When he hit Jacksonville, he called his older sister Maggie, with the phone number she had given him five years ago. It was near eight o’clock. He surprised himself at his own good time.
The phone rang four times and was picked up. The voice mail greeting sounded muddy, like it had been played way too many times, so it belonged, he thought, to an answering machine. “Hello, Maggie, this is Bruce. I’m in town and was wondering–”
There was a click and a squeal as the phone was picked up. “Hey, Bruce.”
“Roy, how’s it going.”
“Good, she’s not home, though.”
“Where do you live? I didn’t get your address.”
“Oh, we’re in one of those over-55 places in Port Charlotte.”
“How far is that from Jacksonville?”
“It’s like five or six hours from there. Want directions?”
“Just the address.” He took out a pen and wrote it on the inside of his jacket. He looked around for a clock, and finally glanced at the one on his phone, pulling it away from his ear. “It’s 19:50 now…yeah it’ll be late. I’ll be there tomorrow instead? You guys work?”
“I don’t. She went to see your dad.”
“How is he?”
“He’s bad shape, Bruce. He’s not going to be much longer for this world.”
“Uh, huh, that’s what I’ve been hearing. Okay, I’ll probably head south and go as far as I can before I can’t see anymore.”
“Be careful, Bruce. I’ll tell her you called – want her to call you?”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll probably be on the road.”
“Right. All right, see you tomorrow sometime. Good night.”
“Night.” Bomber hung up and looked around the parking lot he had parked in to make his call. He pulled out the GPS, punched in Port Charlotte. It didn’t give him any towns in between, so he would just have to follow the route given and find someplace to stay.
The rain chased him off the highway in Ocala. It was after nine, so the streets along the strip malls were relatively clear. He was going to have to use his fake ID to get into one of the Best Westerns unfortunately. And they were usually leery about people paying cash. He figured he’d have to just take his chances.
He pulled in under the carport and got off the bike. He knew he looked like a drowned bald rat as he walked into the lobby. He knew he looked like a terrorist walking over to the clerk. She looked in her mid twenties, and that would be pushing it. He took off his glasses and smiled his winning smile. “May I have a room, preferably with a place to keep my bike out of the rain?”
She blinked. Bomber had used his more formal, “report to superior officer” voice, which had no trace of the Georgia twang he had picked up in the Army, or the rough biker language he could call upon when needed. He knew that would disarm her, which was why he chose that tone of voice.
“Of course, sir, I’ll need your ID.”
He gave it to her, and she examined it and wrote the name down. The name belonged to a dead man from Wiergate, Texas. All the information was that man’s, except for the picture. She handed him the ID back and he pulled out his wallet. “Seventy-eight dollars for the night, sir.”
He gave her eighty, not wanting to use the hundreds that he had because they would arouse suspicion. He took the keycard. “There’s a place to park bikes at the end of that hallway. Your room looks out on it.”
“Thank you kindly,” he said, and saluted her with the keycard.
She went into when the continental breakfast opened and when checkout time was, but he half-heard it. He planned to be on the road at sunrise.
Day 6, Friday
He wondered how many retirees would be pissed as he rode through the condo compound. He smiled to himself as he pulled into the driveway and looked around, the bike still running. Then he dismounted as he saw someone come onto the screened-in porch.
Roy was about 60, twenty years older than his sister, but he was the kindest, most considerate and loving man to her that he had ever met. At first he had balked over his age, but found that he was far more mature than any of the other men she had gone out with that were her age. He himself could attest to that. However, they both refused to get married, instead living in a common-law partnership. Bomber assumed it was about money, but he could never be sure.
“Nice bike,” Roy said, coming over to him. He looked the part of the retiree, polo shirt, plaid pants, socks in sandals. Mickey shook his hand and Roy gave him a manly hug. “It’s not a Harley?”
“Everybody rides Harleys. It’s an Indian. Not a California one, but an original Springfield one.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yeah. Can’t restore it fully, though. It’s got the Indian chassis and the tank, the bars and the tires, but I had to get the rims custom made, and it’s got an Ironhead 1000cc engine off a ’72 Sportster…I’m boring you.”
Roy laughed. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but that’s all right. Come on inside. I got some Mike’s Hard Lemonade.”
“That’ll work.”
Then a high-pitched woman’s voice screeched, “MISTER Bennett.”
Bomber turned around, an eyebrow raised. An old woman, slightly bent over in age, with a cane and somewhat shaking, was looking at them accusingly.
“What is this, this…monstrosity doing in your driveway?”
“This is Maggie’s brother, come to visit.”
Slipping into biker-mode, Bomber walked slowly, making himself seem more menancing at each step. He got the reaction from the woman he wanted as he moved. “Why, you got a problem?”
He gave her credit as she did not back down. “I don’t like those machines.”
“Tough shit, lady.”
She gasped. “How! How dare you speak to me–”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, bitch.”
“Mickey!” cried out Roy.
Mickey walked up to her and took her cane right out of her hands. She tottered but didn’t fall. He bent the metal cane in half and threw it on the ground. “You got a fuckin’ problem, bitch, you take it up with me.”
All she could do was hyperventilate. “My, my…”
“Yeah, whatever.” He left her there, and walked by Roy into the house. Roy didn’t follow him, as he half-expected. He just walked in, went to the fridge and grabbed a Mike’s. Then he sat and put both feet up on the table, kicking back the kitchen chair, and he waited.
