The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (8 page)

A
ssuming Laura would eventually realize the message did not come from her husband and then possibly begin to question the events surrounding his death, Porter's mind raced to find a way to undo his rash action, then just as quickly decided to deal with that later.  A look back at Mitch, and his disgust returned.  Porter pulled his mask from his face and said, "Remember my face.  Study it real good.  I want you to know the face of the man who could have finished you right here, but didn't."  He then tossed the phone at Mitch’s feet and walked in the direction he had come.

Five minutes later, and more distraught at his condition than when Porter had left, Mitch slowly and with great effort mounted the four-wheeler, hoping to Hell his attacker was
really gone.  On the slow ride back to his truck, his mind tried to identify the face of his attacker. 
Who was that guy
? he thought. 
He said he recognized me.  Did I take him in some deal?
  The vaguely familiar details of Porter’s face were on the edge of Mitch’s mind. 
Was he friends with Laura
? 
Did I know him as a child
?  Now 36, Mitch knew the faces of all his school classmates even though half had left the state for work.  Porter's face did not register as any of them. 

Mitch abandoned this memory exercise as the pain in his left arm was now unbearable.  Each bump on the road felt like tiny knives sinking directly into his wound.  Mitch desperately wanted to call Laura, but with only one good arm, driving was his top priority. 
I’ll call her as soon as I get to the truck
, he thought. 

When he reached his F-150, Mitch stood beside the driver’s door, and placed the cell phone on the hood.  Just as he began to dial Laura, a whistle, like that of a farmer calling his cattle in to feed, rang out.  Mitch looked in the direction of the sound and saw Porter, twenty yards north of him at the edge of the woods; his rifle leveled at him.  He knew his personal grim reaper would not permit him
his final call.

Mitch looked down at the ground one last time, absorbing the sights, the crisp morning smells, the sound of a breeze picking up and gently moving through the frozen grass. 
So this is how I’m going to die
? he thought.  Mitch wondered how many survivors of a brush with death had uttered that question.  His was not a question but a pronouncement,
This is how I’m going to die
.  Blinking a few times as if the act of moving his eyelids would clear his mind for his final act, Mitch slowly raised his head and looked solemnly at Porter.  With eyes that pleaded for mercy and a quivering bottom lip, Mitch gave a slight nod to communicate his submission and inhaled. 

“Remember who you are,” escaped Porter’s lips as
he squeezed the trigger for a second time that morning.

Chapter 8

Family Lost

November 2011

Porter’s call
to Connie from his Mason County motel room was much different than the first.  He still needed to confess, but the more he avenged, the more clinical his admissions had become.  He would quickly summarize the circumstances which placed him in the lives of the tormentor and the abused female, provide a bit more detail on how he had punished the abuser, and conclude with why death was justified.  Today’s call followed that same pattern, with one exception.

"Wife?" asked Connie.  "Since when did you switch from helping young girls to wives?"

“Connie, she was getting beat half to death and nobody knew it," Porter protested.

"
Hey, I'm not disagreeing with what you did. Just stick with what you know or you'll end up avenging the victim of every petty criminal," Connie stated authoritatively. 

"Agreed
," said Porter.  "But honestly, this is growing into what feels like an addiction.  It's not the bitter medicine I've been swallowing so far.  It's actually starting to have a sweet taste to it.  Plus, it's a hell of a lot harder to find those abusing little girls than the garden variety wife beaters."

"Porter
," started Connie in her disciplining tone.

"Don't say it
," he interrupted.  "You're right.  I'm wrong.  From now on I'll do what I know.  I promise."  He paused to deliver news he knew she would oppose. "After I finish what I'm about to start here." 

“What do you mean
? You’re staying around?” she asked with great concern.  “That’s too close to the crime scene.  You always leave after your jobs.”

“Not jobs
Connie,” Porter pleaded.  “Nobody’s paying me for this.”

“I know
, but I just don’t know what else to call them.  Retaliations?  Avengings? I mean what do you want me to call them?” 

“I don’t know,
" Porter said. "Just don’t call them jobs."

“Ok, but seriously, why are staying around?  Are
n't you nervous others in town will see you?”

“Well, I’ve gotta have dinner with the family today and then,” he paused, “then I’m going after James Holland.”

“The hell you are
!” Connie said emphatically, imploring the motherly role she had assumed.  “You won’t do any such thing Porter.  Get your ass out of that town tonight!”

