Mortal Lock (10 page)

“That is enough!” the judge shrieked at Veil. “One more word from you, sir, and you will be joining your client in jail tonight.”

“You want me to defend Leonard using sign language?” Veil asked.

A number of folks laughed. Some of them on the jury.

The judge cracked his gavel a few times and, when he was done, they took Veil out in handcuffs.

7

When I went to visit that night, I was able to talk to both of them. Someone had brought a chessboard and pieces in and they were playing. “You’re crazy,” I told Veil.

“Like a fuckin’ fox,” Leonard said. “My man here is right on the money. I mean, he gets it. Check.”

“You moved a piece off the board,” Veil said.

“Did not.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Damn,” Leonard said, pulling the piece out from between his legs and returning it to the board. “For a man with one eye you see a lot. But you
still
in check.”

I shook my head. “Sure. Veil gets it. And you, you’re gonna get life by the time he’s done,” I said.

“Everything’ll be fine,” Veil said, studying the chessboard. “We can always go to Plan B.”

“And what’s Plan B?” I asked him.

He and Leonard exchanged looks.

8

“The defense of
what?!
” the judge yelled at Veil the next morning.

“The defense of manifest necessity, Your Honor. It’s right here, in Texas law. In fact, the case of
Texas v. Whitehouse
is directly on point. A man was charged with stealing water from his neighbor by constructing a siphon system. And he did it, all right. But that was during a drought, and if he hadn’t done it, his cattle would’ve starved. So he had to pay for the water he took, and that was fair, but he didn’t have to go to prison.”

“And it is your position that your client had to burn down the crack—I mean, the occupied dwelling across the street from his house to prevent the spread of disease?”

“Exactly, Your Honor. Like the bubonic plague.”

“Well, you’re not going to argue that nonsense in my court. Go ahead and take your appeal. By the time the court even hears it, your client’ll have been locked down for a good seven, eight years. That’ll hold him.”

9

Veil faced the jury, his face grim and set. He walked back and forth in front of them for a few minutes, as if getting the feel of the ground. Then he spun around and looked them in the eyes, one by one.

“You think the police can protect you from the plague? From the invasion? No, I’m not talking about aliens, or UFOs, or AIDS, now—I’m talking crack. And it’s here, folks. Right here. You think it can’t happen in your town? You think it’s only Dallas and Houston where they grow those sort of folks? Take a look around. Even in this little town, you all lock your doors at night now, don’t you? And you’ve had shootings right at the high school, haven’t you? You see the churches as full as they used to be? No, you don’t. Because
things are changing, people. The plague is coming, just like the Good Book says. Only it’s not locusts this time, it’s that crack cocaine. It’s a plague, all right. And it’s carried by rats, just like always. And, like we learned, there isn’t but one way to turn
that
tide. Fire!

“Now, I’m not saying my client set that fire. In fact, I’m asking you to find that he did
not
set that fire. I’m asking you to turn this good citizen, this man who cared about his community, loose. So he can be with you. That’s where he belongs. He stood with you … now it’s time for you to stand with him.”

Veil sat down, exhausted like he’d just gone ten rounds with a rough opponent. But, the way they do trials, it’s always the prosecutor who gets to throw the last punch.

And that chubby little bastard of a DA gave it his best shot, going on and on about how two wrongs don’t make a right. But you could see him slip a few times. He’d make this snide reference to Leonard being black, or being gay, or just being … Leonard, I guess, and of course, that part is kind of understandable. But, exactly like Veil predicted, every time he did it, there was at least one member of the jury who didn’t like it. Sure, it’s easy to play on people’s prejudices—and we got no shortage of those down this way, I know—but if there wasn’t more good folks than bad, well, the Klan would’ve been running the state a long time ago.

The judge told the jury what the law was, and told them to go out there and come back when they were done. Everybody got up to go to lunch, but Veil didn’t move. He motioned me over.

“This is going to be over with real quick, Hap,” he said. “One way or the other.”

