Shotgun Honey Presents: Locked and Loaded (Both Barrels Book 3) Page 6
Gabriel lingers in the bedroom corridor and watches, well-acquainted with her part as civilian support to cops. She’s supposed to hang back and let them do their jobs, unless they need her help. She could take the girls outside to wait for their ambulance, but she wants to stay available to the detectives.
Blythe’s muttering to Kitchen, still pressed into the man’s back. Escamilla’s not cooperating with Quincy’s order, and Quincy reaches for his sidearm holstered on his waist. She wants Blythe to look up at her and give the signal to call in the back-up on standby in their parked cars on the street, stares hard at his head and hopes for it to come up with a nod, but she might as well not be here .
Quincy, now holding his gun at his side, asks Escamilla to turn around and put his hands behind his back. Escamilla begins to obey.
Blythe sits up, straddling Kitchen’s waist and reaching for his cuffs with his free hand, holding Kitchen’s right arm to his back. He ignores Gabriel, who’s taken a few steps toward the men.
Escamilla stands in position to be cuffed, as Quincy steps closer to him and tries to pull his cuffs off his belt one-handed. He’s pointing his gun at Escamilla’s lower back. He opens one cuff and starts to hook it around Escamilla’s left wrist.
Escamilla whips around and punches him in the nose. Quincy staggers back. Escamilla seizes him with both hands by his suit jacket and head butts him, throws him to the living room floor. Quincy’s still holding his gun, but he’s dazed. Escamilla kicks the weapon hard out of his hand, drops to one knee, pulls Quincy’s upper body off the floor by the detective’s shirt, and punches him again. Twice. Escamilla lets him go and starts choking him with both hands around Quincy’s neck.
Blythe jumps up off of Kitchen to help his partner, brandishes his stun gun, and zaps Escamilla in the back with an electric sizzle. Escamilla collapses, unconscious, body rolling off of a passed out Quincy.
Gabriel starts to aim her gun at Kitchen.
He runs for the dining table, out of her sight.
Blythe turns around to look for him, still at Quincy’s side.
Kitchen returns, wraps his arm around Blythe’s neck, and plunges a knife into the left side of Blythe’s belly.
Gabriel fires her gun twice, blowing a chunk of his skull clean off. The second round pierces his neck straight through. He slumps to the floor in front of Blythe, who stumbles a few steps to the wall next to the front door and slides down to sit.
She kneels at Blythe’s side, eyes roaming over his body, heart rabbit beating in her chest. Blood’s seeping out of his belly around the knife handle, shirt soaked brilliant red, and he’s got his eyes closed as he wheezes. His muscles are rigid from head to toe. His face and neck gleam with cold sweat. His hands tremble on the floor.
She cards her fingers through his hair and says in her crisis-cool voice, “Blythe. Look at me. Look at me.”
He opens his eyes. They’re pink and glassy.
She keeps stroking his head. “I know it hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt, but you have to breathe. Okay? Breathe.”
He nods several times, sucks in a breath, and yelps like a dog. Tears roll down his temples, and his face reddens. “Fuck,” he says, the sound strangled. He raises his hand to the knife handle.
“I’m going to get you out of here in a minute,” says Gabriel, hushing her voice and stopping him from pulling the blade. “You’re going to be fine.”
Blythe sucks in a breath and whimpers. She can feel him almost vibrating with pain, and she’s grateful that he isn’t alone—the way she was two years ago.
She realizes she’s still holding her gun, palm sweaty and warm on the hot metal.
Escamilla’s groaning awake.
Blythe catches her arm as she stands up and gives her a pleading look. His bottom lip quivers, and he curls his fingers hard into her forearm. Gabriel looks at him with a grave sense of calm. She rests her hand on the side of Blythe’s head, leans down to kiss his silvery hairline, and says, “You’re in pain. You don’t know what you’re seeing.”
She breaks out of his grasp, stands up, walks into the next room and shoots Escamilla in the head as he starts to push himself up off the floor. She lowers her gun to her side and looks at him, at the splatter of his blood and brain matter, with a stone cold face and not one iota of remorse.
Gabriel’s worked alongside law enforcement long enough to know that the legal system never punishes men like Kitchen and Escamilla enough. Killing them isn’t about justice. There is no justice when children have been violated, but one more sex offender dead is one less cockroach in the world.
Blythe gasps her name, and she turns around, breaking her dissociative trance. She goes into the kitchen, calls 911 on the landline phone attached to the wall, and picks an ice cube out of the freezer. She goes back to Blythe, sits on the floor cross-legged and lays his head in her lap. She starts to run the ice cube over his lips, pressing her other hand into his wound, his blood warm and slick.
A few minutes pass before she can hear the police and ambulance sirens in the distance.
The girls stay silent in the bedroom.
Twenty to life
Frank Byrns
1.
Justine woke, Rodney’s breath hot on her neck.
“Stop it,” she said, rolling ever. But he wasn’t there. He never was.
Not anymore.
2.
“No. I told you I don’t want her seeing me like this.”
“She’s begging me, Rodney.”
“I said no, Justine.”
“You know she’s telling her friends at the school that you’re dead?”
