The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (10 page)

Chapter 18

Tuesday was standing at the door, her demeanor saying ‘haven’t you forgotten something.’ Buck stood beside her, his graying face swayed like Stevie Wonder at the piano. He knew if Tuesday was standing there, I’d come and let them both out. Buck didn’t cotton up to Tuesday at first, but now he seemed to love her. She’s his seeing eye dog. His nose was still in good shape, and if he couldn’t see her, especially at night, he could sure smell her.

“Alright, guys,” I said.

I wiped off what little oil I had left on my hands with a rag, and stood to walk over. This always got Tuesday spinning in circles with anticipation which made Buck back up, so he wouldn’t be knocked over. He does this with a blowing sound humans make when exasperated over something a child does.

I opened the door, and Tuesday immediately attacked Razor, which he tolerated, then they took their gladiator practice off into the dark, with a stiff, limping Buck not far behind.

By the time I cleaned up after myself, took a shower, and got ready for bed, Buck and Tuesday were inside and getting ready for bed themselves. This usually consists of jockeying for possession of one of the two dog beds on the floor at the foot of my king-sized bed. One is for dogs with arthritis, very thick and plush. Tuesday usually steals it before jumping on the bed with me, surrendering possession to Buck.

By this time Razor is off patrolling the perimeter. I don’t often see him sleep. I know he does; he’s just sneaky about it.

I sat on the edge of my bed. Tuesday was laying on Buck’s bed.

“Come here little girl,” I said, patting the bed next to me. She looked up and shot me a ‘Do not disturb me’ look.

I was relentless, “Come’re little girl. Come on, up.”

She slowly unwound her lanky puppy frame and jumped onto the bed. I had to quickly slip under the covers to establish my territory. She always lies right next to my legs to the inside of the bed. If I don’t hurry, I ended up with only a fraction of the edge.

I was quick enough to claim a comfortable tract before Tuesday finished making her bed next to me. She immediately started her groaning and grunting, sounding like a little pig. I called her Miss Piggy when she did this. If I moved during the night, she’d start her Miss Piggy talk.

I lay on my back with one hand under my head, the other one on Tuesday’s head.

This was not my favorite time of the day. It was my lonely time, bedtime. The time I missed Margie most of all. After twenty years, you’d think I’d be over it. It’s not always, not every night, that I miss the scent of her, the weight of her body next to mine, but when I do, there’s a hole inside me where my heart should be that can’t be filled. The depressing futility of that fact, was not lost in the energy it took not to cry and not to feel sorry for myself. As I looked up at the ceiling, I could acknowledge the romantic in me.

Not long ago, I rented the movie “Serendipity.” A movie about love, destiny, and soul mates. Two people met and an unmistakable connection was made. They lost contact and the rest of the movie was about how years later they found each other and lived happily ever after.

Happily Ever After. One would tend to believe that after these movies were over, the couple lived together for the rest of their lives and both died in their sleep, at the same time, at the ripe old age of a 120. It’s what I’d wanted to happen.

My time at ‘Happily’ had come and gone. I was happy. I was complete. I didn’t want for love or a place to put my love. Then, in the space of a quick breath, it was taken away. The ‘ever after’ sucked. I’d like to believe
it
could happen again. But, after 20 years, the likelihood of that happening looked painfully slim.

I had tried a few times. Tried being the operative word. The trying was what was not right. If it was right, it would just be. If it was right, the trying would be the little arguments about whose turn it was to take the trash out, or where the remote control for the TV was. This would only come after years of being together, meaning we got along so well, that these were the only things we could find to argue about. That’s how it was for us. I wanted that again.

With the women I had been involved with, involved enough to qualify as trying to be a couple, I was looking to find that same love, that same connection, and I indecorously compared them to her. Of course, they could never measure up. If they had, that would mean all that I had suffered wasn’t vindicable. Talk about your catch-22.

Accepting where I’d gone afoul with my post relationships didn’t lessen the ache of missing her, of being lonely, or the hopelessness of finding
it
again.

I turned off the bedside lamp, pulled a grunting Miss Piggy up close to my pillow, and wrapped my arm around her. She put her nose up under my chin, lovingly nuzzled my neck with her puppy softness, and licked my ear.

“I love you, little girl,” I said, and closed my eyes.

