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Randall
RANDALL PARKED NEAR the line of poplar trees at the west end of Wyman’s Campgrounds. The single lane road had narrowed to only accommodate pedestrians and horses through to the most remote cluster of single resident cabins. All were abandoned except one. He walked up to the door and started to knock but noticed it was already ajar. He pushed it open slowly and peered inside. His senses were overwhelmed by a gray haze, the heavy scent of marijuana and some ghastly mixture of turpentine and oil.
“Well, well ... a Wells,” came a voice that he knew but was barely recognizable with an earthy rasp.
“Good God,” Randall said staring into the battered face of his older brother. “Brad, what are you doing here?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“What? You sent me a text,” he stepped inside the cramped one room cabin. “Said meet you here ...”
“Naw, not me. I lost my phone weeks ago. But hey, it’s probably time we did ...”
“How long have you been back?” Randall walked closer and hesitated. Something was off about this whole setup. Clearly, Bradford was under the influence, but that wasn’t what caused his uneasiness.
“I got back ‘bout the same time you was putting the old man in the ground.”
“You've been out here in these woods all this time? And didn’t tell anyone? You should've come to Pop's funeral, at least.”
“Why? You think he missed me?” Bradford squinted his eyes and stared at Randall with a smile that he could feel across the room, a mixture of disgust and contempt.
“Respect. Man, don't you believe in that anymore? What happened to you?”
“You asking me, 'what happened to you?' Are you blind, Randall?” He took a drink from a leather-bound flask.
For the first time Randall focused on the prosthetic legs protruding from Bradford’s pants hidden behind the table. “They never gave us any more updates. Nothing about the mission or that you were found. We assumed ... Say what you want, but Pops was torn up about everything. He was proud that you chose to serve ...”
“You think being a soldier was a choice for me?”
“Yeah, you chose it. It's what you wanted. You put on the uniform. Nobody forced you.”
“That proves you don't know what it meant to be Big Remy's first born. To carry on the proud tradition of warrior Wells men. Nothing with that man was a 'choice' but you wouldn't know that. You was always too busy hiding behind mother's skirt to know anything ...”
“Don't bring her up. Don't do it.”
“Yeah, okay. Nothing really to say about none of that anyway.” He took another drink. “Except to say, she had the right idea. God bless her little heart. She got that one right. Guess I’m more like her.”
“I know how we were raised. Regardless of how you felt about Pops, he raised us right. We don't give up. Looks like you did. There are treatment centers for vets.”
“And then what?” He put down the flask. “And then what, hmm? And about dear ol' daddy, he wasn't the hero he pretended to be. You wanna know what happened with them? You want me to tell you what your precious mother said about Big Remy? What all the women said?” He laughed, then coughed, then laughed some more.
“Put some respect on his name.” Randall balled up his fist and lunged toward his brother.
Bradford raised a hunting knife from the sheath attached to his thigh. “This the hill you wanna die on ... Remy Wells' reputation? You sure about that, buttercup?”
The brothers locked eyes, in a fighting stance that had played out hundreds of times between them.
“I'm gonna advise you to back off and get out now, little brother. I got me a woman on her way over in a minute, and I don't want her to have to clean up your mess.” He sucked his teeth and stared, motionless.
Finally, Randall ended the standoff and stepped back. Bradford tucked away the knife.
“You picked your life. You're not a victim. Don't try to blame Pops for the life you chose.” Randall wiped the sweat from his face. The stench in the room was unbearable.
“Naw, Randall. This is my life. You're standing dead center in it and still can't see it. Goes to show how programmed your mind is. Do you even know who you are? If Pops hadn't told you what to be, what would you be right now?”
Randall looked around at the oil paintings hung in a haphazard fashion on the walls, stacked in corners, and supplies scattered around the room. Rags and stained tablecloths were draped on the few pieces of furniture. He didn’t care about that, none of it. He focused back on his brother. “Pops wanted only the best for you, Brad, and that’s what he gave you. But you fought him at every turn, complaining about everything. Nothing was good enough for you.”
“Right .... you have no clue,” Bradford said and took another drink. “There’s one thing I can count on with you little brother ...”
“Foolish loyalty?” a woman’s voice interrupted them.
“No, I was going to say jealousy,” Bradford said with a low snicker, totally unphased by the intrusion.
“Charlotte Carter ...”
Bradford raised an eyebrow, “You know each other?”
“Yeah, she's got warrants. This woman murdered Rowena Garrett and she's a suspect in a homicide in Magnolia Grove, Josh St John.”
“The old vet that used to run this joint?”
“Yeah that's the one.”
“Another fool,” Charlotte Carter said and stepped into the room. Both of her hands were shoved deep inside the pockets of a buffalo plaid jacket, that was open over all black crew neck shirt, jeans and booties.
“She slipped custody from KMP. We've been searching all over the tri-county region for her.” Randall circled around the table to approach her.
Charlotte pulled a Ruger 38 from her coat pocket and pointed it at Randall.
“Whoa, hold up there. You crazy ...” Bradford straightened himself against the chairback.
“Shut up,” she said. “How can men control so much and still be such idiots? Joshua ... that was an accident. Life is full of accidents. But it seems I have to take care of you myself ... then the little girlfriend. She’s so high strung ... suicide probably for her. Simple.” She pointed the gun at Bradford, “I only needed him to get to you.” She stepped closer. “Sorry big brother ...”
Randall noticed Brad slowly reaching toward the hunting knife, but he kept his focus on Charlotte’s eyes. Pops had taught him the shooter’s eyes can foretell the future, and that one second can save your life. The intent in those eyes were clear. This was no bluff. He leaped and tackled Brad, tumbling them both out of the chair, and they crashed onto the floor. He braced himself tightly across his brother’s body and tucked his head down, but it was too late. He counted ... “One ... two, three ... eight shots.”
He looked up. Standing at the threshold was Traci, her arms limp at her sides, the Beretta in her hand. Charlotte Carter lay motionless in the middle of the floor.
“I see you opened the box,” Randall shouted over his shoulder. He pulled off his t-shirt, twisted it and tied it tight around his upper thigh above the wound, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. He looked back at Traci still frozen in place.
“Tracinda ...”
“Yes.”
“Put down the gun,” he said, calmly.
Traci bent her knees, slowly laid the gun on the floor in front of her, then stood back up.
“You did the right thing, angel.” He had to keep her steady right now but couldn’t reach her. She needed to follow his voice. “An ambulance is going to be here soon. Understand? I want you to go stand outside that door and wait for them. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were still fixed on the gun.
“Tracinda?”
“Yes.”
“You're okay.” He said slowly and gave her a reassuring smile.
She looked directly into his eyes. “Yes ... yes, I am,” she said and returned a jittery smile. Then she turned and walked outside.
Randall turned to his brother on the floor next to him, checked his pulse and examined the wounds. He took out his phone, hit Speed Dial #1 and announced to the dispatcher ...
“Wyman’s Campgrounds, West End, Sage Lane, Cabin 14. Shots fired, hit in left thigh. Second, thirty-eight-year-old male, Bradford Wells, gunshot wound to shoulder and abdomen, critical condition. Charlotte Carter, multiple wounds in torso, presumed dead. No other casualties.”
