November 19 - 4:49 pm
Harvey Scott Watches
HARVEY SCOTT
1838 - 1910
PIONEER
EDITOR
PUBLISHER
MOLDER OF OPINION
IN OREGON
AND THE NATION
After nightfall, Mount Tabor’s summit is lit by faux-antique lampposts at intervals along the encircling oval drive. Their fulvous glow casts oily shadows of the Douglas-firs across the asphalt to the central knoll. The wet pavement absorbs more light than it reflects.
At the southern tip of the oval, Harvey Scott stands atop his six-foot stone pedestal, his tarnished bronze effigy invisible in the darkness; the light from the nearest lampposts reveals only a suggestion of the pedestal itself. I can make out the trio gathered next to the statue only because one of them holds a flashlight. The beam points at the ground, shining fitfully. One hunched figure sits on one of the concrete benches flanking the statue. The other two stand. Beyond the trio, the faint gleam of the flashlight is swallowed by the rain-drenched grass and trees.
I crouch on the embankment that drops down from the summit drive. Luellen is the only one I recognize: the figure on the bench. Head down, hands in her lap, I see her only in profile. Even at this distance I recognize the posture of a woman who’s lost hope. The old man in front of her holds the flashlight. Grandpa, I assume. Tall and thin, dressed in jeans and a heavy jacket, steel hair slicked back. He’s propped up on a crutch, resting all his weight on one leg. The other is bandaged at the thigh. The bullet in the kitchen wall. Through the watery light I can see in his malevolent expression that the world would be a better place if the bullet had gone through his forehead instead.
The third figure stands behind Grandpa. Six feet and easily three hundred pounds of meat and gristle, head shaved, long beard, body clad in leather—Big Ed is gaunt in comparison. Grandpa has brought himself a bodyguard. I can’t make out details, but I see a motorcycle club patch on his jacket. If he’s local, he’s most likely Free Souls. If the old man imported him, could be anything. Whatever his colors, I know trouble when I see it. I also know he won’t be relying on his substantial brawn. A gun hangs in his hand at his side, huge and nickel-plated, gleaming in the guttering light. Semi-auto, big slide. Jase could tell me manufacturer and model. I don’t need to know. The gun has heft to match the man holding it, capable of producing enough kinetic energy to blow me and Luellen both into next week.
At least Danny isn’t here, nor Big Ed’s tweaker girlfriend. I can only pray the little fellow ran downhill rather than up, got clear of Myra and found his way into one of the many yards backing up to the park. With him out of the picture, I can focus on helping Luellen—which means focusing on the mountain of meat. Unlike Eager, I don’t see myself charging the hilltop, gun blazing. The ace in the hole. But if I can get the drop on them, maybe I can end this thing without having to fire a shot.
Yeah, right. A boy can dream, I suppose, but in the black hole I call a mind a little voice tells me not to fool myself. I’m gonna have to shoot the big fucker.
Eager’s .357 is heavier than the Baby Glock I carried when I was still working. I’d be worried about how the difference might influence my aim if I’d ever been a decent shot to begin with. My only chance is to get close enough it won’t matter. Not a sure bet, but the falling rain should cover the sound of my footsteps and the darkness may hide me until I get close. The flashlight, even flickering, works in my favor. Their night vision has to be for shit. The best approach, I decide, is to work my way to the right below the drive and come up from the east. From that approach, the biker will have his back to me and the statue’s base will shield Luellen should the world skid out from beneath my feet.
Jesus. When did I become a man who could shoot another without a second thought?
Desire for Ruby Jane suddenly threads through me, tendrils of need entwining tendrils of doubt. I picture my cell phone shattered on the deck, try to imagine what she’s doing as I stand here contemplating murder. All three Uncommon Cup locations are closed by now. She might be working in one of the offices, making the schedule for next week or closing out the day’s books. I’m not sure what time it is. Maybe she’s home already in her converted warehouse apartment behind the shop on Sandy. There’s a bathtub in the middle of the living room, legacy of a time when the space was split into smaller studios. She enjoys soaking in the tub after a long day, loud music rattling the rafters. If she’s not in the tub, maybe she’s shooting baskets in the hoop at one end of the high-beamed room, or sitting on one of her big soft couches reading. I wonder if she’s tried to call me, or if she’s rethinking the things she said to me earlier. I want to be there with her. I want to talk to her about all that’s happened. I want to ask her what she would do in my shoes.
I know what she would say. Protect Danny, help Luellen.
Even if it means putting a bullet in a man’s back?
I close my eyes, picture myself among the fish. Ruby Jane is watching me; I’m a flash of silver and coral. A comforting illusion, a soothing delusion. It changes nothing. I’ve seen too much already between Big Ed and Myra, between Mitch and Eager to hesitate now. I have no real idea what’s going on. The words of a lovesick teenaged boy only confuse a situation already a muddle. All I know is I’m here, now. Whatever is going down feels like something I need to stop. I can apologize to Susan later, beg Ruby Jane to understand how narrow the way seems through the darkness. Assuming I live through the next few minutes.
