[IC] The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

[Morden Man]

In the distance the sound of dogs barking caught Dante’s attention. At first he had thought that the heat of The Bog had started to get to him. Beneath his balaclava he could feel the sweat pouring down his neck and along his chest. He had sweated so much that his white button-down shirt was nearly translucent and his slick body was visible through it. Dante grew visibly uncomfortable and agitated with each passing second and the sound of barking in the distance seemed to him a sure a sign of their impending capture. He looked at Chew still sat calmly on the mattress in the corner of the room seemingly unperturbed by their situation. Dante looked at him for a few seconds, ignoring Roland in his periphery vision, and gestured outside of the tiny little shack they had hoped up in.

“Can you hear that?”

“Of course I can hear it,” Chew nodded gravely. “Dogs.”

Dante paced around the room a little. “They’re close, getting closer by the second.”

“Relax,” Chew muttered as he stared down at the gun in his hands. “They’re not coming for us.”

“How can you be so sure? Someone could have talked.”

Chew glared at him. “Someone? No one talked. Fucking relax.”

It was clear from Chew’s tone that he resented the implication that his sister might have put the both of them in. Chew had never seen what Michelle had become whilst he was behind bars, the kind of things she’d been doing, but Dante and the rest of Norman had. She might have turned things round now but Michelle Lewis had once borrowed, stolen, and tricked for her high back then and Dante had always found it difficult to trust someone like that. They were always the first to break.

“Easy enough for you to say,” Dante mumbled under his breath and gestured towards Roland. “He doesn’t know your fucking name.”

Whatever happened here, Chew was straight. He could walk out of here and spend the rest of his life un-fucking troubled by what had happened here. Dante had plunged his hands into the filth for him, stepped up to the mark when Chew had asked him to, and he still didn’t seem to be capable of showing an ounce of gratitude. Dante scratched at the sweat on his neck a little and stared at his old friend for a moment. He thought about his life before Chew had got out. He had his own place, made a decent living, and most importantly hadn’t crossed Billy fucking Brown. This shit with Chew had put all of that at risk. From the way Chew was sat, seeming unconcerned about what was happening, it was like he didn’t even realise that.

As if from nowhere Dante voiced his concerns. He looked towards his old friend and mumbled at him. “You’ve been nothing but fucking trouble since you got out.”

Chew shook his head a little. “You’re bugging out, man.”

With every word Dante spoke another grievance came to mind. He thought back to that night at Club 65 where Chew had thrown him against the car for having the temerity to tell the fucking truth for once. Chew had always pushed him around, Marcus and he had treated Dante like little more than an errand boy, and having found himself stuck in The Bog, having kidnapped Roland fucking Spencer of all people, Dante finally recognised that. Chew hadn’t asked him to do this with him because he liked him or because he trusted him. It was because he had nobody else. Dante was his errand boy all over again.

“Too slow on the fucking draw back in Georgia but quick enough to suggest we fucking leave Marcus behind,” Dante said angrily. Tears had begun to well in his eyes as he spoke and he was waving his gun around. “He was our best friend, man. And you made me leave him to bleed out there like some pig to save your own skin. How do I know you won’t do that again when the time comes?”

Chew stood up from the mattress slowly and glanced towards Roland Spencer as if imploring him to stay silent. He raised a concerned hand in Dante’s direction. “Breathe, Dante.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to breathe,” Dante seethed. “He’s dead because of you.”

“I know that,” Chew nodded guiltily. “I know that better than anyone.”

There. That was all Dante had wanted, all he’d ever wanted, to be treated with a little respect, and hearing those words leave Chew’s mouth calmed him a little. He rubbed at his forehead over the balaclava and then looked at Chew earnestly.

“How do I know you’re not going to leave me like that, man?”

A few seconds passed and Chew let a sigh thick with regret leave his lips. He placed one of his large hands on Dante’s shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly. “That’s not going to happen.”

Dante nodded slightly as he felt the last of his rage pass. He saw a thin smile creep over the lips of Roland Spencer and tugged at his trigger pull a little as he looked at him. Chew shook his head and Dante sighed. He walked over to the tiny window of the filthy little shack they’d made their home, vials cracking underfoot as he went, and stared out at the endless Bog. There was barking in the distance. Dante just hoped that it wasn’t coming for them.

[Byrd Man]

"Klaar," Clint Land snapped at the pair of German Shepherds walking around the dirt road.

The two dogs went straight as a board at the command issued in Dutch. The dogs were trained to only respond to commands in that language. It was a safety measure to prevent anyone other than Clint from ordering the dogs to do something. The wiry deputy held up a USC baseball cap and a sock, letting the dogs get the scent of Chew Lewis and Dante Fulsome. Sherry Calhoun watched Clint barking commands to the dogs in the foreign tongue. She, Clint, Mark Echols, and four other deputies were the search party out here in the Bog. After talking to Cade, she went back to the sheriff's department with the information from him, as well as the notes from her conversation Gus Harris.

Danny and Echols were impressed by her findings. A lot of the other deputies, they said, would have done the canvass and been done with it. They liked her tenacity. Even through the horror show of the last few days, Sherry walked a little taller after their attaboy. The evidence from Harris and Cade was enough for Judge Dixon to issue a warrant to search Chew and Dante's homes and send a search party out into the Bog.

"Alright," said Echols with a map in his hands. Like the rest of the cops, he wore knee-high wader boots. "Map here is old, but the Bog is still the Bog. We'll spread out, form a chain where nobody is more than ten or twelve feet away from the others. Clint and the dogs are in the center. We ready, Clint?"

"Yessir," he said.

From somewhere across the way, they heard the sound of raised voices. Sherry looked out through the marshy waters. Echols' head snapped back towards Clint and the others.

"Let's go."

"Zoeken!" Clint bellowed in Dutch.

He let the dogs go and watched as they quickly picked up a scent and raced through the Bog towards whatever it was they smelled.

[Morden Man]

“Fuck this.”

Dante muttered from near the window as he seemingly grew more irritable by the second. Roland had been watching him. He was struggling with the heat. That much was clear to see even with the balaclava on. There was more than that though. He seemed unstable. Roland tugged at the rope that bound his wrists a little and winced in pain as it tore at his skin. When he looked up he saw Dante with his Glock in his hand. It was pointing in Roland’s direction.

His friend, the tall one, outstretched his hand towards him. “What the fuck are you doing, Dante?”

A wry smile appeared on Dante’s face. “What we should have done two hours ago.”

In that moment Roland saw his life flash before his eyes. He saw every mistake, ever misdeed, and every sin he’d ever committed. He tasted the kisses of every girl he’d ever been with and lamented that he’d never lay with another woman again. His life, his work, had all amounted to nothing. He was going to die out here in the Bog without a soul in the world that gave a damn about him. He was certain of that. He saw Dante’s finger pull back on the trigger some.

“No,” the tall man shouted. “No!”

There was a flash of light and a loud bang. Roland felt himself being thrown backwards but not the pain. No, there was no pain, it was over faster than he thought it would be, all he’d felt was his already bloodied skull crashing down against the floor of the shack. In his periphery he spotted Dante fall to the floor dead and saw the tall man stood beside him with a smoking gun in his hand. It took Roland several seconds to figure out what had happened. Even staring into Dante’s vacant eyes and the blood that pooled beneath his head what had really happened sunk in. It was only until he looked down and noticed there was no bullet wound in him that it dawned on him. He was still alive.

