The Last Teacher: A Stand-Alone Mackenzie Mystery Page 6

  A few minutes later, I opened the front door. The RO hit the short buddy on his shoulder with the back of his hand, and all three called louder with laughter. The laughter stopped when I stepped into the light and they saw my pistol pointed at them. The slight sound of the safety being thumbed off was effective. My gun was stainless, so it caught the porch light glare. You can’t practice that. Takes talent. I left both the front door and screen door open and I stepped onto the lawn.

  “Howdy, Steve,” I said. “It’s two a.m. on a Friday night, and you’re throwing rocks at my house. What gives?”

  Drunk courage disappeared. Almost always happened that way. Human nature shied away from danger. The three men on my lawn squirmed, vulnerable before the barrel.

  I lowered the gun.

  “Big city boy,” he called back, “put’cher gun away. We ain’t here to shoot. Put it away.”

  “I assume you fine country dumbasses are lost?” I said. “Go for a drive and forget where you are?”

  “Put away the piece, August.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, we’re sure,” he said. His fingers twitched.

  “If you go for a gun, I’m putting one in your knee. Got it?” I said.

  They didn’t move.

  “Lovely night.” I risked a glance at the stars. “You fellows bring the champagne?”

  He cursed at my reasonable champagne suggestion, and spat.

  “You gotta beatin’ comin’, city boy,” Steve said. His consonants were slurred. “Put the gun down and take it like a man.”

  “The beating is inevitable?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s very alarming, Steveo. I’m discouraged.”

  “Threw my cuffs back at me,” he grumbled. “Tell’n me ‘No.’ Threatin’ me, sonuvabitch. Threatenin’ me! I’m the law!” He pointed at himself with his thumb. “Tellin’ me I don’t know how to spell.”

  “I told you I was sorry, Steve. And I meant it. You were just doing your job. I don’t want to fight you. Go take a nap in your car.”

  “Initiation,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Tha’s what you got comin’. An initiation.”

  “Into your boys club?” I said.

  “Into the South,” his vest-wearing buddy said. He spit. I wished they wouldn’t spit on my lawn so much. He was chewing tobacco. Nasty habit. Makes you spit on people’s lawns. Vest-Buddy looked as though he was usually mad, didn’t matter at what. I was convenient. “You don’t belong here, asshole.”

  “Put ‘way the gun. You disrespected me.” Officer Steve Reed stumbled over the word. Said it like, “dispectretd me.” “You disrespected the law. You got it comin’.”

  “You’re high as a kite, Steveo,” I said. “And about as intelligent.”

  He looked at me stupidly.

  “Smoked up? Marijuana? Are you high?”

  He glared. Stupidly. Maybe that’s all he had.

  “How do you know where I live?”

  “I’m the police!” he yelled, spittle flying.

  I shrugged and tucked my pistol shallowly into the back of my jeans. Steve wasted no time and went for his. He was slow and sloppy. Before he could get his hand behind his back, my gun was out again and aimed at him. The hammer drawing back sounded awesome in the silence.

  “Toss your gun to me,” I said. “Now. If your piece points at me, I’m firing. Straight into your chest. Understand? Toss me your gun.”

  He obeyed slowly, and it landed at my feet. His police issue, which showed intelligence. He’d have documentation for his qualification, potentially skirting legal trouble if he shot me.

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  They shook their heads.

  I fired into the tree behind them. The roar shocked all of us, even me and I knew it was coming. They nearly fell over.

  “Jesus, August, what the hell!”

  “I’ll ask again. You boys got a gun?”

  “No, we ain’t got nothing else, damn it.”

  I flicked the thumb safety on my Kimber, retrieved his pistol, and placed both it and mine on the wooden stairs leading to the front door. Risky. But they were drunk. Not that risky.

  “Okay,” I said. “Come on, fatties. Come try to hit me with your big fat hands.”

  Steve licked his lips and grinned. The three of them approached, fanning out slightly. Denim zipped and zopped audibly as they moved. No more talking. Their confidence was restored, three on one, no guns.

  “Or, you can walk away,” I said. “That’d be the smarter move. I used to do this for a living. And for fun.”

  Vest-Buddy snickered.

  Steve didn’t say anything else, but threw a slow right hook at me. I had plenty of time to weigh my options. I could evade and counter, but I had to make this look good, and he was throwing with his arm rather than shoulder. So I ducked my head and let him hit me just above the forehead. His knuckles hit the extremely thick bone of my skull, which is a dome and therefore very hard and well supported. I heard his hand crack and maybe even fracture. People never expect that. My vision dimmed and I rocked backwards but steadied immediately. Steveo, on the other hand, grabbed his wrist with a howl and staggered away.

  He was out of business for twenty seconds at least. Now it was two on one.

  Tall Guy was already getting behind a punch. I shoved him off balance with my right hand and grabbed the second guy by his vest with my left. He swung. I ducked and punched him in the stomach hard enough with my right hand to take the wind out of him and double him over, and then brought my knee into his face. He toppled backwards, blood spilling out of his nose.

