The county was called out. We ended up in the back of a deputy sheriff’s car, watching the car hood shimmer in the red-and-blue from the light bar. In time they brought us in for questioning and locked us up in county for a few days. Leonard at least had a conceal carry license, so illegally carrying a firearm wasn’t added to the list.
Brett came to visit. They let her give us food she brought from outside. I don’t think they’re supposed to do that, but once the county realized what Donnie and Will had been doing, they treated us well. They had discovered photographs of the kids that dated all the way back to the first murder, and the photos had been ugly. The poor kids’ dead and rotting bodies had been stacked in seats in the bookmobile and a timer on a camera had snapped away with Will and Donnie posing beside their wrecked remains like hunting trophies, which, in a way, I guess they were. There were all manner of things found on internet files. There were torture devices in Donnie’s house. It was a pretty slam-door case. I don’t know if they believed Leonard’s story about the shoot-out. But if they didn’t, no one said a word. There was also the fact that Donnie and Will had kept records of who the boys and how long they had kept them, as well as all they had done to them. Their records solved all the murders. The victims, with the exception of Harriet, (a relative’s DNA proved it was her) were unwanted kids, lost and forgotten, tossed out like used condoms.
I guess Tom Hoodalay still remains an asshole, and Nesbit needs a new owner for the tire and mechanic shop, not to mention some renovation.
We were back home pretty quick, though there was a bit of talk about us getting into trouble for breaking and entering, maybe a fine, a little jail time. That idea got shuffled and forgotten, thank goodness. No one really wanted to punish us for what happened to those two, not even for the lesser charges.
I brooded for a few days over Leonard shooting Donnie in cold blood, stayed home and didn’t go visit with him, didn’t even take his calls. Then Brett said, “Get over it. Leonard saved your life. And it isn’t the first time.”
“I know,” I said, “but I got to get right in the head. Killing doesn’t bother him. Me, I feel different.”
“You’ve killed, Hap, and if you had to, you’d do it again. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. I’m glad Leonard made sure you came home. Stop being a jackass.”
She was right. I called Leonard later that day. He answered, said, “You been pouting, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“Yeah, well, I knew you’d get over it.”
“When it involves you, I always do.”
“Yep.”
“One question,” I said. “After all that, after all the things we’ve done, the deaths, how do you sleep?”
“Deeply.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.”
“But, thanks, Leonard.”
“You’re welcome. Still sore from all that crap falling on you?”
“A little. Nothing serious. Thanks for pulling that off of me too.”
“Welcome again. But you owe me. We working out today?”
“I need another day to feel bad about who I am.”
“How about you take this day to know that there won’t be anymore kids abused and murdered by those two, and you don‘t have a hole in your head and about six feet of dirt over you? Want to do that?”
“That’s exactly what I’ll do,” I said.
“Alright, then. And Hap?”
“Yeah.”
“Go fuck yourself. Talk tomorrow.”
“Goodnight,” I said.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Joe R. Lansdale
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978-1-5040-4570-4
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