The tall man walked over to him and Roland felt his huge hands pulling his chair upright. After a few seconds Spencer managed to summon up some words. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” the tall man shrugged as he glanced down at Dante’s lifeless body. “I guess I wanted to see what it felt like to do the right thing for once in my life.”

That voice. It sounded like Antwan’s voice. Suddenly the pieces clicked into place and Roland’s eyes widened. The voice, Dante, the “Marcus” they’d spoken about, and their wanting to speak about Antwan. The tall man was Antwan’s uncle. He’d heard the boy waxing lyrical about his uncle and his exploits for years.

“I know who you are,” Roland muttered. “You’re Chew Lewis.”

Lewis pulled the balaclava free from his face. His brow was mopped with sweat, as were his lips, but despite his shorn hair and hulking stature he bore a facial resemblance to Michelle. Chew threw the balaclava down to the ground and wiped his face clean of sweat before staring in Roland’s direction.

“That’s right,” Chew nodded. “But seeing as I just gunned down the only friend I had left in this world for you, I’d appreciate it if you kept my name out of your mouth once you got out of here. The last thing I need is Billy Brown breathing down my neck.”

Roland laughed derisively at that. “What? You actually think you’re getting out of here?”

“Think?” Chew said with a determined scowl. “I know I am.”

His face was stony serious. There was something in his eyes that made it hard for Roland to disbelieve him despite the unlikelihood of what he was saying. If half of the things Antwan had said about him were true then the crazy son of a bitch might actually be able to do it. Roland shied back into his seat a little as Chew approached him. He walked behind him and unbound the rope that had kept him strapped to his seat.

Spencer’s hands cried with relief as he rubbed at them. “You hear those dogs? They’re coming for you, Chew, as much as I’m thankful for your little show of chivalry, I have a feeling it’s not going to do you much good.”

Chew walked over to the window and scanned the horizon. Roland couldn’t see the view from where he was sitting but whatever was awaiting him out there certainly didn’t seem pretty. He took a glance down at Dante’s body laid amongst the cracked vials on the floor and let out a heavy sigh. It was clear having taken his friend’s life rested heavily on his conscience. He shook his head a little as if to steel himself for what he was about to do.

“We’ll see about that.”

Lewis pulled out his gun and used it to smash through what remained of the rotting window frame. He placed a single leg through it and was about to climb through and out to the Bog when a thought popped into Roland’s mind. Marcus. As much as Roland’s interests in Antwan were financial, he’d grown to appreciate him for more than that, and in the wake of Jayson being shot his affinity for him had grown even more. Chew was the only man on Earth now that knew what really happened to Antwan’s daddy and he wasn’t about to let him walk out of there without finding out.

He stood up from his seat slowly and called out to him. “You really leave Marcus Dixon behind to die like that? Like he said?”

Without a second’s hesitation Chew nodded. “Yeah.”

His face grew wistful, weary even, and he stared down at Dante’s body once more. In the distance the sound of the approaching dogs grew louder and louder by the second. They were coming. He knew that. The sound of incoming voices broke him out of his wistfulness and he looked up at Roland and matched his gaze.

“But he’d have done the same to me in a heartbeat,” Chew said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “I guess that’s why we were best friends.”

With that he slipped through the window and Roland was alone.

[Byrd Man]

The rickety wooden door shook two or three times before it finally came off its rotting hinges and collapsed to the floor in chunks. Clint Land came through the door, a shotgun in his hands. Just behind him was Echols, his service pistol out and ready for what they found. Both men wore kevlar vests PCSD stamped on the front and back.

"It's Spencer," Land said as other deputies came into the house with them. "Down on the ground, sir."

Roland Spencer complied, sprawling out on the floor and saying something Echols couldn't hear. Off to the side, a dead body lay. Blood ran from a head wound and stained the floor. The color and movement of the blood told Echols it was fresh, just a few minutes old. He held his hand up for quiet from the rest of the group. In the sudden silence he heard Spencer talking.

"Went out the window, maybe you can catch him. Fucking Chew and Dante, didn't mean to do anything other than provide for that boy."

"Get the dogs, Clint," Echols said as he turned to leave the house. "We got more hunting to do."

[Morden Man]

Chew ran. He ran until he was red in the face and his lungs felt empty and sore. The sticky heat of the Bog left his clothes sodden with sweat. He could hear the dogs in the distance. They were gaining on him. He had promised himself when he’d got out that he’d never go back, that he’d turn his life around, and he still meant to do that. No one knew the Bog like Chew and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let PCSD take him in without taking them on a merry run at least. Realistically his only shot of getting out of here was finding the car Dante and he had driven there in and getting across the county line. What he’d do after that he wasn’t sure but there wouldn’t be an after that unless he could find it.

That wasn’t going to be an easy task. He could tell from the tracks that at least half a dozen PCSD officers had followed them in here. Two dogs from the sound of it too. The deputies he could shake, the dogs would be a much harder task. As Chew sucked in air desperately he thought of all the hours he’d sat in his cell dreaming of seeing the outside of those walls. Yet here he was forcing his body to put one foot after the other despite their being thick and heavy with swamp gunk. The dogs could probably smell him from a mile away. Sweat, gunshot residue, both Roland and Dante’s blood splattered on him.

“Just keep going,” Chew muttered under his breath. “Just keep running, you son of a bitch.”

In the distance he heard a shout and Chew slid to the ground into a ditch. He squelched to a halt as his feet began to sink deep into the mire but hugged the dirt close to him as he heard footsteps approaching him. A dog sprinted past and closely behind it followed a deputy with a shotgun in his hands. Chew could feel his body trembling with nervousness as he hoped the dogs couldn't smell him and that the deputy wouldn't look down. The seconds felt like hours but finally he heard the deputy speak a language Chew didn't understand to the dogs and they sprinted past in the other direction. Chew sighed and dragged himself out the ditch and back onto his feet.

His clothes were now thick with mud and even on a frame as large as Chew's they weighed him down. It didn't matter, nothing mattered, all Chew cared about was getting back to that car and getting out. He kept his head down and stalked through the Bog silently, hiding behind trees and in ditches where he needed to, until finally the car came into sight. It was where Dante and he had left it and from the look if it seemed undisturbed. The deputies hadn't found it. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd even found it. He smiled broadly as he approached it, remembering he'd left the keys in the ignition, and opened the driver's side door to slide inside. As he did so he noticed the keys had been removed. The all too familiar clicking of a weapon cocking sounded from behind him.

"On your knees," Sherry Calhoun said calmly. "On your knees now, Charles."

Chew glanced across at the passenger side window at Calhoun's reflection. She had her weapon trained on him, her hands were deathly still, and there didn't seem an ounce of fear in her eyes. He glanced down at the Colt in the waistbands of his pants and considered reaching for it for a few moments. He'd been in this position before and lived to tell the tale. He reckoned he could throw the deputy off a little, enough to make her miss, and drawn down on her before she could get a second shot away.

As if sensing Chew's thought process Calhoun spoke up. "Nobody else needs to die today."

