just PO’d me more. I was damn tempted to carry on Cobb’s vendetta against them, but first I’d go find Edna.
***
The mucky stench to Lake Charles grew stronger at my approach to the earth dam. Moving on the pads of my feet, I advanced, halting every four steps, my radar alert for any trouble. At my next pause, I flinched. A hard cylinder had screwed into my ear. My balls rode up as I identified the hard cylinder as a steel gun barrel.
“Pass-phrase?” asked the man with cat paws for feet.
“No pass-phrase. It’s just me, Brendan. What did you drive?”
Mr. Kuzawa took the muzzle to the 12-gauge from my ear. It was good to hear again. He abandoned the deeper shadows. Several inches over six feet and built husky like Lee Majors with a bricklayer’s shoulders, Mr. Kuzawa used a deceptive shuffle. He liked a flattop buzz cut like seen in the Steve Roper comic strip. His chin, these days beardless, jutted at me.
“A trucker pal dropped me off at the state road, and I took a shortcut through the woods. Spin me up again.”
“Cobb, Edna, and I drove to Lang’s Teahouse on Saturday. We had Lake Charles all to ourselves, fishing and boating. Then Edna threw a hissy fit and ripped off on the jet ski. That’s when the shit started to hit the fan.”
“That fucking crotch rocket is an abomination. I kick myself for lending her the money. Did Cobb and she bicker again over his drinking?”
“Naturally. Cobb and I returned to the old marina, but she never showed. So we left and scouted the boonies until sunset. Worried sick, we returned and camped at the old marina. Two hicks sneaked in to bushwhack us, and I greased one of them.”
“At night? Do you see with cat eyes?”
“A lucky shot in the dark is all.”
“Boy, I’ll say. Give me the rest.”
“At daybreak, I ditched his weighted corpse in Lake Charles, and we bugged out after Edna. Our hike was rugged going. We bungled across a pot garden, and further on we hit a campsite. As we cased it, a grower armed with a crossbow shafted an arrow through Cobb. I’m sorry. He never saw or knew what struck him.”
Mr. Kuzawa groaned and ruffled his brawny shoulders. “Okay, okay. Where’s my boy’s body now?”
“He’s still at the campsite underneath the tree branches I cut.” Telling what I’d done sounded pathetic, and my gut muscles clenched.
“Holy Jesus, how can something like this happen to a father?” Mr. Kuzawa shifted in his stance. “My boy can keep. Our first mission is to rescue your sister.” He thrust the hard cylinder at me. “I requisitioned this 12-gauge, and it’s yours.”
“Did you bring any grenades or bazookas?” I said, trying for a joke.
“I can get my hands on any C4 explosives we might need.”
“I’ll just take your word for it.”
We left the earth dam for the gloomy dark woods. My flashlight beam picked up a rabbit trail that we followed. The tangy pitch pine cleared my sinuses. I sensed the proximity of Lake Charles that had attached its psychic tentacles to me. I’d almost broken free, getting as far as the cash-and-carry store where I then teamed with Mr. Kuzawa to return. My best opportunity to reach Edna had to lie along the shores of Lake Charles. The gut-wrenching specter of Cobb’s death appalled me. I’d grown too callous over seeing the spilled blood. I’d pray but I hadn’t attended Mass, recited a rosary, or made a Confession since my early teens.
“Wait up, Brendan. Your hands are full. If we plow into a shit storm, that’s all she wrote. Ditch those damn cans. I hate Spam anyway. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. We’ll live off the land.”
“Can you be more specific?” I asked, leery to trash any food.
“We’ll be scroungers. Save the hooch. I like how it fires my blood.”
I rummaged inside the paper bag and pocketed the other sardines. He traded me a clutch of 00-buckshot shells for the beef jerkies but rebuffed my offer to take one of Cobb’s .44s.
“Pop guns
***
The mucky stench to Lake Charles grew stronger at my approach to the earth dam. Moving on the pads of my feet, I advanced, halting every four steps, my radar alert for any trouble. At my next pause, I flinched. A hard cylinder had screwed into my ear. My balls rode up as I identified the hard cylinder as a steel gun barrel.
“Pass-phrase?” asked the man with cat paws for feet.
“No pass-phrase. It’s just me, Brendan. What did you drive?”
Mr. Kuzawa took the muzzle to the 12-gauge from my ear. It was good to hear again. He abandoned the deeper shadows. Several inches over six feet and built husky like Lee Majors with a bricklayer’s shoulders, Mr. Kuzawa used a deceptive shuffle. He liked a flattop buzz cut like seen in the Steve Roper comic strip. His chin, these days beardless, jutted at me.
“A trucker pal dropped me off at the state road, and I took a shortcut through the woods. Spin me up again.”
“Cobb, Edna, and I drove to Lang’s Teahouse on Saturday. We had Lake Charles all to ourselves, fishing and boating. Then Edna threw a hissy fit and ripped off on the jet ski. That’s when the shit started to hit the fan.”
“That fucking crotch rocket is an abomination. I kick myself for lending her the money. Did Cobb and she bicker again over his drinking?”
“Naturally. Cobb and I returned to the old marina, but she never showed. So we left and scouted the boonies until sunset. Worried sick, we returned and camped at the old marina. Two hicks sneaked in to bushwhack us, and I greased one of them.”
“At night? Do you see with cat eyes?”
“A lucky shot in the dark is all.”
“Boy, I’ll say. Give me the rest.”
“At daybreak, I ditched his weighted corpse in Lake Charles, and we bugged out after Edna. Our hike was rugged going. We bungled across a pot garden, and further on we hit a campsite. As we cased it, a grower armed with a crossbow shafted an arrow through Cobb. I’m sorry. He never saw or knew what struck him.”
Mr. Kuzawa groaned and ruffled his brawny shoulders. “Okay, okay. Where’s my boy’s body now?”
“He’s still at the campsite underneath the tree branches I cut.” Telling what I’d done sounded pathetic, and my gut muscles clenched.
“Holy Jesus, how can something like this happen to a father?” Mr. Kuzawa shifted in his stance. “My boy can keep. Our first mission is to rescue your sister.” He thrust the hard cylinder at me. “I requisitioned this 12-gauge, and it’s yours.”
“Did you bring any grenades or bazookas?” I said, trying for a joke.
“I can get my hands on any C4 explosives we might need.”
“I’ll just take your word for it.”
We left the earth dam for the gloomy dark woods. My flashlight beam picked up a rabbit trail that we followed. The tangy pitch pine cleared my sinuses. I sensed the proximity of Lake Charles that had attached its psychic tentacles to me. I’d almost broken free, getting as far as the cash-and-carry store where I then teamed with Mr. Kuzawa to return. My best opportunity to reach Edna had to lie along the shores of Lake Charles. The gut-wrenching specter of Cobb’s death appalled me. I’d grown too callous over seeing the spilled blood. I’d pray but I hadn’t attended Mass, recited a rosary, or made a Confession since my early teens.
“Wait up, Brendan. Your hands are full. If we plow into a shit storm, that’s all she wrote. Ditch those damn cans. I hate Spam anyway. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. We’ll live off the land.”
“Can you be more specific?” I asked, leery to trash any food.
“We’ll be scroungers. Save the hooch. I like how it fires my blood.”
I rummaged inside the paper bag and pocketed the other sardines. He traded me a clutch of 00-buckshot shells for the beef jerkies but rebuffed my offer to take one of Cobb’s .44s.
“Pop guns
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