Gun Lake (36 page)

He pulled out a folded-up article with the headline “All Georgia on lookout for escapees.” Five names were listed: Kurt Wilson. Sean Norton. Lonnie Jones. Craig Ellis. Wes Owens.

Five men. The Stagworth Five.

According to the manager of the rental agency, there might be five youth pastors in the cabin Mike had told him about. But the guy renting out the place had been an older African-American man. None of these guys were black.

It was something he needed to check out, at least. He’d go over and just casually see who they were.

You never knew.

IT WAS CLOSE TO NOON on that August Monday. The two of them sat at the edge of the lake in folding lawn chairs. Kurt had been silent all that morning, stewing in quiet indignation.

Ossie said nothing for a while, trying to think of anything else except seeing Craig’s still, fleshy face staring back at him from the hole they’d dug. He wished they’d never uncovered him, never decided to look at his face again before covering him up. The image would be stamped onto his heart for an eternity. And he had to wade above the dark waters that asked questions like “Am I responsible?” and “Could I have stopped this?” Because Ossie couldn’t answer them. He feared answering them.

Wes and Sean had not come back to the cabin that morning, and that worried both Ossie and Kurt. They had left the cabin to avoid being there if something did go down. Since then they had been sitting out here, just looking at the lake, staring and saying nothing.

Waiting for—what?

Ossie tried to break the silence, tried to reach the angry man beside him.

“I once made a vow to Sean,” he said.

Kurt, his beard thick now, looked at Ossie with no expression in his deep-set eyes. But he didn’t look away, so Ossie continued.

“I was at Stagworth twenty-seven years,” he said. “Can you believe that? That’s half a life, the best years of my life too. I never had any sort of life outside that wretched place. Never had a family, except for my mama.”

Kurt looked back out at the lake, listening but not reacting to Ossie’s words.

“I always wanted a son. Always thought, even in Stagworth, maybe, you know? Maybe I’d get out early like some do and I’d be able to be a father. Never happened. Never would have, probably. Fifty-year-old man doesn’t get out and the start having kids with pretty young ladies who love ex-cons. You know? But for a little while in the joint, I had a son. At least, a son to me. Name was Maurice.”

Kurt looked at him, possibly with a bit of interest, though Ossie wasn’t sure. He continued talking, sometimes looking at Kurt, sometimes just talking as he stared out at the lakefront.

“That Maurice, he was a piece of work, this tough kid from the Atlanta projects that came in after getting busted for some stupid robberies. I could relate to him, you know. I saw myself coming in—all hotheaded and full of spunk and makin’ enemies the first day and all that. Maurice didn’t realize that he could get a shank shoved in his gut pretty easily, pretty quickly, if he didn’t mellow. And you know how it is with the gangs. You gravitate to one. Maurice had his skin color keeping him alive ’cause the other blacks would stick up for him to a point. But only to a point. So I decided I’d better have a talk with this boy. Straighten him out a little, at least try to make him shut up. But by the time I got to him, it was already too late.”

Kurt looked over at Ossie. “Why?”

“’Cause of Percy Hawkins.”

Kurt looked like the name registered. “I’ve heard of him. Was he one in the brotherhood?”

Ossie nodded. “The Aryans didn’t care about old guys like me that’d been in the joint for years and stayed mostly with our own kind. But a young spit like Maurice coming in, taunting and threatening skinheads—that was another thing. Maurice didn’t have any alliances yet. He could be taken out, and nobody’d pay no mind. So I started to try to shelter him a little. And I swear, it was sorta this paternal thing coming out. I mean, I really cared about the kid. And things got a little better, long enough for me to get to know Maurice, get to the point where I could actually help him.

“If Percy hadn’t been around, I think everything would’ve worked out. But Maurice got into it with Percy a few too many times, said some things that Percy held against him, even months later.”

Kurt watched Ossie pause, waiting for him to continue.

“During this time, you had Sean there—he’d only been at Stagworth for maybe a year. He’d made his name after sticking up for a guy with a guard and assaulting the lieutenant, then getting
put in the hole. He was known as a guy not to be messed with, and even the Aryans respected him.