He pictured Yolanda Thomas laid dead on the floor of Spencer's Tires and Rims. The way her brains had congealed on the floor had made his stomach turn. Chew had tried to tell himself after he'd shot Dante that there was some justice to it, some balance, that in killing him he'd repaid Dante's debt to Yolanda. It was bullshit. He knew that then and now faced with the concept of life in prison or death by cop he especially knew it was bullshit. He'd tried to tell himself that he had no choice. These things happened. That was bullshit too. When Chew felt sorry for himself he used to lament the fact that prison had "taken" years of his life. It wasn't prison that had taken it, but Chew, and even though it had almost killed him, he was still alive. If he reached for his gun there was a good chance that one of them wouldn't be.

There was always a choice. He knew that now.

Chew raised his hands in the air and slowly knelt to the ground.

[Byrd Man]

Mike Norman hoisted himself out of his car and lumbered up the small, grassy hill towards the cemetery. He wore a crinkled black suit and tie, his one outfit for weddings and funerals, and sipped from a half full bottle of Jameson Whiskey clenched in his chubby hands. The graves here at the cemetery just outside were among some of the area's oldest. A white family from the early 1800's was buried in one plot, their lifelong slave buried just outside the family plot. Plenty of the graves read the names Norman, Calhoun, Tillman, and Johnson. Every single member of Mike's family were buried here, including the latest.

He stopped at the grave they'd just filled this afternoon. The marker wasn't a headstone, but a simple engraved piece of granite marking the grave.

JOHN NORMAN
1986-2015
Beloved Son and Grandson

Mike took a long chug off his bottle and drained nearly all that was left in just a few gulps. Daniel was buried right next to John, and Mike's parents were a few rows up. He remembered when they died. The pain he felt at losing his momma was bad, not so much his father, but it was nothing compared to losing Daniel... and now John.

A thought struck him as he stood there in the dark. John had been his only grandson. Mike was the last Norman. Everyone else still alive were the sons and daughters of Norman girls who married and changed their name. A family filled with roughnecks, scumbags, and psychos had come down to just him. The shit from the 80's had been called a war, but could you really call it a war when it was so one-sided? Billy Brown had taken everything from Mike: His bar, his empire, his son, and now his grandson. Like the war the people down here loved to talk about, the Norman cause was a lost one.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a picture. It was him and John years ago, the boy was just two at the time. Right before Daniel was killed, he and Mike were at the state zoo in Columbia. His ex-wife took the photo of them in front of the fish aquarium, John on his shoulders and smiling while Mike grinned wide. The little boy from all those years ago, his little boy, was now in the cold ground. He told Mike he'd never leave Pickett and it turned out he was right. He laid the photo on the grave marker and patted it. He hoped wherever John was, he remembered that day in Columbia all those years ago.

Mike fought back the tears as he walked back to his car and climbed in. A duffle bag in the passenger seat held all he needed from his house. He hadn't even told Bettie Jo his plan to leave. He figured Billy was after him now for good, so the less she knew the better. He started up the car and headed towards the highway towards Georgia. He pulled over to the side just before he got to the bridge separating the two states and stared up at the big, green highway sign welcoming people to Pickett County.

This horrible little county that gave his father and uncles vast opportunities had taken away everything from him. Even when he stopped fighting, it took and it took regardless if he deserved it or not. And still he kept coming back for more. Not now. He learned his lesson the hard way. The war was over, Billy had won. He could have this shitty little county in the goddamn backwoods. Tears were streaming down his as he got out the car and finished off the last little bit in the whiskey bottle. He sobbed as he tossed the bottle against the Now Leaving Pickett County sign. Fuck that sign, fuck Billy Brown, and fuck everyone in Pickett County. He pulled himself back into the car and sat there for several minutes before he dried his eyes and started the car back up.

Mike Norman, the last Norman, pulled out onto the highway and crossed the bridge into Georgia. He had no idea where he was headed, but any place was bound to be better than where he was coming from.

[Morden Man]

Gus Harris let out a heavy sigh as stared down at the open Bible at the lectern in front of him. Today was Jayson Aaron’s funeral. He’d been dreading this day for weeks. In the span of a week, Pickett County had been torn apart by violence that had been years in the making. Word was John Norman had gone on a killing spree that had claimed the lives of PCSD Deputy Scott Andrew, Ray Champion down at Ray’s bar, the boy Jed that ran with him, and even an undercover SLED agent by the name of Jerry Miller. Norman had lost its fair share. Jayson, of course, Yolanda Thomas, and Dante Fulsome were all dead. DeSean Hamilton and Chew Lewis were both in cells awaiting trial for their parts in that. Roland was lucky to have escaped with his life. Of all of it and all the killing it was Jayson’s that still hit him the hardest. The boy was pure, a gentle soul, and losing him had torn Norman apart. Yolanda’s funeral was still a couple of weeks away and Gus expected it would be well attended too but nothing like today. All of Norman were assembled before him for Jayson.

All except Michelle Lewis. Somehow Michelle had gotten away with her part in Yolanda’s death and Roland’s kidnapping. PSCD had tried to get Chew to roll over on Michelle but there was no way in hell that Charles was ever going to break. The man was like granite. Sherry had told Gus that even with his and Antwan’s accounts of what had happened, what Michelle had told them, it wouldn’t be enough to pin Michelle down. When they pulled the phone records Michelle plead the fifth and there was next to nothing they could charge her with that wasn’t more than a slap on the wrists. Any time Gus found himself inclined to forgive Michelle he’d be hit by thoughts of Yolanda’s family that would sweep the feeling from his mind. Michelle Lewis was dead to him. More importantly, she was dead to Antwan. As far Gus knew, Antwan split most of his time between Alicia Aaron’s house and occasionally Roland’s place these days.

What had happened with Chew and Dante had set Roland right some. Some men might have been scared away by what had happened but he seemed to understand that Antwan needed a real friend in his life now more than ever before. He’d stepped up in a way that nobody, especially not Gus, had expected and it had been a pleasant surprise. To think this whole damned saga had started because Michelle thought Roland was going to destroy Antwan’s chances of getting out of Norman in one piece. Yet it had been her that had put Antwan’s future at risk, costing Charles his freedom and Yolanda and Dante their lives in the process. Life was funny like that sometimes. God was funny like that.

Finally Gus looked up from his Bible and into the crowd. He saw Antwan Dixon sat in the front row next to Alicia Miller with his fingers interlocked between hers as tightly as if he were her own son. Beside him was Roland Spencer with his face still covered in bruises and a bandage wrapped around his head. Gus smiled at him gently from the lectern and Roland smiled back at him appreciatively. There in the crowd were faces that Gus knew personally and others that he related to on a more primal, instinctive basis. They were Norman-born and Norman-bred. Pickett-born and Pickett-bred. Sometimes they forgot that. The war that had swept the County ought to have shown them all that. Dead was dead regardless of which side of the train tracks the body was on.

Gus ran his fingers along the edges of the text he prepared for today that he’d annotated beyond recognition. There were dozens of Bible verses that Gus had unearthed last night that in the dead of the night he’d hoped would be appropriate for today. In the cold light of day they seemed so inadequate that he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to speak them out loud.

