Chapter 2

Poking the Bear

Run, rabbit run Dig that hole, forget the sun And when at last the work is done Don’t sit down, it’s time to dig another one

Roger Waters, Breathe, by Pink Floyd

“Jim?” Ann had picked up at three rings.

“Listen, I’m sitting in your driveway. I brought over my smoker and the old grill. I’m gonna set them up in your backyard. I’m not gonna need them and whoever buys the place can get their own.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Yeah.” Jim hesitated. What do you say to someone heading into therapy? Have a good session? “Okay, listen, I’ll pick you up at four.”

His dad had purchased the grill and smoker years ago and, like everything he owned, was almost fanatical in their upkeep. Jim spent hours that morning scouring them, removing some rust, and cleaning the thermometers. The only replacements needed were the cooking grates. He wasn’t sure if it was nature or nurture, but Jim followed in his father’s footsteps. Anything out of place was an irritant, and if you had something you valued, you kept it in good repair.

They had spent countless hours sitting around that smoker, talking about whatever came to mind. Jim was aware now that his father gently guided those conversations to what he thought his son should know. What it meant to be a man, respecting others, standing for those in need.

They would sit in their oak chairs, listening to the popping of the wood as it slowly burned down. Monitoring the temperatures, they had their wood supplies handy, post-oak, cherry, peach, some mesquite chunks. Their conversations took meandering, circuitous routes around the weather, how to tell when a brisket was ready by feel instead of temperature and football, but they always ended up with his father underscoring what he felt was important in life.

Jim knew that there was a deep need in his father to inculcate his values into his son. It was never stated, but he knew that his dad lived with the frustration of not knowing how his brother, Jim’s uncle, had stepped onto the wrong path and checked out on life. If he couldn’t understand how it happened, how could he protect his son and ensure that he didn’t make the same mistakes?

When the cookers were originally unloaded, it had taken both Jim and his father to get them out of the truck. It was barely a struggle now to get them out on his own. Jim had become even more fanatical about staying in shape after his injuries, as if he could compensate for his losses with physical fitness. Every morning he ran for as long as his bad leg would allow and then slowed to a brisk walk. He didn’t sleep much, so he worked out in the evenings, driving himself to exhaustion.

After putting the equipment in the back of the house and moving some split logs of cherry and oak near the smoker, Jim returned to the truck and pulled out a bag with two chicken salad sandwiches and a beer. Going back to the stacked wood, he rearranged it so that both stacks were of even height. Satisfied, he made his way towards the tree near the river. In spite of the cold, he sat down, back against the trunk and ate his lunch.

For the first time that he could remember since Liz’s death, he felt at peace. He could almost feel her. This was his home, here under their tree. This is where he could return to and calm the storms in his soul. The house he grew up in was just a building, this is where his spirit dwelled. The anger, frustration and loneliness seeped out of his soul as he watched the water and remembered.

EARLIER

11 Years Ago, Summer

Liz vacuumed the carpeting, the afternoon heat adding to her exhaustion. She had to stop three times to sit down and rest. She watched Jim as he went back and forth in their backyard. He was effortlessly carrying the wooden shed’s door to where he had the sander set up. Liz’s gaze lingered on his back, his chest, his lean, muscled frame, before calling from the window.

“Jim? You hungry?”

He quickly looked up at her voice, fear in his eyes, relaxing when he realized she was just starting a conversation. She felt a tightening in her stomach. There was always a panicked start when he heard her, as if something were wrong, something he had to take care of or make right. She was no longer Aunt Liz. She was now Aunt Liz with cancer.

Smiling, he grabbed his shirt, pulled it back on, jogged over to the house and joined her in the kitchen. “Always hungry. Whadda you have?”

In spite of her quickening pulse, she took a step back from him. As circumspect as they were when they weren’t by the water, they had fallen into the habit of casually touching one another when they were near. They often stood too close, enjoying a proximity that wasn’t entirely appropriate.

She could see the understanding in his gentle smile. Liz reached up for a brief moment and cupped his cheek. She ruthlessly pushed down the feelings of guilt that always flowed just below the surface, burbling up now and again to assail her conscience.

