Will peered at the box, ran his fingers over the comics, and pulled out an old copy of Swamp Thing. He turned the fragile yellow pages carefully, like his uncle had done, and tried to see what his father saw in those faded four-color images. He tried to see his dad. He couldn’t — not right then. But Jack could. He could see Hank all over the young version of his older brother sitting next to him on the porch.
“I know you’re too old for comic books, Will. Maybe you could stick them away in a closet somewhere, and maybe they’re still worth something. Who knows, maybe they can pay for a few years of college down the road. I know some of these things can be pretty valuable. But whatever you decide to do with them is up to you. They’re yours.”
Will kept scanning the pages. “Thanks, Uncle Jack,” he said for the second time. His words still sounded thin and forced, but this time Jack could hear something else. He grabbed Will and pulled him in over the box for a hug. Will laid the Swamp Thing comic on the porch and hugged him back. While holding him tight, Jack whispered into his ear, “Detective Comics, number eighty-three, page twelve, across the top of the Sea-Monkeys ad. I wrote a number. Someone will always answer that number — always. Do you hear me, son? There’s an entire world out there that belongs to you — and you alone. You’re my blood. There’s nothing more important than that. Nothing.”
Will found himself hugging his uncle back as hard as he could. He felt a hard lump of metal tucked under his uncle’s arm, against his ribs. It had to be a gun, he thought. His dad hated guns. Will had never even seen one in real life. He almost pulled back and asked Jack about it, but he didn’t. It was Jack who let go.
He pushed himself up off the porch, wiped at his face with both hands, and walked away from the house without saying goodbye. He looked back as he got in the car and watched his nephew pull out another tattered issue — The Green Arrow & The Green Lantern: Hard Traveling Heroes. It had been one of Hank’s favorites. He pulled the Ruger P95 out of his holster and slipped it into the glove box before he cranked up the SUV and carefully backed it out of the drive. He knew Hank would never forgive him for exposing his son to his world, but Hank was dead, and Jack would be, too, eventually. And now the Parsons family name — and all the respect it commanded throughout the Southeast — was not going to end with him. It didn’t have to. No more need for grooming one of the idiots who worked under him. Fate had provided Jack with an heir. All he needed to do now was wait for the call, and he was sure the call would come.
Tonya D. Price
Payback
from Fiction River
On a warm September morning I had gone out to pick up the Sunday Boston Globe at the end of my driveway when I spotted a big red dog racing toward me, running smack down the middle of Pleasant Street. He gave me a quick check before twisting his anvil-shaped head to look back at the direction he had come. His ears lay flat on the top of his head and his brown eyes had the wide-eyed stare of a wild animal desperate to escape a predator.
My guess was he was either full Doberman or a mix. I called to him but he didn’t slow down, instead the sound of a human voice seemed to panic him into picking up his pace. Looking back up the dirt road I tried to make out what had spooked the poor thing so bad. A powder blue Porsche raced toward me, kicking up a cloud of dust.
People drove too fast down the narrow country road all the time so the speed didn’t spook me. The hand sticking out the passenger window pointing a gun at the dog — that spooked me.
I froze as my mind struggled to make sense of what I saw. Two quick gunshots jolted me out of my indecision. We had a six-foot-high boulder at the corner of my driveway. For over five years I had cursed that boulder every time I had to plow the snow around the thing, now I used it for cover and blessed that rock for saving my life.
The Porsche sped by. The guy leaning out the passenger window fired two more rounds at the escaping dog.
People being mean to each other I could take, but I could never abide cruelty aimed at some poor dog. Feeling helpless, and mad as hell at the idiot behind the wheel of the Porsche, I ran out from my hiding spot and picked up a rock off my stone wall, hurling it hard at the car.
Maybe a good scare would cause them to leave the dog alone. In college I spent four years on the bench as the third-string pitcher. Couldn’t find the plate to save my life. This time I nailed the Porsche with a softball-sized piece of granite, smashing the rear window just as the car slowed on the curve down our hill.
The wheels squealed on the pavement and I smelled burned rubber as the car took the curve and vanished out of sight.
My first reaction: serves the idiots right if they crashed their fancy car.
My second reaction: throwing a rock at a car could land me in jail.
A few minutes later the Porsche reappeared, backing up the street so fast the car swerved left and right as the driver struggled to keep control. This time the gun sticking out the passenger window pointed my way.
Inside our house, my husband and six-month-old baby daughter took their morning nap together in our bedroom. I started to run toward the house but stopped. If I ran inside, I might be leading these lunatics to my family.
Living out in the country, we had no neighbors close by to run to for help.
I’d left the cell phone on my nightstand. I was the one the men were after.
In an effort to lead them away from the house, I ran into the woods. Too scared to look behind me, I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could on the narrow path, taking care not to trip on the tree roots sticking up along the ground.
The men didn’t call after me.
They didn’t fire their gun at me.
But I was sure they were behind me.
About a half hour later, I reached Iron Mine Pond. I waded into the warm water and hid among the lily pads, waiting for the men from the Porsche to arrive.
After ten minutes of swatting flies and mosquitoes, I began to wonder if maybe the guys had come to their senses and not bothered to follow me. After another five minutes, I pulled myself out of the water, my clothes wet and my shoes waterlogged.
On the way home I kept off the path, taking care to wind my way through the wetlands, risking tick bites over being spotted by the men who had fired at the dog.
As I walked, I began to calm down. Reason replaced panic.
No doubt the men had thought better of going after me and had decided to go home rather than get into a confrontation. Shooting at a dog was probably a misdemeanor. Shooting at a person would definitely get you jail time. The worse that would come of the whole affair would be a court case over smashing the car window.
I’d never been in trouble and they pointed the gun at me. I decided I would probably not be in that much trouble after all. Maybe I could claim self-defense.
I was looking forward to a hot bath and getting dinner ready by the time I came within sight of my house.
Instead, I spotted the Porsche in my driveway, smashed rear window and all. Neither the driver nor his gun-happy passenger appeared to be inside. Where had they gone?
They weren’t in the yard.
My house was a two-story colonial, cedar shingles with a big wide farmer’s porch. I didn’t see them on the porch.
After checking again that the men weren’t lurking in the yard somewhere I edged closer to the house and saw the front door stood ajar. My husband grew up in Manhattan. He never left the door unlocked, let alone open.