RUFF STUFF
A
Novel
by smcallis
This is a work of fiction. No similarity between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 1992 by smcallis
CHAPTER 1
DRINKS AT ARIES’
SHE LOOKED VERY PRETTY with cue in her hand, stalking the smoky depth of Aries’ Bar and Grille, she was dressed smartly in a tailored white blouse, with crisp epaulets, accented stylishly by a beautiful royal blue floral scarf, draped casually about her shoulders. She was tall, German-Irish, with a petite womanly figure, soft red lips, and a perfect almond face, rimmed by short cropped golden hair, that shown brightly under the glitter of the barroom lights.Lea Swift looked up from the billiards table, her concentration broken momentarily by the murmur of the crowd. She spied a lone handsome African-American man, making his way through the packed masses of rednecks, drunken Krauts and trailer-trash that made up the bulk of the clientele at Aries’. A single black face in an ocean of white, out-of-place, and un-comfortable; Lea flashed a fleeting smile, to acknowledge his existence, and then gestured at the table with her cue to indicate her next shot.
Almost as an after thought, she added a casual, “Hi-ya kid! Glad you could come.” Her movements around the billiards table were calculated and precise. She played this game with all the poise of a female Minnesota Fats. There was two-hundred dollars on the table. This was no game this was business. “I’ll just finish this run and I’ll be right with you. Okay?” She chalked her cue, took a quick gulp from a drink, her focus returned, and she neatly sunk a solid ball in the table's center pocket.
*CRACK*
“Seven ball in the side pocket.”
*CRACK*
“Four ball in the corner pocket.”
*CRACK*
“Eight ball, side pocket.”
*CRACK*
“That’s it!” Those around the table murmured in unison. Lea beamed to the crowd, “That’s two hundred bucks you owe me Steve.” Lea said, as she handed off her cue to the next player.
“Well if that don't beat all―I reckon so. Why don't we least make in interesting? ‘Lest make it double or nothing?”
Lea shook her head.
“Aw come on girl, ‘less play another game right now―.” The handsome working-class cowboy drawled.
“Can’t Les, you loose ‘n I gotta go.”
Les pushed his Stetson forward in a sign of bemused disgust. He was clearly not happy about Lea’s refusal to play one more game. But there was nothing he could do about it. He peeled off two fifties followed by a slew of twenties. He tried to be cavalier about it, making excuses for his loss. It was embarrassing enough to loose, but to be beaten by girl. He mumbled a few weak excuses, “How the hell did I know she was a shark?”
No amount of excuse making, even a couple more beers failed to take away the sting, he’d been hustled by a woman and that was the most painful part. But what a woman! Lea Swift was every man’s heart’s desire. She was tall, smart; a definite hint of muscles rippled under the fine Egyptian cotton that made up the fabric of her blouse. A worldly-wise woman, not a silly girl who played the hapless victim, no, Lea projected the air of a self-assured dangerous woman. The kind of woman who would never allow anyone, especially a man, to trod on her. She was a woman with the confidence and flair to put men in their place and the sex to keep them there.
While she wasn’t what you would call a slut or easy, Lea was definitely a woman who’d cashed in a few nickels from time to time. This was a source of great embarrassment for her. She remained forever conscious that she was really just one generation removed from dust-bowl trailer-trash. Whereas she liked to play the part of the sophisticated Berkley educated dilettante, her humble background always lay there like a coiled snake under the table, ready to sting her at the worst possible social moment. A momentary lapse of judgment and a friendly Oklahoma drawl would find its way into her speech, and the jig was up.
Here in the big city, Lea was in her element, a consummate creature of the night. A social animal, she thrived on attention, but street savvy enough to fend off unwanted advances and smart enough to know the difference. The bottom line was this: most men liked Lea Swift, the truth was she like them, but somehow she was never able to let her guard down enough to allow anyone to get close enough to her to bring form the casual relationships that she craved.
*RING_RING*_no answer. *RING_ RING*_no answer.
“Come on, come on pick-up.” Lea lit cigarette. The smoke curled around her blue, the ashtray was overflowing, a scotch and soda balanced its self precariously along side a half-used roll of dimes; together they shared the slender real estate that was the top of the public telephone at Aries’ Bar and Grille. Lea cradled the telephone receiver under her chin, checked her watch, and scribbled a few passing notes in her pocket secretary, in handwriting too cramped, too eccentric, too ever be read by anyone other than a private-eye.
*RING_RING_*
“Hello, Noah Washington? Mrs. Washington? . . . Yeah, my name is Swift. Lea Swift. I’m down here at Aries’ Yeah, corner of Fifth and Main. Noah was supposed to meet me here over an hour ago. Are you sure, you’re Mrs. Washington? Oh―You’re Noah’s mother. I’m sorry. I’m down at Aries’ right now. Do you know where that is? Say, is it possible for you to give Noah a message for me? WILL YOU GUYS PIPE DOWN! CAN’T ‘CHA SEE I’M ON THE PHONE? (Crazy bastards), I am sorry, Mrs. Washington, things are crazy down here at Aries’ tonight. All the local Irish are hav’n themselves a swell time. Anyways, the reason I called is: that I got something you are going to be interested in.” Lea’s laughter was warm and infectious. An affirmation that she was too Irish and she herself was indeed having a swell time at Aries’
“Well, let me rephrase that. I have something that your son is going to be very interested in. When Noah comes home, please tell him that I need to talk with him as soon as possible. Tell him to come down to the pub. He knows where it is. Thank you Mrs. Washington, I’ll be here until nine O'clock, and then I gotta go meet a client_? Hold on. WHAT? AM I UP? OKAY, OKAY, JUST A SEC! I gotta go Mrs. Washington. Just tell Noah to meet me down here ASAP. It’s my turn to rack ‘em up―so will you tell him to come? Great! See ya. Bye!”
Lea took immediate charge of her guest, never giving a moments pause to the notion that he might be in anyway out-of-place or unwelcome. She took a hold of Noah by the elbow and shepherded him away from the noise and the pool tables. Despite his advantage in height, her’s was the grip of an assured woman.
“Pools the vulgar name for the game. I preferred pocket billiards. Want a drink? Are you hungry?” Lea chatted easily, “The kitchen makes some scrumptious steak fries, try ‘em with the horseradish mayonnaise. Just tell Harvey to give you whatever you want.” Lea hadn’t even stopped to consider that she was talking to a Negro in an all white bar. Oblivious to the stares and mutterings of the regulars at Aries' Lea made it known that this was one Irish woman who would not about to be held sway by the racist beliefs of others, she judged a man on the content and character and not the color of his skin. Lea simply didn't care that she’d some how broken an unspoken taboo by inviting a black man into their midst. Racial prejudice was an ugly fact of life, and Noah confronted it everyday, Noah sheepishly suggested that this wasn’t a good idea. For Lea, the feeling was alien and she found it shocking, unforgivable, that in a little fewer than sixty seconds the normally relaxed friendly atmosphere of Aries’ had suddenly turned hostile.
“This is my life-partner Brad. I guess we used to call them ‘boyfriends’ but that is so over, Brad, Noah Washington.” Lea introduced Noah to a handsome dark haired man in his mid-thirties; he was good looking, plain and studious. Brad offered a tepid hand, as the three settled into a richly padded red leather booth.
“Washington, you’re not that center for Ohio State, who scored 50 points in last year’s play-off game?” Brad inquired tentatively.
“Don’t be such a boor darling. Of course he is. I’ve only told you a hundred times. Noah Washington, THE Noah Washington from Ohio State.”
Noah laughed nervously; he clearly felt uncomfortable capitalizing on an aspect of his life, while wildly respected by other, was viewed by himself to be a failure. Noah Washington, his stellar sports career cut short by a bad heart, and his lost potential, even his achievements was one of his least favorite subjects.
Lea continued her chatter, talking less specifically to Noah than to Brad. “I'm absolutely buried with case work. I need an associate P.I. in the firm. I can’t do it alone . . . Brad has been helping out, but he’s really nothing more than a News paperman, a journalist doesn't t really have skill set that I need.”
Lea let her thoughts trail off. No one could know the real reason for her desperate plight. Her need for an associate investigator was desperate, the work wasn’t getting done. Some of her clients were angry at the seemingly lackadaisical rate of progress at SWIFT INVESTIGATIONS. Lea had already lost some important clients due to the lack of progress, and others were threatening to take their cases to other firms. Lea tried to cover for herself. At least create the illusion that absolutely nothing was wrong and maybe others won’t suspect that her business, her whole world was crumbling around her. She smiled sweetly, and ran her fingers through Brad’s hair, and added, “That’s why we've had so little time to spend together, darling. But, tonight’s going to be different, I promise. Now why don’t you go head on home, and I’ll meet you at your place. I’ll be home by ten O’clock. You can pick up some wine, and start dinner. There are some spare ribs in the freezer, baby peas . . ."
Lea rattled off a list of instructions, as if she was used to rattling off instructions, which created a question mark in Noah’s mind. Why does a woman who is so seemingly efficient, in such desperate need of assistances? Noah frowned.
Lea stirred her drink. Noah couldn’t help but notice she was even prettier close up. Her blue eyes sparkled, as she smiled pleasantly.
“You know I was struck the other day about how little we know about each other. I mean, I know we’ve talked on the phone, I have your résumé‚ but this is the first time we’ve really ever met. I just thought it might be a good idea to get to know each other better. Professionally, I mean_” Lea added awkwardly.
“You might not even want the job. Here I go again, I’m babbling on and on about how we need to get to know each other and I don’t even know if you want to come to work for me. You’re qualified. I sure could use your accounting skills, you’re a forensic accountant? I was never that good keeping track of money. Just ask Brad. Rule number one in good detective work is: Always follow the money.”
“I think I’m the man for the job Miz Swift.” Noah said. “I'm very good at numbers. I can keep your books, and I can spot the crooks.” He flashed his broad white smile. “As for me personally, it’s all in my résumé. I was born in Cleveland, the oldest of eight children. I dropped out of school at sixteen to help my mother support the family after my daddy was killed in an accident at the mill. I went back to get my G.E.D. and applied to attend college. I was accepted to Ohio State where I made the basketball team. In my junior year, I got a basketball scholarship. Like every hot-shot college player I had my sights set on a pro career that was, until doctors discovered I had a heart condition that almost cost me my life. I was lucky, so after my medical condition was diagnosed, I knew I could never play ball again. I focused on my academics. I graduated with a master’s degree in accounting. I ended up in Detroit, ‘cuz my wife Rosealee has peopled here.”
“ . . . And you have a very nice Mother. That gives us two things in common. We both ended up in Detroit, I need a forensic accountant, and you need a job.” Lea felt obliged to give him her standard spiel, “Me? I’m here, Detroit. I married too young, the wrong guy. I’ve been divorced for three years now, but before that, Jerry and I had lived in Garden City for eight years. My ex-in-laws are still very good to me, and by that time I had friends here, there’s a big Irish-American community here, and I was faced with the fact that there was just nothing for me back home in Oklahoma. I trained to be a lawyer."
Lea continued. “After my divorce, I dropped out of law school, I never completed my bar exam, my loss. I’m not a lawyer, I know everything that a lawyer knows, but I don’t have the papers to back it up. That’s why I’m stuck running this chicken-shit detective operation. I call SWIFT INVESTIGATIONS. The position originally paid 300 dollars a week, but that was for a research assistant. Since you have extra skills I can use, namely a masters degree in accounting, I'm perfectly willing to negotiate a salary of say, 600 dollars a week, that is, if you're willing. You’ll need to apply for your P.I.’s license and can secure a concealed weapon permit.”
“I got that covered.” Noah said. He was visibly excited about the prospects of the job. Momma will be so proud, he thought.
“I'm scheduled to take the P.I. examination over in Lansing in two weeks―I got my own gun, but I need some help in securing the paper work so I can carry it, legal.”
“That shouldn't be any problem, as long as you’re not a felon?”
Noah shook his head with an air of indignation. Lea felt instantly guilty about even having asked the question. Of course you’re he’s not a felon. Stupid! What a racially biased pig-headed assumption on my part. He’s got fewer problems than I do. No wonder blacks are so bitter towards white Americans. Lea smiled sweetly, she promised herself not to fall into that trap again.
“I carry a grade IV weapon permit myself, airplanes, presidents, U.S. marshal stuff, pretty much anywhere.” For the first time Lea hoisted her voluminous purse onto the table, and pulled back the Velcro flap. Hidden in a compartment, she flashed a brief glimpse of the polished rosewood pistol grip of the formidable stainless steel frame of her Ruger Redhawk .41 magnum.
“Now you know why men don’t fuck with her. It's a fucking cannon!" Brad flippantly interjected.
Lea ignored him. "However, I think it’ll be quicker if we get you an entry-level permit approved first, and then apply for a higher one later. I know Sheriff Ficano personally; I'll give him a call tomorrow. I think he’ll be agreeable to expedite the matter.” The scotch made Lea feel all warm and misty.
“I gotta tell you. In addition to law, I got a minor in psych in college. Comes in handy when you're trying to figure out a client’s real motivations―I had this client in my office this afternoon, he was so gross-when I told him my fee was 500 a day, he thought that included dinner and bed. I tossed the bastard out. Men can be so stupid.” Lea!”
“Guy Painter!” Lea said as she slid smoothly out of the booth, and sauntered casually over to the bar to greet the silver haired investment banker.
“I hope, by that last remark, you don’t count me among your stupid clients?"
"Oh―Guy! That's just shoptalk. So when are you all over at Coldwell’s going to call me? 500 bucks still gets me for the whole day, but dinner and bed is not negotiable!" Lea was absolutely in love with Guy. Guy Painter was smart, sophisticated and rich. Guy knew everyone and everyone knew and wanted to be with Guy. His power base was deep and reached all the way into the pockets of Congress. Guy was the only man over sixty that Lea ever considered sleeping with, Guy himself, was preoccupied with his own affairs and was oblivious, his relationship to Lea was strictly business, strictly platonic.
Guy laughed, he was seated next to another man, the catalogue case at the foot of the bar stool was a tip off that he was some how connected to the real estate business. The other man remained hopeful that Guy would somehow serve an introduction. Lea was loose; she pretended to know both men. She lit another cigarette while at the same time coolly fended off Guy’s pat on the behind. The truth was, there were three things Lea loved most in life: Fast cars―she already owned a BMW 325i, good Scotch whiskey, she was nursing one right now, and men―the truth be told, Lea loved men, particularly Guy Painter. Guy was the absolute unrequited love in Lea’s life. He was funny, rich, he loved life and he loved Lea Swift. If it were not for the fact that he was in his 60’s and she was not yet twenty-five. Lea often lamented that they were two soul mates. Lost miss-fits of love, it was a veritable Shakespearian tragedy. Lea loved Guy, not necessarily in a sexual way. There was always the natural attraction, but those who knew her well, knew she wasn’t promiscuous. Lea just enjoyed the company of men to women. She liked talking to men, being around men. Guy Painter and Lea had been friends for years, their relationship was strictly platonic. Nothing between them that couldn’t be printed in the newspaper.
“―Yeah, the whole thing was a cinch once I secured copies of his tax returns (don't ask me how),” Lea mused. “I look at it this way Guy, if anyone was planning to have a fire in ninety-two, that fellow Quibble is your man_” Lea continued to talk “shop,” by now she was sitting at the bar, a fresh drink in her hand, firmly ensconced.
Between the two men. She was having the best time of the evening, until she suddenly remembered Noah. Poor Noah, Lea gulped her drink and extracted herself from the friendly clutches of her potential lounge lizard companions. Guy looked disappointed at her departure, and pantomimed putting the seven balls in the corner pocket.
“Oh―Guy, I can’t―not tonight, I got to meet a client at nine, and I’m supposed to be interviewing Mr. Wash_! Oh, shit! Noah! I forgot all about Noah!” Lea scrambled back to the table where Noah had been sitting with the patients of a saint. Utterly ignored and neglected, surrounded by a sea of indifferent white faces for the better part of twenty minutes. All while his future boss engaged in some very energetic socializing. Lea tried to recoup the best she could, and performed probably the most hastily arranged and awkward introductions of her lifetime.
“Guy, this is my new partner, Noah Washington, all the way up from Ohio. Noah, Guy Painter.”
“Washington, you’re that capital center for the Buckeyes, the one who collapsed during the final four?” Guy was a rabid college basketball fan, and an actual fan of the Buckeyes. It was Lea’s turn to feel left out of the conversation, as Noah and Guy having discovered a subject upon which they shared a mutual interest. Guy launched into a protracted and intimate dissection of the past ten years of college basketball. Lea edged Noah away.
“Yeah, Guy's like that; he’s the sweetest most gentlemanly man I know in all Detroit.” Lea had finally found a way to change the subject, and did so by appealing to Guy's fondness for her womanly charms. Lea stood behind Guy and placed both arms around his waist. She stood behind him and talked over his shoulder.
“How long have we known each other Guy? Six, sever years? I was a thirty-year-old divorce‚e-with half a law degree-a frivolous minor in psychology-marooned here in Detroit with no job, no money, and no friends. I couldn't go back to my family in Oklahoma. What's a poor girl to do? Instead of feeling sorry for me, Guy said: Lea, You’re a smart girl. Did you ever consider becoming a private investigator? In all honesty, looking back on the whole episode, I think Guy's suggestion that I go into the investigating business was more than a little self-serving. It turns out that that he was having some problems of his own in tracking down the original owners of some buildings he'd bought at a public auction.”
“I'm going to have me another drink, then I got to go meet a client_”
Lea absently brushed a few stray cat hairs off Guy’s 2000 dollar suit. “So I took the job. That pushed me off the slippery precipice of the detective business. I got a few more clients, made a name for myself, made some money, and I met Brad. All because of you Guy! I for one, say thank you!" Lea lifted her glass, “Here’s to Guy Painter! You really are a jolly good fellow. Cheers!" Lea pecked Guy's cheek with a 'daughterly' kiss, and took a big gulp of her scotch and soda. Lea leaned back and lit a cigarette. She was relaxed and loose; the last couple of hours spent at Aries' had done much to take the edge off her anxiety. Anxiety for which no one could know the real reason.
