National Burden (19 page)

McKnight had ordered his stooge to up the dosage, his patience wearing thin, especially after the debacle with now-Vice President Southgate. As far as he knew, everything was going according to plan.

Cal, Daniel and MSgt Trent sat in the back of the baby blue late model Dodge Caravan, the seats now soaked through, the smell of cigarettes and stale coffee matching the general mood in the car.

After extracting themselves from the frigid bay, the three Marines had made their way back to the road, flagging down the first vehicle they saw. It just happened to be a fifty-some year old woman who was getting off her housekeeping shift from a house down the road. It didn’t take long, thanks to the soggy hundred dollar bills Cal had taken out of his pocket, to get the woman to agree to drive them to the nearest police station. She said it was on her way.

“You boys okay back there?” she asked in her gravely smoker’s voice, hacking at the end of the question.

“Yes, ma’am. Just a little cold, but we’ll be fine,” answered Cal, wishing the woman would just shut up and drive. He hadn’t been so cold since his cold weather training in Bridgeport.

“I’ve got the heat turned up as much as I can. Hey, you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital? The big fella looks like he could use a doctor.”

Trent’s chuckle was much nicer than the thoughts going through Cal’s mind. “I’ll be fine, ma’am. And don’t worry about the seats. We’ll pay for any cleaning.”

The woman nodded, the smirk on her face saying that she damn well better be paid or hell was a comin’.

Five minutes later, they arrived at the small but obviously well-funded Southampton Village Police Department, the well-tended landscaping just peeking out from its snowy encasement. Cal thanked the cleaning woman and slipped her another three bills through the driver’s window. Her cracked smile was ear-to-ear as she did a three point turn and sped on her way, smoke trailing from her minivan.

Cal led the way into the modern police station that looked more like a clinic or a retirement home with its partial stone facade, the green metal roof water trickling steady streams from the melting snow cover. A breeze kicked up behind them, ushering their shivering bodies forward, toward the heat and mounds of paperwork. 

+++

5:45 p.m.

McKnight’s whole body tensed, his office, his sanctuary, suddenly constricting, feeling smaller by the second. He placed his cell phone on the desk, his opposite hand running through his hair, disheveling its precise styling. 

Congressman McKnight wordlessly pointed to the door, his secretary slipping out of her chair and heading back to her desk. He didn’t know which emotion to hold onto. Sadness? Anger? Grief? Dread?

He replayed the conversation with Santos Lockwood’s mother minutes before. She’d gotten a call from the White House saying that her son had suffered a massive heart attack. Sobbing hysterically, the woman he’d called Mama since college, the woman who’d been more of a mother to him than the bitch who’d brought him into the world, poured her grief through the phone line. She kept asking why.

The infinitesimal portion of his soul that still cared about anyone other than himself, a talent he’d forged through the years like a prized two-handed sword, felt for his second mother. He wasn’t a complete monster. She’d always been kind to him, always insisting he stop in for a warm meal on the odd occasion that he happened to be in town. Even though he felt for Mama Lockwood, he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt over his friend’s death. Santos was weak. Who other than a weakling could be so easily manipulated?

No
.

McKnight had to gather his thoughts, come up with a plan. He’d been so close. The pieces once again coming together, Lockwood unfortunately being an important pawn in the mix.

Think!

He’d been careful. Nothing tying him to Lockwood except for their history since college. There were countless others in D.C. who could be linked to Lockwood. What angle would investigators attack?

Fuck!

Santos hadn’t been the healthiest specimen, but he was in his fucking thirties! How the hell was it possible for him to have a heart attack?

McKnight had promised Mrs. Lockwood that he’d find out what he could and help arrange the shipment of the body back home. “It’s the least I can do for my good friend,” he’d said.

The recollection made him stop.

Maybe…what if?

McKnight slammed his hand on his thigh, congratulating his quick thinking. He would meet the potential disaster head-on just like the bullies he’d confronted on the streets of Miami as a kid. He remembered one kid, fifteen to little Tony’s twelve, a recent immigrant from Cuba, who’d harassed the awkward McKnight every day on the bus, his little gang stealing what little lunch money he had. What his mother had slaved for, possibly whored for.

It had gone on for weeks, until one morning before school he’d grabbed the gun in his father’s sock drawer. His old man was passed out, another bender wrecking the family dynamic for the umpteenth time.

He knew enough about pistols to check the chamber and ensure the weapon was fully loaded, counted the rounds. Eight. Tony didn’t know what a caliber was, but he knew how to take the safety off, how to aim and pull the trigger.
Squeeze it soft like a titty
, he remembered. He’d silently thanked his grandfather, who’d given him a summer’s worth of pistol training during a particularly violent time in the McKnight family. His mother’s parents took him in to let his parents try to work out their differences, as if that was going to happen. It was the best summer of his youth. Days of following his grandfather around, eating grandma’s food, learning about cars and guns. Yes, he had enough knowledge.

The gun slipped easily into the front pouch of his hand-me-down backpack. Suddenly he wasn’t scared, a feeling so foreign it seemed that some heavenly power had pumped his body full of confidence and courage. The pistol stayed in the backpack through the ride to school, through morning classes, through lunch and up until the final bell.

Tony McKnight boarded the bus that afternoon, striding a little longer, walking a little taller. No one noticed, not even his nemesis, the kid that everyone called La Rata, Spanish for The Rat. As soon as the bus started rolling, the harassment began, La Rata and his little gang surrounding Tony, poking him with their dirty fingers, calling him names, laughing at his out of style clothes. “How much money you got?” asked La Rata.

