Comin' Home to You (28 page)

Breathing in as much oxygen as he could, Owen finally stood up straight. He wanted to follow Austin in the house, but there was something holding him back. There was one more place he wanted to visit before he went inside. This was his destination all along, but he didn’t to give Ali any chances to yell at him if Austin were to get sick from being out in the rain. He yelled for Austin to go in the house without him, ensuring him that he would be back in a bit.

Despite his feet aching and his body clearly out of shape, Owen jogged toward his location deep in Old Day’s land. The clouds had completely covered the sun, but the humidity remained the same. A sudden gust of wind helped cool his perspiring body, but it also spelled the beginning of rain. From the looks of the clouds, he expected a pretty heavy downpour. But he had to get to his destination. Rain wasn’t about to stop him.

Cutting across a field and away from the tractor and truck trails that had been the path for those enjoying walks, Owen plowed through a heavy thicket, enduring small cuts from thorn bushes. But the way definitely shaved some time, as he finally arrived at a curving stream located in the middle of a forested area. It was the same stream that Nicky and his son had crossed, but this was downstream, over a mile away. The overall depth of the creek was shallower than he remembered, but the surroundings looked quite similar as it did almost 30 years ago. He grinned as he rubbed his fingers over the tree in which he and Patricia carved stick figure likenesses of themselves, with their stick arms together, as if holding hands. It was crudely done, but they were kids, and all they had to carve with was a dull pocket knife he swiped from his father’s dresser. He was glad Father Time and Mother Nature had been kind not to weather this tree. They were happier times. He hoped to show Ali this spot eventually. She would get a kick out of seeing things from her mother’s past.

After he was done admiring their art, he took a seat on some loose dirt next to the creek’s edge. The pre-teen couple would spend time throwing sticks in the small stream, then chasing the stick as it flowed down the current. They were most excited after a strong rain, when the creek flowed the strongest, and turtles and frogs would emerge. On those days, they would take plastic bottles and place them in the rushing water, like a makeshift sailboat. It was a simple thing to do, but it brought large amounts of enjoyment out of the two to watch the water take it to the end of the current.

Hopping across the thinnest part of the creek in the area, he took a few steps to a clearing that used to have beautiful white flowers blooming. Unfortunately, now it was just grass, dirt, and a dried pile of cow shit. It might have bugged Owen more if he couldn't visualize what it looked like before, but this memory was as vivid as the day his Ali was born.

That day, when they were both 14, he led Patricia to the exact spot he was currently standing. Owen remembered kneeling down and picking a white daisy from the grass, then handing it to her.

A sudden urge to recite the words he said to her back then came to him. “Patricia LeAnn McAdams, you are the best girl in the entire world. Will you be my girlfriend?”

It wasn't very poetic, but the simple words made Patricia's mouth open in happiness. Her braces slightly reflected the sun as she gazed at the flower. Feeling a sense of pride and strength, Owen leaned in and kissed her for the first time. She wasn't prepared for it, but neither was he. They kissed with their eyes open, and his front lip received a slight cut from her braces. They both laughed like the children they were.

Fatigue and sad thoughts brought Owen to his knees. This was the first time he had been back to this spot since Patricia died. He had done his absolute best to forget her and the mental pain that came with it, and the only way to do that was to drink himself stupid and hop from woman to woman. Forgiving himself for the woman she became was an impossibility. He knew that was why she haunted him every night. In a way, he couldn't wait for the day that he wouldn't see her walking corpse in his dreams, but only forgiving himself or death could cure that ill. That day was soon approaching, and it was truly scaring him. His life with his family had been the best it had ever been. He wanted that to last forever, but he had a death sentence. The Graysons wanted him dead, and his own body wanted to shut down. What awaited him in the great beyond, he couldn't say. Yet, he was truly worried that wherever the afterlife takes him, it wouldn’t take him to his beloved. It brought despair upon him to think of such a depressing fate, but he would rather stare at his fiancé’s unrelenting gaze every night than never see her at all.

Taking a seat on the grass, he guzzled what was left of his water. Feeling nostalgic, he threw the empty bottle into the creek, hoping to see it float away. Yet, the bottle floated nowhere. The creek was as still as his breath. He stared at the bottle for minutes, until boredom set in. Instead of getting up, he laid down on his back. While trees surrounded the area, there was a large enough opening to where the heavens above could be seen. Raising his head again to glance at the plastic bottle. Sudden drops from the sky making ripples into the still creek caused the bottle to tatter back and forth. His life was the same, never moving in one solid direction. When he was with Patricia as a child, that bottle was always flowing forward. Granted, it rained more back then and the creek was wider and flowed stronger, but that spoke to him too. The creek was drying him, just how he was frail, selfish, and slowly withering away as life was passing him by. But the world would continue, as it always had, and those still living will move on. Existentialism wasn't new to Owen, for he had many nights alone with alcohol where he would contemplate his existence. But now, here he was, truly facing his impending death, and comparing his own life to a plastic bottle floating in a brown creek.