“Well... Maybe it’s better that way.”
3.
“Good to see you, baby—it’s been too long.”
“I just wanted to tell you in person, Rodney, lest you heard it from somebody else.”
“Go on, then.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“What? How—”
“It’s Dickie’s.”
“Goddamn, Justine. Dickie?”
“It ain’t like we was ever married.”
“Yeah, I know... But Dickie?”
“I’m keeping the baby.”
“Dickie. Really?”
4.
Dear Rodney -
Hope this card finds you well
Merry Christmas.
- Justine
5.
Hey Daddy -
Mama said it’s all right to send you this picture of my softball team. I’m in the back row, third from the left, case you forgot what I look like.
Happy Father’s Day.
- Mary Ellis
6.
“You look good.”
“Thanks—I’m still working at the rest of that baby weight.”
“I couldn’t tell it.”
“Asshole.”
“I’m serious. You brought some papers for me?”
“The bank man came last week and took the trailer —need you to sign this here title so we can sell off your car.”
“How you gonna get to work?”
“I got the new baby—I can’t really work right now anyhow. We moved out to Dickie’s for the time being.”
“Dickie.”
“He’s a piece of shit, yeah, I know... but he’s around, Rodney. You know?”
7.
“So does Mary Ellis still call him Uncle Dickie, or does she got to call him Daddy now?”
“Goddammit, Rodney, why you got to be such an asshole all the time?”
“Look around, Justine—what kind of place do you think this is?”
“You was always an asshole, Rodney—that’s how you got here in the first place.”
“So I guess you’re Mrs. Booth now after all.”
“I guess so. We just figured it was the right thing to do for Chase’s sake.”
“My mama come?”
“Naw. It was just a little quick thing at the courthouse. She was invited, but she didn’t come. She’s
still mad at me about the whole thing, I guess. She loves both the kids, but she don’t think much of me at this point.”
“Me, neither, I don’t reckon. I was never her favorite, anyhow, even in the best of times.”
“Well, I guess we still got that in common, then.”
8.
“Stop it, Justine.”
“She just wants to see you, Rodney.”
“I can’t do it.”
“She’s been crying all the time—things haven’t exactly been so great at home with Dickie—”
“That asshole lay a hand on her?”
“Naw, nothing like that—it’s just hard, you know? She wants her daddy.”
“Stop it. How many times do I gotta say it? I just can’t.”
“Then you tell her. I’m done with it.”
9.
Mary Ellis -
Thank you so much for the little care package you sent by your mama. That candy bar was just about the best thing I ever eat. I hope your Uncle Dickie’s taking good care of you and your mama. I love you so much . it would tear me up for you to see me like this. Please stop asking. I hope you understand.
- Your Loving Daddy
10.
Daddy -
I don’t care what Mama says. Soon I’ll be old enough to drive myself. I’ll come see you then. See you soon.
- Mary Ellis
11.
“Dickie put you up to this?”
“He just don’t like it, is all, me spending so much time up here.”
“So much time – what, three visits in two years is too much for him?”
“He just thinks it’s inappropriate.”
“Inapp—I’ll tell you what’s inappropriate. Marrying your niece’s mother when your brother’s in prison, that’s what’s goddamn inappropriate.”
“Good bye, Rodney. I don’t reckon I’ll be stopping by again.”
“The hell with you, Justine.”
12.
Rodney -
I know it’s been a long time. You must think I’m the worst mother in the world. I know this has been hard for you. But it’s hard for me, too. I just wanted to say I forgive you for what you done. I’m working on trying to come and see you some day soon.
- Mama
PS Your brother’s taking real good care of Mary Ellis and her mama.
13.
Hi Daddy -
Uncle Dickie’s an asshole (don’t tell Mama I swore). Save me.
Mary Ellis
14.
Hi Dad -
Things are better this week. I met a boy. His name is Shane. He’s real nice. I think you’d like him.
- Mary Ellis
15.
Dad -
I just wanted to let you know I’m gonna be staying with Grandma for a while. If you need me for anything. I just can’t take it anymore.
- Mary Ellis
16.
“Christ, Justine, I don’t hear from you for years, then you show up with something like this?”
“You gotta talk to her, Rodney—I don’t know what else to do.”
“Dickie can’t help you?”
“Dickie’s a piece of shit—you know that. If I had any other way, do you think I’d be here. This kid’s trouble, Rodney. She’s got enough of that in her life already—she don’t need this boy Shane.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“ He reminds me of you.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Goddammit, I want you to talk to your daughter, Rodney. Please.
17.
“Hey, Booth!”
“Yeah?”
“There’s some chick here to see you.”
“Tell her to go home.”
“You sure? A little young, but she’s kind of a looker.”
“That’s my daughter, asshole.”
“You sure you don’t want to see her?”
“Tell her to go home.”
18.
“You told her?”
“Yeah. Just like the last three times she came.”
“She gone?”
“She left – gave me this picture to give you.”
“Throw it out.”
“Really?”
“Throw it away.”
“You sure? This is a mighty cute baby.”
19.
“Mama?”
“Mary Ell – it’s three in the morning. What’s wrong, baby?”
