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Two days later, it’s in the paper. Makes for quite a story: Local men kill Illinois
gangsters in fierce gun battle before perishing in blazing house fire, guns still in their hands. An investigation is under way.
One of the local men who perished in the fire was identified as Ronnie Macintyre, 23, a senior at UWBC. The other body found inside the burned house has yet to be positively identified, but speculation exists that it could be Alex Keegan, an Illinois native and former UWBC student who was reported missing from his residence in June of this year.
The listed residents of the rental house at 964l Aster Road, Poplar, Wisconsin, where the gunfight took place, were vacationing at the Simm’s Resort in the Wisconsin Dells at the time of the blaze. Michael Waverly and Janice Covington said they had hired Mr. Macintyre to housesit for them while they were on vacation, and were not aware of the identity of any guests he may have had while in their employ.
Authorities believe the house was the scene of the final battle in a war that began with the gangland style murders and torture of Todd Edwards and Terry Mitchell, two UWBC students whose mutilated bodies were discovered earlier this summer.
“We think the whole dirty bunch died right there at that house,” said Lieutenant Patrick Brown of the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department. “We think it was a vendetta being carried out over some stolen drugs. Although no drugs were found anywhere on the property, evidence seems to point in that direction. It is our belief that all the perpetrators on both sides are now dead, and the public will no longer have to fear these people.”
The whole thing gets me feeling pretty good. Which is very unusual for a newspaper story. I’m feeling so good I drive down and spend a week in the Dells with my family.
My family.
Jesus, it’s hard to believe.
I’m still worried about Michael but I think Jan will be able to keep a handle on him. At least I sure as hell hope so. I’m looking forward to visiting them when they decide on a place to settle. Right now they plan to travel around the country in a camper while the kids are still young, and spend some of the money we collected from Ricky and Lyle.
Looking back, it’s clear that Tommy and I didn’t exactly dump a bucket of shit on the heads of our fellow man like Gustauve Flaubert encouraged, although you could make a case that we sort of did. And in the short-term, anyway, we definitely made the world a better place.
At least better enough that I want to stay alive in it.
With that goal in sight, I’ve been laying off the booze and drugs and eating an organic diet. I walk a lot, ride my bicycle and sleep as much as I can. My urges toward violence have left me, at least for the time being.
I now own a slightly used fishing boat that I keep on the St. Louis River. Sometimes I float by Darla’s cabin and wonder what it would be like...
I’ve been out to Tommy’s farm quite a bit. He keeps hounding me about this plan of his to buy a little golf course he knows about. Wants me to go in with him. And I do need to find a new source of income, the old ways are just not gonna cut it anymore.
But as tempting as the golf course deal sounds, summer is extremely short up here in the North country and I’ve got my mind around something closer to the grandkids, wherever that turns out to be.
Who knows, eh?
The best news of all is this new experimental treatment for prostate cancer I’ve heard about. And it turns out the medical school at the university over in Zenith City has a grant to do research, and I’ve been admitted into the program as a patient/guinea pig.
The absence of consistent medical records from my past was somewhat of a hindrance to admittance, but someone in the program must’ve taken pity on me.
I told them the lack of records was the result of frequent traveling (true), a lack of health problems (sort of true) and the use of free community clinics when the need did arise (also true).
So now maybe I’ll have time to finish my memoirs....
* * *
From the Zenith City Tribune, August 23, 2005:
Large crowd witnesses daring escape at ship canal
Zenith City native evades cops with brazen leap from Aerial Bridge
A festive weekend crowd was shocked by what they witnessed Saturday in Canal Park. Zenith City native and federal fugitive Keith Waverly was being pursued by local police when he climbed onto the partially raised Aerial Lift Bridge in a desperate attempt to evade capture.
Waverly leapt from the bridge and landed on the bow of a pleasure craft passing beneath the span. The owner of the vessel, St. Paul businessman Charley Stables, had this to say:
“I saw the police standing at the side of the bridge waving up at the operator and I noticed this poor guy on the bridge. Then, to my shock, the guy jumped. There was nothing I could do. I cut back on the gas and threw it in reverse, trying to keep him from hitting the boat, but I couldn’t stop in time. There are no brakes on a boat.
“He landed on his feet and stumbled over, but came up quickly with a pistol pointing at my chest. I saw that he was bleeding from the shoulder and then I realized I knew the man. It was Keith Waverly, a guy I went to high school with. I couldn’t believe it. I never would have guessed. The police have told me Keith was responsible for several deaths around the country, but when he was on my boat he was a perfect gentleman. A gentleman with a gun, without a doubt, but no one was shot or injured in any way. Which is a good thing.
“He kept the gun on me and instructed me to take him across the lake to the south shore. Which I did. Didn’t take us very long, my boat goes pretty fast. During the ride, Keith and I reminisced about playing football in high school.
“I dropped him off at a strip of sand and watched him disappear into the trees. He even waved goodbye.”
The incident began when police were called to stop a fight in the front yard of the Coast Guard Station, near the ship canal. Officers arrived to find Mr. Waverly involved in an altercation with several members of a youth gang.