“Things got a little hairy between Maurice and Percy—threats, a fight, Percy getting caught with a knife on him. I realized Percy wanted to kill Maurice, to kill him because of the disrespect he’d shown him and also, you know, because of the color of his skin. You’ve seen it—race just fuels hate with some of those guys.

“I realized I couldn’t protect Maurice, and for the first time I felt fear. I felt fear because this kid I cared for—I mean, I’ll call it what it was—this kid I loved, I had a feeling he might end up getting hurt. So I went to Sean …”

A breeze blew against Ossie’s sweaty face, and he almost lost his train of thought. It felt surreal, sitting in the open air by this gorgeous lake, leaning back as though he didn’t have a care in the world, telling this story from the days of enclosed places and dark secrets. He looked over at Kurt to see if he was interested in hearing the rest of it. He found the other man’s eyes were fixed on him, waiting for the rest.

“Sean knew me, knew
of
me at least. He knew I could help him with things, that I had some influence.” Ossie laughed. “I knew Sean didn’t mind blacks, that he hung out with all kinds. Anyway, I went to him and made a deal. I asked him to do something about Percy. Something, anything that would make sure he’d leave Maurice alone. I swore to him—a vow I told him I’d keep for the rest of my life—that if he protected Maurice, I would owe him. That whatever he needed, I’d do.”

“And?” Kurt asked.

“And a week later, somebody beat Percy to death in his cell.”

“Was it Sean?”

Ossie shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t have done it, not that way. Percy had more enemies than friends. He had it coming, as they always say. No, somebody else had the duty, probably the pleasure, of taking a couple of pipes to ol’ Percy’s head. But Sean pulled some strings to have it done. I know that.”

“And afterward?”

“After that, things were fine. The skinheads left Maurice alone. They had nothing against him, nothing more than they had
against me and other blacks. It had always been Percy’s beef, and with Percy gone the leadership changed. Just like it always does.”

“So that’s why you’re here? You’re paying Sean back for taking care of Percy?”

Ossie nodded.

“How long do you have to pay him back? I mean—when does it end?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know …”

“What?” Kurt asked.

“I don’t know if what I’m doing’s right or wrong. The Bible says to honor your promises, but in this case … I just don’t know. So I just keep doing what I’m doing and hoping it’s over with soon.”

“What happened to Maurice?”

“He’s still in Stagworth. Still one of the gang. I see him periodically. Write to him. Send him books and other things. Pray for him.”

“You convince him to get religion?” Kurt asked.

“No,” Ossie said with a sad tone.

Kurt laughed. “Ah, you have to love that, huh? Saved a man’s life, but can’t save his soul.”

“It’s got nothing to do with me. Only God can save souls.”

“You ever wonder—what if he’s not up there? This stuff you believe—what if it’s just a pile of lies?”

“But it’s not. I know in my heart that it’s not. And I’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?” Kurt asked.

“The power of God. His transforming power.”

“What are you talking about?” Kurt’s voice was skeptical. “You ever see a miracle? Hear a voice?”

“No. I just saw the change.”

“In what?”

“In myself. I saw the change in me.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, lit up a cigarette, and looked away.

“There’ll still a chance for Maurice,” Ossie told Kurt. “If someone like me could change—anybody can. God didn’t give up on me, even after so many years. And because of that, I’m not giving up on Maurice. Or anyone.”

IT COULD HAVE BEEN a scene from one of her nightmares. The worst ones always had something to do with the kids—one of them dying or getting hurt. She would wake up gasping and shuddering and then have to be quieted down by Ted. But Michelle’s husband wasn’t around today. And this was definitely not a dream.

It started a little past lunchtime. Both of them had woken up late and had done little all morning except watch television and eat some cereal during the morning. Then Jared put on his bathing suit and decided to head down to the dock where the Jet Ski floated. She was watching him from the kitchen window as she did the dishes. And then, suddenly, she was also watching a big mass of a man with huge, tattooed arms and slicked-back hair grab Jared by the arm and then wave a big gun at his face.

no this isn’t happening no oh no

She rushed out the door and screamed Jared’s name, and he turned to her and revealed not a look of surprise, but more a look of guilt.