"It's not enough," Gus sighed defeatedly as he lifted the page towards the crowd. "I... I was up all night searching for the words, any words, that would make the loss of Jayson Aaron hurt any less. He was a beautiful boy. It's not often that word is used to describe a young man, I understand that, but in his case it was true. He was a beautiful person, there was not a strand of hate in his heart, and he died... He died protecting the person he loved most in the world. Jayson was torn from us too soon, torn from this world too soon, but he died as he lived. With love in his heart. He protected others before himself and understood the importance of kindness. He understood that kindness is never a mistake. His bravery, his courage, and the love he gave so freely to those around him will live on those assembled here today and all the people's lives he touched that couldn't be here."

He stopped for a second and looked towards Antwan Dixon as he cradled Alicia Miller's hand. She was sobbing. Gus cleared his throat a little to cover his getting choked up and then made eye contact with Antwan again beside her. Antwan nodded at him to indicate that he was ready and Gus nodded back. The young man stepped up from his seat, lifted Alicia's hand slightly and pressed his lips against it, and began to walk up towards the stage.

Gus gestured towards Antwan. "I believe Jayson's best friend, Antwan, has prepared some few words he'd like to say."

Antwan passed him on the way to the lectern and he patted the young man on the back supportively before standing to the side on the stage. Antwan took to the lantern and reached into the inside of his ill-fitting suit and produced a piece of paper that shook violently in his hands. He was nervous, it was clear to see, but he looked to Gus and the deacon nodded at him supportively and gestured to him to clutch onto the lectern. Antwan set the piece of paper down, clutched onto the lectern, and shifted his weight onto one leg as he cleared his throat to speak.

Through her tears, Alicia Miller smiled up at him.

[Byrd Man]

"Sherry, have a seat."

Mark Echols and Danny Johnson were waiting for Sherry in their shared office. She took a chair in front of the two desks that were pushed together to form a joint workspace. Echols sat at one desk, Danny at the other. Danny wore a pair of reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose and gave Sherry a friendly smile. Echols, never one for warm and fuzzy feeling, just stared at her while sipping coffee.

"That whole mess with Roland Spencer and Chew Lewis was some damn fine leg work, Sherry," said Danny.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "I just... was doing my job."

"You did it well," said Echols. "Have you given much thought to moving up from patrol?"

"Like where?"

"Like here," said Danny. "Work CID. Mark and I both agree you've got the makings of a good detective."

"I don't know," Sherry said cautiously. She worked her hands together and shrugged. "I don't know if I'm that smart."

"Smart ain't all there is to it," Echols said. "It's part of it, sure, but a bigger part is not giving up and keep digging. You did that on the Spencer case. As far as Danny and I are concerned, you solved a murder on your own accord."

Sherry felt herself flushing with embarrassment. The two observant detectives caught it and traded amused looks.

"With Scott's death, Sheriff Parker is promoting Mark to captain and making him head of CID," said Danny. "I'll be getting a promotion to lieutenant, and I'll need a partner to work cases with. With the black/white balance Sheriff Parker likes to keep, I'll need a white officer. We want it to be you."

"The job won't be easy--," said Echols.

"--especially with Mark as your commander."

"-- lots of paperwork and late nights when the shit hits the fan, like it did over the past week. But it comes with a sergeancy and a pay bump. Instead of being reactive, you'll be proactive. What do you say?"

Sherry looked between the two men's expectant faces before she let a smile slip out.

"When do we start?"

--

"Have a drink with me, captain," Parker said to Echols.

Parker broke out a bottle of scotch he kept in his office and poured two tumblers full. The two men toasted Echols' promotion and sipped in silence for several minutes. Echols saw the silence made Parker uncomfortable. The man was a natural politician, he needed to always be talking and proving some point. Echols always let the silence speak for him. In those quiet moments you could read a man better than if you asked a hundred questions. The uncomfortableness turned into something more, Echols noticed. Parker was deciding something, Echols could now tell.

"Mark," he said slowly.

The sheriff reached into his desk and pulled out a thick file that he slapped on the surface.

"This file right here is the only copy in the world. This won't be found in our records or computer databases."

"What is it?" Echols asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Proof that Scott Andrews was working for Billy Brown."

Echols' eyes went wide at the information. He put his drink down and flipped through it. Thre was bank statements, asset reports, surveillance photos, even a sworn affidavit or two nailing Andrews dead to rights as Billy's point man on the PCSD. It wasn't so much the fact that Scott had been dirty that blew his mind, it was that Parker had concrete evidence.

"How long have you known?" he asked the sheriff.

"I've known for sure for a few years now, but I've always known. Just like you always knew. Just like everyone always knew."

Echols closed the file and looked up at Parker. "When are you giving it to SLED?"

"I'm not."

"Excuse me?"

"This file will destroy the sheriff's department. For someone that high up to be working for Billy for so long with cause the state police to bring down their wrath and scorch the goddamn earth. I'll be thrown out of office, a new sheriff will come in with a mandate to clean up the department. You and Danny will probably be asked to resign, along with half the department. One bad apple will spoil the whole bushel, son. I don't want that to happen."

Echols grabbed his drink and polished it off in two gulps. He wiped the liquor from his lips and put the glass back on the desk a little too roughly.

"Why tell me all this, sheriff?"

"Because Billy Brown is so goddamn arrogant, he's gonna try to keep up business as usual. You taking over as head of CID means either Billy himself or one of his men is gonna approach you with an offer. They're going to reveal they had an arrangement with Scott and they want the same arrangement with you. They'll probably offer cash for muscle work and information from inside the PCSD. If that happens, Mark, I want you to say yes..."

Parker refilled their glasses and sucked his drink down as quickly as Echols did.

"I want Billy to think you're his man inside the PCSD, when--"

"-- I'm your man inside Billy's organization?"

Parker nodded and broke out in a big grin.

"I'm tired of that cocksucker thinking he can walk all over the people in this county. By God, we're taking the fight back to him. What do you say?"

Echols held up his empty glass.

"To seeing Billy Brown die behind bars."

Parker laughed and clinked glasses with Echols.

"Here, here."

[Morden Man]

It was Jayson Aaron’s funeral this morning. Michelle Lewis wasn’t welcome. That had been made clear early on. Her son still hated her guts for that mess with Yolanda and had fallen in ever deeper with Roland Spencer than ever before. It made Michelle sick to her stomach. All she’d ever tried to do was keep Antwan safe and protect him from men like Roland. Now she was helpless to watch whilst Spencer rode her baby to the top and then sucked him dry once he’d made it there. In truth, Michelle was lucky to still be a free woman. Her brother had stonewalled PCSD’s investigation as it regarded her involvement in things and for that she was eternally grateful. It was why she’d made the drive out to the old prison to visit Chew this morning whilst the rest of Norman mourned for Jayson. A thick pane of glass separated her from her brother but seeing him heartened her all the same. He was the first person that looked glad to see in weeks.

She smiled at Chew and gestured around the prison. “So how are things?”

“Not too bad, I survived this place once. I can do it again. How about you? How are things with Antwan?”

Even the mention of her son’s name cut Michelle to the quick. Had she been dragged into a cell like Chew and kept from her son by force the pain might have been more bearable. Knowing that it was by her son’s choosing that they no longer saw one another made the pain of being apart from him even more searing.

It hurt her to speak the words but finally she forced them out. “We don’t speak anymore.”

A shocked look appeared on her brother’s face. “What?”