CHAPTER 2
A VERY CHILLY AFFAIR
A VERY CHILLY AFFAIR
“BRAD―DO YOU LOVE ME?” Lea said, in a voice that was less question than it was straightforward declaration. She gave no hint of her underlying fear. She was stupid, stupid. What started out as a lark, a simple bail skip, had ended in disaster and landed the both of them in a desperate life-or-death situation. Lea hated herself. She had placed them both in danger and now they were going to die.
Lea asks the question again, she stated it simply and matter of fact: “Do you love me?” A question asks between two lovers, two childhood sweethearts who have knowing each other for years. A question she might well have asked while sitting at a secluded table at some cozy sidewalk café.
“Do you love me?”
“What kind of fool question is that?” Brad was frustrated; he knew they were in desperate straights, yet he did not want to play the blame game and accuse his girlfriend of leading them into what he now perceived as a trap. Lea could not have known, and it was his own fault for insisting that he tag along. He had sat in the car and watched her retrieve the pistol from the glove compartment, flip open the cylinder and check the ammunition load. That alone should have been a tip off that his girlfriend was expecting more than just a simple reconnoiter of an abandon warehouse.
Lea, alone, the only problem would have been the sensational headlines in the morning newspaper: FOUR SLAIN IN GANGLAND MASCARE . . . Police investigate Hamtramck shooting deaths . . . no, instead, here they were, screwed. Brad knew he was a liability. He knew Lea was capable of doing things that he had no business knowing. He had gone with her to the shooting range too many times. Six shots in three and a quarter seconds, six shots, at thirty meters, six neat little holes in a black paper target. He had watched her do it, reload, and do it again. The implications of such deadly prowess never really hit home until now. She had not killed them. No, if he had not been there . . . it was really all his fault.
Brad blew on his hands and stamped his feet. His male machismo had not quite dissipated. “I swear girl, you ask the damnedest stupidest questions at the worst possible time.” He drew his sports coat tighter around him and shivered. He gave her one of his condescending ‘Oh-all-right-looks,’ the same ‘Oh-all-right-look’ he had given her twenty years earlier in front of the Tasty-Freeze in Stillwater Oklahoma and . . . Brad knew her too well. “Of course I love you Lea―now quit asking stupid questions ‘n help me think. We have to get out of here. We are in a lot of trouble. We’re going to freeze to death unless we do something fast.”
Brad was not angry; Lea knew his moods too well. He assumed from her question that she was just being foolish. Making idle conversation, the way people do when they want to avoid what is really on their mind. Brad was concerned, worried, on the edge of panic. In the final analysis, the real feeling lurking in the pit of his stomach was outright fear. There was no shame in it, Lea shared his fear and with good reason. Their situation was grim. They found themselves deliberately locked, entombed, in an enormous commercial freezer. An ice locker belonging to Crystal Clear Ice Company, located in an abandoned stretch of a Hamtramck industrial park. No one knew they were there; there was no one around to hear their cries for help. It was no longer a matter of a simple bail skip, this time it was murder.
“I’m cold too, it’s so cold.” Lea laughed weakly, her lower lip quavered. “Brad, I’ve got to know one thing. I got reasons. Do you love me?”
“I said yes.”
“That’s not good enough . . . You don’t understand. I need to know, are you my friend? No matter what happens, no matter what I do? Brad I need to know . . .? Will love me no matter what comes of this?”
Brad did not fully understand, he still thought she was somehow asking him if he loved her. He did not know quite what to say. He stomped his feet and said: “Lea, I love you. You’re the woman I want to marry.” He drew her closer to his side and rapped both of them in his coat; they stood that way as the precious minutes ticked off. Clinging to each other as much for warmth as to console their mutual sorrow, Brad looked at his watch, they had been in the freezer twenty minutes, in another twenty minutes they would be unconscious, in another twenty minutes they would both be frozen solid as the blocks of ice around them.
“I hear freezing to death is not such a bad way to go.” Lea offered weakly.
“Cut out that kind of talk. Come here and help me with the door.” They examined the door thoroughly. The door was made of solid oak, secured with steel bands and sheathed in zinc. The door represented a fortress. They yelled for help, screamed, pulled and kicked all to no avail. The activity served only to work out their frustrations and get their blood moving.
Lea continued search of the freezer turned up nothing. The Crystal Clear Ice Company had been in receivership for decades, the property held in public trust. Evidently the compressors still worked. Somebody in the Chessie gang hit upon the novel idea of using the vault as cold storage. Lea judged from the myriad of mysterious dark frozen puddles on the cold storage floor. The gang was using this freezer as a place to store dead bodies after a hit, until a more permanent place of disposal could be found, truly for the gang with everything, their own private morgue. She kept her eyes moving around the expanse of the arctic room, there had to be a way out, something overlooked, an egress so obscure as to be deemed useless. Lea felt a little flutter of hope when she spied the cold air return. The opening was high in the back of the freezer, less than eighteen inches across, twelve feet overhead. At once, a plan rocketed through her head. Rejected first out of hand, Lea knew she could not do it. She would rather die. The problem was she knew the ‘other’ could do it. It was possible. Phoebe could fit in places no human could go. The ‘Other’ possessed ten times Lea’s strength, of that she was sure. What would she do to Brad? She could not know. Phoebe would kill Brad and make her escape, that was the probable outcome. Phoebe always killed. She was the pure manifestation of id, the Hyde to her Jekyll, a wild animal.
As conditions grew worse for them in the freezer, as death loomed more and more likely, she allowed the plan to work its way to the forefront of her brain and take shape. It was a desperate plan; she knew it from the start. Risky, wholly unsavory, and its prospects for failure frightened her. There was no other way out. There was nothing in the freezer they could use to batter down the zinc sheathed oak door, no tools in their pockets to attack its hinges. The solitary box of perishables in the center of the room had been left there so long it was frozen solid to the floor. They had only each other and maybe twenty minutes before hypothermia set in.
Brad kicked at a clump of ice. “Freezing isn’t so bad, sort like going to sleep."“We’re not going to freeze to death! We are not. We’ll get out of here I know it."“Oh? What makes you so sure? You are doing a good imitation of freezing to death right now! Brad said sardonically. “You could have shot them. They were punks, you could have shot them Lea, and I know you.”
“Brad, please.”
Lea, if you got a trick up you are sleeve, this might be a good time to come out with it I think my feet are going numb, I cannot feel my fingers. Until then, come over here.”
They sat together in a huddle, on the frozen box; a couple of hundredpounds of meat marked: use before 1972. A single caged light bulb dangled from the ceiling that provided no measurable heat. In desperation, they emptied their pockets of everything that could conceivably burn Kleenex, sales receipts, business cards. Brad held up two theater tickets to LES MISIRERABLES, the tickets were supposed to be a surprise. Lea smiled grim faced and put them in the pile.
"I ll bet there's nobody more miserable than us . . .” She said in a faint attempt at humor as she flicked her lighter. They rushed to try to warm their hands over the initial flash of warmth. A sad ritual only temporarily raised their spirits.
“Brad,” Lea said quietly, as she watched the last embers sputtered in addition, die. “I do have a plan. I think I know how we―I mean me. I think I know how I can get outtalk here.”
“Sure, anything you say, Lea what’s your plan? Personally, I think the cold has frosted your brain. You’re not making any sense.”
It pained Lea to look at her boyfriend; there was death in his face. His cheeks were pink, his lower lip trembled, and a light dusting of frost had settled on his eyebrows.
“Brad, listen to me, don’t make jokes. I could kill you. She will kill you, but you will be dead anyway. If you want to get out of this icebox, you are going to have to trust me and do exactly as I say. No questions, do you understand? I do not think she’ll hurt you.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You don’t think she will hurt me. WHO?”
Lea did not answer. She was committed. She stood up resolute and took off her jacket and empty shoulder holster. “Here, rap up in this. I won’ be needing it any longer. Maybe it’ll keep you alive until I come back.”
“Just where do you think you’re going?” Lea took off her blouse next. Brad was surprised; he was so utterly flummoxed as to cut his sentence short. Lea proceeded to tear the garment into strips.
“I'm going to make a blindfold I don't want you to see me when I. This is important darling, so very important now listen to me carefully there is something about me you do not know, something terrible. Something so evil I cannot explain it any better than just to say that I did not want it this way, I did not want you to know for anything in the world. Darling, I love you. I love you so much that I cannot let you die. I do not care what happens to me anymore. Promise me, promise me that no matter what you hear, no matter what you think is happening, you will not take off the blindfold. Stand perfectly still. Don’t move, do not turn around and do not say anything. Your life depends on it.”
Brad managed a weak “I promise.” He managed to croak out: “Lea what are you going to do?”
“Hush darling.” He felt stupid standing there blindfolded. A true newspaperman to the end. He began to summarize tomorrow’s copy, of their mutual death and the puzzlement caused by the queer unexplained fact that one of the victims had died unrestrained, while wearing a blindfold. He started to get a real creepy feeling, and began to feel more afraid of Lea’s crazy talk, than he was of the prospects of freezing.
“Lea, please tell me what’s going on? What are you going to do?”
She did not answer him; she pressed her cold wet cheek against his and mouthed the words: “I love you.” She choked back her tears, as she remembered all the happy times they had spent together. She moved away from him quickly, towards the center of the freezer, as if she could bear to think of it another second. There are certain milestones in everyone’s life. Moments of abject truth, against which all things must be measured. Julius Caesar had once faced such a juncture, when he led his armies in the crossing of the river Rubicon. "The die is cast." There was no turning back. Lea felt as if she was about to embark on such a journey, an endeavor of the same personal magnitude as the once faced by Caesar, over 2000 years ago.
Lea stripped quickly. She knew exactly what she was doing. The very act of removing her clothes had a mental cathartic effect upon her. As if, by the very act of undressing, she was at last exorcises a personal demon. She removed her remaining clothes quickly, as Brad stood there perplexed and blindfolded. It was very cold inside the freezer.
Lea felt the effects of the frigid air at once against her naked skin. The freezer floor was covered with frost and it stung her feet.
“Lea! Tell me what you're going to do?” Brad felt desperate as a terrible idea began to dawn on him. Countless newspaper articles, wire service stories, television news reports flashed through his head. However, it was the speculative conversations with colleges that distressed him most. Snatches and bits of talk around the water cooler went spinning through his head until a slow dawn of reality set in.
“Lea? I have a right to know. You?”
It was no use.
“Hush darling I know it’s asking too much for you to understand. But you’ll never know what it like is to wake-up in the morning not knowing what you did the night before. I am not talking about like during my bad old college days, when I used to go to these wild frat parties. I would get smashed, party until dawn. I was just a small town girl from Oklahoma. Now, that was real licentiousness! In the morning, I'd wake-up in some guy's bed-and I couldn't even remember his name."
"What I'm talking about is when you wake-up in a pile of filthy straw with blood on your hands-it is cold outside. You haven’t got a stitch of clothing. You do not know where you have been or what you did the night before, or whether it has been days. Oh, Brandi gets scared sometimes, it scares me to the bone. Yes, it is all true I am the beast, and the beast killed five people!”
“No! This is nonsense, I won't believe it!” Brad turned around, and lifted the blindfold from his face. "You're crazy, the cold!" He was unprepared for the sight of Lea's sad green eyes. He hardly noticed she was naked, crouched on the floor like a feral animal. Now he knew it was true. The woman He loved was a monster, a wild beast and a man killer.
“You don't have to do this.”
“Shhh―that where you’re wrong darling. I have to do it. I have to try. Now turn around and remember, I love you.”
Lea crouched down on all fours and tried to ignore the burning cold that assailed her hands and knees. She really did not have the slightest idea how to go about educing a transformation that up to now was undesirable and uncontrolled. She knelt for what seemed like an eternity, as she tried to let all her inhibitions go. Keep her thoughts focused on the primitive, the undifferentiated part of her psyche that housed the seat of her feelings of pleasure, rage, lust, and hunger. The untapped primordial force that both hid the beast from her ego and where at the same time supplied her with the will to live and the celebration of life and death. What Freud called the id? That was where the beast was found, hiding from her ego lurking, always lurking in the back of her subconscious, ready to strike.
“I am the beast, I am the beast.” She repeated the refrain to herself, her lips barely moved. She could hear Brad's breathing, now very far away. Somehow, it did not feel so cold.
“RRRRRWWW!” A primordial scream escaped her lips. High pitched at first, a woman's voice, then it deepened as her jaw lengthened into a muzzle of a wild beast. A panther scream-This time Lea didn't fight the transformation; more familiar now, less terrifyingly strange, she let the beast come on, and gush over her consciousness with a terrible fury.
Phoebe was a man killer, or so according to the Detroit Free Press. In addition, Channel Seven Eyewitness news. A certified menace and a bounty totaled $50,000 was offered to anyone who brought down the so-called Motor City Panther. Five men, she had killed. Five men torn to shreds with tooth and claw. Phoebe paced about the frigid confines of the freezer, enraged at being confined, furious she was not alone. The she-panther screamed menacingly at Brad's stock-still form. She dug at the hard wood floor with her rear claws, her tail swished from side to side, a clear signal of aggression. The man did not move, he made no motion to challenge her. This passivity irritated the cat still further. Until she scented him, when she smelled the clothes of the other, this seemed to satisfy her, and she did not contemplate attacking him further. Still she did not like being in such close proximity to one of the strange two-legers, and kept him at bay with a low growl in the back of her throat. The meaning was clear: Do not come too close.
The cat paced the floor, as big cats will do when they're nervous or confined. Suddenly the she-cat charged the door, all two-hundred pounds of balled up furry collided with the immovable freezer door. The hinge bolts protested, but the door did not give way-the cat stood up, shook herself, circled, and tried again. So hard this time, she nearly stunned herself.
Now convinced of the futility of battering down an immovable door, Phoebe was determined to look for an easier means of escape. A consummate escape artist, Phoebe quickly spied the ventilator shaft, just as Lea had done. Brad stole a cautious side-glance out from underneath the corner of his blindfold. He was unprepared for what he saw. Months of Lea's unexplained behavior was drawn into sharp focus. Her terrible secret now explained. Brad couldn't help wondering if he were the only one who knew, and what mortal peril that knowledge entailed.
The cat was larger than Lea, and definitely an animal. Yet there was an eerie anthropomorphic resemblance to the woman he knew as Lea Swift. The beast was both beautiful and pitiful to behold. It was Lea; no doubt remained in his mind Lea without her humanity.
Brad almost forgot the bone piercing cold, as he continued to watch with a combination of abject horror and fascination. Armed with ample tooth and claw, she was covered with sandy brown hair except for the breast and stomach area, which were white and more closely resembled a fury version of Leas own anatomy. A little known fact of which Brad was among a very few people in a position to appreciate. The tips of her ears and tail were black, finished out the variations of her coloring. The cat made the leap look easy. It did not seem possible that an animal that large could squeeze its bulk through an opening so small. As long as the opening was large enough to emit its head, the rest of the body slithered and contorted up into the air duct. Brad breathed a frosty sigh of relief when the beast finally scrambled out of view. He could hear it banging for several minutes as it made its way through the narrow passage. He shivered and drew his clothes up tighter around him and waited for death or Lea’s, return which ever came first.
CHAPTER 3
SAY GOODNIGHT PHOEBE
“I NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT! I was stalled in traffic, my wife and I, just under the viaduct. We are going to the 42nd Street deli when it landed on the hood of the car. Smashed the windshield, my wife and I we were terrified. I could see it plane as day. It looked like a mountain lion or a werewolf or maybe a beast escaped from the zoo. It was terrible! Then it seen us, it turned and took off between a couple of parked cars. If I live to be 100, I’ve never seen anything like it!” ―Motorist.
“I NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT! I was stalled in traffic, my wife and I, just under the viaduct. We are going to the 42nd Street deli when it landed on the hood of the car. Smashed the windshield, my wife and I we were terrified. I could see it plane as day. It looked like a mountain lion or a werewolf or maybe a beast escaped from the zoo. It was terrible! Then it seen us, it turned and took off between a couple of parked cars. If I live to be 100, I’ve never seen anything like it!” ―Motorist.
“It was big like a bear. All shaggy and brown, covered in fur with a tail! Big foot! I tell you it was Bigfoot!” ―Retired autoworker.
“I just laid my grandchildren to bed; it was around eleven O’clock, when I heard the neighbor is dog barking. I went over to the window to see what all the fuss was about―I was surprised―it was as close to me as you were! At first, I thought it was a dog. I was too surprised to even be scared, I did not even have presence of mind to close the window. Mercy! We just looked at each other for a few seconds, and then it was gone. Never made a sound. I was not until afterwards that I was scared out of my wits! I called the police, that vicious beast had been watching me and the grandchildren the whole time!” ―Grandmother.
“Yeah, I saw the monster, darn thing nerd ett me! I don’t never want to see it again no how!” ―Homeless person.
“I think it's terrible, just terrible. A wild animal loose on the streets of Detroit. What is this city coming too? Where is Animal Control? Where are the police? Ever since I first heard about the monster, I keep a shotgun close by, ‘cuz you know the police-they aren’t gonna lift a finger to protect black folks.” ―Homeowner.
“Do monsters stalk the streets of Detroit? What is the real story behind eyewitness reports of a wild jungle animal loose in the city? Stay with me Mary Goodnight as we explore the astounding revelations redound from scientist, law enforcement officials and hear from real life people just like you. People who swear to having seen: The Motor City Panther!”
“LIVE! FROM DOWNTOWN DETROIT! CHANEL SEVEN EYEWITTNESS NEWS PRESENTS, GOODNIGHT ACROSS AMERICA, WITH YOUR HOST MARY GOODNIGHT!”
“Thank you Johnny Donovan, Good evening America and good night! I am Mary Goodnight, and this is Goodnight Across America. As you can see it is windy and a little bit wet up here, tonight, we are coming to you live from atop the eighth floor of the old Woolworth's building, on the corner of Patterson and Elm, here in the heart of what used to be Detroit's thriving garment district. We have an exciting show for you this evening. One I promise will be an interesting, and topical show. Tonight I promise you a Mary Goodnight exclusive. Witnesses who will testify to having seen in the Motor City Panther. Not since the Loch Ness Monster has there been such a controversy. This is a story to rival Sachsqach of the Pacific North West! Does the Motor City Panther exist? In addition, if so, what is the explanation for such a beast and how? Stay tuned to Mary Goodnight and Live from GOOD NIGHT ACROSS AMERICA."
