RSS 2.0 FeedThe Tail
Maybe it was inherent paranoia, but Urbanksi felt, the whole way from St. Pierre, that somebody was following them. That's why Samson liked him as a partner – he'd kept them out of quite a few speed traps and narrow escapes. In reality the white Taurus probably had only been following them the past few miles. It was unlikely the Feds would use the same tail the whole route; the white Taurus may have switched places with the red VW, or perhaps the yellow Hummer Samson had flipped off.
When Urbanski pointed out the car, Samson didn't joke. While this road wasn't private –the gravel drive was still a couple miles ahead – it was secluded; traffic was rare, and only Kingsley's men traveled it regularly. A few moonshiners and pot growers, perhaps, though Kingsley had driven most of them out of the county. Ignorant rednecks just couldn't compete with the urbane sort of gangster Kingsley styled himself after. Perhaps Southern rednecks, the original thing, could have put up a fight, but Midwestern rednecks are a milder bunch, except for the meth producers, and Kingsley was too well-respected among the latter for any problems to arise. Hell, Kingsley funded a good two-thirds of Illinois methamphetamine production. Even the Feds had to respect that.
That didn't mean the Feds wouldn't intervene; it just meant they had to build a case first. The local law wasn't much help; Kingsley had the sheriff in his pocket, and most of the deputies were scared shitless. Kingsley knew which strings to pull, and usually the first was the children angle. Children created a significant crack in any suit of armor, which was why Urbanski, though married twice, had never had any kids. The way he figured it, only Kingsley was powerful enough to have kids and not worry about anything happening to them.
The white Taurus had no front plate, which meant nothing by itself; Fed cars came with all kinds of markings and whatnot. Urbanski couldn't see who was driving, or how many people were in the car. Samson had slowed down, but the Taurus didn't pass. It slowed down with them.
"Suspicious," Urbanski said. "It's gotta be Feds."
"You think it's that Anderson guy? The suit I met last week?"
"Could be. He look like the action type?"
Samson thought about it. He had long blond hair, like his namesake. "Samson" probably wasn't what his mother had named him; but his mother was dead, his father was missing, and Samson had free reign to name himself whatever he wanted – but it fit, because he was big and bad, and you didn't mess with him if you were in your right mind. Samson's strength and Urbanski's paranoia; they were one of Kingsley's better teams, no doubt about it.
Samson's one annoying habit – or at least the most annoying – was that whenever he was nervous he twirled his hair around his index finger, like some absent-minded schoolgirl. He was doing it now, driving with one hand, eyes on the rearview mirror. The van stayed straight, but Urbanski was looking at the road, waiting for the white line on the right to slip closer. He had a phobia of car wrecks – an odd thing for a man to have in his profession; but it stemmed from his childhood, when he'd survived a brutal wreck that had killed his mother and sister. Only he and his father had lived, both scarred, and both had turned to booze; it just took Urbanski a few more years.
Samson was a good driver, but that often worked against a man – you turned too confident in your driving, you eventually slipped up somehow. That's what'd happened with Urbanski's father. One little mistake.
Instead of mentioning the Fed again, Samson said, "Hell, it could just be someone's lost."
"Heck of a place to get lost."
"It's the perfect place to get lost."
Samson returned to his driving, and Urbanski turned around in his seat. The Taurus had crept a little closer, but he still couldn't see through the windshield. Was the driver motioning at them? It looked like some furtive sort of movement was going on behind the darkened surface.
"I think they want us to pull over," Urbanski said; just then the Taurus honked.
"Hell," Samson said. "Goddammit."
Urbanski reached under his seat and pulled up the Beretta. He chambered a round and rested the gun on his lap. Samson eyed it and shook his head. Samson, Urbanski knew, did not like guns, probably because he'd never had to use one. You didn't shoot at a guy like Samson for fear of pissing him off.
"Don't do nothin’ rash," Samson said. "Remember the last time you shot at someone?"
Urbanski did, because Kingsley would never let him forget it. Urbanski had been doing night duty at a production lab upstate, in a county he'd never visited before. His job had been security, and though he wasn't the best man for it, he was there as punishment for sleeping with someone important's wife. In his defense, Urbanski and the wife had been too hopped up to remember anything about the incident, but apparently the husband had caught them in an extremely compromising position.
Urbanski, no stranger to furtive liaisons, had an idea what that position might have been and complained to Kingsley. Kingsley hadn't gotten mad, but had still put Urbanski on guard duty in some obscure, low-level county for a week. A no-stress job, supposedly; the production level in the county was so small that even the Feds weren't supposed to know about it.