“I thought I’d cut up some cheese and apples and we’ve got those crackers. Still got some of Sunday’s ham in the fridge.”

He smiled again. “Can we eat down by the river?”

She walked over to the counter without answering, and started cutting food up.

“Aunt Liz?”

She pushed away her reticence and guilt. “Sure. We can have a little picnic.”

They brushed shoulders and reflexively leaned towards each other as they made their way to the river.

Sitting by their tree, they drank some pop after their lunch. Liz saw him watching her expectantly.

“Jim, I’m a little tired today. I don’t think I’m going to go swimming.”

“Are you—”

She smiled wanly at his concern. “I’m fine, honey. Just tired.”

Liz reached over and took his hand. She knew that he wouldn’t force the issue. Jim had always acted like being in her presence was a reward of some sort. She didn’t deserve it, but she couldn’t put an end to it. Before the passion and infatuation, he had loved her. As a child that love was there and it remained today.

A dangerous edge intertwined with his passion. There was always something just under the edge with Jim, a strength and hardness that he kept locked down. She watched him as he repeatedly cast an eye over her body in the uncontrollable, obvious manner of young men. Liz knew that the reality of her appearance wasn’t what Jim saw. It both pained and thrilled her.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before he leaned over and kissed her. She shivered slightly and kissed him back, opening her mouth to his adventurous tongue. He soon lowered her to the ground as he leaned over her, their kissing becoming deeper, more passionate.

They were hundreds of yards from the house in what they both felt was their own little world, protected by distance, the large tree and knowing the schedules of Ann and her father. Liz suppressed the concerns that Jim never considered.

Jim slipped his hand under her shirt, gently cupping her breast. He continued kissing her as his other hand slipped down towards her waist, grabbing the bottom of her shirt and started pulling it up. She lifted her arms as he pulled it over her head and she lay back, resuming their kissing as he pushed her bra up to give greater access to his probing hands and fingers.

Slowly, with a confidence that belied his youth, Jim moved down, kissing her body along the way. He stopped to suck on one nipple as he teased and tugged the other. Growing turgid under his lips and tongue, the flavors of the remnants of her floral soap and salt from her sweat mingled erotically as her rubbery nubs grew and hardened. Going lower, he kissed her belly and then navel. Stopping at the start of her shorts, he looked up at Liz and smiled wolfishly. She shivered and then scooted forward as he pulled her shorts down.

After freeing the shorts from her legs, he kissed his way up her thighs, pushed the panties to the side and kissed her mons. Pulled in by the heat emanating from her center, he kissed her again, shifting lower. The gusset of her panties were soaked as he pulled them down, soon landing next to her shorts on the grass.

“Just relax. You don’t need to do anything, Liz.”

He made his way back up her beautiful, toned legs, delivering small nibbles along the way. Her aroma washing over him, he spread her legs further, pausing at the sight. Her hair was trimmed and neat, framing the entrance to her elysium field.

She giggled gazing down at him, enjoying the look of wonder on his face. He looked up sharply. She wasn’t the sort of woman who giggled. She saw him looking at her and gently ran her hand through his hair.

“Oh, Jim. What you do to me...”

He pulled up, grabbed the back of her head and pulled her in for another long, passionate kiss. Jim again made his way down south and ran his tongue along her slit. Her whole body shivered again before he paused, looking up at her.

“Uhhhh, Liz, I haven’t really done this too often. If—”

“You’re amazing, Jim. You’re doing fine.” She often had to remind herself that he was only eighteen and less experienced than she would have thought. How could it be that the towns girls weren’t throwing themselves at him?

He was licking her and holding tightly to her hips.

“Jim, a little gentler, honey. And maybe up towards the top ... oh, yeah. Right there!” Well past a shiver, her body shook as Jim found her clit. After a few minutes, Jim’s face was awash with her passion.

She came two more times as she taught him the benefits of variety, patience and alternating between being forceful and gentle. He explored her body and committed to memory her lessons, determined to be the best that he could for her.

When they were done she saw the swelling in his pants as well as the damp wetness. He saw her looking and spoke softly, embarrassed. “I, uhhh, I got excited.”

She smiled, cupping the side of his face again. “It’s fine, Jim. It makes me happy that I excite you. It looks like you’re back again.” She stroked him through his jeans. “Let me help you.”