“Tonight, a hot topic that has been on the lips I’m sure, from every street corner, break room to the launderette all across this great city. Stay with me as we explore: What truth is there to the rumors of live sightings of a wild animal straight from the jungles of darkest Africa?”
“We’re coming to you live from Detroit, home of the Ford motor company. My guest tonight is Sheriff Joseph Ficano of Wayne County, Deputy Sheriff Landless, and Doctor Edward Ormondroyd professor emeritus of zoological studies at University of Michigan and currently Director of veterinary medicine at the Detroit Metropolitan zoo.”
“Let me begin with you Sheriff Ficano, it was your men who responded to the 911 call reporting a lion loose on the streets-Two men, attacked, one later died. These are the fifth and sixths attacks in the city in four months. I understand the first man is recovering from surgery to repair numerous wounds inflicted by what appears to be claw marks?”
Joe Ficano was a big man. He shifted uncomfortably in the canvas-backed director's style chair, adjusted his hat nervously, and cleared his throat. Ficano was up for reelection in three months and this Motor City Panther story was getting on his nerves.
“Let me begin by saying that the Sheriff Department in cooperation with Animal control is working closely with the Metro Police, DNR and Doctor Ormondroyd. We're doing everything possible to track down this animal and assure the safety and well being of every citizen of Detroit.”
“So it is an animal of some kind? A lion perhaps?”
“We must avoid sensationalism. There is no value in creating a panic in the public’s mind. We have not determined the exact nature of the threat. What we do know is: it does appear to be a large animal of some kind, with tan to brown fur, weighing perhaps two-hundred pounds. Let me take a moment to assure the citizens that something is being done. We have increased our own patrols; we are in contact with every law enforcement department in South West Michigan. I must emphasize that this animal, whatever it turns out to be-is considered extremely dangerous and must be regarded with utmost caution. If you see anything that looks like a strange animal, do not under any circumstances attempt to approach. Instead, call 911, the Sheriff's department or Animal control. Stay indoors, stay in your car.”
“We must avoid sensationalism. There is no value in creating a panic in the public’s mind. We have not determined the exact nature of the threat. What we do know is: it does appear to be a large animal of some kind, with tan to brown fur, weighing perhaps two-hundred pounds. Let me take a moment to assure the citizens that something is being done. We have increased our own patrols; we are in contact with every law enforcement department in South West Michigan. I must emphasize that this animal, whatever it turns out to be-is considered extremely dangerous and must be regarded with utmost caution. If you see anything that looks like a strange animal, do not under any circumstances attempt to approach. Instead, call 911, the Sheriff's department or Animal control. Stay indoors, stay in your car.”
“Is it possible Sheriff that there is a more mundane explanation?”
“Couldn’t we be talking about a large dog, a Michigan black bear perhaps? After all, people sometimes see things that are not there, and bears are indigenous to the State. The very idea of an escaped lion, loose on the streets of Detroit, is not only far fetched, it's absolutely terrifying!”
“Ms. Goodnight, Mary if I may?”
Yes Doctor?" Mary said as her stylish yellow rain slicker slapped in the midnight breeze. Doctor Ormondroyd slipped on a pair of thick glasses and read from a prepared statement.
“May I state for the record, this was no bear? Although we lack any hard evidence, I had an opportunity to examine the plaster cast of the left hind foot left behind of the beast in question. While the cast is of sub-standard variety, I can say with conclusion that the footprint is conclusively not of any bear. Now I will admit that while a bear attack might be wildly conclusive, even conclusive, these tracks are of no bear. These tracks are conclusively, and definitely, of a jungle cat. I would judge to be of the panther variety, although another sampling of the tracks may vary well prove desirable in making such conclusive identification.”
“While the forensic information remains inconclusive,” The doctor continued. "What information we do have in conjunction with the characteristics of the claw marks and tooth impressions from the wounds of the previous victims-all our best evidence would point to a large cat.”
"So we're talking about a lion! Could there be more than one! Perhaps an undiscovered species?” Mary feigned alarm.
“No, I think we're dealing with a single animal. The footprint closely resembles a North American cougar, a catamount, and a panther if you will. While no panthers range this far East, at least not anymore, it is possible. I believe it to be a female panther, because the foot is longer, and narrower in the female. However, I must emphasize there are some discrepancies.”
“Could this whole thing be an elaborate hoax? Sheriff Ficano?”
“Five people are dead, another victim badly mauled, he may die. If what we have here is a hoaxer, we also have a murderer.”
“Sheriff Ficano―your officers were the first to arrive on the scene. Could you describe for us exactly what happened when they responded to that 911 call?" Ficano ran his hand over his thick black mustache. “A Sheriff patrol car was in the vicinity of Elm and Vine, at the time the of the emergency call. As part of our agreement with the city of Detroit, we were the closest, so we were the first to respond-officers Wojtkiewicz and Landless arrived less than two minutes after the first call. They could see at once this was no routine response. They pulled up along the side street here.”
“Can we get a shot of that?” Mary interjected, in her typical bubbly, all Mary style that had become her trademark. Saul Panzer, the cantankerous camera operator on Goodnight Across America was visibly peeved. He hated the way Mary made it appear that this was her show that she was in complete control of the program. Behind the camera, the reality was altogether different. Mary was a puppet, a talking head, and both she and Saul knew it. The director had already given him the signal and he was in the process of getting the shot when Mary interrupted-that prissy little whore-bitch. Saul cursed to himself and mouthed the words bitch, several times so Mary could see. She ignored him. Who does she think she is? I do all the work. Who is in control of this program? Certainly not that yeasty bitch. Saul cursed, fumed, and continued to hurl silent epithets in Mary's direction, while he and his sound man expertly maneuvered the camera for a shot of the street below, the alley, the dumpster and a sweeping pan of the side of the Quadrangle shirt factory across the street. All the while, Sheriff Ficano continued to talk, oblivious to the feud between his host and her cameraman.” The animal was first spotted savaging the suspect identified as Curtis Isaac. Mr. Isaac was defending himself with a piece of broken drain pipe when Officer Landless fired several shots to distract the animal."
"Suspects? Excuse me, Sheriff for interrupting, but don't you mean victims?"
"Er, yes, victims of an animal attack, suspects in an unrelated incident. The two black males, who were attacked, appeared to be involved in the commission of a felony at the time of the attack. We're investigating that now.”
“Kidnapping?" Marry flipped through her notes, shielding them from the light rain. "We received reports that a young girl was found in the trunk of the car belonging to a Mr. Curtis Isaac. Sheriff, is there any truth to the fact that all the other victims the other people attacked also had long police records and were attacked darning the commission of a felony?”
“I couldn't comment on that.”
“These are all people with previous convictions for violent crimes? I mean we’re not exactly talking about innocent victims here.”
“Really I couldn't comment on that.”
“Sheriff, is what we have here is it possible that we have a case of an inner city vigilante? Someone using a trained animal to wreck vengeance on the criminal element of this city?”
The sheriff appeared exasperated. “Ms. Goodnight, please. I cannot possibly comment on wild speculation. I will say at this time everything that can be done is being done. We have no information that indicates any lawless vigilantism. My office views this strictly in terms of an animal attack.”
“Mmmm, please go on.”
“Several shots were fired, first into the air, then directly at the animal. The animal fled almost immediately. Officer Wojtkiewicz went to the aid of the two suspects. The first suspect, later identified as Otis Ott, was obviously dead, the other, was bleeding from a massive would to the head. Officer Wojtkiewicz performed emergency first aid, while Officer Landless summoned an ambulance, and called for further police back up. Officer Landless then armed himself with the squad car shotgun and took off in pursuit of the fleeing animal.”
All during the interview, Landless sat quietly letting his boss do all the talking. The young man was both relieved and filled with dread when Mary turned to him.
“Officer Landless, you were there that night. What did you see? Maybe you could describe for us what happened?”
“Officer Landless, you were there that night. What did you see? Maybe you could describe for us what happened?”
“Well it was dark. I grabbed the shotgun from the squad car; the victim was screaming for help, there was a lot of confusion. I saw the direction the animal went, so I took off after it. Fortunately, it had not gone far, which was good, because it was too fast for me to catch on foot. I cornered it in the alley on top of a dumpster. That was when it looked straight at me. I will never forget those eyes as long as I live. It was a wild animal, covered with blood, but there was an unearthly, almost human quality to those eyes that I cannot describe. It was more of a feeling. The sight of those eyes sent this corkscrew sensation down my spine. I hesitated, before I fired the first of two shots. The first one missed, it was a bad shot. I was pretty rattled at the time. I sure did a number on some crates and trashcans! The second one must have hit, because that cat let out the most god-awful screeching sound. A cross between a lion roar and a woman’s scream. I never heard a sound like that! Then it took off, disappeared more likely, straight up. That surprised me. I lost track of it in the darkness. I did not think anything could move so fast. When I finally spotted it again, it was half way up the side of the building. I fired two more shots, but they must have missed too, because it kept climbing. The cat made it to the roof about where we are seated now. The Janitor let me in down below, and I took the elevator to the roof. The animal was still on the roof. Evidently, that cat had seen enough of my shotgun and me; it took one look in my direction, screamed again, and took off running. That was when it jumped! From one roof to another, clear across the street. The most amazing thing I ever saw in my life! We since measured the distance and it comes out to some twenty-nine feet, six inches. We got the partial footprint in the soft tar where it took off.”
“Thank you Officer Landless. What a fascinating eyewitness account. Stay tuned for more GOODNIGHT ACROSS AMERICA. We’ll be back after these messages.”
* * *
LEA FELT THE WOUND IN HER STOMACH. It was not very deep, not a gunshot wound, thank God. Her head pounded with the worst kind of headache, a pain so intense that she lost focus; it was like a New Year’s Eve kind of hangover without the benefit of the party the night before. She staggered against a card table that collapsed under her weight. Her stomach felt sick; she was a mass of bruises and cuts from the sharp metal of the duck work. Lea surveyed the damage.
“Punks.”
The stark light of a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, electricity stolen from Con-Edison, illuminated what was left of the room.
“What had happened here?”
The room was a catastrophe, not that it had ever been a palace before. The card table overturned and crushed, four lazy-boy chairs salvaged from trash-day no doubt, dominated the room. A tape deck lay smashed on the floor, playing cards, dirty magazines, whiskey bottles and beer cans littler the scene. None of that seemed to matter; it was the pool of black blood, sickly-sweet that collecting amidst the filth of the Chessie safe houses that attracted Lea’s attention. Lea had seen such pools of blood before, it lay there, slowly seeping into every crack and crevice. It mocked her. I am death. Lea once again checked her own body; a wave of panic engulfed her. What had she done? She examined the superficial knife wound, she felt pretty busted up from her exertions . . . there was blood on her; she could taste blood in her mouth. Human blood. Now she took time to vomit.
“Oh, God what have I done.” She strode down the hall, unaware or unconcerned that she was stark naked. The scene was that of a fifteen-year-old-boy. A boy lured to his death by the mystique, and camaraderie offered by the life of a gangbaner. A boy killed by poverty, ultimately alone and abandoned in fear and flight of a mad dash of self-preservation. This particular boy had not made it. He was not fast enough, he was not cool enough. It did not matter. The primordial fact was, he was dead, and it was a pitiful sight. He was fifteen. She turned over the corpse, his throat lay bitten open, his bowls spilled, eviscerated. Kill or be killed, it was the law of the jungle. The law held true for countless millions of millennia in the deepest darkest recesses of Africa, and it proved once again to be true in the urban confines of Detroit. Lea retrieved the familiar blue-black frame of the Ruger Redhawk.
“Fucker!”
The weapon lay squished, unfired, under the corpse, the single most in-criminating piece of evidence of her existence at the scene. Lea held the revolver at arms length and caught herself, glad, that this little black-bastard was torn limb-from-limb. A mouse scattered some glass on a windowsill, she whirled around, the room was empty, the hammer cocked. Apparently, the sight of Phoebe’s furry was too much for any of the other gang members. They had long since fled.“Brad! Oh my God, no Brad . . .!”
* * *
LEA SWIFT sat swaddled in terry cloth, curled up like a little girl. Her legs drawn up tight and her knees tucked under her chin. She listened quietly to the television program with a mixed reaction of horror and the same macabre fascination that grips a person who just witnessed a fatal car crash. Lea felt irritable and found it difficult to concentrate. The last couple of days had been amaelstrom of confusion. The metamorphosis always had a profound effect on her. Right now, right this very second, she did not care one iota about Mary Goodnight, Joe Ficano or the good doctor Ormond-whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was . . . All she knew was her life was fucked-up. So fucked up she didn't know if she'd never be able to pick up the pieces again, and resume anything resembling a normal existence.
“Oh shit! I am screwed. This is worse than before, worse than it has ever been. This is a catastrophe! Shit! Maybe I haven’t really been gone for three weeks.” Lea picked up the newspaper for the twentieth time, checked the and rechecked the date. “Shit! There’s no lie big enough. What am I going to say to Brad? Never mind Brad, what about Mom!”
Blah, Blah, Blah, Mary Goodnight seemed to go on forever.
“Will you shut up! Will you just shut the fuck up?” Lea switched off the TV. Her thoughts screamed, her head pounded, a small shiver ran down her spine, there was a terrible cramp in the pit of her stomach. She drew the bathrobe up closer around her, thankful for its voluminous comfort.
Maybe I should call Emily?” Lea let her thoughts wander to a simpler time . . . Lea and her younger sister Emily were never close Lea thought about the days when they were growing up in the little two story white framed farmhouse, just outside Stillwater Oklahoma. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the keening of the wind across the dry flat fields, the wonders of the town'sone and only Tasty Freeze, and her sister Emily always Emily. Lea remembered being so envious of her younger sister. Emily played the French horn, Emily did needle point, and Emily was always such a good little girl, it made Lea want to scream. With an attractive face, shapely figure, she was the perfect picture of femininity. Qualities, none of which, Lea possessed; Lea was tall, gawky, and ran track for her high school team. Lea spent her youth daydreaming about the day when she could leave Stillwater, forever.
“I must be getting my period. I want to go home. I want my mother. Oh shit! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Shit! Four people no five, counting that last nigger. Now I have gone and done it. I’ve killed five people! What am I going to do! Curtis is still alive, that sonofabitch . . . the one motherfucker I should have killed, and he's still alive. I want a smoke. No, I need a smoke, I need a drink. Now where the fuck did Rodriguez put my cigarettes?”
“I must be getting my period. I want to go home. I want my mother. Oh shit! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Shit! Four people no five, counting that last nigger. Now I have gone and done it. I’ve killed five people! What am I going to do! Curtis is still alive, that sonofabitch . . . the one motherfucker I should have killed, and he's still alive. I want a smoke. No, I need a smoke, I need a drink. Now where the fuck did Rodriguez put my cigarettes?”
“America!” Lea called for her Latino roommate. "Fucking vegans!"
“Am I a monster? Go away, please go away. Why didn’t you die when you had the chance? Go away and leave me alone! Fucking shit! Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? I'm not like Nicole, I don't want to be a vigilante-I never ask to be a_a_aw shit!”
“Am I a monster? Go away, please go away. Why didn’t you die when you had the chance? Go away and leave me alone! Fucking shit! Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? I'm not like Nicole, I don't want to be a vigilante-I never ask to be a_a_aw shit!”
“Luka! What about Luka? Is she all right? Wait! I remember, Luka was locked in an old refrigerator, it was the beast. The beast found Luka! I hope she didn't see me_her? Girl! What are you saying? You never said that before Lea’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. For the first time she forced herself to confront the awful realization that she and the beast were one.
“It was me. I am the beast. I am the beast, and the beast killed five people. Fucking shit! Now what do I do? Luka would be dead without her_no me! I am the beast, and the beast found Luka. I found Luka and nothing else matters!”
“What did Rodriguez do with my car keys? I want to go home. I gotta sort this out. I gotta think."
CHAPTER 4
LOST IN DETROIT
THE SUDDENNESS OF HER FLIGHT left her unprepared for the rivers icy sting. The cat bobbed to the surface almost at once, sputtering, choking, amid the icy flows, in the dark frigid waters of Detroit's East river. Only to be driven under again, this time, by the zing of angry hornets, which splashed around her in great abundance. She went deep, touched bottom, and with broad, powerful kicks, swam towards the pier. The cat climbed the post, and crouched low in the nearest X-bracing. She was glad to be out of the water, and shook her self violently, drying her coat to a murky dampness. A thin film of oil covered her fur, stung the eyes, and left a distinctly unpalatable flavor in the mouth. What to do? This isn't our territory Phoebe knew that. The blue-legers were sure to follow, and now here she was, separated from her pride. She had to find them! They were helpless without her, with their pathetic claws and puny teeth, and no sense whatsoever to climb a tree when danger threatened.
"Grrrrrr_" Phoebe growled. It was more a rumble in the back of her throat, an involuntary reaction to her intense state of agitation. Phoebe was agitated-having savaged the two Yakuza agents, less than a quarter of an hour ago. Just prior to the arrival of the police. Her mind filled with the image of the blue-legers, their hostile voices, ugly faces, and always, the whiz of angry hornetsthat pursued her. There it was again-the sound. A distant keening wail. The call of the iron beast. Like so many birds that flocked to the broad back of the river horse, that was part of her collective memories; the iron beast volunteered his services to the blue-legers. The cat knew about cars, even if she was at a loss to understand them. What she did know was: they were numerous, smelled bad and resisted all attacks with total indifference. The beast the blue-legers rode was different from all the others. It was noisy, fast, and flashed bright lights from a single great eye atop its head. Perhaps she could follow one. Back to the den of the blue-legers. Somewhere in the distance, a police dog barked. Her hackles raised, a low primordial growl escaped her lips. How she hated them! Even though she could kill one with one swipe of a powerful claw, her instinct told her: dogs were dangerous, and to be avoided at all cost. For they were many, and she was one. The wisdom of her ancestors was not to be questioned. Phoebe sat, washed, and listened. The oil tasted bad and burned her mouth. Her thoughts turned back to her missing pride. She sniffed the air. Why had they not followed? Her powerful mind went out to them, searching for their thoughts. Surely, they were as lonely and frightened as she was. Words formed in her mind, pictures really. Pictures of the finger games Mack had taught her. At first it was only mimicry, something to do to make him happy and for the promise of a kibble. Abstract thought was still difficult for her, but slowly the signs began to take on real meaning.
