A Guardian of Innocents (18 page)

After a few seconds passed, Mark’s glossy-eyed dad said, “What?”

“Um, is uh Mark here?”

“Nah, he’s at work. Gets off uh-five.”

“Oh... okay.”

I turned to go and was willing to leave it at that, but then he asked, “Is there something
I
can help you with?”

“You still in the business?” I inquired with a hushed voice.

He snickered a little at that, “You don’t have to whisper. If you’re that nervous, come on inside.”

As I followed him in, he asked, “So whatcha need this time?”

I was still awestruck that this obvious pothead remembered our brief encounter over four and a half years ago.

“Something a little more serious than a pistol,” I answered.

Mark’s dad grunted, “Well, I only deal the small stuff. If you’re looking for an AK or something like that, I can’t help you. What I
can
do, though, is introduce you to a guy. Someone who’s into the heavier shit...”

As I read his thoughts, I saw images of young guys in blue bandanas and sunglasses wearing wife-beater tank tops. The leader of this gang, Guillermo, had several tattoos and was reputed to have killed at least six men.

“But I have to warn you—“ he began.

“Are you sure you don’t have something more rapid-fire than a handgun?” I interrupted him out of desperation.

Mark’s dad sat down on his worn-out sofa and looked up at me, considering. He pulled a quarter bag from one pants pockets and a pack of Zig-Zag papers from the other, and leaned forward to roll a joint on his coffee table.

“I might have something that would interest you, kid, but I seriously doubt you can afford it.”

Hope began to flutter in the pit of my stomach again, “Don’t worry about that. Whudduya got?”

He grunted. “Before we get into that, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to perform the ritual again.”

Stripping down wasn’t nearly as difficult or embarrassing as it had been the last time. Visually assured that I wasn’t bugged, he walked into the master bedroom and locked the door behind him. I could hear him rummaging around in his closet, then some hollow thuds echoed from underneath the trailer floor. I probed his thoughts and saw where he had cut out a special niche, a secret cubby-hole in the bottom of the closet wall behind some boxes of old crap.

He came out and tossed something black towards me. I snatched it out of the air, then turned it over in my hands, staring in astonishment. I couldn’t believe I was holding an UZI.

The long clip was missing from its handle, making it feel a little top-heavy. It had a side-folding stock you could flip open and place against your shoulder if you wanted to use it more like a rifle.

Like a true salesman, he said, “Price is three-thousand,” as if there was no room for haggling. After only a few minutes of debate, I struck a deal at fifteen hundred. And I even got two clips of ammo thrown in. The gun was surprisingly easy to use, and load.

“Be careful first time you use that thing though. Got a lot more of a kick than you’d think. If your hand’s not steady, the damn thing’ll try to move around on you like a fire-hose,” he warned, “The bullets for it you can buy anywhere though. Nine by nineteens. And your safety’s there on the left side of the receiver.”

Satisfied with my purchase, I was getting all my stuff together when Mark’s dad mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.

“What?” I asked.

“Awful sorry to hear about your dad.” Though he said it with a mild sincerity, there was also a cautious playfulness behind his voice.

My heart locked up and my whole body went cold. He knew.

Motherfucker.

I was in the middle of tying my tennis shoes and my hands had frozen in mid-loop. Missing only a single beat, I finished tying the last shoe and responded, “Well, thank you, but that was years ago, there’s—“

“Me and Mark had some discussions about you after our last... transaction. Seemed only a few days later your dad got popped out at some tittie bar.”

Paralyzed once again, I fought just to breathe.     

“Mark doesn’t think you’re capable of such an act of... Shit, what’s the word? Hell, I don’t know, but he doesn’t think you’re capable of killing anyone, especially your own dad. But I know different. Mark hasn’t seen how the world works yet; that’s just cuz he’s young. All I gotta do is take one look at you and I know your dad was one of those piece of shits who likes to fuck his kids.”

“What do you want?” I asked with a small crack in my voice.

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna blackmail you, kid. Hell, I sold you the gun. I just wanna know for myself. They said the kid that did your dad was some crackhead, some junkie. But I think I know better. I think you planned it all out. I think you even dressed like a junkie in case there were any witnesses. You made it look like a mugging gone bad.”

I now know what the deer must feel like when it looks up to see those headlights bearing down on it. The wrong bodily movement, or none at all, could condemn me to hell.

“So, was it you?” he finally asked.

I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I was afraid he would know if I lied. I slowly nodded my head, instantly ashamed of myself. I should have lied my skinny ass off. Denied it nonchalantly, played dumb. But as I’ve thought about it over the years, I don’t think it would have mattered. Not one little bit. He had put two and two together when Mark had first told him about Jack’s untimely passing more than four years ago.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m sure he deserved it. Now get the hell outta here.”

Eager to oblige, I got up, grabbed my stuff and headed for the door.

“What’n the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he asked, voice slightly elevated.

And I could understand why he was upset. I was so rattled by our conversation, I was about to walk outside at four in the afternoon into a large trailer park with an extremely visible UZI in one hand and two clips (albeit empty) in the other.

In the spirit of good customer service, Mark’s dad put my merchandise in a paper grocery sack for me, then said, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“No offense,” I replied, “But hopefully after this, I won’t ever
have
to see you again.”

He nodded as he closed the door behind me. He understood completely.

*          *          *

It wasn’t long before I’d purchased some bullets and was out in the country (I made damn sure to drive out to as secluded of an area as I could find) shooting up some empty soda cans I’d lined up. The kick wasn’t as bad as Mark’s dad said it would be, but it did try to move around on me a couple of times, like a small leashed dog that’s spotted a squirrel. It was nothing like a fire hose, though. Though I never sensed it at the time, I think he exaggerated to make me respect the weapon more so I didn’t blow my foot off or kill a friend because I thought this UZI worked just like my toy watergun.

