Courageous (35 page)

Mi Dios has blessed me far more than I deserve. Just when I think that Carmen could not be a better esposa, she continues to amaze me. Isabel is beautiful. The photos Carmen has sent you do not begin to do her justice.

Marcos is a boy who wants to conquer the world! I think he may give me as much difficulty as I gave you. If I can be half the padre you were to me, Papá, then my son will be privileged.

I told you about my job and the promotion and raise. I am honored to share with you and Mamá from the dinero I am paid. I know you use some of it to help your neighbors and the church. I am glad for that. Please buy yourself a new fishing pole.

Mr. Tyson has told me that as long as his factory is open, he will have a place for me. So after many years of dreaming of this, I have something I wish to propose. I want to send dinero for you and Mamá to take a bus to Guadalajara. I will buy the tickets to fly you to Atlanta, Georgia, where I will pick you up at the aeropuerto.

I know you and Mamá have never flown in a plane. But it is a great adventure that I think you would enjoy.

And it is not only for you. It is for Carmen and los niños. And it is for me.

And when you are here, I will take you to the factory to meet Mr. Tyson and to our church, where our services are en español. Then we will introduce you to all my new amigos and their families.

Por favor, Papá, say yes. Tell Mamá that her grandchildren await her hugs.

Muchas gracias, Papá, for being the man my friends wish their fathers had been.

Your grateful son,

Javy

Chapter Forty

Brad Bronson dropped by Harveys Supermarket on North Slappey. His mission was to storm the front doors and capture items from all four primary food groups—frozen pizza, beer, ice cream, and bacon. Then there were nature’s finest—the canned foods. Unfazed by shoppers’ reactions to the clatter, he let gravity do the work as he flipped Dinty Moore beef stew and SpaghettiOs cans from the shelves into his cart.

Had to get Sweet Baby Ray’s and Cheetos, or he’d answer to his rottweiler. Marciano was persnickety about his bacon, and Harveys had his favorite. Bronson also picked up a carton of eighteen eggs.

Since the vet had declared Marciano lactose intolerant, Bronson was careful in the dairy section. Ice cream didn’t count as dairy since it was in the freezer case, so Bronson got rocky road for himself and butter pecan for his sidekick.

Multiple plastic grocery sacks dangled from each hand as he stepped into the parking lot. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Ten feet from the car, he reached for his remote, unlocking his gray Tundra 4x4 that towered over the wimpy vehicles crouched around it.

Groceries still in hand, his peripheral vision registered movement. A large, shadowy image approached. Just as Brad turned, a blow hit the right side of his neck all the way to his throat.

He crumpled to the asphalt. Chili cans rattled as they rolled away. Bronson wasn’t sure if the cracking sound he’d heard was his skull or the dropped eggs. He looked up to see a black bandanna-covered face like the one that had attacked David at the theater. And he would recognize those biceps anywhere. In the assailant’s gloved right hand was a baseball bat.

“Still awake, fat man? Was goin’ fo’ the back of your skull; lucky you turned. This time I’m gonna crush yo head in.”

The right side of Bronson’s face throbbed, and the back of his head didn’t feel much better.

He wanted to reach for his gun, but he was so dizzy, he knew he could kill a bystander. Instead he reached up to the door handle.

As TJ drew back the baseball bat, Bronson opened the door.

Cujo’s worst nightmare leaped out of the truck and lunged at TJ.

TJ swung at the 140-pound rottweiler, who yelped when the bat connected. Undeterred, Marciano bared his teeth at the gangster, positioning himself between TJ and his master.

“What’s going on?” called someone exiting the store.

TJ drew a gun, pointed it at Bronson, and in a flash Marciano was on him again, clamping down on TJ’s right arm. The shot fired into asphalt, a foot from Bronson. The gun flew out of TJ’s hand.

TJ ran. Marciano took off after him. As TJ got to a fence, Marciano bit his calf. TJ screamed. One hand on the fence, he swung the bat at Marciano with the other, but not hard enough to keep him down. He climbed the fence, and the dog jumped to the top, nearly making it over and snarling viciously as TJ disappeared into the darkness. The threat gone, Marciano bolted across the parking lot to Bronson.

A man and woman stood over Bronson. Marciano—hackles raised—growled. They backed off. He turned to Bronson, whined, and began licking his face.

“It’s okay, boy. I’m all right.”

The man said, “You are
not
all right!”

The side of Bronson’s face was a mess of blood and deep purple bruises. He had the mother of all headaches.

As Bronson, still on the ground, leaned against his truck, Marciano licked his head wounds, then crawled into his lap. Marciano was a lot of dog for a lap. But Bronson had a lot of lap.

The store manager stepped out. “An ambulance is coming.”

At that moment everyone heard a loud bang from the street. The store’s front window shattered. Three more explosions followed. One bullet tore into Bronson’s Tundra, the other into his left shoulder.

People panicked, ducked, and ran back into the store. Pandemonium reigned for a wild minute.

Soon sirens blared, lights flashed, and an ambulance pulled into the parking lot. Two EMTs jumped out.

“Nobody said anything about gunfire!”

“It happened after I called,” the store manager said.

The first EMT, whose name badge said Paul Martin, hurried toward Bronson. Marciano stepped between them, growling. Every time he tried to take a step toward Bronson, the dog’s growl intensified.

Bronson called to the EMT, “In those sacks there’s a bag of Cheetos. Open it.”