Officer Steve Anderson of the Zenith City Police Department was the first to arrive on the scene: “My partner, Tom Polaski, and I took the call. We came around the building and discovered Mr. Waverly swinging a bicycle lock at four young men with shaven heads. Two of the young men were bleeding about the head and wielding knives, while Mr. Waverly had what looked to be a knife wound on his upper arm. We ordered them to drop their weapons, and Mr. Waverly took off running toward the bridge. It was starting to go up, and he jumped on. He jumped onto the boat before we had a chance to bring the span back down. It was a helpless feeling. There wasn’t anything we could do.”
St. Paul resident Michael O’Garity was visiting Zenith City for the weekend and witnessed the incident: “I’m coming out of Grandma’s Saloon and I hear this commotion in front of the Coast Guard station, so I go over there and see this old guy swinging a bicycle lock over his head like a bolo, and thrashing the s—t out of some young punks. Them kids with the knives were closing in on the guy when the cops came along. The old guy’s got this crazy grin on his face and he’s singing ‘Miss American Pie.’ You know, where the guy says ‘This’ll be the day that I die.’
“Well, he was a little off on that one. He tried hard, though. The lift bridge was going up and he ran over and jumped on it. Then he made one hell of a leap onto that cigarette boat. It was something to see.”
Local authorities confirmed that Keith Michael Waverly was a person of interest in several homicide investigations across the country, and had an outstanding warrant from the State of Florida for murder, kidnapping, attempted vehicular homicide and drug trafficking. A spokesman for the FBI indicated that Mr. Waverly had possible ties to several terrorist organizations.
The police speculate that Waverly had returned to Minnesota to visit family members and possibly settle some old scores. But at this time, little is clear about his recent activities.
Look for more of the story of Keith Waverly in tomorrow’s Zenith City Tribune, when we begin a five-part series titled Portrait of a Killer: How a local boy went wrong.
* * *
COMING SOON—T.K. O’Neill’s Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert
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Late November—1977
Lying on his stomach at the fence line of an Arizona ranch just inside the Mexican border, Frank Ford finds it hard to believe that only six months ago he was in northern Minnesota trying to stop two psychotic sisters from killing a douchebag pharmaceutical heir.
But it’s true.
Now the sky above him is a tapestry of stars and his three companions are up in the cosmos with them. Each of the three men having consumed a number of peyote buttons before leaving Tempe.
Frank, being the driver, abstained. At the moment, though, he’s not sure whether that was a good decision or a bad one. He’s wired tight and the other three are loose goosey, so what the hell.
The four men are on a mission to rescue the brother of rising rock star Evelyn Raines, with whom Frank has a confusing and undefined relationship. It seems that Javier Raines was caught smuggling marijuana and Mexican citizens across the border—something he’s been doing for several years, according to his sister. The kicker here being that it wasn’t an official government law enforcement agency that snagged him, but a vigilante group doing unauthorized work along the border.
Unauthorized work that often includes torture, the rumors say.
Just a weird situation all around, Frank thinks, as he watches Ted Webb—the provider of the peyote buttons—crawl underneath the barbwire, the butt of a .45 caliber Colt semi-auto sticking out the waistband of his faded jeans.
Being the most mobile of the four, Ted volunteered to sneak up to the barn, only outbuilding on the property, to see if Javier is actually in there. And, if so, come up with a plan for extracting him.
Squeezing the stock of a cut down twelve-gauge, Frank watches in the weak glow of the lone dusk-to-dawn yard light as Ted scoots across the dirt towards the barn. Yard dog is no longer a problem. Yellow-haired mutt is collapsed in a heap near the front gate, after consuming a hefty serving of Henry Ruiz’s Doggy Downer Delight.
Henry Ruiz, along with Frank’s roommate in Tempe, Bill Cross, round out the rest of the not-so-fearsome foursome.
Henry is stretched out on Frank’s left, looking at the front door of the one-story ranch house through the night-vision scope of an M-16 carbine. On Henry’s left, Bill cradles a .22 caliber semi-auto plinking rifle, his eyes flitting around the yard like tumbleweeds in a windstorm.
Henry and Ted are Vietnam vets. Bill served in Korea. Frank’s damaged knee kept him out of the military. Failed his draft physical.
Not that he’d have wanted to join even if his knee was perfect, he thinks, then tenses as he sees Ted crouching low and coming back fast.
Ted scurries to the fence line and squats down in front of Henry. “There’s two guys in there,” he says. “Both of ‘em naked and bloody and tied to posts in the ground.”
“They conscious?” Henry asks.
“Maybe, couldn’t tell for sure,” Ted says in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t go in all the way. Didn’t want them shouting or something. They might’ve been aware of me, I’m not sure. Neither one of them looked in good enough shape to walk back to the car, though, I can tell you that much.”
“Well, no mission ever goes the way you plan it, we’ll just have to improvise,” Henry says. “Brings to mind an old Mexican saying: ‘Trust in God but keep one hand on your pistola.’ So I guess that’s what we’ll do.”
Henry slithers under the barbwire and stands up. Raising the M-16, his souvenir from Vietnam, to the ready position, he trains the carbine at the front door of the house and walks sideways toward the barn.
Frank and Bill follow Henry’s lead.
Frank’s bum knee is stiff and sore from the walk in and he can’t help wondering how the hell his life came to this...
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Northwoods Pulp Reloaded copyright © 2021 by Bluestone Press.
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-7361446-0-2
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Published by Bluestone Press
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