I stick the gun in my jacket pocket and move through the long grass on the slope below the summit. Luellen and Grandpa are talking, but I’m too far away to hear. I scoot lower down the slope to avoid the circle of light from the lamppost at the southern tip of the summit oval. For a moment the statue and the trio are out of sight. I move maybe a dozen paces then stop, alerted by an unfamiliar sound, a sucking pop behind me. Despite its urban setting, Mount Tabor harbors all manner of wildlife. Juncos, sparrows, hawks, and owls. Squirrels, raccoons, and opossums. Feral cats, stray dogs. Even the occasional coyote. Anything could be moving in the dark. I turn, but see nothing the darkness under the trees. Wait the length of a dozen heartbeats. Nothing. I’m wound tight, my every nerve on full alert.
Something hard slams between my shoulder blades, pitching me forward into the grass. Another blow strikes the soft spot below my floating ribs as I swallow mud and choke. Then I feel myself yanked off the ground by my collar. Arms flailing, I try to gain purchase on the slick hillside. My assailant slams me back into the ground, once, twice. Then he drops me and I slump into the mud, too little breath left in my lungs to even groan.
He flips me onto my back. Silhouetted by the lamp above us, I can just make out Big Ed’s profile. His jaw hangs at an odd angle, seems to move of its own accord. His head tilts to one side as well. As he pats me down, I can hear his labored breathing. He’s hurting. Doesn’t stop him from finding Eager’s gun. He tucks it into his waistband then spends a moment feeling through his own pockets. The larynx, I guess, but he doesn’t find it. I don’t know how he expects to talk anyway, the way his jaw is sagging. Frustration seems to have him bound in knots. He grabs me roughly by the jacket front, pulls me up the hill. My ribs protest, but all I can do is grunt with each jolt. The dark sky above swims with flickering lights. They must be inside my own eyeballs. Part of me wants to struggle, but I’m too dazed by the sudden assault, or by the shock of seeing Big Ed upright and walking.
Grandpa jumps and nearly loses his grip on the crutch when Ed throws me at the base of the statue. “Jesus Christ, Ed, you scared the shit outa me.” He looks down at me like I’m a piece of rotten meat. “What the hell’s this? Where’s the kid?” The biker glances down at me too, but Luellen doesn’t seem to notice, is perhaps beyond noticing. Her dark hair hangs loose over her forehead, hiding her eyes.
Big Ed indicates his throat and shakes his head, then points down the hill. He’s trying to mouth words. Grandpa shakes his head as Ed slaps the side of his head and wheezes, his gestures increasingly frantic. His chin shuffles side to side with each gesticulation, a loose flap. He’s got something to say, but no way to say it.
“You want something to write with?” No missing the ice in Grandpa’s voice.
Big Ed knots his fists and closes his eyes for a second, exasperated. Then he draws a breath and nods.
“Didn’t know you could read and write.” His expression is one of mock regret. “Hey, George, I don’t suppose you got a spare voice-a-ma-jig, do ya? I think Ed here done lost his.”
The biker, George, taps the gun against his thigh. “‘Fraid not, boss.”
Grandpa shrugs at Big Ed. “The Flea can’t help ya, I can’t help ya. You’re shit outa luck.”
I could help if I wanted to. From Big Ed’s gestures and urgency the message he’s trying to convey is obvious. He wants Grandpa to know about the man with the hole in his head. Even as the thought crosses my mind, Big Ed reaches the same conclusion. He points at me, tosses his head Grandpa’s direction. I have no intention of clearing things up for him. He bends over and prods me in the ear with the knuckle of his middle finger, but I just clench my teeth.
Grandpa waves him off. “Forget it. Don’t know who this guy is. I surely don’t see how I’m gonna get any leverage out of him.” He glances toward Luellen. “How about it, sweetheart? You give a damn about this lame fuck?”
Luellen lifts her head and looks at me. In the darkness of her eyes, I see the resignation I guessed at from across the road. “He’s ...” She swallows. “He’s my friend.”
“I don’t recall giving you permission to have friends.” He laughs, harsh and sadistic, then turns back to Big Ed. His gaze is now laced with pity, no more genuine than an email promise of easy wealth or natural male enhancement. “Well, Big Ed, this whole day has been one fucking mess and then some, don’tcha think?” He doesn’t expect Big Ed to respond. “Fortunately there is one piece of good news.”
Tension flickers through Big Ed’s eyes, asking the question his throat can’t.
“George the Flea grabbed your hog leg outa the Suburban.” He gestures to the biker and his big gun. “Shoot ‘em both.”