Funny thing is, I know I’ll love her as much as I do right now. Doesn’t matter how old or antsy or wild she gets. To me, her old man, she’ll always be innocence itself, hunkered in her little bed with the overstuffed tiger I got her two birthdays ago.
Time marches on, relentless and impatient as ever. It doesn’t give a damn how fast it’s threatening to walk over me. Or how far it’s dragging me away from the past, kicking and screaming. It doesn’t let up for justice, or even just so I can catch my breath.
I put out the fire in my living room, staring through the darkness outside, wondering if I really want to go out there tonight. Five minutes later, I’m bundled for the arctic, grumbling through the cold as I walk into my shop and throw a fresh log on the wood stove.
I need warmth. I’m not in here to work. The light from the soft fire is plenty for the trunk.
The ammo box’s old hinges groans as I pop the lock, throwing the top open. I wipe my face, pull my hood down, blood going several degrees hotter the second I look inside.
Everything is still there – and why wouldn’t it be?
It’s not like I’ve had time to make good on any promises.
“Erik, Zane, Adam…I’m fucking sorry.” I grab what’s left of my friends, my brothers, the men who fought and bled in that hellhole by my side.
A cracked shot glass. Zane’s favorite for the brown honey he snuck between missions to warm himself, before we deployed with our orders. Also his weapon of choice the times he drank every man on base under the table, including me.
A lingerie magazine from the eighties, dog-eared and worn. Erik’s contraband. We laughed at his sorry ass for being so desperate he had to beat it to nudes snapped before he was born.
A charred mini-portrait I pulled from Adam’s pocket the day he died. Inside, Bev’s face is smiling, a lovely young woman who became a widow way too soon. He said it was his good luck charm, his reason for being there, the thing that kept him going.
It was with him to the bitter end. I wish to God almighty it had been enough.
I dig deeper. The old stuff is there, taunting me. Folders stacked thick with newspapers, printouts, obituaries.
There’s an entire tanned folio bursting with everything I could find about Jackson Kelley. I flip through it, stopping when I see their old address on Westlund Street, confirming my worst fear.
It’s the very same I stalked tonight. The family names were always there. Except this time, one stands out like lightning in the night.
Sarah Kelley.
Sadie.
Red.
How the fuck did I forget he had a little sister?
My hands push through dead men’s relics again. Somewhere, they’re smiling ear-to-ear, enjoying a good cosmic laugh at this fresh kink in my master plan.
Karma for past mistakes, maybe, for dragging my feet for so long.
The newspapers laid over the guns aren’t just for show. It takes a lot of paper to cover the entire length of a NATO standard rifle. One of my old biker clients hooked me up with his black market connections several years ago, not long after my Fourth of July shitshow.
Clenching my jaw, I lift the papers, the same faded issue of the Port Eagle Standard. My eyes drift over the lethal fifteen minutes of local infamy I never asked for.
It was my own fault, triggering the fistfight.
If only I hadn’t gone to that goddamn parade after having a few drinks. Thank God Mia wasn’t there to see it.
She was away for the weekend with her grandma, Andrea, the only woman who ever laid eyes on her from her mother’s side. And now she’s as dead as the reckless creature who incubated her for nine months, and then walked out.
I’ll never understand how a bitch like Jenna came from a completely normal, understanding mother.
Knocking her up could’ve been the worst mistake of my life, but it wasn’t. I wouldn’t trade honeybee for the world.
My one night stand is also eclipsed by the major league fuck up the day I became the Castoff, turning my back at that stupid parade, and then trading blows with a man I should have already put six feet under.
My anger got the worst of me then. It set me back years. Too premature and thoughtless.
Now I’m too afraid, too comfortable, too prone to over-thinking.
The truth hasn’t changed. Neither has the seething need for justice.
Jackson must pay for the blood on his hands, satisfy the men I promised vengeance. I refuse to become the dark angel hastening his judgment. But I’m the man who’ll dispatch him to the next world, once I get my head straight and the courage to pull the trigger.
So, what’s the fucking holdup? The old newspaper slips and hits the ground. Rather, half of it does. The rest falls open to a section I never paid attention to, an old graduation spotlight for the local high school.