Just seconds after placing the back of his head against the soft sod, a raindrop planted firmly upon the center of his forehead. It was right on cue. It didn't hurt by any means, but it was forceful enough to have meaning. It was as if the droplet kick started his brain. Oddly enough, he wanted to believe that it was a tear from Patricia in the heavens. At the moment, he had no clue what it meant metaphorically. But it did give him motivation to get off of his ass and do something. Existentialism be damned. He knew what he had to do. As if the gods were listening, thunder boomed loudly in the sky. A heavy downpour followed. Standing up, he raised his face upward, outstretched his arms, and let the torrent seemingly baptize him. It was cold, refreshing, and breathtaking. It washed the salty sweat across his face, stinging his eyes in the process. He didn’t even mind it. Each drop that splattered on his face was a wake-up call. He knew of no other option than to heed what the rain meant to him.

For now, he was alive. Alive enough to do what mattered for his grandson and daughter. There would be other times to reminisce. For now, action is what mattered, and perhaps this inspiration could be the trigger to slowly forgive, understand, and reaffirm to himself what was needed.

He may die, but he must create a world that his loved ones can live in without fear of violent retribution. Somehow, someway, he had to make this happen.

One more day. That was all the time left to complete his job.

In an abandoned metal barn outside his home, Nicky punched his makeshift punching bag dangling from a chain that was being supported from a wooden rafter. Shirtless and sweating profusely from the exercise and the heat and humidity that was amplified after a morning rain. This was normally a form of healing his anxious feelings. But he couldn’t shake his thoughts from his head. It was wrecking him so badly that it felt like his skin was crawling and his insides were caving in. He had one day left to end Scar’s life, and no real plan to accomplish it.

Nor did he really want to.

For what it was worth, he did have Clint’s support. He received a call from him around 3 in the morning. All he said was I’m in. When they met at the bar, Clint was still hesitant after Nicky pitched the idea to him. He threatened to gut Nicky in a rather descriptive fashion at first for suggesting such a thing, but from all the information he was given, Clint settled down and heard him out. He also took advantage of it, drinking eight beers that were all on Nicky’s tab. Something must changed his mind last night. Scar had to have said or did something to him. Clint was a chaotic individual, but he would have needed a damn good reason to accept such a proposal. Maybe Scar would know something about it. Nicky would have to ask.

With every left jab and right hook pounding into the stuffed bag, he was wearing down, both physically and mentally. Even now, he still dithered on if he actually wanted to kill his best friend, directly or indirectly. There were urges to just admit to Scar what was offered to him by Passerini. But by confessing that knowledge, Scar was unlikely to trust his words. Nicky could count on one hand the amount of people Scar has trusted over these years. He was one of them, but by divulging a plot to kill him, Scar might grow paranoid and even do away with his best friend just for his own safety. Scar was that cautious.

When he thought about how poorly Scar had paid him over the years, however, it invigorated him with anger. His punches picked up with intensity. How could his best friend screw him over like that? Nicky should have been paid way more than he was now, according to Passerini. Scar even knew his struggle. He had been to this house on numerous occasions for a beer or cards, so he understood Nicky’s living conditions. Yet, he never said anything. Scar had made providing for his wife and children tough. Nicky felt like he deserved a nicer house so that his family wouldn’t be cramped in a shoddy manufactured home. Sure, he got by, but he could be getting by a lot easier. Plus, he wasn’t some normal average Joe. His income was made through illegal means. His criminal past prevented him from obtaining a loan for a new home. Everything he did would have to be bought at full price and up front. Scar knew this damn well, but didn’t contribute to alleviate Nicky’s difficulties. Was his best friend really that vindictive and selfish?

Nicky reared back, grinded his teeth, and threw a right haymaker that smashed powerfully into the bag. He stepped out of the way as the force of the blow caused the bag to swing back toward him. That punch was meant for Scar. Maybe he needed a beating to have him wake up. He could take him in a fight…maybe. At the very least, he was confident he could hold his own. But just fighting wasn’t going to solve his problems. He needed to speak with Scar. There was no need to hold back anything verbally. He had to ask the tough questions, especially about the money. Because when it came down to it, Scar was affecting his livelihood. Nicky believed that to be unacceptable, especially from a man he considered his brother.