“He’s staying with Jayson’s mother Alicia.”

It was clear in Michelle’s face how heartbroken she was. For once she made no attempt to hide it. Antwan was the only light in her life, the one thing that had lead her out of the darkness, and without him the world seemed a whole lot darker. It was her love for Antwan that had set in motion the events that landed her brother back in prison and Dante Fulsome and Yolanda Thomas in the grave. She rarely thought of Dante and Yolanda. In her mind it was Roland that had put them in the grave.

Chew smiled at and attempted to strike an uncharacteristic conciliatory tone. “He’ll come around.”

“I don’t think so,” Michelle muttered deflatedly. “Not this time.”

Michelle sighed and the pair of them sat quietly for a few seconds. Michelle moved the phone away from her ear some and pressed the head of the phone against her cheek. Her brother stared back at her impassively and ran his hand along the top of his shaved head. There were bags under his eyes, thick, dark ones at that, and he looked more tired than Michelle had ever seen him. For the first time since she’d arrived she thought about Charles and what he’d done for her and her son. Marcus appeared in her face, as he always did when she thought about her brother, but for once the bitterness she felt at that was secondary to her concern about Chew. It was an odd feeling and not one she was sure she could put words to. She knew she had to try for her brother’s sake.

“You know, I never thanked you for what you did, for being willing to do it for me, for Antwan.”

Chew shrugged his shoulders and leant back in his seat. “It’s fine.”

Michelle shook her head. “No, it’s not fine. The only reason you’re back in this place is because of me and I never even bothered to thank you for it. So thank you.”

Her brother opened his mouth to speak but before the words were out Michelle found herself speaking the three words she thought she’d never say. For years she had hated Chew, she’d even wanted him dead for a time, but sat staring at him looking beaten and defeated she knew she had to say them. As much as it might have felt like a betrayal of everything she’d once stood for and every promise she’d made.

“I forgive you.”

“What?” Chew muttered, a tentative smile appearing on his face. “You’re serious?”

The more Michelle thought about it, the more it made sense, and the more she spoke the more comfortable she felt with the promises she was breaking. “What happened with Marcus, it was so long ago, I’ve held onto the hate for such a long time, longer even than I knew him. It’s ate me up inside, made me do some things I wish I could undo, and holding onto it doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Chew’s eyes grew bleary and red. He moved the phone away from his face for a second and doubled over in his seat. When he looked up at his sister there were tear marks down his cheeks. He cleared his throat and wiped them away before pressing the phone back against his ear. A bashful smile appeared on Chew’s face that Michelle hadn’t seen in years.

“Thank you.”

She nodded knowingly at him. “Now that Antwan’s gone you’re all I have left, Charles.”

Chew looked perplexed at that. He shook his head, slightly bemused, and invoked the name of a man that had forgiven him for the unforgiveable once. A man that had saved his life. “What about Gus?”

“He blames me for Yolanda,” Michelle said, her face contorted into a mixture of shame and resentment. “I see him sometimes in the street and he doesn’t even look at me. It’s like I’m not even there. Like I’m a ghost.”

Chew nodded wordlessly and pressed his hand against the pane of glass that separated him from his sibling.

“Well, at least we have one another.”

Michelle smiled unconvincingly and reached out and pressed her hand against the other side of the glass. Chew smiled at her warmly and Michelle tried her best to maintain her half-hearted smile. She had forgiven her brother, that much he deserved, but she didn’t know whether she could ever bring herself to love him the way she was supposed to. Antwan was the only person still breathing that Michelle loved but he didn't want anything to do with her.

For now her brother’s love would have to do.

[Byrd Man]

Danny Johnson pulled into the parking lot of Ray's and killed the engine. His son, DJ, and that creep everyone called Jim Brown were working on the bar's exterior. The sheriff's department left the place in shambles after the shootout. There were bullet holes in the walls and crime scene tape still hung around the door. Danny knew the inside was still a mess of blood and forensics chemicals. With the help of SLED, they'd documented every grisly detail about the massacre that went on inside that bar. He heard the news about the place just this morning at the diner. He still couldn't believe it.

DJ and Jim Brown looked back as he got out his car and started over. Jim Brown mumbled something to DJ before going inside the bar. As Danny got closer he saw the sign on the bar was different. Instead of Raymond's Social Club there was simply DJ's Bar & Grill. DJ turned to look at his father. He kept his hands in his pockets like he always did when he knew he was going to hear a lecture from his father.

"So it's true, what I heard? You running this place now?"

"Yup," DJ nodded. "Ole Ray didn't leave behind any kind of family to speak of, so the bar's being sold for cheap. I got some cash I been saving up, so I decided to buy it."

"With Billy's approval right?" Danny asked. "Him being Ray's silent partner in the bar and all that, I assume he needs another clean name for the liquor license."

DJ sniffed and cleared his throat, his way of disregarding what Danny had previously said. "You want something, or you just wanted to come out here to fuck with me?"

Danny shrugged. He had something he wanted to say, something he'd prepared on the drive over. But the words weren't coming out.

"I thought... maybe the events of the last week would make you wise up. So many people dead or hurt just because they were working for Billy. Even that cockroach Roland Spencer almost died because he's with Billy's crowd. Someone with some sense may have gotten out, but you end up getting in deeper."

DJ spat on the ground near Danny's feet and looked at him with hard eyes, a look Danny had seen on many young men... but never his own son.

"You might have forgotten what year it is, but I ain't gotta explain shit to you. I'm grown, and I'll do what the fuck I want."

"So you just gonna be Billy's nigger?"

DJ grinned. "Shit. Better than being the fucking sheriff's nigger."

"Boy, I--"

"--You know it's true. You the only black man working for the sheriff's department. Have been for the last twenty years. It's like the racist motherfucker who keeps one nigger around to say he ain't racist."

Danny knew he should leave. Just go and don't give the boy the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. But he was hardly ever thinking clearly whenever he and DJ go to arguing.

"Goddammit, you're breaking the law--"

"The law ain't shit," DJ said coldly. "Your boy, Scott? He was Billy's man inside the sheriff's department. But you knew that already, fuck everybody already knew that. Sheriff included. He didn't do a goddamn thing about it because he didn't care. He was getting elected so who gives a fuck? That's what the fucking law and rules mean to me. It's something the people who really matter don't have to worry about. I wanna be one of those people. I'm a twenty-two-year-old black man from Norman who thought he could get outta this town but never did. I'm here for the rest of my life, and it's probably gonna be a short one. So I'm gonna stick with the side that gets me paid."

Danny was about to shout something, but stopped when he saw Jim Brown's magnified eyes watching him from inside the bar's doorway.

"Everything alright, DJ?"

"Sure is," DJ said as he looked Danny up and down. "Sergeant Johnson was just leaving."

Danny held his fists tightly in a ball, so tight he could feel his fingernails cutting into his palms. Without another word, he turned his back on his son and walked back to his car. He waited until he was a mile down the highway before his eyes fell on the picture over the sun visor. DJ in full football gear, his picture from when he was eight years old and playing recreational ball. The boy had a wide smile on his face. Danny remembered that day clearly. The photographer kept trying to get DJ to give him his best mean face for the camera but he couldn't. His wife said the boy didn't have a mean bone in his body.