“
I can’t Connie,” came his meek, but firm response.  “I’m here and I’ve seen him.  If he was evil twenty years ago, then he is 50 times worse now.  And he all but runs this state.  So, I know no one is stopping him."  He considered not offering his final sentence, but he had never withheld information from Connie and he was not about to start now.  "Plus, I put a tracker on his car after seducing him at a bar and I want to see how I can make the most of that.”

“You what!” shoute
d Connie into the phone.  “He's seen your face?  Are you shitting me, Porter?  You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” Connie asked, certain that Porter was straight, but to entrap the man who molested his sister, she was uncertain the levels to which he might stoop.

“Hell no!” barked Porter back at her
.

Again in
her motherly tone, Connie implored, “Porter, remember how you operate.  You are invisible, undetectable, and untraceable.  You never stay in the same town as your mark.  You never engage any of the locals in conversation.  And you sure as hell never seduce a potential victim!” she yelled into the phone.  “And you never premeditate.  Your perps show themselves to you by chance and stupidity.  That way none of the friends, family, or associates can pick you out of a line up.”  To solidify her argument she closed with the pleadings of a true believer, “Porter, you believe you are on this planet to do what the law and church can’t or won’t... and so do I.  Don't lose your mission by making it into one of revenge.”

Feeling scolded but proud that she loved him enough to speak truth, Porter responded, “You’re right.  Let me sleep on it and
I’ll call you tomorrow with what I’m going to do.” 

"Ok," Connie answered.  "But the only thing you're doing to do is leave.  Understand?"

"I got it."

He placed his
mobile on the night stand and started the shower.  The soothing steam did not illuminate any scenarios where he could take out Holland and stay undetected. 
Connie's right
, he thought.

His r
andomness had kept the authorities from finding even a shred of circumstantial evidence against him.  He knew there were far too many others who needed rescuing for him to risk getting caught over an event that happened twenty years ago, as heinous and personal as it was.  Porter resolved to wait and find an opening for his ultimate revenge. 

Connie
, however, did not exercise patience.  After hanging up with Porter, she immediately entered ten digits on her phone.  “Hey, it’s me.  He’s got a new number,” she said and then repeated what Porter had provided.  “He’s in Hurricane, West Virginia now, but I think he’ll be headed west soon and probably back home in a few days.”  The listener offered thirty seconds of instruction.  "Ok.  I will," Connie responded.  She then hung up and said a Hail Mary.

*****

Porter’s drive to Granny’s was quick but not without incident.  Navigating the sharp curves and sections of sinking pavement of Hurricane Creek Road did not raise his blood pressure nearly as much as did the bevy of patrol cars that met him as he approached the family’s driveway .  He slowed his vehicle well below the speed limit, but even that precaution could not keep him from the roadblock officer's interview.

“Hello officer
,” said Porter.  “A little early for a drunk check, isn’t it?” he asked jokingly.

Without emotion, the
crew cut, muscular state trooper replied, “No sir, no check.  A hunter was killed in the woods and we’re not sure if it was an accident or not.  So we’re just checking everybody coming down the Creek in case the killer wants another look at his handiwork.”

“Oh
, wow,” said Porter in as subdued a manner as he could muster.  “I'm just headed to the Joyce place for dinner.”  As the words left his mouth, he immediately wanted to retract them. 

“You kin to them
?” asked the trooper. 
Shit
, thought Porter not knowing how to answer.  Any story would be verified by decent investigators, but they were no match for the curious, small town wives of the troopers.  There had been no murders in the county since 1988 when Porter's classmate, Lawson Rudolph bludgeoned his father to death after he found him stealing his stash of weed. The excitement around a former football star being gunned down like would undoubtedly keep the spouses vying to see who was the better Nancy Drew.  If any of them got wind of a stranger having dinner at the Joyce’s, well, inquiring minds would definitely want to know.

“
Yeah, I’m Mrs. Joyce’s cousin,” he lied as he handed the officer a Florida driver’s license with Justin Moore’s name on it.  “Just got in last night and I’ll be out in the morning.”  Anticipating a bit more interrogation, Porter braced himself for the officer’s next words. 

“
All right sir.  Have a good time with Mr. and Mrs. Joyce.  They've always been real nice to my family.  Tell 'em Paul Stamper says hello.”

With what he hoped was not an audible sigh of relief, Porter said, “Will do
, Paul.  Thanks.”

The
hard packed gravel driveway leading to Granny’s house made the familiar crunching sound under his tires that he recalled as one of his earliest memories.  Approaching the front door, Porter braced himself for the flood gate of memories to open.  He inhaled deeply and turned the handle.

“Hey
, sugar,” said Porter, loudly announcing his arrival as he pushed open the door.  He hoped Granny would remember those words as the phrase he used each day when he got off the school bus at her house.