Sweaty from the morning walk and punching regimen, Nicky took a quick shower. Clothed in a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and cargo shorts, he took a moment to give each of his children and his wife a hug and a kiss before leaving. Rachel wanted him to stay and insinuated going to the bedroom for a little while, but the only thing on his mind was business. Not that he didn’t want to, but he needed to get his ducks in a row. Once in his vehicle, an older SUV with crusted dirt on the off-road tires, he took a look at his phone. He had missed a call from Clint just a few minutes ago, probably while he was in the shower. He quickly returned the call.

Clint answered after the first ring. “Yeah?”

“What did you want?”

“What do I want? Man, tell me what the motherfuckin’ plan is, motherfucker.”

“I’m still thinking about that.”

“Why don’t I just go over to his house and put a fuckin’ bullet up in his head? Or you could quit being such a candy ass bitch and do it yourself.”

“You know that we can’t do that. We have to make it seem like he disappeared and never came back. That’s what the big bosses want.”

“Like Roy?”

“Yeah, like Roy.”

“Shit, did I tell you that faggot Owen finally admitted to killing Roy?”

This was breaking news to him. “No way.”

“Yeah. He came over crying and talking shit, and we got in a fight. Fuck, you should take a punch from him, Nick. Just do it. Fuckin’ provoke him and make him punch you. It’s like a fuckin’ fly landing on your face. I bet your sons could hit harder. Man, what a fuckin’ faggot ass bitch.”

It took a moment for Clint to stop laughing before his story commenced. “He thought he had the upper hand on me, and he had a knife in his hand and he said that he was gonna kill me like he killed Roy. Fuckin’ can’t believe he admitted that shit.”

“So why is he alive right now?”

“That pig Ben rode in and saved the day before me and Scar could haul him off and fuck him up. He was threatening to shoot me. But he didn’t. He ain’t got the fuckin’ guts or balls to do it.”

Nicky chuckled at how wrong Clint was. If Ben could legally do it, Clint would be a dead man a million times over. “So what did you do after that?”

The inhaling sounds of a pipe being lit up could be heard, followed by a cough. “Man, so I got some of the boys. BJ, Bird Dog, and Bubba, and we go out and start blasting at his house from out in the woods. Shooting out windows and shit. We were hoping we might get lucky and kill him then. Turns out my bitch Ali and Austin were in there. So I guess Owen called Scar and told him that Austin got hurt for whatever fuckin’ reason. So Scar comes and finds me out in the trailer in the woods, right?”

“That special trailer you used to jack off in when you were a kid?”

“Fuck you, you wetback fucker.

Nicky chuckled amusingly. “Yeah. What else happened?”

“Scar comes in, askin’ questions. At first, no one really know why the fuck he’s askin’ about who shot up Owen’s house. The way he was askin’ the questions made it seem like he was concerned about Owen’s wellbeing or some shit. And I don’t know what got up Bubba’s ass, but he called Scar out on it. Then he got up off of his fat ass and bows up to Scar.”

“Bubba bowed up to Scar. Seriously?” Bubba was a big and somewhat intimidating man, but around Scar, he acted meek and submissive.

“Yeah, man. Bubba was high off shootin’ that house and then high off the crystal we smoked when we got back. Drunk off his fat ass too. I guess he grew an extra set of balls or something because fuckin’ Bubba says to Scar that he is actin’ like him and Owen are gay together and that they might as well get married and Scar change his last name to Tomkins.”

“And Scar got furious, I’m assuming?”

“Hold on, fucker. Let me tell this fuckin’ story.” Clint paused to take another hit of whatever he was smoking. “So Scar fuckin’ rears back and swings at Bubba, but Bubba dodges it and runs to try to get this .38 that was on a table a couple feet away, right? So they are fuckin’ wrestling for it and Bubba’s trying to head butt him and shit, and then BAM! The gun goes off right in Bubba’s fat fuckin’ foot!”

“Holy shit! No way,” exclaimed Nicky. He had to admit, Clint could tell an endearing story when he was high.

“So Bubba is on the ground. And Scar just goes fuckin’ ape shit and starts stomping on Bubba’s head. Dude, this was pretty damn brutal. He squished him like a bug. It was gory as shit. Looked like something out of Hollywood.”

“Wait, you telling me Scar killed Bubba?”

