HAYWOOD ARRIVED FROM SPRINGER’S GROVE with the other men in tow. They pulled into Old Man Jackson’s store far away from the front door, not knowing for certain what lay on the other side.
“Alright, boys,” he said, adjusting his belt as he stood down from his truck. The men from the other vehicle nodded at him and stood ready to listen. “I’m not sure what we are going to find. I haven’t been able to get Jackson back on the phone. Let’s not all bunch up at the door. Alright? But let’s not take our time either. You all with me?”
The men nodded again like a row of bobbleheads.
“Okay.”
The group headed for the entrance. With a flick of his eyes, Haywood got Clinton to open the door and the big man disappeared inside. Haywood followed, as did the others. They spread out quickly down the aisles, ducking and scooting haphazardly, several of them imitating what they had seen military teams do on TV. They moved awkwardly, but were soon placed all around the store.
It was quiet, save for the whirring of an oscillating fan in the back room.
Davis was the first to spot the store owner’s feet from behind the counter. He motioned to Haywood and pointed. Haywood followed Davis’s silent commands and saw the boots protruding around the half wall.
“Jackson!” he forced in a whisper. “Jackson!”
There was no response.
With his eyes and a quick nod of his head, Haywood silently commanded Davis to check on the old man. He did so quickly and quietly. Davis felt for a pulse, removed his hand, and shook his head at Haywood.
“Is he shot?”
“No, not that I can tell.”
“Anybody in the back room?”
Davis moved around on his squatted legs and peered into the back. It seemed to take him forever, and the others were busting at the seams, expecting someone to jump out and attack. But it never happened. Davis looked back and motioned that the back room was empty.
The men in the store started to relax. It was apparent that Michael was gone. But the sight of a dead man in the corner unnerved them. Almost in unison, they realized how unarmed they were, and though they slowly came out of their crouches and fighting stances, subconsciously they positioned themselves behind one another, not wanting to be the one to receive a bullet to the chest by a well-concealed gunman.
Haywood pulled out his cell phone and called for an ambulance.
“Awful way to go,” Earl whispered.
“Sure is,” Frank said.
Haywood completed the call and put the phone back in his pocket. He rose from his position and walked over to Davis. The others came up behind him and each caught a glimpse of Old Man Jackson.
For most of them, this was the first time they had ever seen a dead body. The stillness of it all was the most unsettling. No tremors, no rising or falling rib cage, the animating force of life departed with all remnants of its existence.
“We got some serious trouble, boys,” Haywood said, more to himself than to the men standing around him. “Better go home and get your guns.”
They all nodded and headed out of the store. Haywood was set on waiting alone for the ambulance to arrive. He knelt down in front of Old Man Jackson, took off his hat, and wiped his brow.
“Sorry, old-timer,” he said in an exhaled eulogy. “I’ll make sure Michael pays for this.”
Haywood put his hat back on, stood, and headed out to the parking lot, preferring to keep his own company rather than that of a dead man.