Fear of the Father Read online

“The night Paul Case was killed.”

  “Yeah. The night I got shot,” Crockett said, feeling an all too familiar flutter in his chest.

  Relentless, Ruby kept after him.

  “That would be the night Paul died, right?”

  Cold emptiness surged behind Crockett’s heart and the taste of metal leaked into his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said. “The night my partner and friend, Paul Case, was shot to death, Doctor LaCost. March third, nineteen eighty-four. The night that Margie became a widow, the night that Clifford and Janet didn’t have a daddy anymore, the night a useless piece of shit named Clevant Pelmore took it upon himself to shoot me and kill my partner. The night that I popped a cap on that same useless piece of shit and sent his dog-ass into the cold hard ground. That shot, Doctor LaCost, is the last time I fired a gun!”

  Shoulders sagging, Crockett lurched to his feet. Ruby reached for him, but he brushed her hand away and stalked off through the apartment. The sound of the slamming door was flat and final.

  Fog had formed at ground level and Crockett surged through it on the way to his truck, the pale vapor swirling behind him. He got in and put the key in the ignition before the cold behind his heart overtook him. Fingernails digging into his palms, he rested his forehead on the unyielding steering wheel and let the tears come.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ilene at the IHOP

  The next morning while Crockett was grinding the last of his stash of Blue Kona beans, Airbourn Audio called to re-schedule his recording session. The scripts would not be in until after the weekend. Great. He could use the extra time to visit the Bull’s-Eye shooting range before meeting Rachael for their ten o’clock breakfast. He loaded the grind into the magic machine and watched the double load of espresso begin to trickle into the carafe, then readied some half and half for latte. The instant Crockett opened the valve to steam the cream, Nudge was doing Olympic floor exercise on the counter.

  “What the hell do you want, you old fool?”

  Nudge myrrphed at him and bumped Crocket’s forearm with his head. It felt a lot like getting hit with a cantaloupe.

  “Meeaaoowfff,” Nudge said, flopping on his side to poke at Crockett’s wrist with a paw nearly the size of a coaster. Sometime during his misspent youth, Nudge lost his right front fang. It forever colored his speech with impediment.

  “Dammit, Nudge, quit!” Crockett said, as the cat continued his assault.

  “Ruffth, ruffth, ruffth,” Nudge urged, trying to pull Crocket’s arm and the container of foam within reach. He was not de-clawed. Quickly dragging a saucer out of the cabinet to minimize blood loss, Crockett spooned a bit of the foam onto it. Safe! After he poured the frothy cream in his coffee he dribbled what was left onto Nudge’s saucer. The cat was so busy lapping he didn’t even notice. Ungrateful wretch. Waiting outside the back door, Stupid and Shithead grinned in the sunshine. Lighting a Sherman and carrying his coffee to the table, Crockett called them names through the screen.

  The Bull’s-Eye had just opened when Crockett arrived. Inside, three men stood behind the counter, intently discussing the eminent confiscation of all handguns in the entire United States by blue-helmeted United Nations’ troops. They ignored him. The room was long, narrow, tall and dark. Glass cases contained a wide variety of handguns. Crockett began to browse.

  He was familiar with most of the revolvers, but less than half of the autoloaders. Technology had passed him by. Eventually, an employee approached. Very short hair, black horn-rimmed glasses, huge gadget-encrusted wristwatch, short-sleeved sport shirt stretched tight across a round stomach, about thirty-five. He wore a nicely re-done Colt model 1911 in a high-rise belt holster and eyed Crockett suspiciously

  “’Nam?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Noticed your limp. You’re the right age. ‘Nam?”

  “I’m not quite that old,” Crockett said. “Felon. Used to be a cop.”

  “What’d he git you with?”

  “Poodle shooter.”

  “A nine, huh?”

  “Browning High Power.”

  “Nice gun.”

  Crockett shrugged. “Depends on where you’re standing,” he said.

  The guy snickered and stuck his hand over the counter. “Name’s Chuck.”

