The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey)

Chapter 1 

Cowards and
the Innocent

November 2011

"
I'm sorry.” 

Mitch's
cryptic text confused Laura. Now six hours after she had received it, and less than two hours until her family would arrive for Thanksgiving dinner, Laura replaced her confusion with irritation.  The turkey was his responsibility. Undercooked was unacceptable; overdone would send him over the edge…and she knew how that would end.

As she
reread his text, the phone rang.  For a fleeting moment, her mind raced to the conclusion that the sheriff was calling to deliver tragic news.  “Hello,” she answered.

“Hi honey, it’s M
om,” rang out Pam Taylor's syrupy sweet greeting.  “So how’s it coming?  You just about ready for the chaos?” 

“Not quite
,” responded Laura.  “I’ve got the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole almost ready and I'm just about to start the mashed potatoes, but Mitch isn’t back yet and I’m not sure how to get this turkey ready.   You know what he’ll be like if I don’t get it right.” 

Pam
knew about Mitch’s temper.  She had witnessed countless minor irritants which had caused him to verbally lash out at Laura, but was unaware of the abuse her daughter had suffered at his hands.

“
Not back yet, huh?” asked Pam. 

“No
,” answered Laura, “And what’s strange is he sent me a text just after 6 a.m. that said ‘I’m sorry’.” She paused.  “Mom, he’s never said I’m sorry…ever.” 

Hear
ing a bit of alarm in her daughter’ voice, Pam reassured her only child, “Oh I’m sure it was just him saying sorry ‘cause he knew he was going to be late.  You know how long it can take to track a buck if its been gut shot.” 

“Yeah
," responded Laura uncertainly. "That’s what I was thinking.  But I figure it must be a big one for Mitch to track it.  And heaven help us if he did get a ten point or bigger.  He’ll have bragging rights for the year,”  she chuckled, imagining what Mitch would be like. “I can already hear him telling Jack and Don about every detail of his hunt."

“
I'm sure he’ll be awful to live with," offered Pam, unaware of the truth in her statement.  "So, hey, why don’t I come over and just help you finish it all up.  My pies are done and they can cool at your house the same as mine.”

“That
’d be great Mom,” Laura said, as she pulled the phone from her ear to see who was calling on the other line.  “Hey Mom, someone’s calling in.  So I’ll see you in a bit?”

“I'm coming right over
,” answered Pam.

“Hello
,” said Laura, as she clicked to the other caller.

“
Laura?” asked her friend, Deputy Sheriff Bill Bannister. 

“Yes.
Who’s this?”

“It’s Bill
.”

In an instant,
she knew the call was a harbinger of death, but her mind refused this reality.  As her world slowed, she answered meekly, “Hey Bill.  Is everything ok?” 

“I’m afraid not
Laura.  We just found Mitch over off Hurricane Creek.  Somebody shot him.  I'm real sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s gone."

Laura
slumped to the floor.  The numbing sensation that pervaded her body blocked the sound from her ears and the focus from her eyes.  All she felt was the tile floor beneath her and the tingling at the tips of her fingers similar to the effects of paresthesia.

“
Laura? Laura?” asked Bill. 

Her
moaning and quiet sobbing reassured the deputy that she was still on the line.  Her next words were a whimper.  “Was it another hunter?” 

“I can’t say for sure, but it wasn’t no accident
,” Bill said emphatically.  “We got everybody down there right now; EMS, State Police, everybody.  We’re working as fast as we can to figure out what actually happened.  And I promise you Laura, we’ll find the som’ bitch who did this.  I’m sending over Sarah Blake from our Grief Counseling department to be with you.” 

As his words
reached her ears, Sarah opened the front door.

*****

Porter Brown was gone from the crime scene three hours before Bannister had arrived.  Mitch Frazier was Porter’s 184th avenging act and his 22nd kill.  Experience had given him ample practice on how to leave little, if any evidence at the crime scene.  He knew only the experts from the FBI’s lab, located a few hours to the north in Clarksburg, West Virginia, would have the expertise to determine where he fired the first shot, but Porter left nothing to chance.  Unlike most who end another's life, Porter never fled from the ground which held his victims.  Instead, he took great care to collect his shell casings, wipe down any surface he may have touched, and correct any other oddity that could connect him to their untimely deaths.

Planning and control were Porter's best friends.  While hunting Mitch
in the pre-dawn darkness, Porter had worn shoes two sizes too small and placed rain slippers over them to mask the tread marks.  During his face to face encounter, he had not touched Mitch, though his knife had come within inches of doing so.  His parked car was alongside many other hunters’ trucks at the edge of the woods just off state route 35.  The two mile buffer between the kill zone and his escape vehicle, through numerous creeks and over several hills, allowed him substantial real estate to frustrate the nose of any bloodhound attempting to pick up his scent.

A
fter a quick change of clothes in the car, everything but the weapons he had used were placed in three separate Goodwill donation bins one county away from where Mitch took his last breath. 

Porter's
native Putnam County had grown substantially since he last called it home.  And while not every new face in town drew attention any more, he donned a Marshall University ball cap and Oakley sunglasses as he shopped at the Kroger supermarket for his contribution to lunch later that day.

While
planning and control had accompanied Porter in the woods, neither traveled well with him on this first trip to see the family in two decades.  His plan to arrive at the grandparents’ house just before turkey dinner, stay overnight on the property, and then leave, was still open for revision.  He knew that sleeping on the sheets which had held a more innocent version of himself might open doors he had long since closed.

*****

In his Mason County motel room, Porter cleaned any lingering evidence that could tie him to Mitch.  As he was readying himself for the 1p.m. reunion, Porter called Connie Lazarus from the new burner phone he had purchased.

