim desperately needed whatever affection he could get from Ann. He would drink in any connection to his past, to the time before he lost everything.

It was getting time to call a break, get something to drink, maybe a snack. He grabbed a rag from the pile in the corner and wiped his brow. They had been at it for hours. Jim turned, about to head to the kitchen.

He saw Ann staring at him, paintbrush in hand. He thought she had been standing there for a while, but being to his left, he wasn't sure. As he had many times before, he silently cursed and lamented the loss of his peripheral vision.

Ann had been cheerful a few minutes ago, helping him paint the living room. He could feel the anger radiating from her, eyes narrowed and glaring, brows furrowed.

She saw that he noticed her and quickly changed her expression, now looking at him with pursed lips and an exaggerated expression of sympathy.