She unbuttoned his jeans and he pushed them down off his hips, the boxers following. Using his still warm cum as a lubricant, she stroked his hard cock before taking it in her mouth. He wrapped his hands in her hair, clutching it and then releasing. Fighting his natural inclination and trying to be gentle.

“Oh, Liz ... Aunt Liz...”

Hearing him call her Aunt Liz, she forced herself down further, the risque nature of what they were doing exciting her beyond what she previously thought was her peak. One hand on the base of his cock, her other snaked down between her legs.

She moaned as she worked her tongue, her pussy throbbing. The vibrations from her moaning almost pushed Jim over the edge, but he lasted much longer than she expected. After a few minutes he finally exploded. As he went over the edge, she came again for the fourth time.

Jim heard the regularly-spaced echoes of the gunshots coming from behind the house. He quickly turned the corner to see Ann with a Glock 26, shooting cans set up on an old picnic table. She seemed to know what she was doing. He found a lawn chair and sat, watching her until she noticed him. Pulling off her ear protection, she turned to face him, squinting one eye as the sun set behind Jim’s shoulder.

“Got any advice?”

He shrugged his shoulders and offered a tight grin. “Nope. You seem to be doing okay.”

“No top-secret military techniques to share?”

“Not my field. Never did small arms instruction. Call John Wick. I heard he’s really good at that stuff.”

His attempt at levity failing, Ann stared at him. “What do you want, Jim?”

“To see if you want to head over to the diner. Grab some dinner. You need to do any shopping or anything?”

Her face grew rigid and she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“Why do you go there? You get the same stares that I do. Have you thought about that? They try not to be too obvious. They feel just horrible for you. Isn’t that compassionate of them? But not horrible enough to sit down with you. Share a meal. Say hi. We’re damaged and we don’t have the decency to stay unseen, out of sight. Why go?”

Jim gripped the sides of the chair, knuckles turning white, and stared at her. “Fuck them, that’s why. Fuck them. You think I’m going to let them decide where I’m going to eat?”

Ann sighed. She knew he would never back down from anything. He had always been self-righteous and he returned worse. She didn’t know if it was due to his wounds or just being in the military.

“You’re such an asshole. Why did you come back here?”

Uncomfortable with the topic, he leaned into his chair and let go of some of his anger. “You know why.”

“You’re here for Liam.”

“Yeah. That and to finalize things with my folks’ property.”

She paused, looking at the sky as if she could pull some patience from the gathering clouds. She mentally counted to ten before continuing. “Do you even ... Look, you need some help. You need to start talking to someone. Think about what you just said. Your cousin was raped. I’m seeing a therapist three times a week. I’m a pariah. You had to find out from your friends, because I didn’t contact you.”

She stopped for a moment, checked the trigger safety on the Glock, and with shoulders dropped, looked at Jim. He could see the pity in her eyes as she continued.

“You didn’t come here to see her. You didn’t come to help her. You didn’t come to comfort her father. You came here to kill someone. What does that make you, Jim? Who the fuck are you? I wasn’t joking. You need to start talking to someone and figure out what’s wrong with you.”

“No, Ann, that’s...”

His mind racing, Jim felt his palms moisten. Unbidden, memories of when he first received the email from Cort sprang to mind. Anger. That’s what he felt at the time. Anger and rage. That realization shook him. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t compassion for Ann. It was pure, cold anger. New feelings pushed back his dormant anger. Self-loathing joined the frustrated rage.

His voice was barely audible as he spoke. “You’re right. You deserved more. I’m sorry, Ann. I don’t...” His voice trailed off and he seemed to shiver as he stood.

She watched him limp off and soon heard the truck start and back out of the driveway.

The klaxon-like alarm cut off as Archie entered the code into the alarm pad. He held his cellphone in one hand and a bat in the other as he slowly, silently, traversed the floor of the beer distributor. Jim’s truck was out front, but with everything happening, he wasn’t taking any chances.

The back door was open a crack, so Archie pulled it closed. At the sound of a clinking of glass, he quietly headed to the office. The glow from the computer screen illuminated Jim’s frame, bottles of beer sitting on the table and the three on the floor next to him.