“Oh
, hey kiddo,” she responded.  “The number didn’t come up on my phone, so I figured it must be you.” 

“
Yeah, same area code but now it’s 469-9043,” he said.  Connie scribbled it down hurriedly as she sensed some urgency in his voice. 

After each kill, Porter’s
soul needed confession.  Over the years, Connie had grown used to these calls.  The first one, ten years before Mitch, was the most troubling.  She could still hear his voice, emotionless, something he'd never lacked in the decade she had known him. 

“Connie
,” came Porter's stilted greeting that day, “I just killed a man.” 

“What
?” asked Connie, uncertain how to process what she thought Porter just said.  “Did you just say you killed someone?”  After a long silence with no response, Connie asked more urgently, “What are you talking about Porter?  Did you honestly just murder someone?”

That word snapped Porter to respond
, and in one breath, the words flooded from his mouth. “No, it wasn’t murder.  It was self-defense...sort of.  I had just gotten to a pimp’s farm in Enid, Oklahoma after I found out he was running young Mexican girls.  I followed him to a mobile home he was using on the back acreage of the farm.  Three guys went into that trailer where I knew there was just one girl.  And Connie," the hurt and anger surging through his voice before he paused, "she couldn’t have been more than 12 years old." A longer pause, this time with more pain being relayed.  “I stayed hidden for about five minutes, but all I could think about was the torture that little girl was going through.  I couldn’t take it,” he said, his voice raspy from retching. 

“So
I came running from the woods where I was hiding.  All I had on me was my Glock and it shook loose ‘cause I was running so hard.  When I hit the door, I busted through it like it was made of paper.  That piece of shit pimp was just sitting on the couch while those other guys were in the back with the girl.”  Porter paused, recounting the images of that moment.  “He pulled on me first, Connie.  When I went for mine, I realized it wasn’t there and panicked.  I dove towards him just as he shot and I must have knocked him off balance ‘cause he didn’t fire again before I was back on my feet.  I then lunged at the gun and somehow knocked it out of his hand.  I hit his chin with my elbow and he was out cold.”  A final pause as he gathered his words of admission.  “Then I beat him to death,” he said with tears Connie knew were streaming down his face.  “I just started whaling on his throat and face until I couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from.” 

Both
stayed silent.  Connie’s mind raced to find solutions to the myriad problems Porter now faced.  Her next audible question was far simpler than those which remained unspoken. “Are you ok?” 

“
Yeah. My left hand has gotta be broken, but other than that I’m okay,”

“
What about the others?” Connie asked anxiously.

“T
he first John came out of the back bedroom as I was beating the pimp.” Porter inhaled deeply, “I grabbed the gun and could hardly get a grip on it because my hands were covered in blood.  But I still managed to point it at him, hoping to back him off.  But he was packing too.  So when he went for his gun, I shot him in the throat.  I was aiming for his head but when I squeezed the trigger, the pain in my hand made me flinch and that pulled the barrel down.  The bastard was on his back clutching his throat when the other two came running out of the bedroom, the last one still pullin’ up his pants.

The
second John had already drawn his gun when he rounded the corner.  I switched the gun to my right hand and fired again.  Since it’s my off hand, I went for his chest.  It hit him in the heart and he was dead before he hit the ground.  The last one must have been on an acid trip or something because he was still messing with his zipper...even with his two buddies dead in front of him.  Seeing him do that did something to me.  It’s like it transported me into the room with those guys and the terrified girl.  One with his pants around his ankles abusing a helpless child while the others watched and waited their turn.  My adrenaline took over and I went into a rage. I wanted him to suffer.

I leapt
over his cohorts, and barreled my shoulder into his chest.  When we hit the floor, I pistol-whipped him across his nose several times.  Then I stood up and watched him feel the pain.  He wasn’t looking at me until he heard me cock the gun.  Then he froze, and his eyes never left mine.  Without a word, I lowered the gun, put it on his jammed zipper, and pulled the trigger.” 

Porter paused
a bit longer to catch his breath, as Connie waited patiently.  “I’d be lying if I told you I felt any remorse watching him lie on the ground writhing in pain; his hands covered in blood, clutching his junk.  I looked through his eyes, into his soul, and all I saw was terror…then I put the barrel in his mouth.”  Connie heard nothing but more sobbing and retching.

“I
wasn't exactly sure these guys were the only ones in the trailer, so I slowly moved the ten feet from the last man to the bedroom door.  Nobody was in there but this little girl.  Renata's her name.”  With more emotion than Connie had yet heard him offer, Porter continued, “Her dress was on but it was crooked like she had just slipped it over her head before I entered.  And she was shaking,” he moaned.  “I mean really shaking; like her little body couldn’t handle the stress.  Her hands were covering her face and they were twitching a mile a minute.  And she’s the tiniest thing you’ve ever seen,” his anguished tone pouring through the phone. “I can’t imagine what those pigs were doing to her.”  After a minute more of weeping, Porter’s next words came in a calm, steady tone.  “I’m glad I killed them.”

Connie had known of Porter’s lust for punish
ing abusers, especially those who preyed on young girls.  She had heard his numerous tales of broken knee caps, cracked skulls, and shattered eye sockets, but she never thought he would embrace killing.  “So where are you now?” she asked. 

“
We’re about ten miles away from the farm.” 

“We?” asked Connie. 

“Yeah, Renata’s in the car.  I just stepped out to talk to you.  She speaks a little English and she told me she was kidnapped from Mazatlan, Mexico.  Now don’t fight me on this Connie, but I’m going across the border to take her home.  I’ll call you when I get back,” he said hurriedly to keep Connie from objecting. 

"Wait!" said
Connie, her momma bear instinct ignoring Porter’s last statement. “Did anyone see you at the farm?”