“Wel
l, Zip, you made it,” came the fragile, tear-filled voice of his 86 year old paternal grandmother.  “I wasn't real sure you would actually make it,” she said, as her arms wrapped him at the waist.  Oh, how he had missed those arms.  As a child they were much stronger and firmer, but still, they were the same ones that had cooked a thousand biscuits for him; served sausage gravy and homemade apple butter from the apples they gathered from the Tucker County farm; the same arms that had pulled a small tree branch and switched him and Jennifer for killing two of her favorite doves.

“I’ve missed you
, honey,” she said sweetly in her country accent; her tears dampening his shirt.  And just like that, she treated Porter as if he had been a daily presence in her house the past twenty years.  “With Grampy’s mind slipping, I could really use some adult conversation.  I’ll even talk politics with you as long as you don’t bash my Democrats,” she said with a smile.  That mind; educated far beyond the eight grades she had completed.

“
I can see we need to fatten you up some.  I figured at your age you'd have a lot more meat on your bones than you do.  Jennifer sure does,” she offered with a slight dig at what Porter presumed was his sister's weight issues.

“Yes
, ma'am,” answered Porter fighting the tears of nostalgia with a smile.  “But I'm sure your cooking will do the trick.”

“Well
, honey, you know those city folks don’t know how to cook.”  Those words.  How they warmed his heart.  Having never left the county in which she was born and only knowing of “The City” in the most ambiguous of terms, the country ways were, in her opinion, by far the better and certainly "holier" way to live.  In her view, no city person could hold a candle to her work ethic, common sense, cooking talent, or quality of life.

“So
Grampy’s slipping, huh?” asked Porter.

“Oh
sure, but he’s as onry as ever.”  Porter was 25 years old before he knew the word was actually spelled and pronounced ornery.  “And he’s not helping out like he should,” she added with another dig like only she could do.

“We
ll, he is almost 90,” added Porter.

“So am I
,” she quipped.  “But I'm out there in the garden and taking care of the chickens.  He just sits in the house watching Gunsmoke and the other old Westerns.”

“But Granny,
you just told me his mind is half gone.”

“Oh, he can do a lot more than you think he can.
"

Uncertain where this conversation was headed,
Porter changed the subject to the events of the community.  Granny and her now deceased sister, Fuzzy, were the consummate gossips.  In their prime, they knew every bit of everyone’s business.  If someone didn’t pay their tax bill.  If a husband was spending too much time at the pub.  If the pastor of their church paid too much attention to one of the parishioners, they knew it and talked about it for hours.

“Oh, I don’t know
, Zip.  Since Fuzzy died I haven’t kept up much with what’s going on.  But", she began, "I do know…” Porter only half listened to what came next. 
No mention of Mitch
, he thought. 
Did no one deliver the news to her yet?  It'll show up when Dad gets here.

After five minutes, and sensing
a lull in her tone, Porter interjected, “So when are Dad and Jennifer coming over?”

“I told them to be here around noon.  But you know your dad.
  Well, maybe you don't," she added.  "Anyway, he’ll get here around 1p.m.”

As Granny had predicted, Nathan and Jennifer arrived just before 1p.m.  When Porter walked to the
front door to greet them, his knees became weak.  Seeing Jennifer's face for the first time in two decades was overwhelming.  She ran from the car and Porter barely opened the door before she leapt into his arms.  A few seconds later, both Porter and Jennifer were enfolded by their father's strong embrace.  More smiles were produced than tears shed, and Porter did not release his hold of Jennifer's waist for the first five minutes.  His gaze into her eyes revealed years of pain, and also healing. 

"Did you hear about Mitch?" Jennifer asked Granny.

Here it comes
, thought Porter.

"Mitch
?" she asked in response.

"Mitch Frazier," answered Jennifer.  "He was shot and killed while he was hunting this morning.  There are deputies
stopping cars right at the end of your driveway."

"They think he was killed on purpose?" asked Granny.

"That's my guess.  Why else would they have a roadblock?  Glenn, did they stop you?"

"They did
," Porter answered.  "Paul Stamper said to tell the family hi.  But he didn't say who hadn't been shot.  Just that someone had been."

"How awful
," Granny said.  "Poor Laura must be a wreck right now.  I'll hear all about it at church on Sunday.  You know her mother's been going to our church for about a year now.  And it's no secret that she didn't much care for Mitch.  Not that she would do something like that, but she was sure he wasn't treating Laura right; probably cattin' around on her is my guess."