Roy came in, steaming. “What the hell is wrong with you, Mickey?!”
Bomber only smiled. “People that old should be dead.”
“You’re talking about your father, you know.”
“Yeah,” he said, taking another drink. “I know. Now where’s he at?”
“He’s in a nursing home, Cedar Meadows.”
“Sounds like a fuckin’ cemetary.”
“Mickey. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nuthin’. This is what I am, Roy.” He got up, finished the lemonade, and found the trash. He tossed it into it, seeing the recycling bin right next to it. “What’s the address?”
“4783 Firebird Road. It’s off–”
He pulled out the GPS and put the address in. “Got it.” He saluted Roy with the GPS device before dropping it into his pocket. “Tell Maggie I said hi.”
“You’re not going to stay?”
“Nope.”
He went back outside to his bike. He started it up with a window-rattling roar, and eased out onto the street. Without a backwards glance, he followed the GPS’ directions to the nursing home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leaving the olive drab jacket and his sunglasses in the saddlebags, he took one long draught of vitae before heading in. It calmed him and revitalized him, made him more aware of his surroundings and faster to react. It also made him much stronger and fearless, which was something he always needed in front of his father, no matter what condition he was in.
The nursing home smell assaulted him, and he winced from it. The medicinal smells could not entirely mask the stench of unwashed bodies, urine and excrement and blood. He took a breath through his mouth and went over to the clerk. “Paul Michaelaine, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She looked up the name on a paper. “Room 189. Take a left right here and keep going.”
“Thanks.”
He started walking, glancing into rooms. Most of the residents were in hospital beds, which changed Bomber’s perception. He thought it would be a simple apartment or something, but instead it looked like it was the last place people would end up. He noted the rooms, and stood outside 189. He glanced around to see if there were any nurses or the like, but none were there.
He walked in. He glanced in the first bed, a man was snoring loudly, his skinny body curled up like a mummy in the fetal position. He glanced in the second bed.
His father looked gaunt and hallow, with an ugly yellow pallor to him. Bomber saw a curtain that was between them, and pulled it so it blocked any viewing from the doorway or his roomie. He glanced around, and saw that there were no IV’s, no machines. There was a catheter, and oxygen that would be in his nose but was pushed up behind the pillow. He was sleeping, more like dozing.
Bomber looked at him, and thought now was the perfect time. But no, he wanted to talk to him first. He shook his father by the shoulder. “Pa,” he murmured.
He woke up slowly, with a snort, then looked over. “Who’re you?”
Bomber took off the glasses. “Bruce.”
“You got no hair.” The man blinked in recognition.
“I shaved it off a couple of years ago.”
He tried to sit up, but Bomber gently pushed him down. He felt like he was pressing down on a bag of bones. “No, lay down, you need your rest.”
He fell to the bed with a grunt and a sigh. “Yeah, maybe. What’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to tell you how you ruined my life.”
“What?”
With a gentle smile, Bomber continued, “All my life, I could do nothing to impress you. I was worthless to you. I was stupid. Straight A’s? Not good enough. Got a job at sixteen? Not good enough. Went into the army? Not good enough.”
“Bruce, what are you–”
“Shut up. Because of you, I’ve always thought I was never good enough. Never could be better. I carried that through the Army. Never went into competition because I didn’t think I was ever good enough, though I’m an expert marksman. Because of you, I was gentle, and kind, and opened doors for women, and I was a fuckin’ wuss.” He glared at his father. “I hate women.”
His father snarled, “So you’re a faggot?”
The smile got wider. “Oh, no. I’ll do either one, whenever I want, however I want. Because you know what? I’m better than you. I’m better than anyone here. I’m better than three quarters of this world. I’ve got power. And I’ve got strength.” He leaned forward. “I’ll impress you.” Then he put a hand over his father’s mouth, another around his throat. He tried to scream but it came out muffled. Bomber climbed on the bed and kneeled on his legs to keep him still, and put all his weight behind the hand holding his throat. He listened with his keen hearing to see if anyone would come in.
He waited until the struggles stopped, and still kept pressure. He waited for what seemed to be a long time, and then pulled himself off his father’s legs. He released his hold on the man’s throat, and then his mouth. He checked to see if there was any bruising.
“Shit,” he hissed, seeing that there was a full handprint on the man’s throat. Well, the FBI had his fingerprints, so as long as he kept his nose clean he could head back up to Rhode Island and catch the ferry back to the Isles, where they couldn’t touch him.
Needless to say, he wasn’t going to this funeral.
He went down the hall. The hall cut off and went down another one to a set of stairs. This led to a second floor, which then had another hallway, leading out to a large balcony. He pushed open the french doors that opened out to it, and then walked across it to the edge. He judged the jump, and easily vaulted over the railing to the ground. He dashed across the lawn, jumped over the hedges and arrived at his bike. This was the first time he didn’t want the roar of the bike to wake anyone up, but there was nothing else for it.
He had visited the family he needed to. The good thing was, he didn’t have to visit his brother in Shridan Correctional Facility.
As he rode, he knew that Horsemen wasn’t where he was really wanted or needed. He was cannon fodder to them. But out here, he was a king among men. Yet, he had to do one thing…see Jones.
Words: 2111
Inspiration: Father, my own.
Port Charlotte – where my uncle lives. I have pictures of the area. The condo was based on my uncle’s.