“Sitting with your back to the door? What sorta special forces, Green Beret, Navy Seal, ninja are you, Jim?”

Without turning around, Jim responded, his voice weary. “Hey, Arch. This thing is slow as shit.”

Archie looked over his shoulder at the screen. Multiple windows were open. Mood swings. PTSD. Anger management.

“Yeah? Go home and use your own computer. How’d you get in?” He stepped forward and gently, hesitantly, put his hand on Jim’s shoulder, assuring him that everything was okay. He was home. He was welcome. How much had he been drinking? Nine. After a quick glance, it was nine empty bottles that surrounded his old friend.

“Still got the key from your dad. Working those summers. How’s he doing. Your dad. He okay?” Jim was drunk.

“Yeah, Jim. He remarried. He stays up at the cabin. Does a bunch of fishing. He asks about you. I grew up thinking he liked you and Cort more than he liked me.” Archie spoke lightly, humor lifting his words.

“Nah. That guy loved you. Every time you were out of the room he was bragging on you.”

“I know, Jim. I’m just saying that he’s concerned. A lot of us are. He’s always asking if we’ve talked. What’s going on? Tonight, I mean. It’s not a problem, I’ll give you the code, but ... what’s going on?”

“Dunno. Just sort of remembering. High school, working here. Grabbing kegs for after the games and your dad pretending not to know. He okay?”

Archie smiled sadly as Jim started to repeat himself. “Yeah, Jim, Dad’s okay. How about you, Jim? How are you doing?”

“They’re hiding Liam. I checked all over. All the old places. Spent two fucking days in the woods, watching. Found where they’re making some meth. Watched their fucking little clubhouse. Found their chopshop. No Liam. Gonna flush him out and then fix things with Ann.”

Archie’s voice was tinged with concern. “With Ann?”

Startled, Archie saw Jim’s back convulse as he started to sob.

“What the fuck’s wrong with me? She’s my fucking cousin. Why...”

Jim started to shrug Archie off when his friend hugged him from behind. Jim leaned forward, head on his hands, elbows on the desk. He stayed there for a minute, pulled in a ragged breath and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“I’m not ... right. I’m not right, Arch. I gotta handle this shit and do what I can for Ann. I’m like fucking poison.”

“Jim, are you ... with what happened over there, did you, you know, talk to someone? Did you ... get some help? Is that what you were looking up?”

Jim reached over his shoulder, found his friend’s arm, squeezed, and then patted it.

“No. It’s Ann. I ... I don’t know what to do. She’s, I don’t know. One minute everything’s fine, the next I think she wants to hit me or she hates me or something.”

Archie spoke softly, stepped to the side and leaned against the shelf. “I can’t imagine what she’s going through, Jim. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know anything about it, but anger, mood swings, it can’t be good, but can’t really be unexpected, you know?”

He paused, stepped forward and started grabbing some of the bottles, tossing them in the container in the corner. “Jim, can I, you know, can I do anything? You want me to get you someone to talk to? Do you need some cash?”

“It’s okay, Arch. It’s gonna be over soon.”

Jim was in what he started thinking of as his seat. His back against the wall, he watched the bikers watching him, and occasionally glancing at the college kids playing nine-ball. Five minutes before, Tilly had headed towards his table only to stop and retreat when one of the bikers shook his head, silently telling her “no”.

Before Tilly had made her abortive attempt to approach him, Jim saw one of the three kids talking to a biker. The short, bearded man had slid a small, plastic bag in the kid’s hand. Probably X, like they were headed to a fucking rave. The biker glanced at Jim as he spoke, mouth close to the kid’s ear. College Boy looked over at Jim and nodded his head, the biker pulled his arm, forcing the kid’s gaze away. Smiling, Jim watched the transaction, realizing that the kids trying to give him a beating was the currency they were using to pay for the drugs.

They should have used cash.

Walking back to the pool tables, the kid spoke to one of his friends in a hushed tone and then repeated the process with the other. They took quick glimpses in his direction, seeming to assess Jim with a nervous, anticipatory energy.