“What if it’s the other?”

“Plan B,” he said, his face flat as a piece of slate.

10

The jury was out about an hour. The foreman stood up and said “Not Guilty” about two dozen times—once for every crime they had charged Leonard with.

I was hugging Leonard when Veil tapped me on the shoulder. “Leonard,” he said, “you need to go over there and thank those jury people. One at a time. Sincere, you understand?”

“What for?” Leonard asked.

“Because this is going to happen again,” Veil said. “And maybe next time, one of the rats’ll get burned.”

Knowing Leonard, I couldn’t argue with that. He walked over to the jury and I turned around to say something to Veil. But he was gone.

I was walking through the woods behind our property when I came across a huge toadstool. It was a color I’d never seen, some kind of shimmering rose-orange, standing on a stalk so thick it looked like a miniature palm tree holding up a solid canopy.

Remington stopped when I did. The chocolate lab is getting on in years, and he always grabs any excuse for a rest. I don’t think he even likes walking in the woods anymore, but Florence—my wife—says he has to do it. For the same reason I have to do it: to keep fit. Diet and exercise are very important to her. Keeping fit.

Florence bought Remington because she said he was the right kind of dog for our new life. But he’s always been my dog. If I didn’t go walking, he wouldn’t either.

The toadstool-tree stood in a thick bed of dark green moss. It looked like it had been there for centuries. Unseen, untouched. Unspoiled.

I watched it for a long time, absently patting my pockets for the cigarettes I knew wouldn’t be there anymore. I used to smoke in the woods—I would never have considered smoking in the house—but I don’t do that anymore, not since I quit.

That’s what I did—quit. Not stop, quit. It wasn’t worth the talk. All the talk. All the statistics. All the proof. All the rightness of Florence.

She said she was sick of smelling it on me, every time I came back from a walk.

I was sick, too.

I had never seen anything like that toadstool. It was so beautiful. Timeless and perfect. God knows what it must have survived,
how many years it had been on earth, to grow to that size and splendor.

I never liked living way out here, even though I kept trying to. It
was
peaceful and quiet, not like the city at all. And cheaper, a lot cheaper. Instead of an apartment, we have a house, now. And land, too. The woods I walked in, they were on our own property.

Florence said the city wasn’t a good value. Because there was no room to expand, every single unit was artificially priced. Someday, when they ran out of room in the city, the land we owned now would be worth a fortune to developers.

Really, we hadn’t had to give up all that much. We have cable TV, and the Internet—Florence loves the Internet; she’s always researching things. And there’s a nice little town only a few miles away, where they have a library and a movie theater and … well, all kinds of things, if you’re interested.

I’m not interested. I haven’t been interested in a long time.

I looked down at my feet, at the special hiking boots Florence had bought for me last Christmas. Very expensive, but worth every penny, she said. Not only do they have steel toes, in case something heavy falls on me, but the insoles are removable, and I can replace them with my orthotic supports.

I’m fragile now. Precautions must be taken.

I sat down and tried to remember when I wasn’t fragile. When I was a person people listened to. Respected, even.

The memory always hurt more than the reality, but, this time, I couldn’t even bring it back.

I was numb. Everything was so painless. I stood up and kicked the toadstool. The entire head flew off the stalk. I walked over and held it in my hands. Then I sat down again, and started tearing it into tiny pieces.

It took a long time. When I was done, there was nothing left but little colored scraps, scattered all over the dark moss.

When I realized there was nothing more to do, I stood up and started walking again.

I walked and walked, farther than I’d ever gone before. I walked slowly, so Remington could keep up.

We came to a tree that had been cut down by lightning. Its roots were still alive, but the tree itself was lying flat on the ground.

I sat down on it.

Remington came over and sat next to me.

All of a sudden, I started sobbing.

It just kept on and on. I didn’t so much stop as run out of tears. That’s been happening for a long time. I know what it feels like, to run out of things, bit by bit. And I know how it feels when you’re finally empty.