“Yeah. He fuckin’ turned his skull into a big pile of shit, like mushed up cherries. Then he made BJ and Bird Dog clean up the mess. Then, he fucking punches me in the face for no fucking reason. So I ain’t too happy about that. Not happy at fucking all. That fucker has been treatin’ me like a child since day one. I ain’t having that shit no more. It’s my time to shine ‘round here.”

Nicky could feel how both disgruntled and immature Clint was. This was a good and bad sign. It was positive because it meant Clint was willing to do the deed. It was bad because it was Clint. There was no telling what he would do or how far he would go. He was a wild dog desperately needing to be leashed.

“Alright. I’ll hit you back up when I think of something.”

Clint hung up without responding. Tossing the phone onto the vacant passenger seat, Nicky closed his eyes and calmly breathed. He didn’t like his chances, because it was hard for him to put his faith in someone if he couldn’t control someone, especially Clint. Even if he could concoct a fool-proof plan, as long as Clint Grayson had a part to play in it, there would be a likely flaw or exploit. He was beginning to regret asking Clint to do this for him. He had more faith in asking a cat to learn the guitar. He went even further with his mockery, believing that asking Owen Tomkins to do this job would be even better.

As ridiculous as that last thought was, it was probably true. Owen held an actual grudge against Scar, and vice versa. His reasoning was also one of protecting his grandson from a corrupted future, while Clint had only petty jealousy to fall back on. But it was too late to even ask.

Softly letting his head bump into the steering wheel, he was slowly realizing how much of a mistake he had made asking Clint to do the assassination for him. Feeling further frustrated, Nicky made the odd choice of biting the steering wheel, then as anger increased, beating it with open hands. This was all too much for him. Second and third thoughts beat at him relentlessly.
How can I seriously do this to my brother?
He had stuck with Scar through thick and thin, and even in life threatening situations. A few years back, both had found themselves cornered at an abandoned warehouse just outside of Fort Worth in a deal gone bad. A rival gang attempted to make a name for themselves by ambushing an arms deal. Many men died that day, but it was Scar and Nicky who made it out unscathed, shooting their way out and taking many poor souls with them. The two watched each other’s back through the ordeal, causing their brotherly bond to further strengthen.

But wondering why Scar had been allegedly stiffing him on payment over the years made his eyes narrow. His front teeth bit below his bottom lip, dragging his teeth across his facial hair. There were many questions he needed to ask. If they were answered truthfully, he may consider changing his mind about the assassination. But if he were to cancel it and decline Paxton and Passerini’s orders, he would have to be one hundred percent behind his decision. Saying no would put his own life in danger, where Nicky would always have to be watching his back for the rest of his life from Passerini’s trained murderers. Also, his family’s lives would be at risk. Wives and kids were fair game to Passerini. He would do whatever he had to for the job to get done. Thoughts like picturing Rachel and his kids in a pool of blood gave Nicky anxiety.
What the hell am I supposed to do!?
Putting his family in danger was undesirable, but backing up his brother and the other Graysons who gave the word ‘family’ new meaning, would be a worthy way to do battle against those that would do them harm. The Graysons helped him heal from the traumatizing and painful familial memories of the past. Nicky owed it to them to at least hear Scar out. He nodded his head, as if agreeing with himself with an awkward smile on his face. Backing out of his driveway, he drove off, calling Scar on the way.

Scar sounded exhausted over the phone, but did accept Nicky’s request to come over. Distance wise, it wasn’t very far, probably just three miles or so. But there were a lot of winding roads that made the drive last much longer. Pulling into Scar’s long driveway, he spotted the usual two trailers by the road entrance, under copious amounts of trees. Scar liked to have a couple of his distant cousins and other men living close by to act as guards and notify or stop anyone approaching. He was a cautious man. But Nicky tended to believe that his vigilance was a bit overblown. No one had taken a shot at him for years, because no one wanted to end up dead.
Until now…

Stepping out of his vehicle and walking to Scar’s front door, Nicky wasn’t sure what he was going to ask or how he would ask it. It was something he should have thought more in-depth about. Before he could knock, Scar opened the door. “What’s going on, Nicky?”

Nicky put on his usual calm face, though his insides were panicking. “Not much, man.”

“How’d the shit in Plano go down?”

“Can’t complain. The shit got unloaded and should be delivered to all of our dealers by tomorrow.”

Scar nodded in approval. “Good. Things run smoothly when you are around. Good to hear.”

“Yeah, it does,” replied Nicky, hoping Scar would get the hint.

He didn’t, or he didn’t show it. “Uh huh, come on in.”

Nicky followed Scar inside and quickly noticed the beer cans lying in the floor. “Uh, what the hell happened? You forget where the trash can is?”