upset. “Why do you keep bringing up this kind of shit?” he demanded.
“Because you’re all I have,” Eugene said quietly, meeting A.J.’s eye. “Because I need the help.” He paused for a long moment. Then he continued. “Because I know you can do it when you have to.” A.J. stiffened. The clearing was as silent as the grave. A.J. walked to the bulldozer and climbed aboard. He fired up the old machine and sat there momentarily. Then he climbed down and walked back to Eugene.
“You son of a bitch,” he said in a quiet voice that roared like a train. “You swore on everything you held sacred that you would never talk about that. You’re a lying son of a bitch.”
“No, I’m not,” Eugene said. “I just don’t hold anything sacred anymore.” He sounded as if he might cry.
A.J. headed for the dozer. Without another word, he left the clearing.
CHAPTER 5
Your coffee killed me.
– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Hoghead Crab, restaurateur
A.J. WAS HAVING A BAD WEEK. EUGENE HAD INITIATED the process on Saturday by reminding him of an incident he had tried to forget. The human mind was a devious organ, however, and it chiseled in stone that which would be best left unrecalled. In fairness to Eugene, he had not dredged a memory that had been successfully entombed. It was always with A.J., coming to him in the quiet moments. Still, Eugene had sworn never to mention it, but mention it he had. In this regard he had proven faithless, and his breach of trust had upset A.J. For Eugene possessed the truth. Of the two of them, one was a killer. Of the two of them, one had beaten two men to death with the Louisville Slugger and had shot a third. Of the two of them, A.J. owned the bat.
Most people never foresee their dates with destiny, and A.J. was no exception on that fateful day years past. He and Eugene had decided to try their luck at a trout stream that ran on the mountain to the north of Sequoyah. Their wives were both out of town, and Eugene and A.J. had decided on a fishing trip to while away the afternoon. Actually, Eugene had proposed another plan, a scenic tour of some of the finer topless clubs of Atlanta. But A.J. vetoed the idea, although it had been touch and go for a moment when Eugene described the Panther Club, a bistro that featured nude interactive water volleyball.
They met early in the day. It was a fine morning, and the air held a hint of summer. They left their vehicles and began the long hike to the trout stream. Eugene carried the rods and a large tackle box. A.J. ferried his bat and a backpack loaded with food and a six-pack of beer. They walked briskly, exchanging easy conversation.
“I can’t believe it,” Eugene said. “We could be chest deep in wet, naked women right now. But no, you want to go on a fishing trip. I can’t believe it.” He sounded disgusted.
“You’re married,” A.J. responded. “If you want wet, naked women, take a shower with Diane.” He swatted the bat at a movement in the leaves beside the trail.
“This is different,” Eugene explained. “A little variety in wet, naked women never hurt anybody. These are nice girls. Girls just working their way through college. Girls helping their sick mamas. It’s a look-but-don’t-touch deal. If you touch, some big guy breaks off your hands and throws you in a dumpster.” He had a patient, instructive tone.
“So we drive to Atlanta,” A.J. recapped, “pay a twenty-five dollar cover charge, rent a bathing suit for another twenty-five, and get in a pool with naked but pure college girls with sick mamas who want to play volleyball?”
“There! Now you’ve got the idea!” Eugene seemed excited.
“Send Diane to college, and then take a shower with her,” A.J. suggested. “Her mama’s already sick.”
“I don’t know why I even try,” Eugene said, disgusted again. “You’re hopeless. Saint fucking A.J. I don’t know why I even try.” He shook his head.
“I’ll take off my shirt while we fish,” A.J. said, “but that’s as far as it goes. If you touch me, I’ll have to break off your hands.”
They walked until they entered a small depression not far from their destination, where they decided to take a break. A.J. passed a sandwich and a beer before securing his own. They could hear the rush of the stream in the distance. It was a pleasant scene, a moment of peace in a world of bother. A.J. reclined, intending to let the trout work up an appetite. The aroma of marijuana floated from Eugene’s side of the swale. He closed his eyes and drifted.
His eyes snapped open when he heard voices from beyond the ridge at his back. Then he heard a shrill scream followed by loud cracks of rifle fire. He bolted to his feet and looked at Eugene. Then he grabbed his bat and scrambled to the top of the small embankment with Eugene matching each step.
The scene in the clearing below burned into their corneas. They saw three hard-looking men in camouflage garb armed with automatic weapons. They were ranged around a young woman who sat on a log in front of a small tent. About ten feet away sprawled a motionless figure, the apparent recipient of the rifle shots. The woman was staring at the remains of her companion.
“Goddamn,” whispered A.J. “They shot him in cold blood.” It was unclear whether the man had been running or fighting, but it was a moot point since dead is dead, and he was certainly that. The largest of the scoundrels walked to the poor boy and nudged him with his toe, then laughed and rejoined his companions. They all three looked down at the girl. “Oh, shit,” A.J. breathed.
“What are we going to do?” Eugene hissed.
“I think we are going to die,” A.J. said.
“The next time I want to go to the titty bar, we’re going to the titty bar,” Eugene whispered fiercely. “Wait for me. I’ve got a gun.” He slid down toward their trappings.
A.J. knew good advice when he heard it and was going to wait, but delay was removed as an option when one of the men grabbed the girl’s long, black hair and dragged her to her feet. With his other hand he clawed her shirtfront, violently exposing her. She struggled and was backhanded to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees and held her wrists with one hand while fondling her with the other. The second man knelt and began to undo her jeans while the third unzipped his own.
A.J. knew the time for waiting was past. Live or die, Eugene or not, he couldn’t stand by and watch the scene unfolding below. With no conscious thought, he was up and moving toward the campsite. He ran fast and quiet and was among them before they were aware of his presence. Upon his arrival, their cognizance increased dramatically.
A.J. came in screaming and swinging. The man who had ripped the girl’s shirt turned just in time to receive all of the Louisville Slugger across the bridge of his nose. He was dead when he toppled over. A.J. then swung in the opposite direction and caught the second man in the temple. He was fueled by fear and rage, and he was a big man swinging hard ash. The smack of the bat echoed through the forest, and the man knelt lifeless for several seconds before gravity brought him low. The lone survivor started for his rifle, but at that moment Eugene began shooting his.22 pistol. The shots confused the brute, and he stopped. A.J. threw the bat at him and knocked him down. The man came up with a rifle, which he tried to aim at A.J., who grabbed one of the weapons no longer needed by the departed and beat his adversary to the draw by a whisper. Their eyes met and they froze, the other’s rifle partially raised and A.J.’s locked, loaded, and aimed at the black heart of his quarry. He had the drop, and to his right, Eugene also held a bead.
It was silent on the killing ground. The acrid smell of cordite lingered with a richer, coppery aroma. A.J. heard the pounding of his own heart.
“Give me a reason to shoot you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Any reason at all will do it.”
The reprobate lowered his rifle. A.J. saw in his eyes a soul of darkness. He beheld an animal that deserved to die, yet he hesitated to shoot lest he become what he destroyed. The villain mistook what he saw in A.J.’s expression for a lack of resolve and began to laugh. A.J. couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Without conscious thought, he shot. The M-16 was on full automatic, and the man was cut to pieces. When it was over, Eugene came to pry the rifle from A.J.’s hands. He still had the trigger depressed, although the magazine was empty.
“Easy,” Eugene said. “Let me have the gun.” He removed the M-16 from A.J.’s hands and threw it down. He