Chapter 19

Nashville, Carr’s Mansion- December 11
th
, Present Day

George Carr sat at his desk, alone in the private office of his home, the only room that was not designed by his wife, Jean. His heart ached for her. With all his money and power, he couldn’t bring her back from the dead. For 30 years they had loved one another, and now she was gone.

She was killed in a car wreck in Houston, where they owned another home in River Oaks. Only, he didn’t believe the wreck was an accident. His gut told him she was murdered. Carr’s gut had never lied to him. He’d made a lot of enemies on his road to wealth and power, and couldn’t shake the feeling his wife’s death was aimed at him.

She had been burned beyond recognition, and at the funeral the urn containing her ashes was somewhat ironic. She’d always said she wanted to be cremated after she passed, ever since they first knew each other, over 30 years ago. He just never imagined he’d be the one to take care of it.

There was a light knocking on the door.

“Come in, Frank,” he said.

The door opened and a tall lean man, with salt and pepper hair cropped close to his head, stepped into the office.

“Mr. Carr, Dennis is here. Would you like to see him now?” he asked, his clear blue eyes showing concern and care.

George Carr stared at his long-time body guard, head of security, and friend, Frank LeCompte.

“Mr. Carr. . . Dennis?”

Frank had worked for George Carr for almost 12 years, ever since he’d left SEAL Team Six at the age of 38. He was considered the old man of the Team. Instead of staying in the Navy and training new SEALs, he took the job offered by Carr. Carr was only a few years older than Frank. He was now like the big brother Frank had lost to the Vietnam War.

“Mr. Carr, should I have him come back later?” he  asked, seeing the far away, grief-stricken look that could still take over his employer.

“No, bring him in. And Frank, stick around.”

“You bet,” Frank replied, as he turned to fetch Dennis James, one of the security team he headed up for Carr.

James and two others had been sent on a mission earlier in the night. A mission Frank thought was an unnecessary risk, but he couldn’t talk George Carr out of it.

George stared at the door until it opened, and Frank entered followed by Dennis James. Dennis closed the door behind him. They walked over to his desk and stood, almost at attention, reminding Carr of how when he allowed Frank to do the hiring, he had hired almost exclusively ex-military personnel.

Frank LeCompte said, “Go ahead, Dennis, tell him what you told me. Just the way you told me.”

Dennis James, considered small by those who didn’t know him, cleared his throat as his face took on a pained expression, and said, “Mr. Carr, Frank was right about this not being a good idea. We pretty much let him know we were following him, ya know, like to scare him a little.”

“What happened, Dennis? Get on with it,” Carr said

“Well Mr. Carr, this Tucker fellow doesn’t scare worth a damn. To tell you the truth, he scared the Bejusus out of us.”

“How did he accomplish that, Dennis?” he asked, with a wryly curious tone.

“Before we got the chance to pull up next to him and scare him with the shotgun, you know. . . like the plan? Well, sir, we had to stop behind him at a red light, and, sir, he was out of his truck and had us covered with that Colt of his before we had a chance to do anything. He’s very fast and, well, sir, it just seemed like the best idea for us to, ah . . . get out of there.”

“Well, I’ll be God damned!” Carr yelled, smacking his hand down on his desk. “I like this Tucker, I really do,” he said with a small laugh. “You were right, Frank.”

Dennis Jame’s worried look was replaced by perplexity.

Carr looked at Dennis James and said, “He called. He’s coming tomorrow.”

“Really? He didn’t look scared at all Mr. Carr,” James said, then looked at Frank. “Not at all.”

Frank walked Dennis to the door and, as he opened it, said, “Thanks, Dennis, you and the boys did alright. It went better than I’d expected. Take the rest of the night off and go drink a couple of beers.” He patted James on the back on his way out.

As he closed the door, Carr heard James mutter, “More’n a couple.”

Frank walked back to the desk and sat in the chair across from Carr.

Frank said, “That could have gone differently. Tucker is fast at killing. I would have hated to lose three good men tonight just to ensure something that was going to happen anyway.”

“Do you really think he could’ve got all three?” Carr asked.

“I saw him shoot tonight. I have no doubt.”

“So, he’s that good?”

Frank LeCompte was very still when he said, “I’ve never seen better, anywhere.”

“Coming from you, that’s remarkable,” Carr said.

Carr nodded at a stack of files and papers over a foot tall on his desk. “But I’m not surprised. After reading this investigative report on him, I would’ve been disappointed if he wasn’t that good.”