And, truthfully, the Fed's hadn't known about it. But, unknown to Kingsley, the local producers hadn't been paying the sheriff enough protection money, and the bastard had looked deep into his conscience and decided to make good on his career. He'd led a late-night raid, and Urbanski, not expecting to see anyone in the woods that late, fired. Unfortunately, the man he shot wasn't one of the raiding deputies, but one of the lab's crew who'd stepped out for a piss. The sheriff's department used the gunfire as an excuse to move in.
Though Urbanski had managed to slip away – literally, he fell down a gully – the shooting had made the raid far more serious than it otherwise would have been. All production in that county was shut down, and Kingsley had been furious, though Urbanski only caught part of his wrath. The turncoat sheriff had received his dog's head in the mail. Urbanski had merely gotten a talking-to.
A year later, the incident was a joke among the guys, though one never knew how seriously Kingsley took it. Maybe, behind the smile, he was lamenting the loss of income, small as it had been. Kingsley could afford to lose some money, but that didn't mean he liked it. Urbanski treaded cautiously around Kingsley ever since and did everything possible not to piss him off. He didn't have a dog, but he had an ex-wife he was fond of. To Kingsley, women and dogs were pretty much the same.
Urbanski stroked the gun on his lap. He wasn't an especially good shot, but then he seldom had to fire a gun. Even among men of the sort employed in his line of work, guns garnered respect. If you had a gun, people took you seriously. They didn't have to trust you, they just had to respect and fear you. Casually pull out a gun, tickle the trigger guard with your finger, and you could get whatever you wanted. It also helped that Urbanski had the scars from the wreck that had killed his mother and sister; even his unkempt facial hair couldn't hide them. The one above his left eye was especially menacing. He looked like a guy who had done hard time, even though he'd never spent more than a night in jail.
"We'll wait and see how long they follow us," Samson said. "If they turn off onto the drive, we'll know they're Feds."
"We should've done something about that Anderson guy."
"You can't just kill a Fed."
"He could've disappeared. Kingsley's done it before."
"He just says he has. If Feds have been disappearing as much as Kingsley lets on, do you really think he'd still be in business?"
"Well," Urbanski said, because he knew there had been nothing they could do about Anderson. The man had merely been asking questions; not subtly, but then the Feds had stopped being subtle a couple years ago. You could spot a Fed a mile away; no one in Central Illinois wore suits out of doors, and for some reason the Feds refused to dress casual. And even then, they would've stood out because they were all young and good looking, clean-shaven, fit. They carried themselves as though they were better than everyone around them. That made their job difficult; if they'd just let loose, the locals would be more trusting. Not that anyone had to worry about that happening any time soon. The Feds made damn sure they alienated everyone they talked to, especially people suspected of working for Kingsley.
Urbanski felt his pulse quicken as they neared the drive. Samson slowed even further, but the Taurus didn’t go around. It crept closer, and now Urbanski could see two shapes behind the windshield. If they'd been in the open, he could’ve seen more details, known right away if they were dealing with Feds. But twilight descended quickly in the forest, and the interior of the Taurus was a murky den in which anyone could be hiding. As he turned onto the drive, Samson almost came to a complete stop. Urbanski held his breath as the van turned right, off the county road and onto the gravel drive. Tires churned rocks into the forest, and a cloud of white dust immediately spawned to life behind them. The Taurus hesitated. There was a moment of indecision, then the car crept around the corner and pulled onto the drive behind the van.
"Shit," Urbanski hissed, barely audible.
"Call ahead," Samson told him. "Tell them."
Urbanski did. He couldn't tell who he talked to – he was bad at identifying voices over the phone – but whoever it was seemed incredulous. "The Feds wouldn't dare," the voice said.
"Well, they did," Urbanski told him. "Just be ready for us." He hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, then rolled down his window. Dust swept into the van, and Urbanski coughed and wiped his eyes. "Slow down," he said.
Samson did. "Be careful. Let's wait."
"I'll wait," Urbanski said, and turned around on his seat to watch the Taurus. Waiting, as the song went, was the hardest part. Urbanski hated to wait. He couldn't even stand in line at the Wal-Mart. The gun on his lap just made things worse; it suggested that this was serious, that at the end of the wait something bad would happen. If they had to gun down a couple of Feds, even out here in the wilderness with no witnesses, they would have to run. Urbanski had heard stories about running, but had never thought he would have to do it himself. He didn't have much to keep him tied here, but you didn't need much – he had just enough to call it a life. The thought of leaving behind his house, the ex-wife he still talked to, his friends…it was almost unbearable.