I
L ● O ● V ● E
K ● I ● T ● T ● Y.
Kitty! That was what the "little one" called her when she wanted her to come. She didn't call, not in a vocal sense, but she made finger-signs. Her eyes did not water; she was incapable of tears, but the depth of her despair, passed for sadness just the same.
L ● U ● K ● A.
Phoebe imagined the signs again to herself just as Luka had done, and they filled her with a terrible resolve. She dropped down silently from her perch. Before leaving the pier, she scared the timber several times with long deep claw marks, squatted, and urinated. It was an act of pure defiance. Expressed in the strongest language she knew. She wanted to make certain the blue-legers knew that it was SHE who had invaded THEIR territory, and she was not to be driven off so easily.
CHAPTER 5
DISTANT VOICES
“Guten Tag! Grandpa Doc,” Lea Swift let herself in with a passkey to the fourth floor efficiency apartment; she bounded in without a care in the world. The old man sat in his wheelchair never made a move. Not at least a move that any normal person come to see their grandfather would have noticed. Underneath the lap robe, behind the façade of a dying old man, lay a M1911A1 .45 caliber pistol at full cock. The old man instinctively, eased his finger off the trigger . . . he was getting too old for this shit. There were too many enemies, most of whom were in his head. He relaxed, this time it was his granddaughter, he wished it were the men come to kill him. At least then, it would be over
Lea leaned over to kiss the old man. “The Doctor warned you about smoking.” She stamped out the smoldering cigar and whisked it away to the sink. “You’re on oxygen; do you want to blow the place up?”
“Those are Cuban, Bellacosto!” The old man scowled.
Lea ignored him.
“I’ll put the kettle on; make you some tea, its eleven O’clock.” Lea pulled back the shades, and raised the sash, the apartment smelled like dirty socks. “It’s so dark in here.” The old man reacted badly to the sunlight and fresh air.
“Frauline! I tell you never to come here!” The old man complained he was angry and disgusted. The girl was a nuisance; she was his granddaughter, his hated granddaughter. He hated her mother for marrying that Irishman. He hated everyone, and he hated this girl most of all. Didn’t she know his life was over? Spent. She could bring him nothing but grief, and he could offer her nothing but death.
He was death; he had killed too many people for any possible redemption. He was no better than the ones that he had killed, but at least the ones that he had killed deserved death. He spent the entire post-World War II reconstruction period prowling Europe murdering low-level Nazis who were too unimportant to bring to trial at Nuremburg. These men had committed atrocities against Allied service men, civilians, and resistance fighters and the like. They were mostly enlisted S.S. soldiers, sergeants, corporals, privates. It did not matter He hunted them down and killed them. It was called: “Committing to Permanent Custody.” His masters, at the British OSS ordered the executions based on list, drawn up in great secrecy. He was an instrument of the state. His weapons were stealth, his wits and a vast network of interpersonal contacts and spies. In person he could be charming; those who knew him socially had little knowledge of his purpose. They could not know he was without a soul.
“I have abandoned God, and shook hands with the devil. I am the Angel of Death. As foretold in the book of Moses, I shall kill those who are beyond the reach of the law.” Death was his own redemption. His method was cruel and without remorse. When confronted with the evidence the first order of business was to extract a confession. They always confessed. The Silver Angel never gave them much time. He read the seditious sentence of death.
“Franz Leibkin?”
“Yes” The 89 year-old-Nazi quaked; his Argentinean homeland offered him no further protection from his past. (Two pistols, clad in .99 fine silver are drawn, fantastically engraved with all manner of Mezzo American and Aztec friezes).
“The Franz Leibkin, the merchant of Dachau? You stand convicted of War profiteering, and the use of slave labor. The X committee has sentenced you to death. I am death, the destroyer of worlds.”
He shot his victim in the back of the head, four, five, sometimes six times. This is what he had done. For thirty years, he prowled the bowels of post WWII Europe. Later he ventured to Argentina and Bolivia where many former Nazis had fled. He was the Silver Angel, the ultimate and last resort in final justice. He was an instrument of the State; he was an avenging angel of God and humanity. His mission was to avenge those who were beyond the reach of conventional law. To punish the guilty. That he had done faithfully for three decades. When he ran out of Nazis, he killed Arabs; even the Jews came to him. He personally killed two of the Arab terrorist from the 1972 Munich massacre. It was his own private form of purgatory, redemption for his own private crimes against humanity. It was never enough; even now, he deserved death as much or more than the ones to whom he had brought justice. Death for him did not come. His enemies were either now too old, afraid or dead. Either way, they did not come to kill him. His grip tightened on the pistol. He was a useless decrepit old man, and now he had nothing but this god-cursed granddaughter to look after him.
“Your tea will get cold.”
“Get me some Cognac.”
The pre-war bottle of Hennessy, sat the dresser she knew where it was. There was an OSS stiletto, various passports, fake and otherwise, a pile of un-cashed social security checks and a crumpled letter faded to yellow dated 1963, signed G. Meier. Amidst the various collections of cuff links and war, memorabilia lay an antique Siegerin D military wristwatch and there was something else. Lea allowed her finger to disturb the few sundry items that accumulates on the top of almost any person’s dresser to reveal a solid gold cloisonné pin, with a swastika, the badge denoting a member of the Nazi party. Lea dismissed the items and decided against the standard lecture about doctor’s orders to cut out his drinking. At this stage in his life, a little drink was not what was going to kill him. She poured the old man his drink. She busied herself to tidy up the apartment.
“You really should cash some of these.” Lea said, referring to the pile of Social Security checks.
“The Jews pay for everything, even you must know that.”
“Where’s Matilda?”
“That rotten Mexican Frau-bitch, you send to torture me?”
“Matilda’s not Mexican, she’s Guatemalan. I thought you’d like her, you like Mesoamerica, look at all your Aztec stuff, Matilda is descendant from a noble people.”
*Snort*
“They’re all lazy Mexicans to me. In the Father land, we never had such people. She steals from me!”
“Oh―Grandpa, why are you such a sourpuss.”
The old Nazi grimaced she could not know the pain in his soul. He hated her. He hated her not so much for who she was, he hated her because she was not Emily. His beloved Emily, his beautiful ‘other’ granddaughter, Emily never wrote, Emily never came to see him, neither did she telephone. He sent cards on every birthday, he sent flowers on every adversary, lavish presents to the grandchildren, nothing was ever acknowledged. Instead, he was cursed with this girl, the one who came to see him four sometimes five times a month. He hated her. Each time he rebuffed her, he reminded her she was not Emily. She was the disappointment, a failure and a damn nuisance. That was what scared him; she was like him . . . a killer.
Why he had not sat in the dock at Nuremburg he did not know. He was as guilty as the rest. He was Austrian, a native of Salzburg, he was a member of the Nazi party, and he like so many others had been swept up in the evil that was the Third Reich. Yet―like Werner Von Braun, his talents proved too useful for the Allies to discard so casually. His high crimes and misdemeanors could be overlooked because of who he was, who he knew, and what he could do.
“Guten Tag! Grandpa Doc,” Lea Swift let herself in with a passkey to the fourth floor efficiency apartment; she bounded in without a care in the world. The old man sat in his wheelchair never made a move. Not at least a move that any normal person come to see their grandfather would have noticed. Underneath the lap robe, behind the façade of a dying old man, lay a M1911A1 .45 caliber pistol at full cock. The old man instinctively, eased his finger off the trigger . . . he was getting too old for this shit. There were too many enemies, most of whom were in his head. He relaxed, this time it was his granddaughter, he wished it were the men come to kill him. At least then, it would be overLea leaned over to kiss the old man. “The Doctor warned you about smoking.” She stamped out the smoldering cigar and whisked it away to the sink. “You’re on oxygen; do you want to blow the place up?”
“Those are Cuban, Bellacosto!” The old man scowled.
Lea ignored him.
“I’ll put the kettle on; make you some tea, its eleven O’clock.” Lea pulled back the shades, and raised the sash, the apartment smelled like dirty socks. “It’s so dark in here.” The old man reacted badly to the sunlight and fresh air.
“Frauline! I tell you never to come here!” The old man complained he was angry and disgusted. The girl was a nuisance; she was his granddaughter, his hated granddaughter. He hated her mother for marrying that Irishman. He hated everyone, and he hated this girl most of all. Didn’t she know his life was over? Spent. She could bring him nothing but grief, and he could offer her nothing but death.
He was death; he had killed too many people for any possible redemption. He was no better than the ones that he had killed, but at least the ones that he had killed deserved death. He spent the entire post-World War II reconstruction period prowling Europe murdering low-level Nazis who were too unimportant to bring to trial at Nuremburg. These men had committed atrocities against Allied service men, civilians, and resistance fighters and the like. They were mostly enlisted S.S. soldiers, sergeants, corporals, privates. It did not matter He hunted them down and killed them. It was called: “Committing to Permanent Custody.” His masters, at the British OSS ordered the executions based on list, drawn up in great secrecy. He was an instrument of the state. His weapons were stealth, his wits and a vast network of interpersonal contacts and spies. In person he could be charming; those who knew him socially had little knowledge of his purpose. They could not know he was without a soul.
“I have abandoned God, and shook hands with the devil. I am the Angel of Death. As foretold in the book of Moses, I shall kill those who are beyond the reach of the law.” Death was his own redemption. His method was cruel and without remorse. When confronted with the evidence the first order of business was to extract a confession. They always confessed. The Silver Angel never gave them much time. He read the seditious sentence of death.
“Franz Leibkin?”
“Yes” The 89 year-old-Nazi quaked; his Argentinean homeland offered him no further protection from his past. (Two pistols, clad in .99 fine silver are drawn, fantastically engraved with all manner of Mezzo American and Aztec friezes).
“The Franz Leibkin, the merchant of Dachau? You stand convicted of War profiteering, and the use of slave labor. The X committee has sentenced you to death. I am death, the destroyer of worlds.”
He shot his victim in the back of the head, four, five, sometimes six times. This is what he had done. For thirty years, he prowled the bowels of post WWII Europe. Later he ventured to Argentina and Bolivia where many former Nazis had fled. He was the Silver Angel, the ultimate and last resort in final justice. He was an instrument of the State; he was an avenging angel of God and humanity. His mission was to avenge those who were beyond the reach of conventional law. To punish the guilty. That he had done faithfully for three decades. When he ran out of Nazis, he killed Arabs; even the Jews came to him. He personally killed two of the Arab terrorist from the 1972 Munich massacre. It was his own private form of purgatory, redemption for his own private crimes against humanity. It was never enough; even now, he deserved death as much or more than the ones to whom he had brought justice. Death for him did not come. His enemies were either now too old, afraid or dead. Either way, they did not come to kill him. His grip tightened on the pistol. He was a useless decrepit old man, and now he had nothing but this god-cursed granddaughter to look after him.
“Your tea will get cold.”
“Get me some Cognac.”
The pre-war bottle of Hennessy, sat the dresser she knew where it was. There was an OSS stiletto, various passports, fake and otherwise, a pile of un-cashed social security checks and a crumpled letter faded to yellow dated 1963, signed G. Meier. Amidst the various collections of cuff links and war, memorabilia lay an antique Siegerin D military wristwatch and there was something else. Lea allowed her finger to disturb the few sundry items that accumulates on the top of almost any person’s dresser to reveal a solid gold cloisonné pin, with a swastika, the badge denoting a member of the Nazi party. Lea dismissed the items and decided against the standard lecture about doctor’s orders to cut out his drinking. At this stage in his life, a little drink was not what was going to kill him. She poured the old man his drink. She busied herself to tidy up the apartment.
“You really should cash some of these.” Lea said, referring to the pile of Social Security checks.
“The Jews pay for everything, even you must know that.”
“Where’s Matilda?”
“That rotten Mexican Frau-bitch, you send to torture me?”
“Matilda’s not Mexican, she’s Guatemalan. I thought you’d like her, you like Mesoamerica, look at all your Aztec stuff, Matilda is descendant from a noble people.”
*Snort*
“They’re all lazy Mexicans to me. In the Father land, we never had such people. She steals from me!”
“Oh―Grandpa, why are you such a sourpuss.”
The old Nazi grimaced she could not know the pain in his soul. He hated her. He hated her not so much for who she was, he hated her because she was not Emily. His beloved Emily, his beautiful ‘other’ granddaughter, Emily never wrote, Emily never came to see him, neither did she telephone. He sent cards on every birthday, he sent flowers on every adversary, lavish presents to the grandchildren, nothing was ever acknowledged. Instead, he was cursed with this girl, the one who came to see him four sometimes five times a month. He hated her. Each time he rebuffed her, he reminded her she was not Emily. She was the disappointment, a failure and a damn nuisance. That was what scared him; she was like him . . . a killer.
Why he had not sat in the dock at Nuremburg he did not know. He was as guilty as the rest. He was Austrian, a native of Salzburg, he was a member of the Nazi party, and he like so many others had been swept up in the evil that was the Third Reich. Yet―like Werner Von Braun, his talents proved too useful for the Allies to discard so casually. His high crimes and misdemeanors could be overlooked because of who he was, who he knew, and what he could do.
Obersturmbannführer Walther Jörge Dutschke ceased to exist, killed in some nameless-faceless-battle on the Eastern front. He became Samuel Silver, the anvil upon which the Allies vengeance against the Nazi’s was forged. He was a merchant of death, code named Silver Angel. He touched the untouchable. He was the one who ventured into foreign states, without letters-of-marques or official sanction. If caught, all nations would disavow his actions. He was a private citizen, a murderer, a common thug. His was a higher purpose, for those who had escaped justice. He was justice.
* * *
LEA LAY ON THE FRIENDLY SMOOTHNESS that was the hardwood floor of her Uncle Bernard’s kitchen floor. She loved coming to her uncle’s farm. The jolly black cast-iron potbelly stove cracked and popped. The fire danced like fairies in friendly hues of orange and red in the Pyrex windows. Lea played with the John Deer tractor that belonging to her cousin Kyle. Her uncle sat in his huge easy chair, a curl of smoke circled his head like a wreath. He laughed a bold-out-loud laugh as he discussed with her father sports and the latest stock market changes. In the kitchen, Lea could hear mother and her Aunt Irene’s pleasant voice as she punched down biscuits and put away the dishes from the Sunday dinner. Her tummy was full and warm with the goodness that had been Sunday supper.
Lea’s 10-year-old world was safe and warm; she could smell the apple-spice cake sitting on the warming on the oven. She could hear the other cousins playing in the backyard. Lea closed her eyes. “Old Bob,” the one-eyed Tom Cat swished his tail from his hiding place underneath the stove. It was not so much a hiding place as it was the supreme place to both be hidden and warm. Old Bob stared out at Lea, a one-eyed “death-to-mice” sentinel.’
Lea also could hear her sister Emily on the Piano. All the other aunts and uncles fawning over her, Ooh Emily . . . you are such a good girl. Emily you are so pretty, Emily how did you gets to be so smart. Emily, Emily, Emily. Always Emily. It made Lea want to scream. What made it worse was that Lea knew first hand that Emily cheated on her spelling test, that Emily copied answers off Lea’s papers, that Emily was tardy to school, but she was the teacher’s pet, and never got marked down.
The bottom line was Emily was beautiful, graceful everyone loved Emily. Emily played piano and Emily played French horn in the School marching band. Emily was a grade A student. A year younger than Lea, Emily was already the blossom of womanhood. Emily could recite her psalms in church; Emily was proper, prim and beautiful. Lea with her short-cropped hair was tall and gawky. Flat as a board, Lea was nothing but a girl with a boy's dirty face. Lea could run faster than Emily, she could climb trees and spit better than any boy in the county. It seemed sometimes to Lea that life was destined to be unfair. Her Uncle Bernard, her Aunt Irene, her cousins and second cousins, even her mother and father, all thought Emily was wonderful. Lea was the forgotten child.
It was her grandfather, her crotchety old grandfather, with his strange ways, his scary eyes, and his funny accent who paid the most attention to her. Grandpa “Doc” that was what she called him. The old man would come around mostly at Christmas time; he always had presents for the grandchildren and the cousins. Strange exotic things, always from far away places like Bucharest or Mixacoptec. Her aunt and uncle clammored for his gifts; her mother and father were more standoffish, almost hostile. Lea did not understand why her mother treated her father so badly.
Then, one day the Sheriff came, he brought men from the government; they wanted to take Grandpa Doc away. Lea hid behind the door. She heard Grandfather say some terrible things. She heard him draw his pistols, she listened for the first click, then second click, he told the deputies if they came again, he would kill them. He said he would kill their wives, he would kill their children, he would kill anyone they ever knew. The men, they went away afraid, and never came again.
Lea did not understand. Grandpa Doc was always gentle and kind with her. He always had time for her. He even took time to make over the old barnyard cat “Bob” the one-eyed-good-for-nothing cat.
Each night, Lea sat at the kitchen table, over a steaming hot cup of cocco, Grandpa Doc would clean his pistols. Lea was fascinated. He took them out, one at a time, out of the metal clip holsters, skeleton holsters; he showed her the underarm and the cross belly draw. Grandpa Doc seemed to have nothing better to do than drink cognac, smoke cigars and show Lea those pistols. He laid them on a clean cloth. They were forty-five caliber M1911A1 atomatic pistols, a gift from an American attaché in 1936, clad in .99 fine silver, with grips carved in the finest African ivory. Each pistol was engraved with exotic dragons and mysterious Aztec pictoglyphs. Grand Pa Doc took his time, it seemed he had a story or tall-tale about each engraving. He chuckled as he told stories, he acted as if he had nothing better to do in the world than show Lea how each weapon came apart and how it was re-assembled again. When the weapons were cleaned, oiled and loaded, Lea sat mesmerized by the fire, while Grandpa Doc told her fearsome stories, of fantastic places of deeds of heroes, outlaws and villians. Lea loved Grandpa Doc; it seemed sometimes that he was the only person in the universe that really understood her, the only person in the universe that really appreciated her for her.