Frank shook his head. “I told you he’s the same guy I heard about during my SEAL training. He was only 19 then.”

Carr reached over and patted the stack of papers. “Tucker’s had an interesting life, to say the least. I believe I may know more about him than he does about himself.”

“I don’t understand why you spent so much money having him investigated. Spain said he was the man for the job, and our preliminary investigation here showed Tucker’s reputation was sound.”

Carr reached over to a humidor on the right side of his desk and took out a Cohiba, clipped it, and with a lighter smoldered the end as he rolled it between his fingers.

“The last man we hired disappeared. He may have been bought off, and if he was, I just don’t want to make the same mistake. Captain Spain said that, if Tucker took the job, he’d stick to it until the end and that he couldn’t be bought.
 Hearing it is one thing, but I wanted to know more about the man, his background, his pattern of life.”

Frank LeCompte didn’t miss the ‘we’ in Carr’s statement. LeCompte didn’t miss much, period. It was like his employer to include him, even though he had no money invested, just his time. Just one of the reasons he loved the man.

Looking at the investigation stack, Frank grinned, “Well, you should be able to get a sense of the man now.”

“Frank, you should really take the time to read
all
of this,” Carr said, again patting the pile warmly. “It’s amazing the man is still alive and was never arrested.”

“Mr. Carr, when do I have time to read?” Frank smiled. “Besides, I feel like I know him. Don’t forget, I compiled most of that file, and I heard all about him during my SEAL training. Every time we would be learning something or shooting at something, Levanda would say ‘Tucker this . . . Tucker that.’ Hell, to hear Levanda talk, the guy was a legend, one bad-assed fucker. And he was only 19.

”

Chapter 20

Lyles, TN-December 12
th
, Present Day

I was under a bridge, the water was rising, getting deeper by the second. It was now up to my knees.

I crawled up towards the safety and dryness of the road that crossed the bridge. I could hear the roar of the fast rising water, like the growl of a dog. I could hear the whine of wheels on the road, like the whimpering—of a—of a dog.

I opened my eyes. Tuesday was sitting next to my head, facing the window above me, whining. The little girl was afraid. I could hear Razor’s low growl. He was just outside my bedroom.

Razor barked at deer, chased rabbits and raccoons, hid from skunks, and growled at people.

I rolled over onto my stomach, reached under my bed, and pulled the Mossberg 590 12-gauge assault shotgun from its slip-free fasteners attached to the frame. It held eight in the magazine and one in the chamber. It also had a side saddle attached to the nonworking side of the receiver, that held another six shells.

Leaving my Colt under the unoccupied side pillow where it slept, I crawled across the carpet to the atrium door. As I started to open it, I felt Tuesday’s cold nose on my bare butt. I jerked and bumped my head lightly into the door’s glass.

“Tuesday, sit,” I whispered. It was a moonless, cloudy night, and I could just make her out in the darkness. I could see a dark hole behind me, shaped just like a standing dog.

I sat down and pulled her close to me as I scanned the patio. I wasn’t too concerned about anyone being on the patio. Razor wouldn’t let anyone get that close without doing more than growl, which he was still doing.

I pulled up on Tuesday’s collar, put my mouth close to her ear and said, “Sit,” hopefully sounding forceful and loud.

She sat down and cocked her head, questionably.

“Good girl,” I said. We’re still training.

I opened the door and crawled out onto the patio with the shotgun in the crook of my elbows. It was cold. I was totally nude and shrinking fast. Razor was backing around towards me. I crawled over to the corner where there were no windows that might silhouette me against the night, and stood just as Razor came all the way around the corner. He never looked up at me, but kept his attention up the hill towards the gate, some 800 feet away. He stopped growling once his body touched my leg. The hair was raised on his back, his body leaning forward on high alert. His lips were pulled back and I could see his teeth.

I wished I’d taught him something like, “Sic’ em!”, so he’d charge up the hill and tear the crap out of whoever was up there. But, with me being the alpha dog in this equation, he was waiting for me to do something.

It was a still night, and through the sound of the mellifluous creek below, I thought I heard the faint sounds of footsteps barely rustling the gravel on the drive. By the sound of it, whoever it was, were still pretty high up, if they were there at all. Only one way to find out.

I ran barefoot up the stone steps that were laid through a tiered azalea and rhododendron garden. As I came to the lower level drive next to the house, I slowed and walked across the gravel as not to make any noise and because I have soft feet and the gravel hurt like hell. I stepped into the wooded island that was the center of my circular drive.