In about two minutes of sporadic fire, I had spent both clips. It was fun. I wasn’t thinking abut Halloween night. I was just having a fucking blast firing a fully-automatic weapon for the first time in my life. I understood then why so many men appreciate guns. They give you such an intoxicating feeling of empowerment.

Chapter 11

I was out as far on the limb as I felt I could go without snapping it with my weight. My apparel consisted of solid black, much like my Waiting Room Germany costume; I even painted the silver buckle of my belt black so it wouldn’t shine if a light fell upon it. My garb was complimented by a black duffel bag which was currently strapped to my back and contained all the necessary party supplies for the night.

I could feel the wood groaning in protest as my arms and legs worked their way along the branch. The back of my mind was objecting wildly at the idea of this invasion into someone else’s home, while my good sense was ranting that I shouldn’t try to stand up on this already over-strained tree limb.

But I did stand up. Miraculously. My hands reached a sturdier branch above my head. I knew I had just one real shot at this. This one attempt would likely break the only limb stretching this close to the retaining wall. If this didn’t work, I was fucked.

I slowly began to crouch while still holding the branch above my head. I estimated the edge of the wall was about eight feet away and three feet down. And with that thought, I jumped.

The air was knocked out of my lungs as my chest hit the sharp angular edge of the wall’s cap. My arms went over it and I latched on. One of my long sleeves was riding up, and the concrete was rubbing my wrist raw. The cap was almost as thick as the length of my arms, making it very difficult for my gloved fingers to retain their clutch on the edge of it.

I threw my right leg over and brought my left up and I stayed where I was for awhile, laid out on the top of the wall. There was plenty of shade from the bluish moonlight courtesy of the large oak tree. I scanned the area and found no one present outside; everyone was inside the house. I didn’t think there were any guard dogs either.

I aimed my focus at the house, receiving several disturbing sensations. There were definitely some young kids in this house. Some were scared and tired and some felt sick and hungry. They had no idea where they were. All they knew was why they were there.

I surveyed the property with a careful eye, strategizing the best route to the house. The lights were still on, but I was too far away to hear any party noises. I figured Milton’s property consisted of fifty acres, maybe more. It was mostly flat, but the house itself sat upon a slight hill. The closest structure to my current position was the large hay barn, about forty or so yards away. After I got there and caught my breath, I’d make an insane one hundred and twenty yard dash to a smaller shed, which would be my closest refuge from the mansion.

The risk I would be exposed to, though, was that I could be easily seen by anyone who just happened to stroll out of Milton’s front door. The house and the perimeter surrounding it were well-adorned with hanging lights; fluorescent white globes hung up on thin wires that appeared to reside at their current locations year-round.

Even with a black stocking cap to cover my blonde hair and black Halloween face-paint to hide my pale complexion, I didn’t feel confident in my chances of staying invisible so close to all that soft white light.

I swung my legs over the other side and dropped onto a thick, plush lawn which appeared to be bluish-gray under the bright moonlight. I made my sprint over to the large barn and unzipped my duffel bag, pulling out one of the supplies I’d purchased at an Army-Navy store: a good pair of binoculars.

I decided to watch the windows of the front foyer until I was certain there was no one close enough to exit the door. I was looking for anyone who might be getting their coat off the rack and saying goodbye to the host.

I glanced back at the ten foot wall and knew I’d already passed the point of no return. And I surprised myself a little when I realized I felt no regret. None. There were kids in there (smaller kids amongst older ones, that was all I could tell from here) kids about to be hurt, humiliated and forever traumatized.

I waited for the most opportune moment... but then I waited some more. Gut instinct was holding me back. Something inside was speaking to me just then. It had to be. Ten seconds later about twenty or so middle-aged urban professionals began filing out the door, sounding off their “Goodnight!” and “See you Monday!” farewells. I couldn’t help but feel there was some benign force at work on my behalf, though my atheistic nature quickly shunted the idea out of my head.

After waiting twenty minutes or so for everyone to finish saying their goodbyes and drive away, I saw someone (pretty sure it was Milton—yes, yes it is) lock the front door. I cursed under my breath with disappointment. I had really hoped he wouldn’t do that. Now I could only hope he would choose to wait until the rest of his guests left to turn on his security system.

I closed my eyes and broadscanned the place with every last scrap of strength I could gather. There were thirteen men in the house (and one woman? ...maybe) two of which were working security for this little event. One worked for Milton, the other worked for the supplier. The latter of which was only there to insure his boss’s property wasn’t damaged too badly while it was in use.

I focused on him to see if I could extract any info about his employer, but he wasn’t much help. All he kept thinking about was how much money he was getting paid just to guard these little shits. I did get one interesting bit of intel from him, though. Seems no one who works in this child/teenager sex slave ring goes by his real name. Everyone has a code name, and no one (out of fear for their lives) dares to speak a person’s real name while on a job, even if they happen to be close buds.

This particular low-life had been dubbed “Troll” by his superiors. He would have preferred something snake-related, something like Rattler or Cobra, but his direct superior (someone named Ogre) told him he wasn’t playin’ fuckin’ G.I. Joe, he was fuckin’ babysittin’ some very valuable kids. There was a system set up and the code names meant something to the chain of command.

I wish I could have delved into his thoughts further, but he was too far away and there were too many walls between us. I had to focus on a way in, preferably before someone turned on the security system the feminine voice of the virtual tour guide had boasted about.