The cold wind whistled through the cracks in the door, the chill seeping in from the walls. In spite of the chill and the malodorous remnants of spilt beer and hygienically challenged customers, Jim preferred his seat. Back against the wall was a cliché because it worked. Stevie Ray Vaughan’s version of Voodoo Child echoed softly in the background.

Jim stretched a bit, leaned back in his chair and cracked his back. He felt the small smile break the angular planes of his face as he rose, slipped his glasses into his shirt pocket, and made his way towards the bar. The dive was pretty much empty and he could have walked around the pool tables, but it wouldn’t have deterred the idiots that marked him as quarry. He preferred to have everything on his timetable, on the front he chose.

Passing the first pool table, he palmed the cue ball and let the sleeve of his flannel shirt conceal part of that hand. As he passed the second table the largest of the college kids positioned himself in front of Jim and bumped into him.

He leaned forward, into Jim’s personal space, looking at the scarring near his eye. “What’s wrong with you, man? You blind or something?”

Jim wondered if that is what passed for clever in college these days. “Just getting a beer.” Jim started to step past the kid.

“No apology? Just keep walking through? Here, have mine, asshole.”

Jim patiently waited for the kid to grab his pitcher and toss the beer at him. Slow. Slow and predictable. Amateur.

He looked over at the bikers, who were watching intently, leaning forward. Spectators, like leather-clad tourists. The short one who brokered the deal was different. His eyes were cold, appraising, waiting. The others wanted a show, maybe a little payback. This one was smarter. He was taking stock of Jim. Assessing the opposition. Regretfully, Hector might keep the bikers from fucking with him, but they had no qualms about using the kids to push things.

Jim swung forward and ducked to the kids left, the pitcher in the kid’s hand missing his head. He slammed the cue ball into the side of the kid’s temple, dropping him like he was shot. As he hit the ground, Jim’s boot crushed his face, splattering blood on the floor, ruining a cheekbone and maybe a jaw.

Jim turned back to the bikers as he stepped towards the nearest table. “One.”

The second college kid was quicker on his feet and moved with confidence towards Jim, pool cue in hand. Probably an athlete. From his grip, likely baseball. When he was seven feet away, Jim kicked a chair towards the kid, who hesitated as the cue ball rocketed towards him. Bone and cartilage crunched as the ball found its home in the center of his face. He was tough and stayed on his feet as he staggered back.

Jim picked up the chair and crashed it over the athletes head. As he fell to his knees, Jim sunk his foot into his ribs. He would have gone easy on any of the kids if they’d been alone, but three on one offended his sensibilities, and Jim needed to put on a show for his audience.

He looked over at the bikers again. “Two.” Jim heard Tilly gasp and saw the dealing biker nod his head in her direction. The rest watched, silent, appraising.

The third kid, the ringleader, looked at his friends on the ground, shifted his gaze to the bikers and then to Jim. He ran for the door. Jim hurled the remains of the oaken chair, striking him in the back. He strode to the downed mastermind and knelt as he slammed his head into the floor. He rolled him over and rammed his fist repeatedly in the face. Jim took a ragged breath and, with difficulty, stopped.

Still kneeling, Jim looked once more at the bikers. “Three.”

They were looked at him differently now. One of them nodded his head at Jim. Not a sign of respect. No feeling of camaraderie. It seemed to be a simple acknowledgment that they had put him in the wrong category.

Jim wasn’t one of the townspeople. He was a predator. The bar’s atmosphere ionized, charged, on edge, as if possibilities were being unlocked, tumblers spun and dice fell. Anything was possible.

He knew the bikers were close to ignoring Hector’s admonitions. He was no longer an annoyance to be put away, he was a threat to be dealt with. Electricity coursed through him. The smile started. He had cultivated it while in the Sandbox and by now it was second nature. It was purposefully unnerving. The scars helped. This is where he belonged. He was alive. He wondered how many he could get if they pulled on him. At least two.

He didn’t need to look at the staff. They would do nothing. This was a backwoods bar serving bikers that openly dealt to the customers. Cops wouldn’t be called. Bodies would either disappear or be dumped in front of a hospital. If you wanted justice or the comfort of the law, you were in the wrong place. Jim wanted neither. He wanted this. The pulsing in his veins. Being able to feel again. A challenge to push against.