Urbanski went cold. The back of his mouth felt dry, numb. His taste buds tingled. He'd been this way that night on guard duty, when he'd first seen the shape moving in the trees. The feeling said, "This shit is going down." For a moment, Urbanski wished it all away – the gun, the Taurus, even the van. He could be at home, watching Jeopardy reruns. He'd been thinking about buying a cat and an inflatable swimming pool. And that waitress at the Steak 'n Shake, Deborah, he'd wanted to ask her out. Sure, she was a few years younger than him, but he had his scars, and women liked that.
He almost didn't notice the Taurus's passenger window roll down. He was lost in his fear, wondering if he'd ever been this afraid, if he'd even come close to this that night he'd accidently shot one of Kingsley's men. He hadn't been on his home turf then; he could've come back to Charleston County and lived peacefully. Now he would have to leave, all on account of some meddling Feds who suddenly decided to take things to the next level.
But he did see the window roll down, and he saw the arm extend. He thought, Don't shoot, keep it cool don't shoot, look for God's sake, look closely. What he said was, "Oh, Jesus."
Completely turned, Urbanski crouched on the seat. His left arm lifted of its own accord, slipped out the window. He wasn't even aware when he began firing; he couldn’t feel anything, not even the Beretta's recoil. He couldn't hear the shots, which was crazy because the gun was fucking loud. He could see the Taurus, though, the windshield cracking, bullets smashing into the hood. He saw the arm draw back inside, slowly, perhaps in shock. There was no gun or badge or anything; he'd noticed that at first, but had let his instincts run away from him. The Beretta hadn't cared if the Taurus's passenger was a threat or not; the Beretta just wanted to be fired, and it fired admirably, until the clip was empty, and even then Urbanksi kept pulling the trigger until Samson grabbed his shoulder and jerked him around.
The van had come to a stop. So had the Taurus, thanks largely to a tree. Samson gripped Urbanski by both shoulders. He was saying something, but Urbanski still couldn't hear. The numbness had gone from his mouth; now it felt thick, wet, like he'd just chewed a bunch of slugs. His hand clenched the Beretta so tightly it hurt; Samson had to pry the pistol away from him, damn near breaking Urbanski's middle finger in the process. Samson dropped the gun on the floor of the van, gave Urbanski one last look, and got out.
Urbanski sat there until he caught up with the rest of the world; he had enough sense to wait at least that small amount of time. It only took a few seconds; suddenly he was hearing again, aware of a pain in his ear, which may or may not have been related to the throbbing in his head and hand. He could taste again, not slugs but vomit, though he didn't throw up. His legs and arms felt heavy, but he still managed to get out of the van. Samson was beside the wrecked car, staring in through the passenger window, and he turned as he heard Urbanski walking up behind him. "I told you to stay in the van."
Urbanski shook his head – it seemed like an appropriate response – and stepped closer to get a better look. The person in the passenger seat was an old man, perhaps seventy. He was still breathing, but wouldn't be for much longer. His face was a mixture of flesh, blood, and glass. The woman in the driver's seat, equally old, was most likely dead; her face was buried in the airbag, but her head was turned at a bad angle. It occurred to Urbanski that she hadn't even been shot – that she'd been a victim of her own reckless driving, killed by the airbag meant to save her life.
He pulled open the passenger door, ignoring – rather, not understanding – Samson's protests. The old man had been pressed against the door; his body lurched against the seatbelt, and he let out a sigh, not his last breath but close to it.
"He was probably just flagging us," Samson said. "Christ."
In the man's hand, the one resting near his wife's body, was a piece of paper with handwriting on it. Urbanski pulled it out and held it up; in the fading light, he recognized what appeared to be a crude map of the area, drawn by someone who had never been there but had merely heard about it.
"They were lost," Samson said. He walked around to the back of the car. "Indiana plates."
Urbanski turned from the Taurus and walked back to the van, still clutching the directions in his fist. He slumped against the vehicle, inhaling the dust that was slowly settling around them. He could hear shouting further down the drive, also the sound of a truck motor turning over. He slid down the side of the van until he was leaning against the tire. He opened his hand and read the directions carefully, several times over, until he was certain he knew where the couple had been going and how to get there. It wasn't that hard to figure out. He'd grown up here; he knew this country like the back of his hand.
Daniel Davis recently received his M.A. from Eastern Illinois University and currently resides in Urbana, IL, where he's discovering how impractical an M.A. can be. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can find him at www.dumpsterchickenmusic.blogspot.com.