Lea’s 10-year-old world was safe and warm; she could smell the apple-spice cake sitting on the warming on the oven. She could hear the other cousins playing in the backyard. Lea closed her eyes. “Old Bob,” the one-eyed Tom Cat swished his tail from his hiding place underneath the stove. It was not so much a hiding place as it was the supreme place to both be hidden and warm. Old Bob stared out at Lea, a one-eyed “death-to-mice” sentinel.’
Lea also could hear her sister Emily on the Piano. All the other aunts and uncles fawning over her, Ooh Emily . . . you are such a good girl. Emily you are so pretty, Emily how did you gets to be so smart. Emily, Emily, Emily. Always Emily. It made Lea want to scream. What made it worse was that Lea knew first hand that Emily cheated on her spelling test, that Emily copied answers off Lea’s papers, that Emily was tardy to school, but she was the teacher’s pet, and never got marked down.
The bottom line was Emily was beautiful, graceful everyone loved Emily. Emily played piano and Emily played French horn in the School marching band. Emily was a grade A student. A year younger than Lea, Emily was already the blossom of womanhood. Emily could recite her psalms in church; Emily was proper, prim and beautiful. Lea with her short-cropped hair was tall and gawky. Flat as a board, Lea was nothing but a girl with a boy's dirty face. Lea could run faster than Emily, she could climb trees and spit better than any boy in the county. It seemed sometimes to Lea that life was destined to be unfair. Her Uncle Bernard, her Aunt Irene, her cousins and second cousins, even her mother and father, all thought Emily was wonderful. Lea was the forgotten child.
It was her grandfather, her crotchety old grandfather, with his strange ways, his scary eyes, and his funny accent who paid the most attention to her. Grandpa “Doc” that was what she called him. The old man would come around mostly at Christmas time; he always had presents for the grandchildren and the cousins. Strange exotic things, always from far away places like Bucharest or Mixacoptec. Her aunt and uncle clammored for his gifts; her mother and father were more standoffish, almost hostile. Lea did not understand why her mother treated her father so badly.
Then, one day the Sheriff came, he brought men from the government; they wanted to take Grandpa Doc away. Lea hid behind the door. She heard Grandfather say some terrible things. She heard him draw his pistols, she listened for the first click, then second click, he told the deputies if they came again, he would kill them. He said he would kill their wives, he would kill their children, he would kill anyone they ever knew. The men, they went away afraid, and never came again.
Lea did not understand. Grandpa Doc was always gentle and kind with her. He always had time for her. He even took time to make over the old barnyard cat “Bob” the one-eyed-good-for-nothing cat.
Each night, Lea sat at the kitchen table, over a steaming hot cup of cocco, Grandpa Doc would clean his pistols. Lea was fascinated. He took them out, one at a time, out of the metal clip holsters, skeleton holsters; he showed her the underarm and the cross belly draw. Grandpa Doc seemed to have nothing better to do than drink cognac, smoke cigars and show Lea those pistols. He laid them on a clean cloth. They were forty-five caliber M1911A1 atomatic pistols, a gift from an American attaché in 1936, clad in .99 fine silver, with grips carved in the finest African ivory. Each pistol was engraved with exotic dragons and mysterious Aztec pictoglyphs. Grand Pa Doc took his time, it seemed he had a story or tall-tale about each engraving. He chuckled as he told stories, he acted as if he had nothing better to do in the world than show Lea how each weapon came apart and how it was re-assembled again. When the weapons were cleaned, oiled and loaded, Lea sat mesmerized by the fire, while Grandpa Doc told her fearsome stories, of fantastic places of deeds of heroes, outlaws and villians. Lea loved Grandpa Doc; it seemed sometimes that he was the only person in the universe that really understood her, the only person in the universe that really appreciated her for her.
* * *
ON A CLEAR DAY IN JAUARY, a few weeks before her eleventh birthday, Grandpa Doc took Lea out behind the barn. He set up some gallon milk jugs and a few stray beer bottles on a split rail fence. He then paced off seventy-five yards, that particular distance he told her was significant because he said it was at that distance that Wild Bill Hickock killed Davis Tutt, shot him through the heart at seventy-five yards. The targets looked impossibly small from that distance. Grandpa Doc then pressed into Lea’s ten-year-old hand a 1915 .455 caliber MK IV Webley service revolver.
“You can never learn to shoot too young Frauline, and you might as vell learn to shoot from me.” He gave her the Webley, he taught her how to hold the weapon. He showed her how the cylinder opened, how to load the weapon, how to sight down the barrel, how to breath.
“Let the pistol and your arm be as one”
Lea squeezed the trigger; it was her first practice shot, the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. There were no bullets in the gun. Lea was disappointed.
Her Grandfather chuckled. “Vhen you are twelve, I give you bullets.”
There were ten targets on the fence post. Lea remembered very specifically setting them up―four one-gallon milk jugs filled with water, she had filled them herself with water from the horse troth pump. She then lugged them the seventy-five yards across the barnyard and placed them like ninepins along the fence rail. There were also six beer bottles. Lea also knew from the previous meticulous cleaning session that her grandfather’s guns held fourteen bullets. Seven and seven that made fourteen. They had paced out the distance together, his great strides a long beside her small steps. Seventy-five yards to which even to a ten-year-old girl going on eleven, seemed like an impossible range, seventy-five yards, ten targets and fourteen bullets.
“Always remember Frauline, be calm, be professional but always have a plan to kill ze next person you meet. . . Until then, learn from me!”
Lea screamed.
Her Grandfather’s black waist coat flew open like a great cloud of bats; the skeleton holsters released their fury. There was no movement, other than the memories of the staccato furry of those terrible pistols, which even to this day, frighten her.
The milk jugs veritably ceased to exist. The explosions occurring so close together that the vessels became air born, and exploded in unison. The water burst from numerous puncture points as the hapless moo-jugs careened end-over-end into the dust. The beer bottles vaporized in ABC order, reduced to a billion fragments of brown glass. Then there was nothing but silence, and the smoke that curled from the ends of Grandfather's pistols.
Lea watched. She was no longer afraid. She watched how her grandfather did not look at the targets he knew they were destroyed. Instead, his movements were rehearsed, as they were instinctive, almost like ballet. The metallic clips fell from the bottoms of the grips, and two new fresh clips were rammed home, the chambers locked and loaded. The old man then jerked; his eyes looked cautiously about as if surrounded by enemies.
“Ve go back to house now. You have seen enough today.”
“You can never learn to shoot too young Frauline, and you might as vell learn to shoot from me.” He gave her the Webley, he taught her how to hold the weapon. He showed her how the cylinder opened, how to load the weapon, how to sight down the barrel, how to breath.
“Let the pistol and your arm be as one”
Lea squeezed the trigger; it was her first practice shot, the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. There were no bullets in the gun. Lea was disappointed.
Her Grandfather chuckled. “Vhen you are twelve, I give you bullets.”
There were ten targets on the fence post. Lea remembered very specifically setting them up―four one-gallon milk jugs filled with water, she had filled them herself with water from the horse troth pump. She then lugged them the seventy-five yards across the barnyard and placed them like ninepins along the fence rail. There were also six beer bottles. Lea also knew from the previous meticulous cleaning session that her grandfather’s guns held fourteen bullets. Seven and seven that made fourteen. They had paced out the distance together, his great strides a long beside her small steps. Seventy-five yards to which even to a ten-year-old girl going on eleven, seemed like an impossible range, seventy-five yards, ten targets and fourteen bullets.
“Always remember Frauline, be calm, be professional but always have a plan to kill ze next person you meet. . . Until then, learn from me!”
Lea screamed.
Her Grandfather’s black waist coat flew open like a great cloud of bats; the skeleton holsters released their fury. There was no movement, other than the memories of the staccato furry of those terrible pistols, which even to this day, frighten her.
The milk jugs veritably ceased to exist. The explosions occurring so close together that the vessels became air born, and exploded in unison. The water burst from numerous puncture points as the hapless moo-jugs careened end-over-end into the dust. The beer bottles vaporized in ABC order, reduced to a billion fragments of brown glass. Then there was nothing but silence, and the smoke that curled from the ends of Grandfather's pistols.
Lea watched. She was no longer afraid. She watched how her grandfather did not look at the targets he knew they were destroyed. Instead, his movements were rehearsed, as they were instinctive, almost like ballet. The metallic clips fell from the bottoms of the grips, and two new fresh clips were rammed home, the chambers locked and loaded. The old man then jerked; his eyes looked cautiously about as if surrounded by enemies.
“Ve go back to house now. You have seen enough today.”
* * *
A LONG TIME LATER, Lea wandered out behind the barn alone, accompanied only by Old Bob, the one-eyed-good-for-nothing cat who followed her, he sat on the cattle fence and arched his back like a “Halloween cat.” Lea retrieved the eviscerated milk jugs. When she picked them up, they sadly gushed the last of their imaginary viscous fluids. Fourteen bullets, ten targets, Lea inserted her small fingers into the holes torn by her Grandfather’s terrible bullets. Seventy-five yards, each of the one-gallon milk jugs was about the size of a human head, each had two holes punched through the center. Two times four . . . plus the six beer bottles, each the size of a human heart. Fourteen bullets, Lea now knew why the deputies who had come for her Grandfather had left. Lea never forgot. . .
* * *
“What cha’ all doing? Can I play?” Lea asked with an air of innocents and lack of worldly sophistication that belied her ten-years.There were four children in a circle all caught in a sudden flurry of forbidden activity, there was Kate, she was the oldest. Kate acted as if Lea had just barged in on a secret meeting of the “Skull and Bones.” It was neither exclusive nor secretive just an Ouija board in the center of a circle of kids, a few cigarettes and a mason jar of her uncle’s moonshine. Amanda Louise, who everybody called Kate, she was the bossiest. Kate was fourteen. Kate told Lea to "Get lost." Then there was Boyd Early, he was thirteen and he thought he was tough, that was until Lea had beaten the crap out of him on the schoolyard.
"HOLLER 'NUFF!" Lea sat astride her cousin, and pounded him again. A girl with a boy's dirty face beating up a boy presented quite the spectical at Theo. Roosevelt Elementary. The children chanted in a circle, "FIGHT! FIGHT!" As the two cousins tumbled in the dirt. Lea was a relentless advasary.
"Holler 'nuff!" Lea held Boyd down, and clobbered him again.
"Nuff." Boyd gasp, he'd was bloodied and bested by a girl. Lea never told and Boyd respected her afterwards. People always called him Hap; Lea had a secret crush on Hap.
Then there was Cousin Kyle, he was eleven and his face was full of pimples. Simply put, Kyle was a pain in the ass. There never was a controversy to which Kyle was not at the center―Never was there a conflict to which Kyle was on one side and Lea on the other. Never was there a family squabble to which Kyle was in the right and Lea was in the wrong. Kyle was a dangerous adversary. Then there was her sister, Emily. At nine-and-three-quarters, Emily was a beautiful child, already the blossom of womanhood. Never controversial, always pleasant, universally liked by grown-ups and her peers, Emily never made miss-step, Emily never made enemies. Emily was always the good girl, the center of attention, the high achiever and the object of Lea’s loathing. Even Grandpa Doc loved Emily; it was as if Lea did not even exist.
All the cousins, and her sister sat cloistered around a bail of hay in the center of the barn. There were cigarettes, a jar of Uncle Ben’s moonshine. Kate had been up to her old tricks. For .25 cents she let the boys look at her painties, for a whole dollar she took them out behind the corn crib. Nobody had a dollar that day, besides much to Kate's chagrin, the only panties they boys were really interested in looking at belonged to Emily. There was an air of forbidden interrupted. At the center was an Ouija board the obvious focus of illicit activity.
“LEA! Get lost!” Amada Louise hollered. “Nobody wants you ‘round here anyway, you freak!”
“Shut-up Kate!” Lea said, Lea picked up a pack of cigarettes, drew one from the pack, lit it, and struck a pose.
“I hate you Lea! Haven’t you got some dumb boy stuff to do?” Kate said.
Lea stuck out her tongue.
“Aww, let her stay, we can make fun of her.” Kyle smirked.
“Fuck you Kyle.”
“I’m tell’n! Lea said the F-word!”
All the cousins, and her sister sat cloistered around a bail of hay in the center of the barn. There were cigarettes, a jar of Uncle Ben’s moonshine. Kate had been up to her old tricks. For .25 cents she let the boys look at her painties, for a whole dollar she took them out behind the corn crib. Nobody had a dollar that day, besides much to Kate's chagrin, the only panties they boys were really interested in looking at belonged to Emily. There was an air of forbidden interrupted. At the center was an Ouija board the obvious focus of illicit activity.
“LEA! Get lost!” Amada Louise hollered. “Nobody wants you ‘round here anyway, you freak!”
“Shut-up Kate!” Lea said, Lea picked up a pack of cigarettes, drew one from the pack, lit it, and struck a pose.
“I hate you Lea! Haven’t you got some dumb boy stuff to do?” Kate said.
Lea stuck out her tongue.
“Aww, let her stay, we can make fun of her.” Kyle smirked.
“Fuck you Kyle.”
“I’m tell’n! Lea said the F-word!”
And I’m tell’n you got into Uncle Ben’s hooch . . .” Lea said with an air of authority that assured she had the last word, she sat down to play Ouija.
“Let her stay.” Hap said.
Emily said nothing.
The play continued.
“Who here is going to get kissed soonest?” Amanda Louise asked the Ouija board.
“Let her stay.” Hap said.
Emily said nothing.
The play continued.
“Who here is going to get kissed soonest?” Amanda Louise asked the Ouija board.
K ● A ● T ● E.
“Ooh me!” Amanda Louise veritably squealed, flushed with successes her vanity’s quest was revealed in the next question. “Who here is the best looking?” (Certain it would be her) . . .
E ● M ● I ● L ● Y.
“Oh, Shit!” Amanda said."
“Who here is the most evil?” Amanda said, not so much as a lark as she was desperate to shift attention away from her own shortcomings to someone else’s. The felt tipped triangle slid across the board as if by magic, even Amanda Kate Louise was surprised by the Ouija’s verdict.
“Who here is the most evil?” Amanda said, not so much as a lark as she was desperate to shift attention away from her own shortcomings to someone else’s. The felt tipped triangle slid across the board as if by magic, even Amanda Kate Louise was surprised by the Ouija’s verdict.
L ● E ● A.
The children all looked at Lea. “Who here is a killer?” Kyle shouted impulsively.
L ● E ● A.
“So, who’s it going to be?” Kyle blurted out with a boyish dimwitted irony that belied the macabre gravity of his question. The Ouija board verdict was just a cold and calculated as all the rest . . .
K ● A ● T ● E.
Kate screamed, "I don't want to play this game anymore!"
The Ouija board flew through the air, the rest of the cousins scattered in abject terror. Emily fled, leaving Lea alone, standing in the center of the centuries old barn alone, with a one-eyed-good-for-nothing cat. “Bob.”
* * *
IN THE FALL OF THAT YEAR, on the day before Halloween Kate went missing. The school bus driver distinctly remembered dropping the girl off at her stop. The whole county mobilized and for three days, searchers combed the dense woods and farms of Stillwater County. The Sheriff had widened the search grid, and a tearful Aunt Irene and a stoic Uncle Bernard appeared on the local television station to appeal for the return of their precious “Kate.” When on the afternoon of the fifth day, the worst possible phone call came into the Sheriff’s office. A passing motorist had spotted a body, lying face down in a drainage ditch along Highway 51. Amanda Louise McAlester was dead, there was no sign of foul play, and the County Coroner listed the official cause of death as dehydration and exposure. In confidence, he had confided to the Sheriff that the more probable cause had been “animal attack.” There were clear signs the girl had been mauled to death, crushed by some unknown wild animal. Amanda Louise was not yet fifteen.
* * *
AMANDA LOUISE WAS WICKED, evil, mean, bad and nasty. As far as cousins go, Kate could have done a lot worse than Lea Swift. As far as Kate was concerned, Lea figured she could not have done worse. Kate had no sisters, only cousins and for as long as she could remember, even though she was older, Lea was a thorn in her side. Lea was faster and stronger, smarter and worst of all prettier. Kate was a dullard, a plane-Jane girl with fading freckles and a blossoming bosom that was lopsided, lumpy, and not likely to improve with age. Compared to Lea, Amanda Louise was a dog. Lea had a dirty face, torn jeans and one sock, she was a rough-and-tumble tomboy, yet underneath her dirty face, the pigtails, her boyish frame, and Lea Marie sparkled. Lea was a beauty. Her nose swooped down with a perfect aquiline form, and her eyes were beautifully set in the purest hazel-blue, she had strong features and strong character. Worst of all, Lea was smart, and fun and always the best at every game. Kate hated her for it.
It was some weeks after the day in the barn with the Ouija board, that Amanda Louise hatched a plan to invite all the girls from the sixth grade over to the barn for a dance. It was two days before Halloween. Her mother Irene made punch, cake, there was lots of music amidst the excited anticipation that this was only a prelude. Today was the day that Kate planned to hand out invitations to her fifthteenth birthday party, a social event not to be missed by any girl who was anybody at Theo. Roosevelt Elementary School. Kate especially invited Emily even though she was only in the third grade; Emily was everything that Lea was not. Emily was beautiful, on that count there was no question. Emily was a divine creature, feminine, delicate, well mannered. Not yet ten-years-old, Emily’s beauty was such she could turn the heads of grown men. Emily had the deepest darkest most intense blue eyes and her eyebrows were such to rival an Egyptian queen . . . her golden hair framed her face. Emily was as beautiful as she was popular. Worst of all Emily had this unnatural power to remain under the radar. Emily was never controversial. Emily was the good girl who never involved herself in any family strife; she never took sides and always managed to end up on the “right” side of every family argument. Whereas Emily was passive, Lea was a doer, if something needed doing, Lea was right in there helping. She helped her mother, she helped Aunt Irene, and Lea could always be counted on to be in the barnyard working alongside her cousin Boyd or Uncle Bernard. On the other hand, even at not-yet-eleven, Lea was very much her own person. She was opinionated, and universally out-spoken. Lea was not afraid to speak her mind, and more often than not, this landed her in hot water. Lea was the villain, cast in the role by her detractors as odd-man-out, on the wrong side of the fence of every family argument.
