Gnosis

Tom Wallace Gnosis

Copyright © 2011 by Tom Wallace

For Amy Reynolds,

whose voice and spirit will never be silenced;

and

Marilyn Underwood,

always and always

PROLOGUE

April 5, 1982

The only thing Bruce Fowler loved more than having sex with Darleen was smoking weed. Most of his friends would say his priorities were all screwed up, but, of course, none of them were getting laid on a regular basis. Being perpetually horny, it was only natural for those guys to prefer sex over… well, just about everything. Not so with Bruce. True, Darleen was a tiger in the sack-by far the best sex he ever had-but as terrific as she was, she simply couldn’t compare to smoking pot. It wasn’t even a close call.

Bruce took his first toke seven years ago, when he was twelve. His older brother, Daryl, was smoking a joint in his room when Bruce barged in unannounced. Daryl asked his kid brother if he wanted to take a hit. Bruce refused. That changed when Daryl called Bruce a chicken. No one called Bruce Fowler a chicken, because Bruce wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, not even his older brother, who had a reputation for being a tough guy. He grabbed the joint from Daryl’s hand, and before Daryl had time to show him the proper way to smoke marijuana, Bruce took a long, deep hit. The impact was immediate. His throat and lungs burned, he felt slightly dizzy, and his eyes watered, but… there was something else happening as well. Something positive, nice, and calming. He had the strangest sensation that he was floating like an angel high above the scene below, looking down at Daryl, who was sitting on the bed laughing at the boldness of his younger brother.

It was a memorable moment in Bruce’s life; a pivotal moment, a life-altering moment. From that initial taken-on-a-dare toke, he swore to make it his life’s goal to find and smoke the best pot he could lay his hands on. It was a goal he achieved with admirable success.

Tonight, with the first drops of rain beginning to fall, Bruce and his best buddy, Carl Osteen, were standing in front of the Kentucky Theatre when Bruce noticed the big car pull up to the curb. The window on the driver’s side went down, and the man behind the wheel asked where he might score some good weed. Naturally wary, Bruce looked at Carl, shrugged, and told the man he had no clue where to buy weed, either good or bad. Of course, this was a lie-Bruce knew a dozen pot dealers in the city. He simply wasn’t about to take a chance that the guy was an undercover narc looking to make a bust.

However, despite his instinct for caution, Bruce couldn’t help but be intrigued. The guy was driving a Lincoln Continental, a pricey car for a narc. And he was dressed in an expensive suit and tie, like a business man or a lawyer. Certainly nothing like the clothes worn by any cop he knew. Most narcs dressed like street bums, hoping to make you think they were ordinary Joes out looking for a score. More often than not, it was the dumb-ass outfit that gave them away. But this guy was different. He didn’t give off a narc vibe, didn’t look like a cop. Maybe he was legit, someone who could be trusted. Bruce was torn, unsure what to do. His gut feeling that the guy was okay waged an interior battle against his fear that he might be wrong. And with so much at stake, this was not the time for an error in judgment. You never roll the dice when dealing with law enforcement.

But when the man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills the size of a softball, well… Bruce never saw a narc with that much cash. Hell, he’d never seen anybody with that much cash. Bruce was still unsure what to do until the man peeled off two one-hundred dollar bills and said he would give them to Bruce and Carl if they would direct him to the best pot dealer they knew. Seeing all that cash made Bruce’s decision an easy one to make.

Bruce and Carl climbed into the big Lincoln and informed the man that Eddie Martin sold the best pot in the city. Rarely did Bruce recommend strangers to Eddie. On a couple of occasions he had done so, but only after the stranger was vouched for by someone Bruce knew and trusted. Eddie seldom sold to anyone outside his known clientele.

To Bruce’s way of thinking, pot was harmless. Unfortunately, the idiots who make laws saw things from a different perspective. They didn’t distinguish pot from deadly heroin. Both sins were equal in their stupid eyes. Getting busted for selling pot meant jail time, and Bruce didn’t want to think about that. He wouldn’t last two hours in prison. Therefore, he had to be safe. Taking unnecessary risks was not an option.

To protect Eddie’s address, Bruce told the man to park two blocks from Eddie’s house. The man gave Bruce five hundred dollars for the purchase. Bruce was only gone fifteen minutes before returning with the pot. The man took the bag, thanked Bruce, and then asked if they would like to smoke some with him. Bruce and Carl both nodded in the affirmative.

With rain coming down harder now, the man drove out of the city and into the county. Neither Bruce nor Carl knew where the man was heading, nor did they care. They were going to smoke some seriously great shit, and it was not only free, they had each been given a hundred bucks. Pot and cash for doing nothing-sometimes dreams do come true. This weird dude in the big car could be taking them to Siberia, for all they cared.

The Lincoln stopped next to a barn seconds before the rain went from steady to serious. The man cut the engine, reached into the glove compartment and extracted a bag filled with pills. He asked the two boys if they wanted to try one of the blue ones before smoking the pot. He promised them it would intensify the experience. They declined. He then told them to go into the barn, and that he would join them in a few minutes.

Bruce and Carl were standing with their backs to the barn door when the man came inside. When they turned around, they were confused by what they saw. The man had a pistol in one hand and several pieces of rope in the other hand. Bruce felt a shudder run through his body, but he felt no real fear. This had to be some kind of a joke, right? They didn’t know this man, and they had done everything he asked them to do, so why would he have any reason to harm them? He didn’t have a reason, which is what made this so confusing. It had to be a joke, Bruce thought. Some kind of weird game. Nothing else made sense. As the man moved closer to the two boys, Carl muttered something like “what the fuck is this all about?” but his question was met by silence.

The man ordered the two boys to turn around and lie face down on the barn floor. He knelt behind Carl and tied his ankles together. Then he moved behind Bruce and performed the same procedure on him. After binding Bruce’s ankles, he told Bruce to get onto his knees and put his hands behind his back. He bound Bruce’s hands, and then did the same to Carl. When the man completed his tasks, the two boys were on their knees, hands and feet bound, facing away from the man.

Bruce was staring straight ahead when he heard the pop and saw Carl’s body tumble forward. Turning his head slightly to the right, he saw blood spurting from the back of Carl’s head. He also noticed that Carl’s eyes were open.

Only now did fear engulf Bruce. Fear and panic combined with bewilderment. He knew he was about to die, but he didn’t know why. He wanted to ask the man why this was happening. What could possibly be his reason for murdering two innocent young kids? What had they done to deserve this? Instead, Bruce chose to remain silent. He knew it was too late to ask the man anything. Anyway, what would be the point? Some questions are beyond answers.

I’ll never smoke pot again was Bruce Fowler’s last thought before the bullet entered his brain