“Sir, you’re in shock; you need to—”

“Feed the dog or he’ll help himself to your backside.”

Paul Martin didn’t care to participate in that prophecy’s fulfillment. So he opened the bag and offered it. Marciano delicately removed a single Cheeto, ate it, then tore into the rest of the bag, which dropped open onto the parking lot. The lifespan of the remaining Cheetos was approximately seven seconds.

“Okay, you can come over.”

Cautiously both EMTs approached with a stretcher.

They took Bronson to the ambulance.

Marciano’s growl became a whine.

“I won’t leave without my dog.”

“Wait. That dog’s bleeding.” A pool of blood had formed on the asphalt.

“Help him!” Bronson yelled with panic his voice box had seldom felt. Now that Marciano’s adrenaline had leveled, his condition became apparent. Paul Martin approached him.

“He’s been shot in the neck. It came through the other side.”

“Get him in here!” Bronson said from the ambulance.

“We’re not equipped to take animals—”

“Put him in the ambulance
now
.” He placed a hand on his holster.

Guiding Marciano up the ramp since he was too weak to jump, they complied.

Bronson awoke, alarmed by the daylight. Adam and David stood near his bed.

“How long?”

“You went through surgery and you’ve been out cold for maybe eight hours.”

Bronson reached for his shoulder. “Only a flesh wound.”

“You’re a mess,” Adam said.

“Main thing’s my head. When the bat hit me, I heard it break.”

They cringed.

“The bat, not my head!”

Bronson’s eyes showed sudden alarm. “Where’s Marciano?”

“He spent the night with the vet. Keels from K-9 took him to your house an hour ago. It’s his day off. Says he’ll stay there as long as needed.”

“My dog’s wounded.”

“Marciano’s fine. The shot went through cleanly, didn’t hit his windpipe.”

“Marciano took a bullet for me. Get Keels on the phone.”

“Sarge, there’s no need to—”

Bronson’s eyes locked onto Adam’s like a missile system. “Now.”

Adam handed him his cell. “Keels? Bronson. Never mind me. How’s my dog?” He listened. “Good. Good. Okay, turn on 93.9 FM, would you? Yeah. He likes the classics. And do me a favor. I’ve still got some eggs and half a pack of bacon. Fry up three eggs over easy, salt but no pepper. And five strips of bacon. Yeah,
for the dog
. You think I was talking about the mailman? And don’t give him milk, okay? He’s lactose intolerant.”

This went on for another three minutes and included instructions about closing the shades in the afternoon because Marciano liked to nap on the couch. Bronson insisted that Keels put the phone to Marciano’s ear and not listen. Adam and David stepped back a few feet while he whispered into the phone.

After hanging up, Bronson looked at Adam and David. “They got his gun, right? Marciano ripped it out of his hand.”

“Yeah,” David said. “Guess what. It’s my Glock 19C.”

“I knew it was the same guy. He wore gloves. No prints, right?”

“Right.”

“What about the bullets?”

“They ran ballistics on the bullet in your truck. It’s a .357. No provenance. But obviously it’s the same guy.”

Bronson’s eyes burned. “What kind of a man would shoot a dog?”

“He shot you too, Sarge.”

“That’s different. This was Marciano.”

An hour later Bronson awoke with a start. He heard the clicking of heels just as Diane Koos burst into the hospital room.

“He deserves a purple heart, so I brought one . . . along with a few kidneys, a liver, and half a dozen link sausages.” She held up a large paper bag from Carroll’s Sausage & Meats.

“The meds are messin’ with my appetite,” Bronson growled. “But thanks.”

“This isn’t for you; it’s for Marciano. He took a bullet in his neck. You only got winged!”

Bronson stared at her, then slowly smiled.

“I wanted to visit you before we relieve Keels. But Otis Spunkmeyer’s in the car, so I can’t be long. We’ll stay with Marciano until you get home. He won’t go hungry.”

She planted a quick peck on Bronson’s billiard ball and disappeared.

An unfamiliar feeling akin to thankfulness welled up within him.
She’s taking care of my dog.

A slight tear came to his eye.

He contemplated what he could give her to express his gratitude. Perhaps a daddy Glock for her bedside drawer. And a baby Glock for her purse.

What more could any woman want?

Chapter Forty-one

Thursday night Jade and Nathan sat at a table for two at Mikata Steak House. Nathan hadn’t been there in years.

He’d stopped by earlier in the week to scope out the menu and prices, calculating how many trips to Jimmie’s Hot Dogs could be made for the same price.

This is the right place.

It wasn’t opulent, but the atmosphere was warm and classy, with soft music in the background. Jade wore her best dress, a dark-brown knit, and Nathan wore his suit and best silk tie. He’d successfully negotiated a “cell phones off” accord.

“Order whatever you want, Jade. I mean it.”

“But, Daddy . . . this place looks expensive.”

“You’re worth it to me, sweetie.”

The waiter approached. “The filet is excellent, and our special tonight is the shrimp Alfredo.”

“Jade, would you like to try the shrimp?”

“Yes, please.”

“And I’ll have the filet, medium well, with vegetables.”

The waiter took their folded menus. “I’ll be back in a moment with your appetizers.”

Jade looked around. “Daddy, I can’t believe you brought me here.”

“The first time I brought your mother here, I asked her to marry me.”

Nathan took a sip of water, then leaned forward and looked into Jade’s eyes.