Looking back down at the college punk he still straddled, it all fell apart. The blood, the broken bones, the future that Jim had just altered. Unease hit his gut, wrenching at who he’d become and who he wanted to be.

Jim stood up, wiped his bloodied hands on his worn jeans, and called out. “Sorry, Tilly. Gotta get home for supper. Tell Liam I’ll see him soon.”

She stood behind the counter, hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Stepping out the door, Jim’s lupine smile fell. Back ramrod straight, stomach queasy, he got in the truck and pulled out onto the highway. After the first exit, he pulled to the side of the road and lost whatever was in his stomach.

There were three of them, and he knew what they would have done if they were capable. He would have been lucky to make it to a hospital. A ditch on the side of the road was more likely. But they were sheep who thought they were wolves. He could have just left. He could have talked them down. He could have pulled the .45 and forced them to back down.

Jim vomited again, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and got back in the truck. He found a half-empty bottle of water, rinsed his mouth out with it and sat there behind the wheel, afraid of what he’d become.

The swelling in his hands had gone down overnight. Gripping the wheel wasn’t as uncomfortable as it had been driving home yesterday.

Jim’s father taught him how to hunt when he was young. Patience was king. His military training reinforced the lessons his father imparted. The principles remained, regardless of the prey. If Liam was hiding, he would flush him out. Pushing down his frustrations, he saw the large government building in the distance as he drove up.

Parking his truck outside the building, Jim surveyed the parking lot. Most of the cars the State Police used were in the back, near the maintenance shed, but there were more than a few here. He grabbed the folder on the seat next to him, got out and headed towards the door. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he was concerned that his smile was more predatory than mirthful.

As he approached the door, he called out to the two officers about to enter.

“Hey, you got a second?”

Turning to look at him, the smaller of the two answered. “Sure, what can we do for you?”

Jim opened the folder and took out a flier. “I’m looking for an old friend. Name’s Liam Bissle. Seen him around?”

The two men looked at the image for a second and then at each other. “I’m sorry, Mr... ?”

“Oh, sorry about that. I’m Jim.” He reached out as if to shake the mans hand.

“Jim... ?” hoping for a last name.

“Yup, Jim.”

He shook Jim’s hand as he spoke. “Can I ask why you’re looking for this man?”

“He’s an old friend. Haven’t been able to track him down yet. I thought you guys might be able to point me in the right direction.”

The officer looked at Jim, down at the flier with Liam’s mugshot, and back up. “No, don’t know him, but if you leave us your contact information, we’ll be happy to give you a yell if we hear anything, Mr...”

“Jim’s good. My phone’s on the back. Keep the sheet. Thanks guys.”

Jim made his way inside to the wall near the community service desk, pulled out a sheet from the bottom of the pile and the stapler from his jacket pocket and affixed the mug shot to the public bulletin board. This copy had Liam’s name and some text on the bottom, as well as Jim’s phone number.

“Jim, you got a minute?”

Smiling to himself, Jim turned.

“Hey, Vic. Good to see ya. Sure, what’s going on?”

Vic looked like a smaller version of his cousin Hector, but without the tattoos. His thick, black mustache and bald head lent him a distinctive appearance. “Let’s head over to my office.”

They wound their way through desks occupied by State Police and staff as they headed towards Vic’s office. Jim looked at the stenciling on the door. “Wow. Captain now. Nice, Vic.”

“Yeah, it’s Captain.” The furrowed lines on Vic’s forehead grew deeper, and Jim got the impression that he wasn’t fond of being called by his first name.

“So, what can I do for you, Vic?”

“What’s going on with the questions about Liam?”

“Just haven’t been able to get in touch with him. I thought we should have a talk. I’ve been away for a while.”

“Yeah? This has nothing to do with Ann?”

“Ann? Why would it have anything to do with Ann? I mean, your guys looked into that, right Vic? Nothing there, case closed, right? You shut that down.”

“I know she’s your cousin, but I’m not going to discuss the investigation with you.”

“Sure, Vic. I get it. I understand completely.” He looked at his watch. “Shit, gotta go. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him. Good to see ya, Vic.”

As Jim stepped outside the door, the voice called from behind him.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Jim.”

“You got it, Vic!”