I used to be somebody. Not somebody important, but not a nothing, either. I was more than just a living thing. I had work. People depended on me. People always said, “Owen is a man you can count on.”

Florence would say that, too. Only, when she said it, her lips would twist so that the words came out of her mouth like they had been poisoned.

At first, I tried to do some volunteer work, but that’s not for me. It’s just not the same as real work. People thank you, but they don’t depend on you. Not for anything that matters, I mean.

What volunteers really like to do is talk. Like at the food pantry. I went there because I’m good at organizing things, and I thought they would see that. But they didn’t care about doing things better. What they really came there for was the gossip: who donated what, who didn’t … things like that. Mostly, what they wanted to talk about was what wonderful people they were. They were always saying things like “giving back,” as if it were a holy act and they were the performing saints.

After a few months, I couldn’t see why they even had the food
pantry at all. It doesn’t change anything. The same people keep coming back. It’s not a bridge you use to cross over to something better; it’s a hole you fall into.

I was once a solid, reliable man.

I’m not solid anymore. Between the osteoporosis and the heart attack, I’m not solid.

I don’t get opportunities to be reliable, so there’s no way to know. No way to prove it, is what I’m saying. My … reputation, I guess you’d call it … I wasn’t even in contact with the people I once had that with.

There’re some things you can’t get back. Some things you can’t get back
to
.

I never even got close to being as big and great and beautiful as that toadstool. If I’d been the man I used to be, a solid, reliable man, I would have just stood there and admired it. I would have paid it the respect it earned, all those years it had stayed alive. Alive and true.

When I got back to the house, Florence wanted to know what I had been doing out there so long.

I went into the room where she keeps all the hobby stuff she buys for me. Model-building kits, a shotgun, fishing rods, things like that.

I loaded the shotgun. Then I came back out into the kitchen. I shot Florence in the back of her head.

Her face blew apart like the toadstool, but I shot the other barrel into her anyway—I wanted to make sure she didn’t suffer.

Remington didn’t move. He just sat there and watched. Remington had never been Florence’s dog. He never forgot what a reliable man I used to be.

But he’s a very old dog, with a lot of health problems, and I knew what would happen when the police took him to the animal shelter. It’s a “no-kill” shelter, but, still, nobody would want him. The other dogs wouldn’t respect him. He would never be what he
once was. He’d die. Not from what anyone did to him, but from what he’d lost.

I sat at the kitchen table. I thought about writing a note, but I had nothing to say.

Just one more thing to do.

I wasn’t even sad when I promised Remington he could go with me. I could see in his eyes that he knew I was still a reliable man. He could count on me. He never lost faith. He never would.

I made sure of that, first.

for Joel

1

“Liberals are always blathering about how much they love nature,” Roger Kenworth lectured his rapt audience. “But the truth is, they’re actually
opposed
to the natural order of things.”

His pronouncement was delivered with the self-assurance of a man accustomed to respect, and Roger Kenworth looked the part. He was powerfully built and deeply tanned, with light blond hair, symmetrical features, and perfect teeth too white for a man in his fifties.

Tonight, he posed with one foot on his favorite soapbox: the extended hearth of a massive stone fireplace. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt the color of tarnished brass over a pair of tailored beige cargo pants and natural-alligator desert boots. His bright blue eyes swept the cathedral-ceilinged living room like a prison searchlight, scanning for dissent.

Satisfied he had total control of his terrain, Roger used an orator’s pause to take a generous sip from his square-cut tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue before returning to his favorite topic. “You want a perfect example, just look at the idiots who run the School Board. The paper said they held one of their little coffee klatches and decided they’re going to ban what they call ‘bullying’ at the high school. If they’d ever spent some time in the real world, they’d understand that what they’re all hyperventilating about is nothing but Darwinism in action. The strong are
always
going to assert themselves—that’s what keeps a species viable. Look at a wolf pack. If one of them’s too weak to pull his weight, it’s better the rest find out while he’s still a cub.”