The Angel of Retribution - 4. Chapter 4

I woke to the alarm and went to the shower. I had a shave in the shower and went to dress in business formal. I had a silent tremor in the back of my head, but went to take Nana outside. It was a cold, damp morning and she took longer than expected. I went to Bobby and jostled him awake.

“Whaa?” he mumbled.

“Bobby, I have to go to the courthouse now,” I said. “Very important, let no one inside.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he mumbled.

I drove into the city as a bank of fog tried to interfere with my driving. I knew about where I was going and soon was pulling into the courthouse parking garage. I found a spot and made my way to the Ms. Sommerfeld’s office. We chatted about how Bobby was getting on and when Stan was expected. Unfortunately, the county where the Larsons lived was processing that boy’s future and, in all likelihood, he would be returning home after being released from the hospital. Soon, we reached the inner sanctums of the courthouse where an assistant prosecutor—whose name I forgot almost instantly—Ms. Something met us at the door to our courtroom. She was black and, as far as I was concerned, totally out of character with our corner of the world, which was white as a snowfield, but what was I to know?

After some officious to do, Ms. Something escorted us into the courtroom. Ms. Something presented her case, the judge asked a few questions, a gentleman who I assumed represented the defense made some rather incongruous statements that I couldn’t quite see what they had to do with the case, and then the judge made some statements, signed some papers, and sent us on our way.

“Okay, this is only a temporary restraining order,” Ms. Something said. “It doesn’t hold much weight in a courtroom, but if Robert’s mother should attempt to attack the boy, there’s a good chance the judge will escalate the order.”

“In other words, what you’re saying, is that if Mrs. Larson should violate the sanctity of my home and do Robert Larson, physical injuries, the judge may step in and do something to keep her away,” I said gritting my teeth.

“Yes, that’s about it. You see, sir, the judge is interested in maintaining the sanctity of the parental home. According to state law, the home unit is of primary concern. We will only break that unit under the most extreme conditions.”

I saw it in the fog bank over the river and the streaks of drizzle on the windshield coming into the city. Today was doomed and I only had to go back to the house to find out how bad it was.

“Thank you, Ms. Sommerfeld. I’m sorry I forgot your name, but I think I’ll go home now.”

“Oh, Mr. Hughes, we haven’t discussed serving the papers.”

“You want me to do it?”

“Oh, no, we can have a deputy do it. It’s only a fifty-dollar charge for each respondent.”

“We can take care of it in my office,” Ms. Sommerfeld said.

I left the courthouse parking garage, short a hundred-fifty dollars, and still the dreary fog hung low in the sky. Almost immediately a drizzle began to dampen my windshield, but only enough to need to use the intermittent wipers. I felt gloom upon my heart and couldn’t quite figure out where it was coming from until I pulled into my cul-de-sac. More people than I knew were around my house.

I parked in the driveway and got out of the car. A woman I didn’t recognize met me at my car.

“Mr. Hughes, my brother Archie has taken time off work to fix your living room window and front door,” she said. “He’s a carpenter, don’t you know. There’s no charge considering we’re neighbors.”

I looked at my house with uncomprehending eyes. My front door had been pushed in. From what I could tell my front window draperies were torn to shreds. Most of the glass was lying in and among the shrubs under the window. And, then, I saw her. Someone had tried to cover her up with a towel, but a towel is much too small for a full-grown German shepherd. I went over to the front porch and sat down on the edge. I pulled the meager towel away and looked down upon her. She’d been shot in the chest with a high caliber bullet. I said a quiet prayer that she hadn’t suffered.

“Mr. Hughes, my brother Archie says he knows of an animal crematorium,” the woman said.

“No, I know of one,” I said. “The boy, what happened to him?”

“Oh, yes, the medics came and took him away. The three people who did it were arrested, too. We made sure of that. Sir, could you tell us who these people were?”

“Christians, just ordinary going to church on Sunday and Wednesday Christians. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make some phone calls.”

My first call was to Beth Sommerfeld. When she answered, the first thing she said was, “Charlie, you’re just going to have to accept the fact we are interested in putting the family back together.”

“They came to my house while I was away this morning. I don’t know what they did to Bobby, nor do I know where he is. Three of them were arrested. The neighbors helped. Oh, they killed Nana, too.”

I hung up. I wasn’t interested in her officious, bureaucratic B.S. any longer.

I made another call: “Millner Animal Crematorium,” the person who answered said.

“Yes, I have a German shepherd that requires your services.”

“How large?”

“At her last physical, she weighed sixty-two pounds.”

“Oh, that’ll be one-hundred-twenty, plus urn. Do you have an urn in mind?”

“We’ve always gotten your Model Thirty, plain box with polished tag.”

“Oh, you’ve been with us before. May I have your name?”

“Charles Hughes.”

“Ah, yes, Mister Hughes. We can have your urn done up with the appropriate inscription for ninety dollars. What is the dog’s name and dates of birth and death?

“Her name is ‘Nana.’ That’s ‘n-a-na.’ Don’t worry about her date of birth and death.”

“Would you like us to pick her up?”

“Please.”

“We’ll have a truck out in two hours.”

There was one more call to make. I didn’t have the number on my phone, but it was on an invoice they sent me a number of months ago. I waited as the annoying ringtone went through it’s ditty. Finally, the phone picked up and, “River Falls Rifle and Pistol Range, Pete speaking, may I help you?”

“Pete, Charlie Hughes, how’s my man in guns and weaponry?”

“Ah, Mr. Hughes, I haven’t spoken to you for quite a few months.”

“My .45, do you still have it?”