When Lea received her invitation to Kate’s impromptu Halloween party, she was playing in the sandbox with her cousin Hap and her friend Brad, from across the road.
It was some weeks after the day in the barn with the Ouija board, that Amanda Louise hatched a plan to invite all the girls from the sixth grade over to the barn for a dance. It was two days before Halloween. Her mother Irene made punch, cake, there was lots of music amidst the excited anticipation that this was only a prelude. Today was the day that Kate planned to hand out invitations to her fifthteenth birthday party, a social event not to be missed by any girl who was anybody at Theo. Roosevelt Elementary School. Kate especially invited Emily even though she was only in the third grade; Emily was everything that Lea was not. Emily was beautiful, on that count there was no question. Emily was a divine creature, feminine, delicate, well mannered. Not yet ten-years-old, Emily’s beauty was such she could turn the heads of grown men. Emily had the deepest darkest most intense blue eyes and her eyebrows were such to rival an Egyptian queen . . . her golden hair framed her face. Emily was as beautiful as she was popular. Worst of all Emily had this unnatural power to remain under the radar. Emily was never controversial. Emily was the good girl who never involved herself in any family strife; she never took sides and always managed to end up on the “right” side of every family argument. Whereas Emily was passive, Lea was a doer, if something needed doing, Lea was right in there helping. She helped her mother, she helped Aunt Irene, and Lea could always be counted on to be in the barnyard working alongside her cousin Boyd or Uncle Bernard. On the other hand, even at not-yet-eleven, Lea was very much her own person. She was opinionated, and universally out-spoken. Lea was not afraid to speak her mind, and more often than not, this landed her in hot water. Lea was the villain, cast in the role by her detractors as odd-man-out, on the wrong side of the fence of every family argument.
When Lea received her invitation to Kate’s impromptu Halloween party, she was playing in the sandbox with her cousin Hap and her friend Brad, from across the road.
Kate hated Lea so much she was determine to orchestrate the entire even event just so she could have the satisfaction of seeing her tomboy cousin publicly pilloried and crucified in the social hierarchy that was the sixth grade at Theo. Roosevelt Elementary school.
The party was well underway when the girls played the game where they were all mice and the cheese stands alone. That one person, Kate made certain was Lea Swift. Kate took particular glee where at the end of the game, Lea Swift was left to stand-alone.
♪♪THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE . . . THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE ♪♪
The other girls laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world.
“LEA DOESN’T GET TO COME TO THE PARTY!” That point cruelly and repeatedly made evident. Lea Swift broke from the circle, past the other girls and launched herself out of the hayloft towards the barn floor some fifteen feet below. The other girls screamed, certain Lea would be killed, but Lea landed deftly on her feet and took off blindly out across the barnyard floor, over the hog pens and into the day light. Blinded as much from embarrassment as she was tears of rage, all she could think to do was run. Amanda Louise was confident once again she succeeded in putting Lea in place. Lea was now the official butt of every joke of all the cousins, friends, even her sister Emily laughed. This time Lea’s humiliation included her entire Fifth grade class. Not only was Lea publicly humiliated by being summarily UN-invited to Kate’s Birthday Party, but also she was also publicly branded nothing more than a girl with a “boy’s dirty face.”
“LEA DOESN’T GET TO COME TO THE PARTY!” That point cruelly and repeatedly made evident. Lea Swift broke from the circle, past the other girls and launched herself out of the hayloft towards the barn floor some fifteen feet below. The other girls screamed, certain Lea would be killed, but Lea landed deftly on her feet and took off blindly out across the barnyard floor, over the hog pens and into the day light. Blinded as much from embarrassment as she was tears of rage, all she could think to do was run. Amanda Louise was confident once again she succeeded in putting Lea in place. Lea was now the official butt of every joke of all the cousins, friends, even her sister Emily laughed. This time Lea’s humiliation included her entire Fifth grade class. Not only was Lea publicly humiliated by being summarily UN-invited to Kate’s Birthday Party, but also she was also publicly branded nothing more than a girl with a “boy’s dirty face.”
Those who witnessed Lea’s humiliation, those who laughed at Lea, cracked jokes and dismissed her. They did not witness her dash across the muddy expanse that was the horse corral. No one took notice when she cleared a four-rail split fence as if it did not even exist. Lea left her tormentors behind, they could not know it took her less than nine seconds to cross the 200 odd yards that was the lush expanse of green of the sheep pasture. Over the rusting bones of the ancient tractor, across the county road, and on towards the creek bottom, Lea kept running until she thought her heart would burst. She only stopped running when she reached the relative safety of the thickets and the creek bottom and she could run no more. She halted only to catch her breath, she had made up her mind as soon as she caught her wind she would run again. What she did not know, what she could not know was she had covered nearly two and a half miles from the barn gate to the old stump in the creek bottom in less than nine minutes, considering the uneven ground, the broken terrain it was the equivalent of running a steeplechase and a 5000-meter run all at once. Such a feat of athletic prowess exhibited by a wiry ten-and-three-quarters-year-old girl was beyond extraordinary it was enough for those who ran track, who knew track to be left slack-jawed and dumb founded. Such a run was beyond Olympic. Lea did not even know she had just broken not just broken but obliterated, Jesse Owens’s record. Lea was faster than Jackie Joyner Kersey was, or Alberto Juan Torino combined. At ten-and-ninty-nine-and-three-quarters, a skinny, wiry girl, a girl with dish-water blonde hair who was nothing but a girl with a boy's dirty face, a girl from Oklahoma was not only the fastest human being on the planet; she was faster by a factor of two and a half times, and nobody even knew it.
Why Lea had come to this spot, to the old stump at the edge of the creek bottom she did not know. She had left the barn in a blind fit of pre-adolescent angst. Amanda Louise had invited all the girls from school to come. It was the day before Halloween, two day before Amanda Louise’s fourteenth birthday. It turned out that the whole even was orchestrated for the soul purpose of embarrassing Lea. WHO WOULD GET TO GO TO KATE’S BIRTHDAY PARTY. That turned out to be the big question. NOT LEA SWIFT. That was the resounding sure thing. After her very public crucifixion at the hand of Amanda Louise, Lea only wanted to get away; get away from that awful Amanda Louise and her hired thugs in the form of her hated cousin Kyle and the rest of the sixth grade. Now that she was here, she was at peace. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world. There on the stump, waiting for her was “Old Bob.” The one-eyed-good-for-nothing cat, he meowed his greeting and jumped down off the stump. Lea never stopped to consider that there was absolutely no way a broken-down old cat like Bob could have not only followed her all the way from the barn to the old stump in the swamp but to have actually beaten her there . . . Lea knew her Grandfather dabbled in magic, she knew he had a great interest in the occult. That was partially what had terrified her so much with the Ouija board. Yet there was something else that did not make sense. What is this? Animal tracks? Bear tracks? Lea placed her hand into the mud; the track was three times the width of her hand, not a common black bear, but a huge bear, the greatest of all bears, the Kodiak. There were no bears in Oklahoma.
Hidden in the ferns at the base of the stump was a hard black object . . . Lea’s small not-yet-eleven-year-old hand closed naturally around the object, it was a revolver, the Webley Mk IV. The very same Webley her Grandfather had shown her only a few days ago. Lea broke open the pistol, just as her Grandfather had showed her; the cylinder head revealed shiny copper heads of six .455 cartridges.
“Vhen you are twelve, I give you bullets.”
Why Lea had come to this spot, to the old stump at the edge of the creek bottom she did not know. She had left the barn in a blind fit of pre-adolescent angst. Amanda Louise had invited all the girls from school to come. It was the day before Halloween, two day before Amanda Louise’s fourteenth birthday. It turned out that the whole even was orchestrated for the soul purpose of embarrassing Lea. WHO WOULD GET TO GO TO KATE’S BIRTHDAY PARTY. That turned out to be the big question. NOT LEA SWIFT. That was the resounding sure thing. After her very public crucifixion at the hand of Amanda Louise, Lea only wanted to get away; get away from that awful Amanda Louise and her hired thugs in the form of her hated cousin Kyle and the rest of the sixth grade. Now that she was here, she was at peace. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world. There on the stump, waiting for her was “Old Bob.” The one-eyed-good-for-nothing cat, he meowed his greeting and jumped down off the stump. Lea never stopped to consider that there was absolutely no way a broken-down old cat like Bob could have not only followed her all the way from the barn to the old stump in the swamp but to have actually beaten her there . . . Lea knew her Grandfather dabbled in magic, she knew he had a great interest in the occult. That was partially what had terrified her so much with the Ouija board. Yet there was something else that did not make sense. What is this? Animal tracks? Bear tracks? Lea placed her hand into the mud; the track was three times the width of her hand, not a common black bear, but a huge bear, the greatest of all bears, the Kodiak. There were no bears in Oklahoma.
Hidden in the ferns at the base of the stump was a hard black object . . . Lea’s small not-yet-eleven-year-old hand closed naturally around the object, it was a revolver, the Webley Mk IV. The very same Webley her Grandfather had shown her only a few days ago. Lea broke open the pistol, just as her Grandfather had showed her; the cylinder head revealed shiny copper heads of six .455 cartridges.
“Vhen you are twelve, I give you bullets.”
Lea bit her lip. She was not yet eleven, let alone twelve, but maybe her Grandfather knew she needed the bullets now. She looked around and saw four mason jars lined up on the old wall that marked the boundary between her Uncle Bernard’s farm and Mr. Macgregor. Old Bob meowed again, the Webley snapped shut as if motivated under its own power. Lea brought the pistol down on the target just as her grandfather had shown her.
"Amanda Louise, suck on this!” Lea squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled in her hand, but her Grandfather’s training prepared for the shock, she brought the weapon back down on the target and pulled the trigger again. The mason jars exploded in rapid succession. Amanda, Kyle, Boyd, each bullet blasted their respective jar into shards of glass and rock. When the smoke cleared, only the mason jar where Emily sat remained unscathed. It sat there, glinting in the sunlight that filtered down through the trees. Perfect and beautiful, immaculately untouched, just like Emily. The pistol clicked, Lea walked over to where the jar sat mocking her. She bashed the jar to smithereens with the butt of the gun.
"Fuck you Emily.” Lea said as she ground the broken glass of her sister’s jar in effigy. Lea was immediately ashamed of what she had done. Then she brought the butt of the pistol down again, to smash what was left of the jar again.
“Now you are one of us.”
“Did you just say something?” Lea whirled around and saw only the cat, Old Bob. The pistol was empty. Suddenly, she never felt so vulnerable in her entire life. Somewhere in the thicket there was movement, there was a large animal, she could not see it but she knew it was there. Watching, waiting, always there.
“Kill them Frauline, kill them all.” Her Grandfather’s voice boomed in her head. Lea looked at the stump, she looked at Old Bob, and she looked at the pistol still in her hand. Suddenly she was unafraid. It all became so clear she knew what to do.
Lea took off her clothes.
She was gone for four days.
"Amanda Louise, suck on this!” Lea squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled in her hand, but her Grandfather’s training prepared for the shock, she brought the weapon back down on the target and pulled the trigger again. The mason jars exploded in rapid succession. Amanda, Kyle, Boyd, each bullet blasted their respective jar into shards of glass and rock. When the smoke cleared, only the mason jar where Emily sat remained unscathed. It sat there, glinting in the sunlight that filtered down through the trees. Perfect and beautiful, immaculately untouched, just like Emily. The pistol clicked, Lea walked over to where the jar sat mocking her. She bashed the jar to smithereens with the butt of the gun.
"Fuck you Emily.” Lea said as she ground the broken glass of her sister’s jar in effigy. Lea was immediately ashamed of what she had done. Then she brought the butt of the pistol down again, to smash what was left of the jar again.
“Now you are one of us.”
“Did you just say something?” Lea whirled around and saw only the cat, Old Bob. The pistol was empty. Suddenly, she never felt so vulnerable in her entire life. Somewhere in the thicket there was movement, there was a large animal, she could not see it but she knew it was there. Watching, waiting, always there.
“Kill them Frauline, kill them all.” Her Grandfather’s voice boomed in her head. Lea looked at the stump, she looked at Old Bob, and she looked at the pistol still in her hand. Suddenly she was unafraid. It all became so clear she knew what to do.
Lea took off her clothes.
She was gone for four days.
* * *
*KNOCK*
“Go away!”
*KNOCk*
“I said, go away!”
“Lea? Momma is still in the bedroom crying.” Emily said through the closed bedroom door. “I have your supper here . . .” Emily turned the doorknob and entered her older sister’s room. Lea lay on the bed, her head buried in pillows.
“Go away!”
*KNOCk*
“I said, go away!”
“Lea? Momma is still in the bedroom crying.” Emily said through the closed bedroom door. “I have your supper here . . .” Emily turned the doorknob and entered her older sister’s room. Lea lay on the bed, her head buried in pillows.
"Lea, I have your supper?”
“I said go away! Don’t you fucking people understand English?”
". . . alright, I’m leaving . . . Lea?”
“What?”
“Momma is still crying.”
“What?” Lea threw back the pillows in an act of desperation. This was supposed to be her crisis, her trauma, yet somehow it had transformed itself from her crisis, her trauma to her mother's trauma, which was always somehow more important. (She was the one with the beaten backside). Yet once again, she had been usurped. Somehow, once again became her responsibility to come to the aid of her mother . . . “Momma is downstairs still crying.” Emily said.
"So what the fuck do you want me to do about it? Did you see what they did to me?” Lea reared up her bottom, and exposed her buttocks, beaten raw with her Uncle Ben’s razor strap. She had a black eye where her father beat her, her Uncle Ben beat her, then the Sheriff came into the bedroom, “He said to question her.” He beat her himself just to loosen her tongue a little. There was no sympathy for her, poor little girl, lost in the woods, an eleven-year-old-girl found naked in the woods after four days. No, there was only Kate. Kate was missing. The adults were convinced that Lea involved in Kate’s disappearance. That Lea was the mastermind of a sinister plot to lure poor innocent Kate into the woods and leave her there. Lea was to blame somehow somewhere, and if they just beat her long, enough she would squeal.
Lea told them Kate was dead. She told them, “They” had done it, the “Others.” Kate was dead and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
“Where were you?” “Where were you girl?” The razor strap cut against her bear flesh.
"I’m sorry Lea . . .”
“I bet the fuck you are!” Lea said, as she smothered her head under her pillows and began once again to imagine her sister's death. Emily, the perfect child, Emily the child immaculate, Emily torn limb from limb . . . the most frightening aspect of the whole scenario was that for the first time Lea knew how she could do it. With tooth and claw, the “Other,” possessed ten times Lea’s strength, even though she was not yet full grown. The most frightening aspect was Lea did not have a clue as to how to control this monster from the id, and the “Other,” she hated Emily.
"Lea? Grandpa Doc, he sent a telegram. He told me to give you this . . . I didn’t look or tell or nothing.”
For the first time Lea considered not murdering Emily. For the first time Lea's interest was piqued.
Emily cautiously set the shoebox on the bed beside where Lea’s head lay buried. She feared her sister, Lea possessed certain intensity about her, a purpose, such power you could not put your finger on it. A girl who was not yet eleven-years-old, yet she could not be defeated. The adults had come, Lea stood resolute. They beat her and Emily cried. Emily cried for Lea. They beat her so savagely; Emily could hear them from the next room, “WHERE WERE YOU? WHERE IS KATE?” Lea was not defeated. There was a definite intangible essence of power about her sister that Emily did not understand. An aura of power she had seen only once before, in her grandfather and it frightened her in exactly the same way.
Lea did not acknowledge her sister’s action yet she could tell from the feel, that this was not some inconsequential parcel to be ignored. This was a box with authority that said I am important, I am from your grandfather.
Lea opened the telegram.
FRAULINE X TODAY I GIVE YOU BULLETS X KILL THEM FRAULINE X KILL THEM ALL X
It was the Webley, it smelled of burnt gun powered. There was a cleaning kit, plus four boxes of .455 caliber ball ammunition. There were scrapes on the bottom of the box; Lea puzzled over the box, and discarded it.
Lea did not acknowledge her sister’s action yet she could tell from the feel, that this was not some inconsequential parcel to be ignored. This was a box with authority that said I am important, I am from your grandfather.
Lea opened the telegram.
FRAULINE X TODAY I GIVE YOU BULLETS X KILL THEM FRAULINE X KILL THEM ALL X
It was the Webley, it smelled of burnt gun powered. There was a cleaning kit, plus four boxes of .455 caliber ball ammunition. There were scrapes on the bottom of the box; Lea puzzled over the box, and discarded it.
Twenty years later, by happenstance, Lea was watching the DISCOVERY channel, the episode was on Alaska, bears and bear attacks, and the greatest of all bears, the Kodiak. There are no bears in Okalahoma.
CHAPTER 7
SIX EQUALS SIX
IT WAS ALONG A TRIBUTARY of the Vistula River, a calm placid bend within the sounds and sighs of the ancient Polish city of Bydgoszcz, that he came. The year was December 1945. Snow was on the ground, it fell in great white flakes that filtered down on the wide brim of his felt hat. The wind blew in icy gust, he did not care. In his pocket was a telegram, in the header was Moscow, The Kremlin, the text contained the names of four men, and there was the single word: Bydogoszcz. The document was signed A.S. For Alger Hiss, this was as good as from Stalin himself. It didn’t matter really who signed it, he knew it was worth 12,000 £. If they did not pay, he would come for them too, they always paid.
