Growth (5 page)

They fully expected her to fail. They wanted her to be overwhelmed, wanted to shock the boys, wanted to teach the town about chaos and the end of the world. So they kept the troop and Sandy in the firehouse where she reviewed the basics of first aid until the stage was set. They didn't tell the boys or Sandy, just pushed them out into the thick of things, while playing explosion sound effects from a scout leader's pickup sound system. Sandy took a moment to take it all in, then organized the twenty-six boys into five teams that spread out over the street, reminding the boys of the three categories of the triage triangle: 1. Those who are likely to live, regardless of what care they receive; 2. Those who are likely to die, regardless of what care they receive; and 3. Those for whom immediate care might make a positive difference in outcome.

She spoke low and reminded the boys that it was just a game. “Have fun.” She sent them out into the late spring on Third Street to bandage to their hearts' content. Twenty-six scouts in gas masks ran through the street full of smoke and fake blood. She drifted around, making sure each team was organized and working, helping decide a few on-the-fence cases, all overacted with far too much screaming and moaning and groaning and thrashing around.

Sandy tried not to laugh while she stood with nine scouts watching two hapless, dying citizens who were not destined to survive got to act out their very own death scenes. They put on a show, Sandy had to give them that. Problem was, neither one of the actors wanted to be the first one to die. So they kept flopping around, trying to be the last to move. The Boy Scouts all saluted when they finally died and stayed still.

Eddie Hudson, the previous chief, knew she had been set up for failure and goaded the City Council to publicly recognize her achievements in the disaster scenario. After that, he noticed she had a head on her shoulders and took her under his wing. But even with her impeccable track record, nobody outside the Parker's Mill Police Department took her seriously as a law enforcement officer.

Then everybody in the country saw the video footage from her dashboard camera.

 

 

It is night. She is pulling over a weaving, possibly stolen, gray Lexus. When she goes up to the driver's window, a man pops up on the passenger side and shouts good-naturedly, “Hey there, sweet tits.”

She takes three sideways steps toward her cruiser, following procedure, as if she were a basketball player on defense, creating a triangle between herself, the ball, and the basket. “Please get back in the vehicle, sir.”

He laughs and says, “Aw, don't be hatin'. I got what you need, baby.”

The driver starts to get out of the car as well, all slow and controlled, but then lunges at her like a Jack-in-the-box, arms outstretched.

Sandy draws her revolver. Back then she carried a Smith & Wesson Model 686 Plus with a four-inch barrel, loaded with seven standard .38 rounds. Since her attention was on the passenger, the driver is on her before she can bring the barrel up. The driver, nearly a foot and a half taller and at least one hundred and fifty pounds heavier, crashes into her.

Sandy fires the revolver as he drives her to the ground.

They fall out of sight in front of the cruiser with a howl of pain. Sandy rises back into sight, backing away, keeping the gun trained on the driver, still on the ground in front of the cruiser's grille. The mic can still hear him though, as he screams, “Oh
BEEEP
my knee, oh
BEEEEP
Jesus, my knee, my knee.”

The passenger comes around the back of the Lexus and rushes at Sandy.

She plants her feet and pivots her hips and shoulders, smoothly tracking him. She yells, and even though you can hear her quite clearly, the TV stations always felt the need to stamp her words across the bottom of the screen in all capital yellow letters. “STOP. YOU WILL FREEZE OR I WILL SHOOT.”

But the passenger is too full of rage and wildness to listen. When he is less than ten feet away, Sandy pulls the trigger. Twice. Two sharp cracks, so close together they sound almost like one shot, and with the suddenness of a taxi clipping a pedestrian, the passenger drops.

For a moment, the only movement is from the spinning red and blue lights, fading away into the night as rendered by the stuttering pixels of the dashboard cam. The silence is broken by the driver howling, “My
BEEEEP
knee. You
BEEEEP
.”

She slips off the screen and the mic picks her up, breathing hard, “Shots fired. Repeat. Shots fired. Officer needs ambulance. Two individuals in need of medical attention.”

Cut back to the anchors and one of the newscasters would say something predictable like, “Truly incredible, breathtaking footage,” in their special voice, a balance of solemnity and admiration, reserved for the stories that came after the daily tragedy and politics, before sports and weather.

Sandy's fifteen minutes of fame lasted long enough to get her elected as Police Chief of Parker's Mill. Eddie Hudson backed her, but it wasn't easy. Sandy had two strikes against her. One, she was a woman, and two, even worse, she was a single mom.

The sheriff of Manchester County, Erik Hoyt, never had seen eye to eye with Hudson and wanted one of his own troopers in the position. He thought it would be easy, but the residents had seen the video, of course, and felt that Parker's Mill boasted its very own genuine Annie Oakley. Some folks had private fantasies about their new police chief shooting all the goddamn illegal immigrants who were taking every job in the county. Others thought for sure she'd go down to the river and shoot anybody cooking meth. And still some in the town thought that if nothing else, she would at least keep those disrespectful teenagers in line.

Seven months later, the shock and awe of the video had worn off, and while Sandy was officially the chief of police in Parker's Mill, she was no longer the woman who had single-handedly taught two rich thugs a lesson they'd never forget, let alone the new law officer who rode in on a white horse and straightened out the town.

She was back to being a woman, a single mom, and a pain in the ass.

Bob Morton Sr. had promised himself he wouldn't cry.