The ground in the woods was damp because of the wet weather we’d been having. Staying low, I moved quietly to the electrical transformer box that was about 30 feet up the hill. The box is a three foot cube and made of heavy metal and would make good cover, if I needed it. I sat down with my back against the box and waited for whoever was coming down the drive, if indeed someone was. As I sat there, I was struck with how cold it was, then thought, that’s a good thing, there were no chiggers or ticks out.

I was starting to shiver, and the shotgun was getting colder by the second. Then I heard them talking. I’d lost track of Razor in the dark.

“Do you think he’s got any dogs?” It was a loud whisper.

“It doesn’t make a shit, I’ll kill the fuckin’ dogs, too.”

I pushed the safety off and turned a little to my right. It sounded like they were coming down the right side of the island. I sneaked a peeked around the box to see if I could see them yet. I looked down at my legs and wished I had gotten a better tan last summer. I was very white and felt like a light bulb that was just turned off. All I could see was me. I didn’t like that.

“Can you see the house yet?” said the same loud whisperer.

“Fuck, I can’t see anything. It’s fuckin’ dark,” said the one that was going to kill my dogs.

“We’re gonna have to do this guy fast, just shoot him in his bed if we can, can’t give him a chance. I don’t want him shooting at me.”

“Shut up, you fuckin’ chickenshit,” said the K-9 killer.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Pauly. This guy’s too good to let him shoot at us, I’m ….FUCK!”

Two shots rang out-Bang!-Bang!

“God damn it, Anthony! What the hell . . .”

Then another shot- “Bang!”
 Followed by the howl of a hurt dog.

“A fuckin’ dog! It fuckin’ bit me, fuck, fuck. I shot the fucker, fuck . . . fuck!”

They were no longer whispering.

Razor must have gone around the other side of the house and slipped up on them from behind. I turned all the way around, facing the sound of them, but kept the transformer box as a shield. I put the shotgun over the top of the box and aimed. I hoped it would be high enough not to hit Razor if he was still on his feet. I couldn’t see them, but I knew where they were, about 25 yards away.
 There were a lot of trees between them and me, but I’d be shooting No. 4 birdshot and at that distance, the pattern would be about the size of two basketballs. I shot five times, fast as I could pump. Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang!

I ducked down behind the box as it was hit with what felt like a jackhammer, instantly trailed by the sound of automatic gunfire.

Down at the house, Tuesday was barking, and even old Buck was putting in his two cents, but only sounding like a farthing’s worth.

I rolled over to my left and changed my position. Lying on my stomach, I felt sticks and leaves trying to invade my private parts, and was again relieved it wasn’t summer. I eased the shotgun forward, and from down low on the ground, again peeked around the metal box.

Now that the echo’s of the fired shots were fading, I could hear the sound of running feet on the gravel, going away. I knew I had two double-ought buckshot and two slugs in the magazine. I always load my shotgun like that. Out of nine rounds I load five birdshot and then two 00 buckshot, then two slugs. The buckshot is like nine .38 caliber bullets being shot at once, there’s nothing deadlier at close range or in the dark. A slug is a hunk of lead about half the size of my thumb.

I jumped up and moved up through the island about twenty yards, keeping the larger trees between me and them.

“That mother fucker’s down there shooting at us! And that fuckin’ dog bit me!”

“We gotta finish this thing. You go down to the right, and I’ll go down to the left. We’ll get him in a cross fire.”

Sounded like a good plan to me. Too good. I didn’t like it. I was naked and cold, with sticks and leaves trying to find their way up my ass, and I didn’t like
any
of that, either.

I knew exactly where they were, up on the single drive, just before it splits to go around the island of woods I was on. I also figured they’d stick together and stay on the drive until they got to the split. There was a
 street light up at the top, where my driveway started, and it was casting just enough light I thought I might could see them, maybe. They were still 60 or 70 yards away, if what I saw was them.

I couldn’t let them separate. What's more, I was so cold my manhood was in jeopardy. I ran straight for a large beech tree I knew to be about 50 yards from the split. As soon as I got to the tree I leaned against it and shot four times into the middle of the road a little ways up the hill from the split.
   

BANG!-BANG!-BANG!-BANG!

“Ahhhh  Shit!”

I heard a body fall and hit the gravel.