“Mom—”

“Get away from my son!”

“Mom, hold on.”

“You stay right there, ma’am,” the big guy said, gripping Jared’s arm and pointing the gun at her.

She almost lost her ability to stand. At the same time, she felt strangely distant from the scene, like she was watching herself react to it.

“Why don’t y’all go back in the house,” the big man said.

What does he—?

“I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Why the gun?

“Mom, come on.” Jared came over and put an arm around her shoulder and guided her back inside the cottage. The big man must have let him go.

“Jared, are you—?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She turned and saw the man following them inside, his face serious and calm. His big pistol followed them as well. He shut the door behind them.

“Why don’t ya’ll have a seat?”

“What do you want?” she blurted out, standing, trying to shield Jared from the man.

“I told you, I ain’t gonna hurt you. We’re not gonna hurt either one of you.”

“‘We’? Who is ‘we’?” she asked, throat tight.

The man looked at Jared, and for a moment they shared something.

What has he done now? He’s gotten into some kind of big trouble, and I didn’t know about it. Something to do with Chicago. Drugs, maybe. Something awful
.

“Jared,” she asked, “what’s going on? Do you know this man?”

Jared didn’t say anything, and the man pointing the gun at them was obviously trying to figure out the miscommunication going on in the room.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d have a seat, ma’am.”

“What do you want with us?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She couldn’t help noticing the vile paintings that covered his arms—half-naked women, words and logos that meant nothing to her, other words that unfortunately
did
mean something.

And his face—he looked vaguely familiar too. She studied it for a moment but couldn’t place it.

“Sit,” he said again.

Michelle sat down on the couch and motioned for Jared to join her.

“Look, ma’am, I really don’t wanna hurt either one of you. It’s just—I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. On your son, anyway. But I guess that means you too.”

“What’d my son do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jared said.

The man looked at Jared and didn’t react, didn’t say anything.

“What did he do?” she asked him. “Why are you here?”

“I think he can tell you that, ma’am.”

It was odd, this big stranger waving a gun at them and calling her ma’am in a polite fashion. He had an unmistakable Southern drawl.

“Jared?”

“Last night I—well, I saw something.”

“What?”

Jared’s hair fell down over his eyes, and he looked down at the ground.

“What’d you see?”

“Look,” the big man interrupted. “I don’t want trouble here, and I suggest that what you both do is be quiet. A man accidentally shot himself yesterday.”

She was beginning to have an idea about who this man might be. And she was surprised at her own reaction. Instead of feeling sick or frightened, she felt calm, detached, oddly confident.

I felt worse yesterday after church. How can that be?

“We just—we wanted to make sure your son here didn’t go to the cops.”

“I wouldn’t have gone to the cops,” Jared said.

The big man nodded. “Yeah, but you took off running.”

“What else could I have done?”

The man ignored Jared’s question. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re not going to hurt any of you. It’s just—we don’t need people knowing where we’re at. That’s why we’re leaving. In a couple of days. And then we’ll let you go.”

“I’m not going to say a word,” Jared repeated.

“You’re the Stagworth Five,” said Michelle.

Jared stared at his mom, then back at the big guy. The stranger would have been a bad poker player. His face gave it away. He didn’t say a word.

“What are you guys doing around here?” Michelle asked, still struck by the strangeness of the conversation, the politeness of it. She felt like she ought to bake cookies.

“Ma’am, please. I don’t want any more trouble than necessary. It’s better we don’t talk about it.”

She tried to remember the blurbs she’d seen on the news. She
wasn’t sure, but she thought that they had killed several people across the country.

Was this the guy who killed those innocent people? Surely not.

“You just want us to—to just sit here?”

The big guy nodded.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie y’all up. Just so you don’t try nothing. Just until someone else comes.”

Until someone else comes.

And what then?

The adrenaline in her system was beginning to abate and with it that strange, false sense of well-being. In its place came fear—real, physical, revolting fear.