  “Call me Crockett,” Crockett said.

  His credentials had been established.

  For the next half-hour he took the tour. The cement floor didn’t do his hip and leg much good, so when Crockett de-trucked at the IHOP to meet Rachael, he carried his cane.

  Rachael was sitting in the rear of the restaurant when he entered the dining area. She smiled as he made his way to her table.

  “Good morning, Crockett.”

  She was wearing an expensive dark blue sweat suit and matching ball cap with a ponytail pulled through above the backstrap, black hightop running shoes, aviator style prescription glasses, and no makeup. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she appeared to be about eighteen. Feeling old, Crockett looked down at her.

  “That’s a good look for you,” he said. “Teen-aged determined shootist in training. The guys at the range will love it. I went by The Bull’s Eye earlier. Gun shop in front, shooting range in back. Lane shooting in two rooms on the ground floor, open shooting in two rooms in the basement.”

  “I notice you use a cane,” Rachael said, watching him sit down. “You didn’t have it at the restaurant.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was on my feet in the Bull’s-Eye for quite a while this morning, preparing for your possible arrival. They have cement floors.”

  “It’s a very unusual cane.”

  “Rosewood,” Crockett said. “The wirework on the shaft is brass, the duck’s head handle is solid pewter. A guy at the Renaissance Festival made it for me. It has magical powers. That’s one of two reasons I use it.”

  “What’s the other? Injury?”

  “You’re gonna fit right in with the guys at the Bull’s Eye, girlfriend. Ol’ Chuck asked me about my limp not an hour ago.”

  Rachael smiled down at the table for a moment, then looked at him. “Why do you have the limp?”

  “I got shot once.”

  “I’m nosey by nature. Wanna talk about it?”

  Crockett shook his head. “Not today,” he said.

  “Want me to shut up?”

  “Not today.”

  Rachael paused to refresh her tea from a small metal pitcher. “What do you mean, my possible arrival at the range?”

  “When I was there, I had yet to decide if I was prepared to stand beside you while you waved a loaded gun around.”

  “So, I’m on trial?”

  “Not any more. You’re good to go.”

  “You’ve decided already?”

  Crockett nodded.

  “On only the strength of our short conversation?”

  “That, and the fact that the thought of seeing you in that outfit while wielding a deadly weapon makes me want to have your children.”

  Rachael stifled a smile.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sterile. War wound.”

  Crockett grinned. “Where’s your cane?”

  “I left it at home,” Rachael said. “Didn’t want your pity.”

  The waitress arrived. Rachael selected some type of fruit plate that wouldn’t sustain a canary and Crockett ordered a waffle with two over easy and a side of bacon. His companion raised an eyebrow in obvious disapproval.

  “Good news,” Crockett said. “My anorexia is in remission.”

  She giggled. “Will I have to show identification at the range?”

  “You bet. These places want to know exactly who they’re dealing with.”

  “My driver’s license is in my real name.”

  “Pandora Fozdick?”

  “Ilene Rachael Morrison.”

  “That’ll work.”

  “Good. I really don’t want these people to recognize me.”

  “Which brings us to this,” Crockett said. “
I am as sworn to secrecy as Ruby is. While not a legal mandate, it is an ethical mandate.”

  “Thank you. Ruby said that you’d make that kind of statement.”

  “I’ve never really liked Ruby.”

  “She said you’d say something like that, too.”

  “Then I also need to say that whatever happens stays between us. Without your permission, I won’t even discuss it with Ruby.”

  “Wow. You’re serious about this.”

  “Ruby didn’t put us together by accident. She is a sneaky, manipulative, nasty bitch with devious motives that only she knows.”

  Rachael regarded him for a moment.

  “What kind of devious motives?” she asked.

  Crockett shrugged and did not answer.

  “I’m in,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I’m going to charge you a significant amount of money, teach you how to slay your fellow man, and stick you with the breakfast check.”

  “My hero.”