I sat down with my back to the tree and started taking shells out of the side saddle to reload. All these were 00 buckshot.

First, it came as horizontal lead rain. Hard slapping pops, ripping bark off trees, completely severing smaller saplings, then the sound of automatic gunfire, a wall of sound. Explosions and the horrific sound of wood being ripped apart and hammered. The ground around me exploded, showering me with leaves and dirt. I could feel the tree I was leaning against being hit with a rapid fire sledgehammer. I made myself as small as I could and closed my eyes to protect them from the debris that was flying around. I never stopped reloading.

I knew they couldn’t know exactly where I was, but someone had seen my muzzle flashes and had homed in very close. All I could do was wait for them to run out of ammo and have to change magazines.

It didn’t take long. The quiet was as startling as the noise was at first. I decided not to peek around the tree again. I knew one was down. I was pretty sure there was only two. That left one on his feet. I knew I’d never use algebra.

It made more sense to me to stay where I was and let him come to me. The closer he got, the better it was for me and my shotgun. Whereas he could sit up there and chop down the trees around me and maybe get lucky and chop me down. I wasn’t cold anymore.

I heard some grunting and the sound of gravel being scraped. The sound was getting smaller. In a little over a minute, I heard a car door slam and tires spinning in the gravel up on Willow Branch Lane.

I sat there trying to hear out into the darkness over the sound of my breathing. I thought I might just sit here until daylight. I didn’t know what time it was, so I didn’t know how long that might be.   

There could have been another man in the car waiting and that would make three altogether, meaning one could have been left behind to get me after I thought the coast was clear. That was more like algebra.

Deciding to stay put was a wise decision. I heard the soft rustling of wet leaves and a small twig break. Whoever it was, was good. He was very quiet. I could barely hear him as he moved down the hill and closer to me. This guy was smart, staying in the woods and off the gravel. I knew I’d have time for only one shot and I had to make it count.

It sounded like he was coming straight for my tree. I could barely hear him. I didn’t want to take the chance of standing up. He was too close and would hear me for sure. As quietly as I could, I stood the shotgun on its stock in front of me. I didn’t know on which side of the tree he would pass, and I had to be ready to shoot left-handed if he came around to my right.

He stopped moving. I could hear him breathing. He was on the other side of my tree. I could sense him searching for me in the dark. I cradled the shotgun with the palms of both hands next to the trigger guard, ready to lean the gun in either direction and shoot one-handed, almost over my shoulder, if need be.

He stopped breathing. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I realized I’d been holding my breath ever since I’d heard him breathing on the other side of my tree.

Suddenly I felt a warm wet tongue on the side of my face. Razor had leaned around the tree and almost licked the leaves and sticks out of me.

“Damn, boy,” I said, and realized I was whispering. I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him close to me. They were gone. Razor said so.

I felt something warm and sticky on my chest. I stood and walked down to the house, feeling for the first time my complete nakedness. Before, it had been more environmental, how my feet hurt on the gravel, how the leaves and twigs were trying to invade my body, the whiteness of my body in the night, the fleeting coldness overrun by the rushing of battle blood being pumped by adrenaline. Small frames in a much larger film. A film of survival. Now that I had survived, I felt ridiculous and self-conscious. I may have to start wearing pajamas.

I’d left the door to my bedroom open. When I went in and turned on the light, Buck and Tuesday were on the bed. When all the shooting started, I guess they knew where the safest place was. I laid the shotgun next to them.

I pulled Razor in and checked him out. There was a lot of blood on the left side of his head. I wetted some paper towels with water and started cleaning him up. He had a perfect round hole through his left ear and a furrow of hair missing along his left jaw, leaving  just a burn. The hair on the side of his face was singed and his left eye was a swollen and bloodshot. I checked his eyes with a flashlight, and his dilation seemed to be fine. I didn’t know about his hearing though.

“Got a little close, didn’t you, boy?” I said. “You want to stay in the house for the rest of the night?”

Razor looked over at the pansies laying on the bed, huffed and walked outside, back on patrol.

I looked at the clock. It was 4:44 a.m. I was starting to shiver. Some might think I was shaking, but it was just a shiver. I went to my walk-in closet and put on a heavy, giant hooded robe. On the way out of the bedroom, I reached over the bed and slipped my hand under the lonely passenger side pillow and pulled out my Colt.
 I went into the kitchen and made some tea, setting the gun down. . . close by.