He pulled over to the side of the road and put his head against the steering wheel as he broke down into sobbing.

[Morden Man]

Antwan Dixon walked up the path to the old concrete court that Jayson and he had played together on as children. It was the same court that Chew Lewis had made him run suicides on until he was drenched in sweat. The same court he’d spoken with Gus Harris on all those weeks ago. He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him as he approached it and saw the sweaty figures sprinting up and down the length of it. He recognised some of them but not all of them. Some were former players that had carried water under Coach Calhoun but weren’t good enough for the league and others that were good enough but had their careers cut short by this place. If it wasn’t crime then it was drugs. No needle or spell in prison could take your love of the game away from you. Losing Jayson hadn’t robbed Antwan of his love for it either.

Jayson’s mother Alicia had been the one to suggest it to him. He’d barely left the house since Jayson’s funeral and she’d started to get a little worried about him. So here he was, lugging a carry bag full of basketball gear to the old court in an attempt to get his mind off of what had happened to his best friend. The closer he got to the court the thicker and faster the memories of playing on it with Jayson came. Finally he stopped at the chain-link fence and threaded his fingers through it whilst he watched the men running up and down the court. One of them swished a three pointer and ran back on defence whilst unfurling an arrow from an imaginary bow by way of celebration. It brought a smile to Antwan’s face and he made his way around the fence slowly and set his bag down.

One or two of the men looked in his direction and Antwan nodded at them in recognition. “I got next.”

The men played for a few minutes longer before finally one of them lifted up a sweat-drenched hand and gestured away from the court. He said his goodbyes, dapping a few of the men along the way, picked up his gear and headed out with a nod in Antwan’s direction. Antwan began some last minute stretches when one of the taller men, one Antwan recognised as a former Calhoun player, approached him and smiled at him. He had to be six foot eight, six foot nine at the last, but was as skinny as a rail and an angular, unspectacular face upon which a goatee sat squat upon.

“Hey man,” The man muttered, turning away from the other players and out towards the fields on the other side of the court. “I just want to say that I’m sorry about what happened to Jayson, man. I didn’t know him know him, but I bumped into him around the way a little and he seemed like a good kid. He deserved better than what happened.”

The man extended his hand in Antwan’s direction and Antwan looked down at it for a few seconds. A knot had worked its way into his throat at the mere mention of Jayson’s name. He forced it out and shook the man’s hand and then strode onto the court alongside the man. The other men looked at Antwan with heavy eyes. He could tell from the way they looked at him they knew who he was and what had happened. He grimaced disapprovingly at the thought of being at such a disadvantage. He was here to get away from that. He was here to play the game he loved.

Antwan clapped his hands together loudly and pointed towards the ball. “Are we going to play ball or what? You boys aren’t that scared of being put on a poster, are you?”

The tall man laughed and called for the ball from one of his friend’s and passed it towards Antwan. “We’ll see about that.”

They played for what felt like hours. The freedom that Antwan had hoped basketball would afford him eluded him. Having a ball in his hands, driving at people, and contesting every shot came naturally to him. He’d never forget how to do it. For the first few minutes though Antwan felt the weight of Jayson’s absence. With each shot he put up that bricked against the backboard, with every misplaced pass, Antwan couldn’t help but feel the sense of loss on his shoulders that he’d hoped to shake. It came, slowly though it might have been, but it took more work than Antwan imagined. He ran until his lungs felt like they were on fire, until sweat drenched his clothes until they clung to his body like spandex, and until his feet cried in pain. Somewhere in all the running Antwan felt free of his pain and troubles.

He accepted an inbound pass and blew by a defender using a triple-threat move that Chew had taught him. On his drive to the layup he saw the tall man rolling towards him to contest his shot. They made contact, hard contact at that, but Antwan rose above the tall man and kept rising as he moved towards the basket. He thundered the ball home with a sickening crunch that was met with howls from the other men. There was an equally sickening crunch as Antwan came down with all his weight on his right leg and felt it crumple underneath him. As he landed his head clattered into the ground and his ears rang as he pushed himself up to look towards his leg. The ringing drowned out the murmuring from the men as they approached him. Antwan’s blood ran cold when he saw it.

His leg had broken at the knee and was laid limply beneath him in an unnatural position. Halfway down his shin he could see bone jutting through his skin. A wave of light-headedness ran over him as he reached down to push the portion of bone poking out of his shin back into place. Before his hand made contact with it he felt his world go black and he leant backwards and placed his head against the concrete.

*****

Everything had happened so fast. When Antwan had opened his eyes he was in hospital with Coach Calhoun at his side. They assured him everything would be okay and shortly after a doctor came in to speak to Antwan about what had happened to his leg. His leg. Antwan hadn’t even thought about it since he’d opened his eyes. Somehow he’d forgotten what had happened. The doctor told him he’d sustained a heavy concussion when his head contacted the ground and that his leg was broken in several places. A clean break was bad but not fatal, Antwan thought, he could come back from a clean break. But it wasn’t a clean break. Antwan had torn both his MCL and ACL. Upon hearing that Antwan’s eyes became bleary with tears and he sat in his hospital bed with his head slumped. Coach Calhoun patted him on the back supportively but Antwan wasn’t there. He was somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t have to listen to a doctor assure him that he would likely walk again, and that they wouldn’t have to amputate.

That last detail grated on Antwan and he looked to the doctor with an angry frown. “Is that meant to be a good thing?”

The doctor was a round man with a thick white beard and a perfectly hairless head. He looked in his fifties, perhaps slightly older, and from his expression seemed to understand Antwan’s anger at his predicament. He placed the clipboard in his hands beneath his arm and rested his weight on the end of Antwan’s bed with a heavy sigh.

“I know it might not seem like it but this could have been much worse, Antwan.”

Antwan’s face grew red with frustration and he opened his mouth to speak but Coach Calhoun cut across him. “Could you give us a minute, Doctor?”

The doctor nodded and stood up. “Of course.”

Once he’d left the room Coach Calhoun pulled his chair closer to Antwan’s bed and placed his hand on Antwan’s forearm. Antwan could see from Coach’s eyes that he’d been crying though he couldn’t quite fathom why or when. They were red and raw and Coach’s voice, oaky and weary, seemed strained as he tried to impart what little wisdom he had. The words weren’t enough, Henry Calhoun knew that before he opened his mouth, but he little more to offer the boy than words at this juncture. So offer them he would.

“Listen, kid, I know you’re in a bad way but there’s no need to take this out on the doctors. They’re the ones that are going to put you back together and make sure you’re up and about again in no time. If the man says it could have been worse then it could have been worse. Whilst you were out he said that he’d seen less complicated breaks than yours where amputation had been considered, Antwan. If these past few weeks have taught you anything it should be that there are things more important than basketball.”

Once Coach was finished speaking Antwan looked towards his broken leg that was hidden beneath a thick cast. “Will I play again?”

The expression on Henry Calhoun’s face told Antwan more than the coach’s words could. He saw him swallow nervously at the question, saw the shaking hand that reached to rub at his mouth, and finally heard the indecision that laced his voice. “If anyone can come back from this it’s you.”