At least, not until he reached his son's cornfield.

He didn't think he was going to make it.

Sobs kept threatening to erupt out of his chest like something alive struggling to get out into the open air. He gritted his teeth and a low keening sound seeped out. Through blurry tears gathering on his lower eyelids, he could see that he was doing at least eighty miles an hour. He had to slow down. If he crashed, then where would that leave Belinda? He couldn't do that to her, taking away both her son and husband on the same day.

He forced himself to pull his toes back, easing off the gas. The big diesel engine's whine dropped to a low hum in relief. At least he could see in the high beams that the field was coming up soon. He pulled over and turned down a dirt road, mostly used by the tractors and harvesters, and followed it to the end.

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

He knew he was lying to himself.

It was exactly the same.

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

Crying before he gave himself permission would make him weak.

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

 

 

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

The city limits had never been altered since.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She couldn't see Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From there, it was simply a matter of twisting out of his grasp and squeezing the trigger. Two vicious barbs, each connected to the weapon with coiled wire, jumped out and dug themselves deep into Charlie's abdomen like fishing lures out for vengeance. Over 13,000 volts sparked through him, effectively shutting down any kind of control Charlie had hoped to exert over his own body. He involuntarily groaned, twitching like a cattle prod had been shoved up his ass.

Axel was already rushing at her. Sandy grabbed her canister of Mace clipped to her belt with her right hand and brought it up, blasting him directly in the face. To Axel's credit, he didn't slow down. He just couldn't see anything anymore.

Sandy sidestepped his pinwheeling arms and let him crash into his brother. The two of them went down like two trees in a monsoon. Her hand went to her third and last weapon, the Glock. She gave Edgar a meaningful look.

He sat still on the stage. His head wasn't bouncing anymore.

Sandy left the Glock in its holster, replaced the cartridge in the Taser, and turned back to the younger brothers.

Axel kept trying to stand up, but couldn't find his balance with his eyes screwed tight, as clear mucus gushed out his nose and filled his bottom lip, his entire face the color of homemade hot sauce. He crawled away, managed to find his feet, and struck out in a random direction until he banged against the front doorframe and staggered outside.

The charge only lasted five seconds, and Charlie regained control. He sat up and glared at her. “You fucking—”

Sandy wasn't in the mood and shot him again with the Taser.

Charlie writhed on the dance floor for another five long seconds. At the end of it, he went limp. Sandy knelt among the Anti-Felon Identification confetti that had sprayed out of the Taser when it had been fired. She gathered all four wires and snipped them off with a Leatherman. Keeping his shoulder pinned down, she used her right hand to rip the barbs out of his torso with as much of a ninety-degree angle as she could manage.

She decided he could live without the sterilizing swabs and Band-Aids and stood, using her boot to roll Charlie over onto his stomach. He groaned. She ignored this and crossed his hands in the small of his back. She snapped plastic zip ties around his wrists and left him facedown on the dance floor. She decided to leave Axel for now and pointed at Edgar. “You. Facedown on the floor. Fingers laced on the back of your neck. Now.”

“I didn't do nothing,” Edgar said. “You got no right.”

“I'll give your lawyer a call later. At the moment, I will cuff you one way or another. You can either climb into my vehicle under your own power or I will be forced to persuade you. The choice is entirely yours.”

Edgar didn't like it, but he got on the floor and interlaced his fingers at the back of his head. He glared sideways up at the bar patrons as Sandy handcuffed him. “Fuck all y'all. Buncha bitches and pussies.” She left him facedown on the floor. He continued to yell at everybody as Sandy went out the front. “Bitches and pussies. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I know who you are.”

Sandy found Axel punching her squad car. She kicked his legs out from under him and put him on the asphalt. He tried to push off the ground but Sandy jammed her knee deep in the center of his back to remind him to be still. She wrenched his arms back and zip tied his wrists as if she'd just roped a calf in a rodeo.

Folks spilled out of the doorway to watch.

Sandy threw Axel in the back of the cruiser and went back inside. She found Freddy G standing over Charlie, giving serious thought to stomping on Charlie's head. Edgar was still cussing at anybody in his line of sight. Charlie was smart enough to stay quiet and pretend to be nearly unconscious.

Sandy looked up at Freddy G. “What's the damage?”

He peeled back his bloody lips in a grimace. One of his top incisors was gone. “Keeping it in a shot glass over there,” he explained.

“I'm no dentist,” Sandy said. “But crushing his skull won't grow you a new tooth.”

“It'd make me happy,” Freddy G said.

Sandy couldn't argue with that.

Edgar rolled over and saw the bouncer looming over them like Paul Bunyan. “Hey man, this is your job, ain't it? What you get paid for. You gonna whine like a bitch all night?”

Sandy stepped in front of Freddy G and helped Edgar to his feet. “Let's get you to the car before any accidents happen.”

Freddy G shook a pudgy finger at Edgar. “Y'all are not welcome in here anymore. I see you in here again, I'll put you in the fucking hospital.”

Edgar started to say something back, but Sandy gave his arms a swift, savage tug straight up, torqueing the hell out of his shoulders. He gave a squeal of pain and they were out the door.

Edgar went in the backseat with Axel. Charlie took longer, mostly because he couldn't walk on his own worth a damn. Sandy tipped her hat at Freddy G, who was settling back into his spot on a bar stool outside the front door. He spit blood into the parking lot and didn't wave back.