The snow crunched softly under his feet. The war was over yet there was poverty and devastation everywhere. Poland was particularly hard hit, having been under the Nazi boot since 1939. He approached what appeared to be a small industrial complex along the river. A machine shop of sorts, it was hard to tell. He glanced at two black and white Soviet induction photographs, he shook his head, poor dumb bastards, and these were not even the ones who needed killing. Wojtyala, Kubicki, Dumbrowska, and Zygelman, just your everyday common Pollacks, who some how ran a foul of the Soviet machine, probably trying to make an honest kopeck. It did not matter; they were on the list. They were on HIS list and he was the SILVER ANGEL. There would be trouble; Moscow did not send him to kill little old women in their sleep. He continued his approach to the machine shack.
A bullet thudded into a tree behind him. He was still two hundred yards from where the shot came. If they hit him from this distance, a bolt of lightening from the blue might as well strike him down. He did not reveal his weapons, he did not react, he blew frost from his lungs and he continued his trek towards the shack.
There were six men, not four. Wojtyala had two brothers, Jakub, and Czeslawa, he considered aborting the mission, but in the end it made no difference, they all would die today.
“Wotyala, Kubicki, Dumbrowska, and Zygelman, I have come for you.” His Polish wasn’t perfect, but it warned them. “Any one who doesn’t want to get killed had better clear out now!”
CHAPTER 7
SIX EQUALS SIX
IT WAS ALONG A TRIBUTARY of the Vistula River, a calm placid bend within the sounds and sighs of the ancient Polish city of Bydgoszcz, that he came. The year was December 1945. Snow was on the ground, it fell in great white flakes that filtered down on the wide brim of his felt hat. The wind blew in icy gust, he did not care. In his pocket was a telegram, in the header was Moscow, The Kremlin, the text contained the names of four men, and there was the single word: Bydogoszcz. The document was signed A.S. For Alger Hiss, this was as good as from Stalin himself. It didn’t matter really who signed it, he knew it was worth 12,000 £. If they did not pay, he would come for them too, they always paid.
The snow crunched softly under his feet. The war was over yet there was poverty and devastation everywhere. Poland was particularly hard hit, having been under the Nazi boot since 1939. He approached what appeared to be a small industrial complex along the river. A machine shop of sorts, it was hard to tell. He glanced at two black and white Soviet induction photographs, he shook his head, poor dumb bastards, and these were not even the ones who needed killing. Wojtyala, Kubicki, Dumbrowska, and Zygelman, just your everyday common Pollacks, who some how ran a foul of the Soviet machine, probably trying to make an honest kopeck. It did not matter; they were on the list. They were on HIS list and he was the SILVER ANGEL. There would be trouble; Moscow did not send him to kill little old women in their sleep. He continued his approach to the machine shack.
A bullet thudded into a tree behind him. He was still two hundred yards from where the shot came. If they hit him from this distance, a bolt of lightening from the blue might as well strike him down. He did not reveal his weapons, he did not react, he blew frost from his lungs and he continued his trek towards the shack.
There were six men, not four. Wojtyala had two brothers, Jakub, and Czeslawa, he considered aborting the mission, but in the end it made no difference, they all would die today.
“Wotyala, Kubicki, Dumbrowska, and Zygelman, I have come for you.” His Polish wasn’t perfect, but it warned them. “Any one who doesn’t want to get killed had better clear out now!”
He found himself staring down the barrels of six Soviet surplus PPSH submachine guns. Tommy guns, choppers, Chicago typewriters, the Wojtyala brothers were feeling confident, one man against six. One man against six machine guns. He was a funny man, with a big brimmed hat, a floppy coat, and a huge mustachioed face. In this man, there was no fear, no hesitation. In any critical instant, some men blink an eye; some men draw a breath, the Sliver Angel used that first second to shoot the first two Wojtyala brothers dead. At seventy-five yards, he was invulnerable. Six equals six. The silence of death borne only by the icy frost he blew from his nostrils. He felt no emotion; he thought of the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita.
“Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
The Silver Angel turned and walked away, bemused; a bullet hole in the tail of his coat.
CHAPTER 8
BAD TO THE BONE
CURTIS ISAAC WAS A PUNK. Never nothing, more than a minor gang banger, he controlled an insignificant squalid plot of a Hamtramck neighborhood known colloquially as the “Hornets.” Isaac ruled with all the efficiency to make Josef Stalin proud. A pure sociopath, Isaac’s sense of right and wrong was perverted to such an extent that any human suffering was non-existent. Isaac was a pure narcissist who only saw his own self-interest. Worst of all he was an “evil” little man who took genuine schadenfreude in the suffering of others. Isaac in fact amounted to little more than a frustrated despot, without absolute power, seeking absolute power.
BAD TO THE BONE
CURTIS ISAAC WAS A PUNK. Never nothing, more than a minor gang banger, he controlled an insignificant squalid plot of a Hamtramck neighborhood known colloquially as the “Hornets.” Isaac ruled with all the efficiency to make Josef Stalin proud. A pure sociopath, Isaac’s sense of right and wrong was perverted to such an extent that any human suffering was non-existent. Isaac was a pure narcissist who only saw his own self-interest. Worst of all he was an “evil” little man who took genuine schadenfreude in the suffering of others. Isaac in fact amounted to little more than a frustrated despot, without absolute power, seeking absolute power.
Over his family, his extended illegitimate, his cobbled together (his reluctant family); Oh, he did indeed wield absolute power. The power of life and death in the personification of chrome 9mm Beretta, that was never far out of reach. A power he used often and with such zeal as to pistol-whip his own children, his woman and ostensibly his wife. His enemies feared him, his men feared him, (his men hated him), his wife feared him, and his children bore the scars on their bodies of their insufficient fear of him. Curtis Isaac sat in his beanbag chair, naked, drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes, he remained paranoid.
”Get me a beer bitch!”
Isaac bellowed to know one in particular; he sat naked, drunk and eating Cheetos. He was in a foul mood, the protection count was short, someone was to blame, he would find someone to blame. The children sat huddled together, under a blanket draped over the couch, which made a sort of tent. It was their only sanctuary. Afraid, their bellies hungry, having nothing to eat since last night, a pitiful meal of saltine crackers and ketchup squeezed from packets filched from the local Wendy® Burger. The children sat quaking; they had no one to turn to but each other. There was Kayla, she was four and the littlest, Shontrell was six, the only boy, Shaila, was eight, she was the boldest, and she was the leader. The first three children were Isaac’s, there was know denying parentage. They were dark, bright and black. Then there was Luka. Ten-year-old Luka, eleven in two months, whereas the other children had dark, nappy hair, Luka’s hair was almost straight. Her face was round and well defined, her lips fine and thin, her skin was exactly the color of pure white oak―like a tall coffee purchased at Starbucks® with three creams and two sugars. In addition, Luka’s features were lean and willowy. Luka desperately wanted to be black; she tried to act black. She begged her momma to braid her uncooperative hair into cornrows, so she would look blacker. Nothing worked, she was a pariah, in a society that valued “blackness” above all else. In that sense, she had achieved certain blackness, since she was indeed “a black sheep.” Luka was a pariah, an outcast. Worse yet, she was perceived as stupid. Luka was deaf. Profoundly deaf, deaf since childhood weather it was mumps, scarlet fever, rosella, it was unknown which disease robbed the child of her hearing. Luka was deaf, and perceived as stupid by the ghetto society. The children regarded her as something of a joke, the local village idiot, the little deaf white girl who does not belong and they treated her that way. Shaila particularly relished torturing Luka, and played all manner of merciless games aimed at embarrassing her, humiliating her. Luka was the Omega girl in a black family. Shaila was the one who had put Luka up to stealing supper from Wendy’s®, no one seemed to acknowledge Luka for her clever, crafty theft. No, it was Shaila who got the credit, Shaila was in charge. Now it was Shaila who poked and prodded Luka.
“Go you dumb ‘lil white sissy.” Shaila put her foot in the small of Luka’s back and shoved her out from underneath the protection of the tent. “He wants a beer, you wanna get us all slapped?”
Refrigerator . . . Beer . . . Run!" Luka thought to herself, her handicap caused her to lack syntax in her language skills. She thought more in picture montage, than complete sentences. There was nothing wrong with her brain; she was bright, quick and sharp as a tack. "You can do this." Luka thought, not in so many words but in her mind, she knew what she had to do. The younger children were depending on her. No matter how badly they treated her, Luka had a miss-placed sense of loyalty, an urban chivalry that it was her responsibility to protect the other children from HIM. The monster sitting in the beanbag chair wanted beer. In the children’s mind, Curtis’ psychotic personality held them in a grip of terror; the cult of fear was so powerful it was like something out of a STAR TREK episode: "Val is hungry, we must feed him." Luka knew what she had to do, what frightened her most was not getting the beer, that part was easy, the more terrifying thought was that her stepfather might also want sex. When you are ten, going-on-eleven, beer is cheaper than sex.
Isaac was in fact not a paper tiger, he was all show, he infect liked to act tough, hang with the brothers, literally whiling away the house in idle testosterone driven machismo. His life was all bluff. He never actually shot anyone; he’d never been to prison. Yet his body was festooned with tattoos of a bona fied gangster life that testified to his ruthless accomplishments. Isaac’s life-style veritably burst with the turbocharged male bravado more in common with big-horned sheep or elephant seals guarding their mates than thinking intelligent human beings.
Isaac got his start parking cars as a homeboy of the Trumble street Curs, a clique of gang bangers who made a respectable living dealing drugs, protection and parking fees for local Detroit Tiger games.
Literally, on the other side of the street, within arm-throws distance was the Chessies. The life-long and vicious cross-town rivals of Curs, the two gangs represent the principal street hooligans of the City of Detroit. The bad blood and animosity goes so far back as to almost pre-date Isaac and Ishmael. The two gangs hate for each other is immortal, a hate, which is played out daily in graffiti, blood and black-on-black violence in the streets, playgrounds, and housing projects that are in Hamtramck.
At nine years of age, membership in the Curs represented the fastest and best way for a young Isaac to advance himself. Isaac endured the abuse of initiation, the beatings the calling names the first chance to make his name in the gang. He was supposed to kill these two dudes, they weren’t Chessies they were another rival gang the Wongs, Chinamen. High top the clique leader of the Curs pressed the .25 Automatic into his nine-year-old-hand and told him to go kill some Chinamen.
It turned out Isaac didn’t need to kill anybody, as soon as the shooting started, the Chinamen obliged and killed each other and a nine-year-old-Isaac scooted out the back door. In the aftermath, Isaac took credit for the whole massacre, which greatly advanced him in the gang ranks. This was like graduating with a B.A. in street-gang criminology, his luck could not have been better. Because no matter how “BAD” you were, just when you thought you were the “Baldest” hombre on the block that is when you and your ego collide into a brick wall and find out that there is always a hombre who is badder and tougher than you are.
The results of such volatile confrontations are often short and fatal. Fatal that is without “juice.” Juice is a form of street etiquette used by gangsters to keep them from constantly having to kill one another as the results of even the most trivial social infractions. Juice was what made the cooperation possible, without Juice, the consequences of any altercation were severe; even death. Mouth off around “Big Amp” and you got your teeth kicked in, or worse.
* * *
LEA SWIFT was on a bond recovery. She hated bond recoveries, it made no differnece. This particular bond skip paid $2000 dollars. Her friend and long time confidant Guy Painter had made the call. Apparently Guy was somehow “Knee deep it the dead” on this one. Lea did not ask questions, Guy said, “Find that nigger,” and apparently, he was a nigger. Lea did not ask further questions. She was a private-eye eye, for hire, finding people is what she did.
Isaiah Ishmael Isaac sounds positively biblical, Lea said to herself as she began the square one laborious process of pouring through public records. Maybe the person paid his taxes . . . Isaiah Ishmael Isaac. She found a reference picture in a high school annual. Five years ago, the printer whirred and chucked out multiple pictures for future reference. Lea slipped a serrated three and a ¼-inch razor lock blade into her back pocket as a mater of course. The Ruger came out next; she flipped open the 5 and ¾-inch blue-framed revolver. The cylinder was empty. She snapped the weapon shut and squeezed off two quick imaginary rounds. The consummate gun fighter, the soft-mechanical click of the Ruger was virtually intoxicating. The weapon was smooth, quick, oiled and deadly. The cylinder flipped open and she inserted six Remington .41 magnum hollow point bullets. Two speed loaders sat carefully on the counter. Eighteen bullets in all, she was already a bad girl, her grandfather trained her on revolvers, he stressed the simplicity, the absolute reliability of revolvers, yet he himself, did the bulk of his killing with automatic pistols. Indeed, by the time of 1945, the Silver Angel all but quit using knives and explosive, he did his principal killing with the simple .45 caliber 1911 automatic pistol. The weapon was a killing machine. Lea defied her grandfather’s convention; she liked revolvers, she understood them, she liked the simple mechanical simplicity. Besides, this was a simple bail skip, what could possibly go wrong?
Isaiah Ishmael Isaac sounds positively biblical, Lea said to herself as she began the square one laborious process of pouring through public records. Maybe the person paid his taxes . . . Isaiah Ishmael Isaac. She found a reference picture in a high school annual. Five years ago, the printer whirred and chucked out multiple pictures for future reference. Lea slipped a serrated three and a ¼-inch razor lock blade into her back pocket as a mater of course. The Ruger came out next; she flipped open the 5 and ¾-inch blue-framed revolver. The cylinder was empty. She snapped the weapon shut and squeezed off two quick imaginary rounds. The consummate gun fighter, the soft-mechanical click of the Ruger was virtually intoxicating. The weapon was smooth, quick, oiled and deadly. The cylinder flipped open and she inserted six Remington .41 magnum hollow point bullets. Two speed loaders sat carefully on the counter. Eighteen bullets in all, she was already a bad girl, her grandfather trained her on revolvers, he stressed the simplicity, the absolute reliability of revolvers, yet he himself, did the bulk of his killing with automatic pistols. Indeed, by the time of 1945, the Silver Angel all but quit using knives and explosive, he did his principal killing with the simple .45 caliber 1911 automatic pistol. The weapon was a killing machine. Lea defied her grandfather’s convention; she liked revolvers, she understood them, she liked the simple mechanical simplicity. Besides, this was a simple bail skip, what could possibly go wrong?
Still her Grandfather’s words stuck in her head: “Carry thirty bullets Frauline, I do not miss. I carry Fifty. You can always reload.”
“Eighteen is less than fifty; this is a simple bail skip. What could possibly go wrong?”
The phone rang.
“Hey baby, it’s me. What ‘cha doing? Want to get some lunch? I got tickets to Les Miz. Did you see my piece in yesterday’s paper? My editor liked it so much he said he is nominating it for a PULITER PRIZE. The Pulitzer Prize Lea! Do you have any idea what that could do for my career?"
“Oh, Brad that’s wonderful, that’s everything we’ve ever hoped for. I told you to keep telling them you’re good, and finally you're getting the recognition that you deserve.”
“The article was about you, Lea . . .”
“Oh―Brad!” Lea’s mood turned foul. “Why the fuck do you always have to write about me? Am I so special? My whole life I’ve lived NOT to be special. This is about Kate, isn't it? Kate is dead; I didn't have anything to do with that, you have to believe me. THEY did it; I begged them not to. You know me, I am not special; you fucking grew up with me in Oklahoma. MY grandfather, he killed a few Nazi, he killed Jews, a couple of Communist. Give it a rest. ME? I never did nothing. I won a few track meets that's all. Big deal. Why do you persecute me? Leave me alone.”
“You’re special Lea.”
Not that special."
“Lea, you didn’t just win a few track meets. You are smok'n on fire. You never just won a few track meets, you smashed every single record of every living runner that ever existed. You’re the fastest goddamn human being on planet. So don’t start in on me with the “I’m nothing special.”
“Brad, leave me alone.”
“Lea, I’ve seen you run, I've seen you shoot. You’re your grandfather incarnate. I've been doing some research, the German goverment recently opened up millions of documents from the old Reich. Poking around in those Nazi records was quite interesting. Germans are if nothing else organized, they kept records of everything. Want me to tell you what I found out?"
“Lea, I’ve seen you run, I've seen you shoot. You’re your grandfather incarnate. I've been doing some research, the German goverment recently opened up millions of documents from the old Reich. Poking around in those Nazi records was quite interesting. Germans are if nothing else organized, they kept records of everything. Want me to tell you what I found out?"
"Not particularly," Lea said, doing her best to feign disinterest. "Brad why do we have to go over this again?"
"Because it's important. Your Grandfather was a Colonel in the Waffen-SS. He commanded one of the dreaded Enstatzgruppens. A death squad, dispatched by Himmler, into the bowels of Russian, with orders to follow in the wake of the regular Wehrmacht 'and clean up a little.' Your Grandfather is personally responsible for the deaths of thousands of Jews, Gypsies and Slavs. There are some diaries, personal accounts of soldiers in his command that said he was a cold-blooded motherfucker, his men feared him. They said he could draw, point and shoot the eye out of a prisoner at 200 yards. He carried two .45 caliber American pistols, a gift from an American Attaché when he was staitoned in Berlin. There was one account that was particularly interesting, it was from a diarist who was a clerk in post-reconstruction Germany. The tale told was he faced down six men, armed with machine guns! He shot them all dead, six bullets, six men, at seventy-five yards. That's not natural, there's no fucking way an ordinary man could shoot down six men at that distance! Wyatt Erpp and the OK Corral has nothing on this old man! They said he walked away with out a scratch, just a bullet hole in his tailcoat.
“Old stories about an old man." Lea scoffed, "Leave him alone, he’s an old man . . . nobody shoots like that . . . not any more." Lea added softly.
“Did he do it?”
“What do you want me to say?,” Lea sobbed, she gasped. “Yes! Grandfather was a Nazi. He's a murderer, he could kill anyone; he was a merchant of death. Stalin, Churchill, Roosevelt, they all knew it. He was a war-criminal―and yet THEY USED HIM! After the bomb, after the war, Truman found out . . . it was Truman who sent him to Spain. Apparently there were a lot of Nazis hiding out in Spain. Grandfather said he always liked Spain. The Silver Angel, he killed them all. The KGB, they knew it, they asked him to kill Kennedy, Grandfather turned them down cold.That was then Grandfather "retired." He killed more than a few Russians, before Moscow got the point. Now he's just a broken old man, his killing days are done. Leave him alone.”