A month ago it might have been like a hammer blow to Antwan’s chest but Antwan couldn’t find it in him to cry about it. He simply stared down at his cast impassively whilst he let the ramifications of what had happened sink in. Basketball was gone, the one thing that Antwan had loved in this world, the thing that was going to help him get the people he loved out of Norman. In less than a month Antwan’s life, his dreams, and his relationships had been scattered to the wind by fate. Jayson was dead, Chew was back in prison, Roland had almost died because of Chew and Dante, Yolanda Thomas had died because of Chew, and his mother… at the thought of her he felt an icy hatred make its way into his chest.

“Alicia was here whilst you were out,” Coach said as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “You want I should call your mom?”

“No,” Antwan said with a shake of his head. “Not her, never her.”

Antwan extended his hand for the phone and Coach Calhoun placed the phone in his hand and then gestured towards the exit. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Roland.

If there was anyone that could make this okay, anyone that could bring a smile back to Antwan’s face, it was Roland. Roland was only friend that Antwan had left. Antwan took a glance over his window at the darkness and then to the clock. It was late but not too late. Roland would still be in his office at this time. Antwan was surprised he’d not already heard and been in contact but was dialing Roland’s number before he’d had a chance to question why that might be. He pressed the phone against his ear and waited whilst it dialed. Antwan’s face crumpled in disapproval as he heard it go through to voicemail.

“You’ve reached the answering machine of Roland Spencer of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Roland always had his phone on him and he always answered it within seconds. Antwan shook his head and dialed the number again and pressed the phone to his head. It dialed out again and Antwan’s face crumpled in disapproval once more. He wondered whether something had happened, whether Roland had been in some kind of accident, before pressing the phone to his ear again.

“You’ve reached the answering machine of Roland Spencer of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

It was on the fifteenth time of trying that a thought crept into the back of Antwan’s brain. It was doubt. The very same doubt that Antwan had felt that day that Gus Harris had visited him at the court. Hours had passed since Antwan had started calling Roland and he’d not heard a word from him. It was out of character. At least, Antwan thought it was out of character. Sat there in the darkness in his hospital bed with only Coach Calhoun’s phone screen for a light a realization dawned on Antwan. Gus had been right. Roland didn’t care about him. He had heard about what had happened and now he didn’t care about Antwan.

He shook his head in disbelief and dialed Roland’s number one last time.

“You’ve reached the answering machine of Roland Spencer of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

[Byrd Man]

Mark Echols climbed out his car and walked across the gravel of the Miller's Creek boat ramp. The headlights of his car illuminated the back of DJ Johnson's Caprice. DJ and Jim Brown were standing on opposite sides of the car's trunk, eyeing Echols as he approached.

"I got the message," said Echols with a hint of contempt. "Now what the hell is so all-fire important you had to wake me up in the middle of the night?"

"Billy has some work he needs done," Jim Brown said as he slipped on a pair of leather gloves. Echols noticed DJ wore a similar pair. "He said you've been doing a good job so far, but he needs to know you're as real as you say you are."

Echols felt his heart start to race. Shit, had the found him out? He blew it, he should have acted more hesitant when Billy offered him a chance to earn some money on the side. The fact that both of Billy's pet killers were wearing gloves made Echols start to fidget. They saw the discomfort on his face. DJ just smiled while Jim Brown did what he always did and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

"I just want to make some money, y'all," Echols croaked out. "I got a promotion, but the job still pays chicken shit. Helping Billy out just makes good economic sense."

"No doubt," said DJ. "But the man wants to fully initiate you into this little brotherhood of ours."

DJ reached over and popped the trunk. It sprung open and showed a man, tied and gagged resting on plastic wrap inside. He squirmed and tried to yell through his gag. Even in the dim light Echols could make out the many cuts and bruises on the man's face. He leaned in before quickly leaning back out.

"Is that George Silver?" He asked Jim Brown.

"Sure is. He fucked the man over one too many times, I'm afraid. He knows too goddamn much to be allowed to live."

"Christ Almighty, Jim Brown... he's your goddamn brother."

"Shared blood that's all," Jim Brown said coldly. "Used to be my brother before the crystal got its hooks into him. Now pull out your gun and kill him."

"Fuck you," Echols snapped. "The both of you. If you think I'm going--"

Before he could blink, both men had their own weapons out and trained on Echols.

"This is how it's gonna go," said DJ. "Either you kill George here and we dispose of the body, or we'll be getting rid of two motherfucking bodies."

Echols looked between the two men, not seeing anything other than blank stares on their faces. He cursed and reached for his service piece. George started to scream as he took the pistol out and pointed it down at him. He struggled so much the Caprice rocked and bounced with his movements. Echols pulled the trigger twice, two shots took off part of George's face and stopped his shaking. His hands shook so bad it took three times before he holstered his gun. DJ and Jim Brown said something, but it was distant and far away and he couldn't hear it. He barely remembered them leaving.

He looked up and realized he was alone out at the boat ramp. The lights from his car were the only lights in the world. What had Parker gotten him into, exactly? He saw George's face and felt the urge to puke but fought it back. He'd killed a man tonight. Not like the shit with John Norman on a rampage. He'd committed murder... for the sake of the job? That's what he told himself. Parker wanted to get Billy and Echols wanted to get Billy. A cockroach like George Silvers getting what was coming to him was part of it, right? The headlights flickered and died.

He was alone. Out in the dark wilderness with no light to guide the way.

[Morden Man]

Roland Spencer sat alone in the office of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. A few weeks ago Dante Fulsome had gunned Yolanda Thomas down on the floor only a few feet away from him. He peered over the rim of his glass of whiskey at the spot where Yolanda’s body had laid and grimaced. In front of him on his desk a cell phone rattled around. Across the screen of the cell phone was a number Roland didn’t recognise but he knew who was on the other side. It was Antwan Dixon. Word had reached Roland a few hours ago that Antwan had broken his leg in a pickup game. Apparently it was so bad the doctors were talking about amputating. As if the boy hadn’t been through enough over the past month or two he had this to contend with. Antwan had never been an excellent student, he’d never needed to be, but without basketball his life was going to be hard. Without Antwan playing basketball Roland’s life was going to be even harder.

It was only a matter of time before Billy Brown’s boys came calling. Spencer had entered into a Faustian pact with Brown that was contingent upon Antwan becoming a Gamecock when the time came. Now the boy would never play again Spencer’s very own Mephistopheles would drag him kicking and screaming to Hell. That much was certain. There was no corner of the world that Spencer could run to that Billy Brown wouldn’t find him. He knew that better than most. There was nothing that man couldn’t do. He’d toppled the Norman family at the height of their power after they’d ruled the roost in Pickett County for nearly a century. If he could do that he could find Roland. Worse, Roland wouldn’t put it past the man to extract his pound of flesh from Antwan if he did run. He wouldn’t risk that.

No, for once in his life Roland would meet his fate like a man. He’d lied to himself long enough. All the talk of being a self-made man had been exactly that. Talk. For once Roland would meet his fate head on. The phone in front of him rattled again and Roland felt a knot in his throat. He wanted to pick it up and tell Antwan everything was going to be okay but he couldn’t bring himself to. He gulped down another mouthful of whiskey instead and opened the top drawer of his desk. There amongst a few personal effects was a black Colt M1911 that Roland had bought after that mess with Chew and Dante. He placed it on the desk in front of him and eyed it for a while. Maybe he could gun down whoever came round that corner and take the fight to them. Maybe he could get them all. Billy Brown, DJ, Jim Brown, and whoever else was still left standing after the past few weeks.