“I don’t have any,” answered Tony, keeping his stare on the seat in front of him. He’d given up looking to the obese chain-smoking bus driver for help. She’d seen it all and didn’t give a shit.

La Rata smacked Tony on the back of the head. “
Mentiroso
,” he said. Liar.

“I swear…but I know where I can get you a lot.”

The bully’s eyes narrowed. He bent lower, whispering in Tony’s ear, his breath stale, a hint of weed on its edges. “Whatchu talking about?”

Tony was careful to keep his voice low. “There’s a store down the street from my house. I know the combination to the safe.”

La Rata knocked his head into Tony’s. “How the fuck you know this?”

“I help there on the weekends.”

The bully paused to consider the situation just as young Tony had known he would. Bullies loved money, especially the ones with a taste for the good life. La Rata waved his cronies away. They complained but complied, leaving the two schemers alone.

“You take me, now.”

Tony nodded. Two more stops until his. He waited, La Rata taking a seat next to him, guarding his prize.

It came sooner than Tony remembered, his hands shaking for the first time that day. “This is my stop.”

La Rata got up and motioned for Tony to go first. They stepped off the bus, one after the other, Tony’s hearing suddenly masked by the pounding in his ears, adrenaline coursing, nerves raging, palms sweaty, breathing shallow. It took a shove from La Rata for Tony to realize he’d been asked a question, probably more than once. He looked back at his aggressor. “What?”

“I say, how far?”

“Uh, it’s right up there.” He pointed to the alleyway across the barren street, still too early for the afternoon traffic jams frequented by orange vendors with their shopping carts and the little immigrant boys with their bottles of spray and squeegees.

“Go.”

Tony nodded at the order, looking both ways before he crossed, careful to take his time, the plan seeming to unravel in his head. Before he knew it they stepped up to the back door of Kenny’s Barber Shop where Tony swept the floors when he wanted to get out of the house. He reached for the door knob that was always unlocked during business hours. “I’ll be right back.”

Before he could turn the knob, La Rata grabbed him by the collar and turned him around, a switchblade appearing in his hand. How had Tony missed that?

“You better not be lying,
cabr
ó
n
.” He waved the blade menacingly in front of Tony’s wide eyes. “You understand?”

Tony nodded, his tongue dry, his throat caught, his stomach churning. He felt the sudden urge to go to the bathroom.

La Rata pushed him to the door and Tony gratefully opened it, stepping inside. He immediately rested his back against the door, taking breaths like he’d just held it for an hour.

“Tony?”

Tony’s eyes popped open at the sound. “Oh, hey Mr. Fuller.”

Kenny Fuller, the owner of the barber shop, a black man in his early seventies, hunched from a lifetime of bending over to clip, buzz and shave hair, looked at him quizzically. “I wasn’t expecting you today. Everything okay at home?”

Kenny was one of the few people in the neighborhood who knew exactly what Tony was up against with his parents. It was Kenny who’d found Tony sitting on a curb at midnight, rain pouring down, tears long since run dry.

“I’m fine, Mr. Fuller. I just…uh, I thought I left my coat the last time I was here.”

“Did you find it?”

“No, sir. I probably left it somewhere else.”

“Okay. I’ll keep an eye out for it anyway. You still coming by on Saturday?” Kenny asked with a smile, his rheumy eyes squinting.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”

Kenny Fuller nodded and headed back to work through the curtain that separated the workroom from the break room, leaving Tony to exhale in relief. He waited another two minutes, carefully unzipping his backpack and pocketing the pistol. He pulled his shirt over the butt of the weapon that stuck out.

Saying a quick prayer for no other reason than the added courage, Tony turned and walked out into the alley.

La Rata was waiting, squatting, tracing lines in the cement with his blade. He rose. “You get it?”

Tony nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Give it to me.”

“Let’s…let’s go down there.” Tony pointed farther down the alley where a dumpster lay open, a filthy mattress bending over the lip.

La Rata didn’t argue. The two boys walked around the random debris littering the pavement, a brown stream running down the seam of the alley. They stepped behind the dumpster, Tony looking around for any observers.

La Rata gave Tony a ‘give it to me’ gesture. Tony handed over his backpack shakily. It didn’t take the bully a moment to search the nearly empty bag and look up. Tony returned the boy’s gaze, now holding his father’s pistol confidently, pointed straight at La Rata’s face.

The Cuban’s face blanched. “Whatchu…”

“Shut up.” Tony hissed, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re not going to bully me anymore.”

Before the teen could respond, Tony pulled the trigger three times, every round slamming into La Rata’s face, exiting with splashes of brain matter against the far wall. The immigrant fell to the ground, his face unrecognizable.

Tony looked down at the dead boy. For some reason he had the urge to spit in the bully’s face, but he resisted, even then understanding the implications of trace evidence thanks to the detective novels he’d read in the library.

After bending down to snatch his backpack, somehow luckily blood free, Tony stashed the gun back in his pocket and took off down the far end of the alley.

It wasn’t hard to find a waterway to throw the pistol into, lost forever in the currents frequented by Florida alligators. He walked the rest of the way home, his breathing normal, his mind grasping what he’d done. His elation never bubbled over, young Tony already taking on the mannerisms of a practiced assassin.

Months later they’d traced the rounds in La Rata’s death to the gun registered to Evan McKnight, Tony’s father. As a convicted felon, on parole, with a history of violence, and the fact that when they’d come to question him he’d attacked the cops in a drug-induced rage, the trial progressed rapidly.

With three shots Tony McKnight had taken care of two problems in his struggling young life. He hadn’t planned his father’s conviction, but soon understood the power of controlled circumstances. It was the birth of the man who would one day become a United States Congressman.