  Tall Guy was on me again. I caught his punch with my left forearm and rammed the heel of my right hand into his teeth. His lip split. I kicked him in the crotch and he went down, holding himself.

  Steve had his injured hand gingerly tucked to his chest and reached for something on his belt with the other. I backhanded him across the face. He collapsed.

  He had been going for his clipped Buck knife. How would I have passed the time waiting for him to open it and threaten me?

  All three were passed out. It was late, they were very drunk, and the violence had simply been too much. They’d most likely sleep the rest of the night.

  I emptied the RO’s magazine and confiscated the chambered round before stuffing it back into his belt.

  The yellow Mustang in my driveway was registered to Steve Reed. Beer cans and candy wrappers littered the back seat. The bumper had a small, white, oval sticker with an “H” for Hatteras. I found a few pairs of handcuffs in the trunk.

  “Mr. August, you are a naughty man,” I said.

  23

  Our school office had an entire wall full of little wooden mailboxes for its staff. I checked mine on the way out the door, Monday. All I had was a little yellow slip of paper, informing me that I’d missed a call. I read the name twice.

  “This who I think it is?” I asked the secretary.

  “Mackenzie Allen’s mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes. She called about an hour ago and is hoping you can visit her after work. I wrote the directions on the back.”

  “Can’t imagine me being much comfort to a grieving mother,” I said.

  “Maybe she just wants to look at that great butt she keeps hearing about,” the guidance secretary called from the adjacent room.

  The school secretary tried not to smile and said, “If you’re going, would you take a few sympathy cards we signed for her?”

  “I don’t know why you’re smiling,” I said, accepting the cards. “It is great.”

  Mackenzie Allen’s mother lived on the western end of Mecklenburg County. Allen had grown up in Mecklenburg but went to Blue Stone Middle, rather than South Hill. I called Leta and explained the situation as I drove west on Highway 58 past Boydton and turned into an old but well-kept neighborhood. The houses were mostly brick ranches with very green lawns and old dignified trees shad
ing the windows. Her house looked similar to the rest, fronted by a small porch wide enough to contain a hanging bench and a rocking chair. Ms. Allen sat in the hanging bench.

  “I was hoping you’d come,” she called as I walked up her sidewalk. “You’re Mr. August, right?”

  “That’s me,” I said, and offered my hand. “Call me Mack.”

  “Just like my boy. Call me Debbie.”

  “I can see where Mackenzie Allen got his smile,” I said.

  “I heard you were a charmer,” she said. “And I heard about your accent. Where are you from?”

  “Louisiana, for the first ten years.”

  “It’s a very attractive accent,” she said, and patted the bench next to her. I sat.

  She’d been gardening. Her Reeboks were dirty, a pair of gloves was draped over the bench arm, and her jeans bore grass stains. She looked fifty and like she’d just gotten over a few days crying. She took the sympathy cards from my hands.

  “South Hill Middle,” she said and she shook her head. “What a nice bunch of people.”

  “I think so.”

  “Were you at the funeral?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  “I was pretty noisy, huh?”

  “Nobody minded.”

  “Hah,” she said, and elbowed me lightly. “Better not.”

  “I was impressed by the turnout.”

  “Not me. Mack was a good kid and everybody liked him. Plus, it was a sudden…interesting death. Always draws a bigger crowd.”

  “I met him about a month ago. Really liked him. We were going to play cards.”

  “Yep.” She nodded. “Sounds like my Mackenzie. Loved cards.”

  “I like your garden.”

  “It gives me something to do, you know. Takes my mind off things. I think I have a few more days of sad left in me before I start working again. I’m a teacher too, you know. Blue Stone Elementary.”

  We sat in silence for a minute or two. She seemed very comfortable and so was I. I’d always been good with silence. She kicked her feet back and forth and rocked the bench. The chains creaked on the backswing.

  “You found his body,” she said after a while.

  “I did.”

  “I bet that was scary.”

  “A little. I’ve some experience with bodies.”

  “Detective Andrews told me you used to be a police officer.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I started out as a highway patrolman and then joined the Los Angeles Police Department. Later I was appointed to the Criminal Investigation Department.”

  “He said you were a detective?”

  “In the Homicide Division.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “Too many reasons.”

  “He said that when you quit it made the newspaper. That you were kind of famous.”

  “I worked a few highly publicized cases,” I said.

  “Were you good?”

  “My sergeant thought so.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “I put a lot of people in jail,” I said. “Made him look tough.”

  “Detective Andrews said you were going to investigate my Mackenzie’s murder.”

  “I’m going to help. Poke my nose around, see if I can find anything the police don’t.”

  “I’d like to pay you,” she said.

  “No ma’am.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” she said. “You seem the proud type.”

  “I told Andrews and myself that I would help. I’m helping because there’s a killer that needs to be locked up. And because I liked Mackenzie. Not because of money.”

  “But don’t some retired detectives work for money?”

  “Private detectives, yeah. But I’m not one,” I said.

  “I’d still like to pay you.”

  “I work for free.”