  “That’s what I was going for,” Crockett said.

  CHAPETER FIVE

  The Bull’s Eye

  “Where is this place?” Rachael asked. They were standing in the post-breakfast sunshine outside the IHOP.

  “About six blocks or so. We’ll take Thumper.”

  “Thumper?”

  “A more right-wing image,” Crockett said.

  He walked to the truck and opened the passenger side door. It creaked and groaned. Rachael scrambled inside.

  “Nice upholstery,” she said.

  “I had the seat covered with a blanket for a while, but the water that comes through the floor boards rotted it away.”

  He got in and slammed the door twice to get it to stay shut. The motor rumbled into life, vibrating the cab. Rachael nodded.

  “Three-quarter ton, big block, six inch lift, thirty-five inch tires, six miles to the gallon in town if you’re lucky, about ten on the highway,” she said.

  Crockett grinned. “Where is the stiff, frightened, prissy young woman of yesteryear?”

  “Crockett, I decided to trust you. I intend to try to make our very serious business fun if I can. I don’t have much fun. I expect you to assist. Let’s go shoot.”

  Crockett loved surprises.

  They stood in the Bull’s-Eye’s parking lot for a while so Crockett could smoke a Sherman. He scuffed a foot in the gravel.

  “Okay, Scooter-pie, here’s what’s goin’ on,” he said. “You and I are going to become members of the Bull’s-Eye shooting range today. This will cost you about twenty-five bucks apiece. We are then going to rent a revolver and an auto-loading pistol for you to shoot. That will cost about ten bucks. We will also buy fifty rounds of ammunition for each gun, four man-sized silhouette targets, and rent headsets. That’ll be around twenty-five bucks, and the lane rental fee is ten dollars, but that’s good for all day. My fee is a hundred and fifty dollars per session. Sessions can run from thirty minutes to three hours, it depends on you. My fee stays the same. You up for that?”

  Rachael nodded.

  “Here are the two rules. Rule number one. When a weapon is involved, the democratic process is over. What I say goes. You will do nothing that I do not instruct you to do. You will do everything that I do instruct you to do. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good. Rule number two. See rule number one. Are we vividly clear on that?”

  “We are.”

  “Excellent.”

  Crockett dropped the butt into the gravel and headed for the building. Rachael walked beside him.

  There were shooters inside and the big exhaust fans were on, creating negative air pressure in the structure. It took most of what Crockett had to pull the front door open. They were standing in the darkened showroom, letting their eyes adjust, when Chuck spotted them. He glanced at Crockett’s cane.

  “You’re back,” he said. His eyes quickly settled on Rachael and he sucked his stomach in a bit.

  “Chuck,” Crockett said, “this is my friend Ilene. She wants to become a world-class shooter in three easy lessons. Set us up, will ya?”

  “Nice to meetcha, Ilene. We’re always glad to have women shoot.”

  Rachael laid a seventy-five watt smile on the poor bastard. “Hi, Chuck,” she gushed. She sidled up to Crockett and wrapped an arm around his, shooting him a sappy grin. “Mister Crockett’s gonna teach me how to shoot. I like him a lot.”

  Chuck attempted to swallow the tennis ball that had magically appeared in his throat.

  “I’ll get the paperwork together and we’ll get you two signed up.”

  “I want Mister Crockett to show me some of the guns.” Nearly climbing his arm, Rachael began to pull Crockett toward the display cases.

  “Sure,” Chuck said.

  Crockett looked down at her. “Jesus Christ, Ilene,” he said.

  “Rachael Moore would never act like that, would she?” Rachael said.

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  Rachael grinned, exposing just the tip of her tongue and lightly traced the bottom of her lower lip with an index finger.

  “You’d never tell on me, would you, Mister Crockett?”

  “Miss Morrison, you’re secret is safe with me.”

  She clutched his arm even tighter.

  “Then let’s look at some of these guns,” she said. “But not the big ugly black ones. I want to look at the cute little silver ones. Then I want to visit with my new friend Chuck again, then I want to go shoot some bullets and see what it’s like!”

