Ann’s Bio:

Ann is a wife, mother, and grandmother who recently started writing fiction full-time after teaching elementary school for a number of years. A member of the Abilene Writer’s Guild, Ann has published a handful of short stories in various literary magazines and anthologies. She has a story coming out soon in Binnacle magazine. The story was an honorable mention in their annual ultra-short fiction contest. Her first Young Adult novella will be published in December, 2011 by Cool Well Press. She also has two more short stories coming out in 2012 in the anthology Campfire Tales, also through Cool Well Press.

Find out more about Ann at her new website www.annswann.com or follow her on Twitter @ann_swann.

Justice Unleashed

By Ann Swann

 

Jake slammed the shovel into the bed of the Ford and reached inside the open cab for the bottle of Black Jack hidden behind the seat. Silent tears coursed through the grave dirt smearing his cheeks, but he didn’t stop to wipe them away; instead, he tore open the virgin bottle and drank heavily, standing bent and sore beside the still-idling truck.

At last he lowered the bottle and began to sob. Swiping roughly at the fresh tears with the filthy sleeve of his shirt, he extracted the spent casing from his breast pocket. He examined it briefly in the harsh noon light, the shotgun still balanced across the crook of his left arm like a broken mechanical snake.

Suddenly, Jake grabbed the gun with his right hand and flung it into the east Texas woods. He barely noticed the snapping of dry branches as the weapon ricocheted from tree to tree.

Later, when Nora returned from the police station, Jake’s old red truck was parked aslant of the barn, the driver’s door gaping as though it had spat him out where he lay, still and crumpled, on the bare autumn earth.

Gingerly, she started toward him, her eyes warily searching the yard for signs of blood or spent shells. Suicide was her first worry, but as she neared the truck, the smell of his whiskey wafted out to greet her.

“Jake,” she touched him lightly. “You alright?”

Her husband looked up at her through swollen, narrow eyes. “I killed him,” he said tonelessly. “I guess I killed ‘em both.”

Nora’s blue eyes widened, her breath snagged in her throat. “Oh, Jake,” she whispered. “You didn’t kill Joe Louis . . . tell me you didn’t. You’ve had that boxer dog since he was just a pup.”

Jake nodded. “It was my fault. I’m the one who taught him to go for the throat. I’m the one who trained him to protect—”

His words were choked off with a sob. A wave of nausea washed bile upwards into his throat as he remembered his old dog’s trusting dead eyes. Suddenly, he was on his hands and knees in the dirt retching, his hair hanging down in a filthy wad. At last he collapsed, mouth foul as death. He hated that taste, that smell. It would be with him forever, he knew that.

Patting his back, Nora helped him stand. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “Joe saved me—”

“The kid’s gun wasn’t loaded, Nora. The damned gun wasn’t even loaded! Joe killed that kid for nothing!” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth savagely.

Nora shook her head. “He was a teenager. Not a kid. And he wanted me to think it was loaded, didn’t he? I was terrified, Jake. Terrified! I wanted Joe to kill him. I would have done it myself if I could . . .” She looked at her husband sadly. She didn’t know what else to say. “I’m going in to finish cleaning. You sit out here on the porch for awhile.”

He sat on the top step, head in his hands, shoulders stooped and sunken like an invalid. “Wasn’t gonna let the sheriff have old Joe. Had to do it myself . . . owed him that.”

Nora walked back to the truck and retrieved the keys. She didn’t want him trying to drive. She supposed that eventually she might feel guilty that a young man had died there in her kitchen. But right now all she could remember was how angry and evil he looked when he shoved the gun in her ribs as he pushed his way inside the screened-porch door.

Then she saw the muddy shovel in the bed of the truck and she staggered, heartsick, and had to grab on to the bumper to steady herself. She would have pinned a medal on the big dog. He was her hero. But Jake . . . how would he ever get past this?

Clenching her teeth and straightening her spine, she strode back to the house, stepped around her silent husband, and went inside to clean the drying blood off the kitchen floor.

***