“Oh, yes, sir, that’s a classic piece. We wouldn’t lose that.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Well, let’s see, it has been a number of months. Ah, six hundred twenty-three.”

“Okay, fine, can you do a general service and get her up to firing order.”

“Sure, we can do that. When would you like to come in?”

“What’s next Tuesday night look like?”

“Women’s Night and they bring in their screaming kids, too.”

“Well, I don’t want to have to spend all day playing guessing games. What’s your next available appointment after you get my pistol back in firing order?”

“Let’s see, that would be next Thursday evening. Be here before seven and we can fit you in.”

“I’ll be there.”

“See you then, sir.”

“Nice doing business with you, Pete.”

I went outside and was affronted by the sight of a man trying too hard to be super-masculine. He must have been in his late thirties to mid-forties, by the way he had his hair clipped in a semi-styled crewcut. He was wearing a t-shirt with some sort of industrial advertising on it. His biceps were quite simply too large. And, then there were his jeans. They were obscenely filled by his thighs in the most repulsive manner. But, ultimately my eyes were drawn to his crotch, because that was the way his clothes were arrayed on his body. I guessed about eight to nine inches of hanging meat over balls that might have been in a carrier of sorts. His package stuck out there like a Provincetown hustler on a warm Saturday evening.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Hughes,” the man called out.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“My sister Thelma, you know, she lives across the street with her Hubert; anyhow, she sent me to the lumberyard to get some plywood to coverup your front window and door. Do you want me to put it up, now? I am a licensed carpenter.”

“Fine, go ahead; let me know if you need my help.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be sure to do that.”

I stood there on the front porch watching “Muscles” manhandle 4X8 sheets of ¾-inch marine grade plywood from his truck down to the front lawn and stack them neatly. When he finished, he came over to where I was standing.

“You know, my sister Thelma, she runs a tight house,” he said. “Course I live out in the garage apartment on account of the kiddies. She was saying another man used to live here with you, but he died and you had some sort of party that was mostly attended by men. She says she thinks you’re a faggot, but we as neighbors have to stick together and where else are you going to get help?”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Now, my brother-in-law, Hubert, says we shouldn’t judge people by the company they keep. Now, a few months ago when I was still down at Walla Walla, eight to fifteen on second degree assault, I ran into quite a few fags; that’s what you call yourselves, right?”

“Not really, we tend toward queer or gay.”

“Yeah, that’s what they kept on about. Anyway, I got to know some of them, uh, queers. And, you know what? They gave me damned good blow-jobs. Took my cock right down to the root.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, that was what I was thinking when Thelma says I got to help you, a fag, out. So, you going to suck me now or later when

I’m hot and sweaty.”

“Now would be okay.”

“That’s what I was thinking when I got here from the lumberyard. A man who drives a Denali is a man who isn’t going to take you to bed later.”

We walked into the house and back to my bedroom. I sat down on a side chair I had in there as a clotheshorse. He unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear. What I’d taken as some sort of mechanical device was just the bulk of him. He was at least ten inches and thick as a fire hose. I massaged him a bit to get him erect and he slapped the side of my head so hard I knew I was going to be bruised.

“You fags are all the same,” he sneered. “Take me, now!”

And, he slapped me, again. I hadn’t had it this bad in years. I took him deep until my nose was pressed against his abdomen. The slaps and cuffs continued unabated. Finally, he pressed himself into me and I felt him cum.

“You’re pathetic,” and he slapped me, again, knocking me off the chair. “You of course know I’m HIV positive being in prison and all. Having all them fags on my meat. Oh, I’m charging you $250, but don’t tell my Thelma, she wouldn’t understand. Have the money ready when I leave.”

I lay on the floor as still as I could, praying he wouldn’t kick me. After he left, I stayed inside. It took a few hours, but eventually he was finished. I went outside to checkout his work. It looked like it had been done by a little kid with a toy hammer.

“Give me my money,” he said.

“Here’s a check,” I said. “I didn’t have the cash.”

“S’alright, I’ll be over in the morning for a fuck. You can make yourself presentable, right?”

He left and I went inside. I sat down at the phone and dialed the number for the local police. “Sergeant Powell, how may I help you?”

“Yes, I have a problem out here on Honor Farm Road. Earlier today, I had an incident out here where my front door and window were broken out.”

“Is this Mr. Hughes, Mr. Charles Hughes?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Well, you see, the neighbor across the street said she sent her brother to the lumberyard to pick up some plywood. I suppose he’s some kind of carpenter. He just got out of prison for assault. We made our acquaintance and in the most derogatory manner he demanded a sex act to which I complied.”

“You were assaulted in the process, I assume.”

“Most definitely.”

“And, in his assault, was he more physical than you expected?

“Yes, of course,” I said. “He was wearing a tool belt and I feared for my life.”

“But, he did assault you,” the officer asked.

“Yes, he hit me a number of times. I can’t remember exactly how many times, but I know I’ll have bruises in the morning. The last time he hit me he knocked me off the chair.”

“We’ll be out to your house in a few minutes, it’s obvious Archie Blanchard extended his presence in public.”

I waited at the drapes in the bedroom, and finally the police showed up and entered the garage apartment across the street. Soon I saw Archie Blanchard in cuffs being hauled out of the garage. His sister was there, but I didn’t care for her.

I sat in the living seething in anger. The Larsons would have to pay down to the last generation. There was no other solution. Somehow, someway I was going to destroy every last one of them.

Nothing could stop me, I would be an agent of the Angel of Retribution. I went over to the desk, rifled through the middle drawer detritus and pulled out my goal, a chrome-plated silencer. I stared at it and knew if I reamed it out with oil it would be serviceable.

All I had to do now was wait for Thursday when I could pick up the .45.