“Okay then, let’s not talk about the past. Let's talk about you. Where did you learn to shoot? He taught you didn't he? That old man taught you to shoot."
"Me? I don't shoot so good."
"You shoot like the devil, Lea Swift, and you know it!"
“Go to hell, Brad!” Lea almost hung up the phone.
"Lea, please. Don't hang up! Don't hang up! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I can't help it, I'm a newspaper reporter, I've been everywhere, read everything. This is something different. I've written hundreds of stories about countless psychos, wackos, and sickos. Your grandfather, he's not like any of them, he's in a catagory all by himself. Lea, the one thing you gotta understand is, you see him as just your grandfather. But to the world, to the rest of us. WHEW! That old man is one scary guy! I've never even met him and he scares me right down to my socks!"
"Lea, please. Don't hang up! Don't hang up! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I can't help it, I'm a newspaper reporter, I've been everywhere, read everything. This is something different. I've written hundreds of stories about countless psychos, wackos, and sickos. Your grandfather, he's not like any of them, he's in a catagory all by himself. Lea, the one thing you gotta understand is, you see him as just your grandfather. But to the world, to the rest of us. WHEW! That old man is one scary guy! I've never even met him and he scares me right down to my socks!"
*Sigh*
“So, this isn't going to be like another newshound interview? Because if it is, I’ll tell you straight up, Granpa-Doc killed a lot of people, nobody's denying that. But he’s old, he's dying. He's no threat to anyone. You go poking around, writing articles you'll make trouble with the INS and get him deported. Please! Leve him be. Let him die in peace.”
“No, it’s about you . . . maybe about me." Brad paused on the telephone, "I love you Lea.”
“Brad, please, don’t put that kind of pressure on me. Painter you know how crazy he gets sometimes. He could loose a bundle on this one. Besides, you know how I feel about people tagging along when I'm working. It’s pretty boring stuff, finding these skips, it’s not like on TV . . .”
“Sounds like you could use some help"
"Not really."
"How 'bout some company then? Com’on Lea, tickets to Les Miz, lunch. Please no more reporter questions. You can’t turn down lunch and a show. You got all day tomorrow to find that skip.”
"Not really."
"How 'bout some company then? Com’on Lea, tickets to Les Miz, lunch. Please no more reporter questions. You can’t turn down lunch and a show. You got all day tomorrow to find that skip.”
“Could be dangerous, darling, I got a bad feeling about this one.”
“I’m with you, remember? You're the one with the BFG."
"B ● F ● G?"
"Big fucking gun!" Brad laughed at his own joke.
"Don't make fun of me Bradly. A gun is a tool, no different than a camera or a typewriter."
"Except guns kill people."
"I've never killed anyone." Lea lied. "I've never killed anyone." She repeated to herself.
"So, can I come?"
*Sigh*
“Meet me at Aries . . .” Lea left in a flustered rush. The prospect of Bradly tagging along bothered her more than she wanted to admit. It could be dangerous. The solid reassuring weight of the Ruger, pressed against her left side. Isaac was a punk, what could possibly go wrong? The two speed loaders lay forgotten on the kitchen table. Now there were just six bullets.
CHAPTER 9
IN TO THE WILD
SHE KILLED A DOE. Ten-years-old, going on eleven and she already made her first kill. She was naked. She had taken her clothes off earlier that afternoon and run blindly into the woods. At first the brambles and underbrush chaffed and scratched her bare skin. Now it didn’t seem to bother her so much. She no longer felt the cold, she was on all fours; she was free of inhibitions as if being naked in the woods was the most natural state in the world.The doe she killed earlier that evening; she ate the liver and contents of the stomach, Old Bob explained to her that these were the first organs to spoil, they were also the most nutritious, and so they must be eaten first. She was apprehensive at first, timid really. Lea felt in every way a naked ten-year-old girl in the woods. She had known idea the power and strength of the sinew of her muscles. No concept of the millions upon millions of years of evolution her ancestors went through to perfect her design. Phoebe was in fact the very apotheosis of a perfect killing machine. Mercurial in speed and stealth, combined with cunning tooth and claw. In all the pantheon of hunters, she had no equal. Tell that to her growling stomach, the thought of raw meat made her want to vomit. She wished for pancakes.
Old Bob, the worthless one-eyed-barnyard cat offered her encouragement. He walked her through the intricacies of the hunt, explaining each step: The stalk, the pounce and the kill. Even though Old Bob’s expertise were pretty much limited to mice, Bob was careful to explain that a deer was no mouse, that a deer’s kick was a dangerous thing; a buck’s horns were lethal. The throat was the primary target; a lightning grab at the throat, with jaws that could generate two-thousand pounds of crushing force, the animal was doomed.
Actually, there was nothing to it. Phoebe waited in ambush, pounced, and tore out its throat, the stunning swiftness at which she could kill, the power of tooth and fang, amazed even her. Never had she felt so empowered, so alive. Lea remembers bitterly, the circle of 5th grade girls taunting her teasing her, “♪ the cheese stands alone ♫.” If only they knew the power of vengeance that coursed through her veins. She was an adolescent, a 5th grade school girl with the strength of ten men. She was a monster. “Am I a monster?” Lea didn’t know. Old Bob reminded her, “With absolute power, comes absolute responsibility . . . you could kill them. Five school girls. You could tear them to pieces, and then men with guns would come and hunt you too. I can’t stop you―but ask yourself this, do a few schoolyard taunts warrant death? Yours and there’s
Lea felt ashamed.
It was then that Old Bob introduced Lea to her “Other” Phoebe. Unlike Lea, Phoebe had no inhibitions; Phoebe didn’t care about schoolyard squabbles, Phoebe was pure “id.” Phoebe was powerful, confident, and terrible. Phoebe was the fastest goddamn thing on the planet and she knew it. Phoebe was the one who actually killed the doe, Lea only watched in horror as the animal was eviscerated and eaten. Phoebe killed the doe quickly, with a lightning rush and a crushing grasp to the throat. She rolled the animal over and inertia caused the doe’s neck to crack. Phoebe dragged the carcass into the tree, once safe from scavengers; she expected to return for several days to feed.
Phoebe considered herself fortunate to have taken and animal so large. She crinkled her nose, a low growl ushered from her throat, when Lea considered supper, there would be no steaming hot plate of mashed potatoes and ham, no warm bed. Lea would learn, a deer was a rare find in the sparsely populated woodlands of Okalahoma. One could find them, if one knew where to look, in the little patches of dense undergrowth, here and there. She had spotted the young doe, frightened and confused along highway 93.
Lea had been with them four days now. The time had passed and she never gave a fleeting thought to the worry of her Uncle Henry or her sister Emily. The Webley lay in the dense undergrowth, two bullets in the chamber exactly where she dropped it. Her clothes, lost strewn in the woods. She never answered the calls of the search parties organized. The Sheriff department told a sobbing Uncle Benard and Aunt Irene that their poor Lea was lost.
All the while, Phoebe had learned a great deal in that time. Lea learned what it meant to be one of the “Others.” It was not long after this Lea learned at some level that Kate was to die. It seemed clear that Kate, poor ignorant, self-possessed Kate had somehow blundered. She had committed an affront that could not to be ignored; the poor girl could hardly know what it was she had done. Nonetheless, it could not be forgiven. Lea protested, she begged for forgiveness. There were several other animals on the council. Two she-wolves, a great black bear, and her grandfather, a monstrous Kodiak, thirteen feet tall. She told them to kill her instead, her grandfather intervened, he was a Nazi, a man who had personally killed 400 people, and he spoke kindly.
“Frauline, you do not understand. You are one of us you are destined for greatness. Kate is nothing. She is an affront to us, she has insulted one of us, and therefore she has insulted ALL of us. Kate will die.”
Kate died the next day, on the day before Halloween night. An animal attack, a bear attack. There are no bears in Oklahoma.
Chapter 10
SIX EQUALS SIX, REDUX
SIX EQUALS SIX, REDUX
IT WAS ALONG AN ABANDON RAILROAD TRACK, amidst the squalor, that was now the urban sprawl of Hamtramck that she came. The year was January 1993. Snow was on the ground, it fell in great white flakes that filtered down and collected on the brim of her Detroit baseball hat. The wind blew in icy gust, she did not care, there was no cold wind that blew that was colder than her own icy heart. In her pocket was a notebook. Recorded in her neat methodical hand, all the information she had collected over the weeks of her investigation. She was if nothing else, organized and precise. She had three warrants folded neatly in a manila envelope. One for a Marcus Anthony Smith a.k.a. “Fat Moe,” felony drug trafficking. A Reginald Dwight Alexander also wanted for felony drug trafficking and manufacture of meth amphetamines, and a Crispin “Crack’n Coke” Larsen. Wanted for kidnapping, murder one, and felony drug trafficking, a nice bunch of boys.
No, this was the right location. Her snitches on the street confirmed it. Her keen detective intuition told her this was the right place, and she was seldom wrong. They were here, the girl was here too, they took the girl so she would come, poor dumb bastards, didn’t their mother ever tell them to be careful what to wish for? Well now, they got their wish. If the girl was harmed . . . it didn’t matter, Lea was going to get the girl, and she was going to kill them.
The snow covered gravel crunched softly under her feet. There was an abandoned burned out car, a Volvo; it was hard to be sure. She picked her way past heaps of trash, a dead dog, and garbage-strewn streets. The height width and depth of the urban decay was devastating. No wonder these wretched people turned to crime and drugs just to eek out a miserable existence. That was as far as her sympathy went. Lea knew poor. She knew what it was like to do without. She had grown up a poor sharecropper’s daughter from the dust bowl of Oklahoma. There was one truth about which Lea's parents had been certain to instill in her, being poor was no excuse for becoming a criminal. Those were two different pursuits. What we have here were drug dealers, murderers, and racketeers. They didn’t care about their own people, they had kidnapped Luka, murdered her grandfather, just to get back at her. They were used to getting their own way, this time they had bitten off more than they could chew. They hadn’t counted on Lea Swift. They didn’t know that she was not afraid of them. They didn’t have brains enough to know it was they who should be afraid of her. Her grandfather's spirit dwelled within her, he had taught her too much. She was a killer, she was death. Today, Lea Swift came for them.
Lea continued her approach towards the towering tenement building, “The Hornets.” A bullet thudded into a tree behind her. Lea was still two hundred yards from where the shot came. If they hit her at this distance, a bolt of lightening from the blue might as well strike her down. She did not draw her weapon she did not react. Cold frost blew from her lungs as she continued her trek.
Lea continued her approach towards the towering tenement building, “The Hornets.” A bullet thudded into a tree behind her. Lea was still two hundred yards from where the shot came. If they hit her at this distance, a bolt of lightening from the blue might as well strike her down. She did not draw her weapon she did not react. Cold frost blew from her lungs as she continued her trek.
There were six men, not four. Curtis Isaac the liar and coward that he was had two brothers, Maurice, and Jamie. Isaac stood in the doorway, behind the others. For a brief instant Lea considered the odds against her were not good. Then the words of her grandfather boomed in her head: “Frauline, shoot as I tell you to shoot, you will kill them. Kill them Frauline, kill them all.” Lea’s heart hardened, kidnap a little girl, threaten to kill her, lock me in a fucking freezer to die, if there's any dieing to be done today . . . One woman against six armed thugs. Isaac was a coward and a user to the end, it made no difference, they all would die today.
“Curtis Isaac, I’ve come for you! I have come for the girl!” Why she even bothered to warn them was a mystery even to her, in the end, it was the gunfighter’s code; even though she intended to shoot them down, it was a point of honor that they at least know why she had come.
"Come and get her, you lily white bitch!” Curtis bellowed, he cut loose a blast of automatic weapons fire, and ducked behind the safety of his men.
Bullets whipped by Lea's face like angry hornets. She never reacted. A hail of gunfire erupted from the foyer of the tenement, from behind a huge cement planter spewed automatic weapon fire from a MAC-10. There was a pop, pop, pop from the along the fence line, Lea found herself in the worst possible situation, shot at from all directions. Wild, undisciplined, highly inaccurate fire, fifteen-year-old boys don’t shoot too good. Still, the volume of fire was deadly; Isaac and his thugs were feeling confident, one woman against six, one woman against six hardened gangsters.
Lea struck a vulnerable pose, slightly built, oddly out of place, a blonde blue-eyed white girl in a Detroit baseball cap, lost in the middle of the darkest urban of sprawls the was the decay of Hamtramck.
“Better tell your boys, to back off! if they want to get killed, it’s best they clear out now! “
Curtis Isaac watched with a combination of fascination and horror as this lone white woman "Called him out." It was the most sever of challenge known on the street. The pure afront, the bald-faced audcity, it was an insult. A white bitch calling HIM out! Curtis Isaac, boss man, Lord high Pooh bah of the 42nd street Curs, people lived or died on his very command, and a lilly white bitch dared to call him out. Isaac was in a state of confusion. This was one crazy white bitch. Didn’t she know this was Cur territory? Didn’t she know the reputation of the Curs? We kill people just for looking at us wrong. We shot that old man to pieces, isn’t that enough? What does one uppity white bitch want with one little nigger girl, she isn’t even that black; she’s stupid, deaf and dumb. No use to anybody, doesn’t this stupid white cunt know she’s already dead? Isaac watched in abject horror, the sceen was beyond his comprehension.
"ALL RIGHT, THAT'S IT! KILL HER BOYZ, SHOOT HER DOWN!"
This was one crazy white bitch. He saw the muzzle flash, yet there was no gunshot report, his world spun out of control as if in slow motion. Two, four, six, the shell casings spattered to the pavement, his men were all dead. The room echoed with the deafening cacophony of his own panicked Ak-47 fire.
Bullets thudded all around her, Lea remained unperturbed, cool even, at seventy-five yards, she knew she was invulnerable. She unzipped the flap of her leather jacket and the skeleton holster released its clutches on the Ruger Redhawk. Menacing, oiled, and blue-black, this was a modern-day firearm, loaded with deadly hollow-point bullets; it remained a revolver, and traced its origins back to the Wild West and the days of Wyatt Earp and Wes Hardin. A pure gunfighter’s weapon. There was no fear in this woman’s eye as she drew back the hammer and pointed the weapon down range. In any critical instant, some men blink an eye; some men draught a breath, Lea swift used that first quarter second to squeeze off two shots, piercing the glass door of the foyer.
Six equals six. The silence of death broken only by the icy frost she blew from her nostrils. There was no one left to oppose her. In the first two and a quarter seconds of the gunfight, Lea had expended six rounds of ammunition and killed five men, five men with six bullets at seventy-five yards. The boy behind the cement planter, she couldn’t even see, but he was dead, a bullet drilled straight through his head. Along the fence line, two more bodies lay dead, one shot in the throat, the other boy lay smashed, the bullet tore through his third rib, lung and pierced his aorta. No more fire erupted from the foyer, presumably, they were dead too; these were not men, mere boys; Isaac had sent to the slaughter.
They were all dead. Now the real business of killing began. The cylinder flipped open and shell casing from the Ruger spattered on the pavement. The brass of six fresh bullets flashed in the sunlight of that January day. Lea coolly snapped the Ruger shut, loaded for death.
Bullets thudded all around her, Lea remained unperturbed, cool even, at seventy-five yards, she knew she was invulnerable. She unzipped the flap of her leather jacket and the skeleton holster released its clutches on the Ruger Redhawk. Menacing, oiled, and blue-black, this was a modern-day firearm, loaded with deadly hollow-point bullets; it remained a revolver, and traced its origins back to the Wild West and the days of Wyatt Earp and Wes Hardin. A pure gunfighter’s weapon. There was no fear in this woman’s eye as she drew back the hammer and pointed the weapon down range. In any critical instant, some men blink an eye; some men draught a breath, Lea swift used that first quarter second to squeeze off two shots, piercing the glass door of the foyer.
Six equals six. The silence of death broken only by the icy frost she blew from her nostrils. There was no one left to oppose her. In the first two and a quarter seconds of the gunfight, Lea had expended six rounds of ammunition and killed five men, five men with six bullets at seventy-five yards. The boy behind the cement planter, she couldn’t even see, but he was dead, a bullet drilled straight through his head. Along the fence line, two more bodies lay dead, one shot in the throat, the other boy lay smashed, the bullet tore through his third rib, lung and pierced his aorta. No more fire erupted from the foyer, presumably, they were dead too; these were not men, mere boys; Isaac had sent to the slaughter.
They were all dead. Now the real business of killing began. The cylinder flipped open and shell casing from the Ruger spattered on the pavement. The brass of six fresh bullets flashed in the sunlight of that January day. Lea coolly snapped the Ruger shut, loaded for death.
Isaac retreated into the squalid depth of the building, retreat being a relative term. Isaac fled, fled like a craven coward. He had seen what Lea Swift had done to his men. He had watched in horror as she shot his men dead. Isaac pissed himself. He knew he was a dead man. He knew he was so fucking dead, if he didn’t get to the girl, this crazy white woman was going to kill him. Luka! Isaac always hated that little white bitch. The girl was a nuisance and stupid, worst of all she wasn't black . . . she wasn't black enough. He actually took pleasure in the last fleeting glimpses of the child's terrified face as he shoved her down and shut the door. The refrigerator was a derelict, an old-fashioned model from the ‘50’s with the locking handle. The plan was that the child would suffocate and he would dump the fridge in the Detroit River. End of problem, end of Lea Swift. Isaac clutched his AK-47, now Lea Swift came for him, he calculated just how much air there might have been, the girl may still be alive, she was his only hope.
Lea Swift pulled back the hammer on the Ruger to full cock, an action so well rehearsed it was second nature. The weapon actuated with all the precision that exacting German engineering could muster. The cylinder rotated smoothly, bringing the next shell into firing position. Lea raised the Ruger to combat position, like an attack dog sniffing for prey, the woman and the gun pushed back the shattered glass doors, and entered the dust-filled confines of the Hornets. Luka was somewhere in the building. She would find the girl she would kill Isaac. Of that, she was certain.
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