Roland chuckled at the idea. He’d never used a gun in his life and he’d more than likely end up shooting himself before he managed to shoot anyone else. He chuckled again as he glanced down at the Colt. Roland’s smile disappeared as he lifted the Colt from his desk and slowly placed the Colt beneath his throat. Roland’s eyes closed and his finger pulled back on the trigger gently. The sound of the cell phone rattling around the table in front of him sprung his eyes open again and Roland threw the Colt down on the desk in front of him again. He sighed heavily and poured himself another drink. This time he made sure to fill his glass to the brim.

It was twenty minutes until Roland heard the sound of the door to Roland’s Tires and Rims opening. He remembered the last time men had entered his business in the middle of the night looking for him. He’d escaped with his life then. He wasn’t so sure he would this time around. He downed what remained of his drink as two shadows crept into sight and the outlines of DJ and Jim Brown appeared. He would barely have been able to make them out in the darkness if not for the moonlight glinting off of Brown’s glasses.

DJ pointed down to the Colt on the desk in front of Roland. “We’ve had a long night so I hope you’re not of a mind to use that thing.”

“No,” Roland muttered with a shake of his head. “I’m not going to use it.”

Jim Brown nodded to DJ instructively and DJ gestured to Roland to place the Colt back in the desk. Roland made sure his hands were in sight as he moved the weapon slowly from the desk and back into the draw beside him.

Once it was in DJ crossed his arms and leant against the doorframe of Roland’s office. “You know what this is about?”

Roland nodded.

“Let’s go take a ride then, Roland.”

Roland stood up from his seat slowly and took one last glance around his office. Perhaps it had been ill-gotten, perhaps he never would have made it without Billy Brown's help, but for a while there Roland had been somebody worth knowing. Twenty years ago he’d sold stolen watches out of a suitcase and today Roland was known the county over for something good. Something positive. That was worth it. That was worth something at least. His cell phone rattled on the table one last time and Roland thought of Antwan sat somewhere wondering where Roland had got to. He’d done right by the boy over the years, nobody could deny that, even if it had been for the wrong reasons. He hoped Antwan would remember all the good he'd done for him.

DJ clicked his fingers at Roland impatiently and Spencer nodded politely and followed after them. As he flicked the lights shut to the neon sign outside bearing his name he said a silent goodbye to Spencer’s Tires and Rims. And to everything and everyone he’d ever cared about.

[Morden Man]

It had been four days since Antwan Dixon’s injury and three days since Roland Spencer had gone missing. The proximity of those two events hadn’t gone unnoticed on Gus Harris. He’d spoken with Sherry Calhoun shortly after word had reached him about Roland’s disappearance and the Sheriff’s Department had declared him missing. The truth of the matter though was that Roland was more than missing. There wasn’t a soul in all of Pickett County that didn’t know that. Word on the street was that Billy Brown’s boys had taken Roland on a drive that he was never coming back from. He’d been indebted to Brown in some way, shape, or form and that debt had something to do with Antwan. His injury must have broken the terms of whatever seedy agreement Roland had entered into. So as easy as clicking his fingers Brown had disappeared him. There was no fuss, no outcry in the streets as there had been when Jayson had been killed, only cold, hard ambivalence from the people of Norman. The only person that Gus had even heard speak a good word about Roland since his passing was old Laval. Outside of that it had almost gone entirely unnoticed.

Antwan’s injury on the other hand was the talk of the town. He’d been a well-liked boy even before Jayson had been shot and the injury had only intensified that. The flowers and cards were almost bursting out of the young boy’s room when Gus had gone to visit him. He’d promised himself he’d tell Antwan about Roland but he’d proven unequal to that promise. Antwan had looked so broken and dispirited already that Gus was certain telling him would have pushed him over the edge. They’d spoken for thirty-five minutes or so, mostly about how long it would be before Antwan would be back on his feet and what he’d do in the meantime, but Antwan had rejected the deacon’s attempts to comfort him. He was beyond comfort it seemed. After Jayson had died Antwan had been an angry, tearful mess. Now he simply stared off into the distance with a glazed-over look that had unsettled Gus. He hoped Antwan would find something else to live for or there was no telling where he’d end up.

Heck, even Gus was finding it hard to get out of bed in the mornings. He’d never felt so powerless, so impotent, in the face of adversity before than he had done of late. No more Vontae Carters. Every time he thought back to Vontae’s memorial service he couldn’t help but condemn himself under his breath. If he’d known then what was to come he’d never have thought those words. He’d sat on the edge of his bed every morning and wondered how differently things might have turned out if he had a chance to do them over again. Perhaps if he’d have been more cordial with Roland, more understanding, he might have been able to help him with the problems he was facing. Perhaps if he’d have gone to see Chew earlier he’d never have ended up falling back into bed with Dante. There were hundreds of things Gus looked back on and wondered about. Every single time he found himself wondering how Norman had been caught in the worst possible timeline of the all. So many dead, so much potential wasted, and for what? Billy Brown still ruled the roost, young black boys lived, toiled, and died in Norman having never left the county lines, and there still wasn’t a thing that Gus could do about it.

And then he remembered. There was one promise that Gus could keep. He’d promised to repaint the old Hamilton house. That rotting, peeling behemoth overlooked all of Norman and had been there since before there’d even been a Norman. Gus thought about its dust-lined walls, the pictures that adorned them, and all the tragedy it had seen over the years. It was still there. It endured, as Gus endured, and refused to fall despite it all. He’d leapt out of bed that morning after than he had done all week, thrown on an old grey tracksuit, some battered sneakers, and a beanie and set out for the hardware store. The deacon borrowed a ladder from a neighbour and bought four cans of green paint from the store and set out for the house.

Renee had been happy to see him. She didn’t often have visitors and it was clear she was missing her grandson very much. Gus sat on the porch with her transcribing a new letter to DeSean as he sipped on some iced tea. He still hadn’t been to see DeSean but he would soon. He owed Renee that much at least. Once he was done writing the letter out he ushered the old woman inside and took to setting the ladder up outside the house on his own. It was hard work, Gus knew it would take him a day or two at least, but it would take his mind off of the past month and once he was done he’d know he’d kept one promise he’d made. He hadn’t been able to stop Vontae Carter from being killed, nor Jayson Aaron, Yolanda Thomas, Dante Fulsome, or Roland Spencer but he could do this. He knew if he ever spoke those words out loud to anyone they wouldn’t make much sense but in his head it did.

He hung a heavy can of paint along the side of the ladder as he climbed it and began to paint. From atop the ladder he could see all across Norman. He saw Spencer’s Tires and Rims, Hobie’s Diner, the AME church, the old basketball court, and the rows of houses that the people of Norman inhabited. He stopped painting for a moment to take the view in. But for a few changes the small town looked almost exactly the same as it had done a hundred years ago. So much had changed and yet nothing had. It was the same place, the same misery, bogged down with the same tragedy as it had ever been. Yet there was something there. He heard it in the distance. The sound of children playing. His eyes rested on the basketball court where a set of boys were chasing after a ball and a thin smile appeared on the deacon’s lips.

There was still hope.

There was always hope.

[Byrd Man]

Now Leaving


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