“It’s Shane—he, uh, he hurt somebody. I think it’s bad.”
20.
Mary Ellis woke, Shane’s breath hot on her neck.
“Stop it,” she said, rolling ever. But he wasn’t there. He never was.
Not anymore.
So Much Love
Keith Rawson
The liberals and kids loved judge Marshall Knot. The liberals loved him because his conviction rate of blacks and Mexicans was the lowest of any judge who had sat the bench in fifty years. The truth, he hated the fucking liberals. Pantywaists. But they kept re-electing him because they thought of him as progressive. Really he just thought most laws were nothing more than things to keep cops and old hacks like him employed.
The kids loved him because he was fun. He’d joke around with them, make them feel at home, make them feel that whatever they had done wasn’t that big of a deal. They were young, shit happens. The kids loved him, too, because any time one of them came into his courtroom with a bad attitude, he would throw something at the scowling shitheel. Usually a stapler, a masking tape dispenser, once in a while, his gavel. He never hit them. He’d come close, but all it would do is make the courtroom jump. The judge loved the reaction. He loved the clatter, the nervous laughs.
Throwing stuff got him into the papers, got himself on a couple of YouTube videos. The papers and the fuckers on YouTube loved him, too. The judge didn’t care about the fuckers on YouTube. He loved the papers, he was from the old school and kept a scrapbook that his wife started when he was first elected and he kept it up after she died, it became his hobby. Most of the things his wife did when she was breathing was horseshit, but the scrap book was alright.
• • •
The judge loved his routines. Four days a week, up at 5:30, fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, some light stretching. The calisthenics was a holdover from his Army days. Even when he was in the shit of Laos, whenever he woke up, he’d do his stretching along with the rest of his company and after he was done, he would kiss his necklace of gook ears around his neck like an old Italian lady kissing a crucifix and then head out hoping to replace the ones that had rotted off the string.
Next he showered, shaved, put his teeth in, put on his shirt and tie. By this time Rosalie would have his coffee ready. He’d drink it down black while Rosalie sucked him off while he still had his pants off and finish off on her titties. He loved finishing off on her titties. They were big hangers, double D’s and still brown and firm. She’d gotten real good at being gentle with him and not making his body sway too much while he was drinking his coffee. His wife never got the hang of it, and 9 times out of 10 she’d end up getting burned.
After he finished dressing, he grabbed his keys and start making his way to the courthouse.
• • •
He usually had Fridays off, which was one of the benefits of being a juvenile/family court judge. But a young colleague’s wife just had her third baby, so his colleague was taking “personal time” to be with them. He didn’t understand his young colleague. Having a baby, taking care of it and the other children, that was the woman’s job. It was the man’s job to work and keep a roof over the heads of his wife and those kids. He understood if it was the man who stayed home and cooked and cleaned and took care of the home. That he got, it was their place. His big brother did that back in the day when people looked at you funny if a man didn’t have a job. Of course, his brother was a little soft in the head, but hung like a baby elephant, which kept his sister-in-law happy enough to not mind working.
<
br /> His young colleague was just lazy.
Working on his days off put him in a foul mood. Fridays were for sleeping in and watching internet porn, but instead he was up doing push-ups and sit-ups 5:30. He’d forgotten to tell Rosalie he was working and had to yell for his coffee. She hustled in, but refused the blowjob, saying she had a toothache and her jaw hurt too much. The judge gave her a slap and made her wear the ball gag. He thought about screwing her in the ass, but didn’t because Friday was usually her day off, too.
Lift up your skirt, he said as he was headed to the garage.
She did and he slapped her ass, leaving a handprint shading purple. She squealed around the gag.
If you take it out I’ll stick you in the closet all weekend.
He knew she wouldn’t, Rosalie was a good girl. Before him she was nothing but a parentless 14-year-old giving out blowjobs for bags of Taco Bell and Wendy’s. She appreciated what he’d done for her.
• • •
What you boys got for me?
Hola, juez, Hola!
The boys are twinks. Queer as a man with a pussy. They wear makeup and clothes that don’t cover their tight bellies and squish up their little cock and balls and make their ass cheeks hang out. Sometimes they dress up as girls and actually look better than most women, except if you look close; their adam’s apple and hands just don’t look right. But he loved them. He loved them because they were queer and Mexican, and those were tough things to be.
Qué estás haciendo también esta mañana?
The boys flutter into the towncar, all butterfly hands and rapid fire lisp lipped Spanish. Rumors about other twinks, their pimps beating them, bitch women whores beating the twinks for trying to horn in on their rough trade. The judge understood every three words of what they were saying. He thought seeing them this morning would make him feel better, lighten his mood, but all they were doing was making him boil. Seethe.
Alright, alright, shut up! Quiet now! What have you got for me?
Todo lo que tenemos es esta velocidad. No es muy bueno.
Speed was a staple. Not that he condoned drugs, but a man had to worry about retirement. He had to worry about keeping the lights on after he was too feeble to drag his body out of bed day after day. The judge looked at the crunchy 8 ball. It was the color of margarine and sunset. Like earwax. Like something dredged out of some truckers ass crack.