  “But I want him found,” she said and her face collapsed into tears and grief. She buried her face into my chest and hit me lightly with her fist. “I want him found, I want him found, and locked up or electrocuted. It’s not fair, it’s not fair,” she repeated over and over. I hugged her shoulder. “It’s too hard. Too hard that Mackenzie is dead and I don’t know why or who.” We kept swinging silently for another couple minutes. Her shoulders gradually quit shaking. I could picture her son climbing the tree in the front yard when he was younger. She sat up and wiped her eyes. “I’m tired of crying,” she said. “But I have to know why he died. Please find out.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  24

  Third period was my first planning period. I loved planning periods. My feet went on my desk, I popped a can of Pepsi, downed a bag of Frito Honey Twists, checked a couple of my favorite internet news sites, and then afterwards did actual work. Computer whiz Mr. Cannon had shown me how to bypass the school firewall so I could check my other email account or play games on the internet, so sometimes no actual work was done. That happened only intermittently, however, as most days I prided myself on being a standup guy. Mackenzie August, man of integrity. Most days.

  Christina sat at her desk, working on a study sheet. She was like many girls in the eighth grade: perky, loud, mouth full of braces, getting used to herself. Her parents were concerned about her grades, and so she sat in my classroom and corrected her test rather than play basketball in gym.

  “Done, Mr. August,” she said, and she brought me her paper. I inspected it. I’m a trained investigator, after all.

  “Christina,” I said slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know I’m a trained investigator?”

  “Mr. August, please,” she said, and bounced up and down. “I want to go to gym.”

  “Christina,” I said again. “These are all correct.”

  “Yes!” she yelped, raised her hands and ran out the door. “Thank you, Mr. August.”

  I finished my drink, threw the can into a bag I kept for recycling, and walked to the intercom panel. I buzzed the office.

  The attendance secretary’s voice came over the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Can you tell Officer Reed that I’d like to see him when he’s free? No rush, no emergency.”

  “Certainly.”

  My door opened a few minutes later. Officer Reed kept his hand on the doorknob, leaned halfway into the room and said, “Need something?”

  “Steveo! What Hercules gave you that shiner?”

  He tried to look passive and professional, but color rose into his face. Under his right eye sat a purple-green bruise and his face was swollen around it. His hand on the doorknob was wrapped in a soft splint.

  “Me. It was me,” I said. “Only now remembered. I hit you. It was awesome.”

  “Mr. August,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “I want to show you something. Have a seat.”

  I sat in one of the student desks and motioned for him to sit near me. He hesitated and then walked in and closed the door. I picked up a remote as he sat near me. A TV was sitting on a metal cart in front of us near the chalkboard.

  “Check this out,” I said, and pressed play on the remote. “Stick around, watch the whole thing. It’s in your best interest.”

  The dark screen flickered and turned blue. Then the sound kicked in and my face appeared on the screen. The light was dim but my face was clear.

  This is Mack August. Its two a.m., Friday night.

  ”Oh my god…” he whispered softly beside me.

  There is yelling outside and rocks are being thrown at my house. I’m here alone with my nine-month-old son. I’m going outside and will attempt to videotape the encounter, in case something happens to me.

  The camera was set down and the video was dark. Then the screen lit up, out of focus, as the blinds were raised and the front yard came into view. The picture focused and Steve and his buddies came into sharp relief.

  “I don’t want to give it away,” I said. “But this is where
the story gets good.”

  On the screen, I could be seen stepping onto the front porch, and the camera could also see my pistol. My words were clear, because I had intentionally spoken loudly. Most of Steve’s words were clear, especially when he yelled. The footage indicated that he was drunk.

  “Why are we watching this shit?”

  “Shhh. This is my favorite part.”

  On screen, I said, Straight into your chest. Understand? Toss me your gun.

  We watched.

  I grunted as I was hit in the head onscreen. The camera caught me from my knees up, surrounded and attacked. It was great television.

  “Pow, right in my forehead. That was a doozey. I didn’t use a stunt double or anything, Steveo. That was me. And it hurt. You throw a mean right.”

  He said nothing.

  The fight ended quickly. I tried not to swell with pride.

  On screen, I walked back indoors and the screen went dark.

  “Okay,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve seen this part.”

  The picture cut in again.

  This is Mack August again. I was assaulted by three men, one of them armed with a loaded gun. They attacked me and I’ve been struck in the head. Fortunately they were drunk. I got lucky.

  The camera was being carried down the lawn, away from the light, to the driveway. The camera stopped bouncing briefly, a light clicked on, and a small section of my yard became visible in the pale light.

  The driver is drunk, and I don’t want him driving away and killing someone. So, I cuffed them to the car.

  The light fell onto the yellow Mustang. Steve lay facedown near the rear driver side tire. His arms were wrapped around the tire and handcuffed. That had taken a lot of work.

  This is Steve Reed. He is a police officer. The resource officer at South Hill Middle School, where I work.

  Steve swore again and called me a name that is inappropriate for an eighth-grade classroom. I should make him stand outside.

  He brought two friends, threw rocks at my house, and told me he needed to beat me up. He brought his gun with him and attempted to pull it on me at one point. I don’t recognize the other two guys, who are handcuffed to one another on my lawn.