  She turned to face him, and the spacey, excited grin fell away.

  “I’m scared, Crockett.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Something for the Lady

  Rachael did okay. By the time the basic instruction on what end the bullet comes out of and why it’s not good to drop the thing was over, she was trembling. After thirty rounds from the .38 caliber revolver, she had settled down. After thirty rounds from the .45 caliber auto-loader, she was getting the shots within eighteen inches of where she wanted them to go. At about twenty feet, Rachael was putting nearly every shot into the black of a man size target.

  When Crockett told her it was time to quit for the day, she seemed relieved. They hung around for a while and looked at guns, then headed for the truck. Halfway across the parking lot they were approached by a redheaded older man carrying a shooter’s bag.

  “’Scuse me, folks,” he said. “Somethin’ for the lady?”

  “Yes,” said the lady.

  “Got a nice little piece with me. Nine millimeter, single-stack Smith, in stainless steel. My son travels a lot. Got it for his wife. I tried to tell him she was too big a wimp to get near it, but he wouldn’t believe me. Bought it right here. Ain’t never been shot.”

  Rachael moved next to him as he fumbled in the bag.

  “It’s one a them double action only automatics. No hammer spur, no thumb safety. Holds eight rounds, lightweight, won’t rust.” He pulled a dark blue Smith & Wesson box from the bag and opened it up.

  “Safe as a revolver, nice fit for a woman’s hand. Take the gun inside with ya. They’ll look up the serial number and tell ya that John Anderbur just bought the thing from ‘em a couple of weeks ago.”

  Rachael checked to make sure the pistol was not loaded, dropped into a Weaver stance, and pointed the gun around the parking lot. She glanced at Crockett. He nodded.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Anderbur. How much?”

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars, M’am. No tax. I’ll write ya out a bill of sale, and I need to see some I.D.”

  “Done.”

  Back at the IHOP, Rachael put the gun in her trunk and they went inside for coffee. Crockett had water.

  “Don’t you drink coffee?”

  “Not restaurant. I’m a coffee snob.”

  “How’d I do?”

  “Real well. You didn’t fall apart. You did eve
rything I asked you to.”

  “Am I any good?”

  “You suck.”

  Rachael laughed.

  “Be nice to me,” she said. “I’m armed.”

  “I’ve seen you shoot.”

  “Okay, I suck. What now?”

  “Take your gun home. Do not load it. Practice the stance and aim at stuff. Once the stance feels fairly natural, tie a pair of running shoes together by the laces and hang ‘em over your wrist. Swing the shoes and try to hold your sight pattern on target. It’ll help you hold more steady on the range.”

  “Shoes swinging from the gun?”

  “And aim at a lot of things. Your stereo, your cat, your toaster, a door knob, whatever. That builds muscle memory. The shoes will help build muscle strength. Carry the Smith with you around the house. Get used to it. The feel, the weight, the texture, the purpose. Use both hands. You need to get to know the weapon. It’s a nice little piece.”

  “What kind of gun do you have?”

  Crockett shook his head. “I haven’t even held a gun since you were in about third grade,” he said.

  “What will you shoot?”

  “I won’t. I don’t have to shoot to teach you how.”

  “Where did you learn?”

  “What are you, some kind of reporter?”

  “How long have you known Ruby?”

  “Long time.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “What’s your bra size?”

  Rachael flushed. “Sorry, Crockett. 34B.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. 34B is fine.”

  “Tit for tat. Ask me a question.”

  “I just did,” Crockett said.

  “How long have you been in Kansas City?” Rachael asked.

  “Nearly twenty years. How ‘bout you?”

  “About a year. Why did you stop being a cop?”

  “Got shot. Where’d you live before here?”

  “Omaha. Where’d you get shot?”

  “Low back,” Crockett said. “Where before Omaha?”

  “Rockford, Illinois. Ever Married?”