Evangeline Read online

  Shortly after crossing the Hainesville line, as the truck was passing seemingly endless rows of browning cornstalks, something caught the corner of my eye. It was a scarecrow with a pumpkin for a head, stuffed with rags and mounted on a wooden frame near the road. It was rare to see a scarecrow in Nebraska, the crows simply laughed at them, but some farmer with a sense of humor had stuck one in the ground for the Halloween season.

  On a sudden whim I pulled the truck over, grabbed the macramé bag and walked out toward the cornfield for a closer look. The scarecrow was outfitted in old Levis and a checkered cotton shirt. Stepfather wore checked cotton shirts, so right away ol’ pumpkin head was on my shit list. And I didn’t much care for that smarmy look drawn on his stupid face either.

  Fuckin’ scarecrow. Clearly he had to die.

  I checked the road both ways. It was a lightly traveled stretch, and the nearest farmhouse was a good quarter mile distant, so I walked to within twenty paces, pulled the snub nose and the box of ammo from the macramé bag and loaded all six chambers.

  After snapping the cylinder back into place I assumed a shooter’s stance; feet apart, body balanced and arms extended, with hands on the grip and finger on the trigger. I centered the two-inch barrel on the pumpkin and calmly ticked off the firing procedure just as Stumpy had taught Angeline; acquire sight picture… steady the aim… easy squeeze.

  BANG!

  The gun jumped slightly and the bullet blew a hole through the pumpkin just above the left eye. I took two steps closer, lowered the sight and BANG! fired the next round into his chest. But I wasn’t done yet. I brought my aim lower still--until that barrel was pointed right at the scarecrow’s crotch--then began walking forward, squeezing off shots.

  BANG!

  BANG!

  BANG!

  BANG!

  Friends, I blew the shit out of that raggedy-ass bastard’s Fruit of the Looms.

  Now it was time for the real deal.

  Bring on Harland Lee Wade.

  I was parked in front of Pete’s Canteen a good twenty minutes before the pervie arrived just before 5:30. The hot blood was pumping in my ears as I watched the man climb from his Chevy and disappear into the bar. My plan was to stay put until he came out again, but curiosity got the better of me and I soon followed him inside.

  The bar was dimly lit and nearly empty, with a faint whiff of mold and stale beer. The walls were decorated with military paraphernalia, including photos, patches, helmets and various types of weaponry. Country music was blaring on the juke box and a pool table in the corner looked about as warped as the twisted sonofabitch shooting eight ball on it.

  Harland Lee Wade was trying to line up a shot as I wiggled and wobbled past him on my high heels before parking my butt at the far end of the bar. I swung on the stool and crossed my legs, hiking Elvira’s dress so far up my thighs that my coochie almost made a guest appearance.

  The pervie shot and missed.

  A somber looking bartender with thick frame glasses and a gunboat grey crew-cut, approached. I assumed this was Pete.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Bourbon,” I said, exuding worldly confidence. Truth was I’d never tasted bourbon--nor any alcohol for that matter--but being it was Mother’s favorite beverage, it seemed the mature choice.

  “How would you like that?” asked the bartender

  “In a glass,” said I.

  Pete arched a brow as he pulled a tumbler from under the bar. “Can I see some I.D please?”

  I fumbled through the macramé purse. There was no ID in there, of course… nothing inside that bag but bullets and iron. Across the room, Harland Lee was checking me out as he circled the table for another shot.

  “Whoops. Looks like I forgot my wallet,” I informed the bartender. “But trust me, I’m old enough.”

  Pete frowned and removed the glass from the bar. “Unless you can show some identification, miss, I can’t serve you.”

  “Seriously,” I frowned.

  “Seriously,” Pete deadpanned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

  I huffed indignantly and slid off the stool. “This place sucks,” I barked over my shoulder while wobbling back toward the door. Before exiting I caught Harland Lee ogling my ass. The man averted his eyes but it hardly mattered… I knew he’d taken the bait.

  At ten past six, a few minutes before Harland Lee Wade was due to depart, I climbed from the pickup and stood beside the open driver’s side door. Every minute or so I checked my clasp wristwatch-- an old-school windup that once belonged to Mother. A cell phone certainly would have been nice, but my sister was the last teenager on the planet without one.

  As 6:15 came and went there was still no sign of Harland. At twenty past the hour, with the sun hovering low on the horizon, I considered poking my head back into the bar to see where he’d disappeared to. And that’s when I heard the man calling goodbye to Pete the bartender.

  It was show time, folks. I immediately launched into my performance-- leaning into the truck with my ass sticking out, pretending to search for something under the seat. “Dammit,” I cried out in frustration. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

  “Something wrong?”

  I straightened and glanced over to find the pervie standing outside his car. There was no indication he recognized the truck as the same that had fled his house a few weeks earlier.

  “I lost my keys,” I said, feigning panic. “I don’t know how I’ll get home.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?” he asked, brushing past me and leaning into the cab.

  “Right after I got here… I think.”

  He ran his fingers behind and under the bench seat. “Maybe you left them in the bar. I can take a look if you want.”

  “Oh, would you? That is so sweet.”

  As the man disappeared back into Pete’s Canteen, I took the opportunity to primp the wig and check my look in the side-view mirror. In all modesty, friends, your humble servant’s performance had been Oscar caliber. But the show was far from over. In a few minutes Harland Lee returned to the parking lot.

  “I checked where you were sitting and there’s nothing there,” he said crossing toward the truck. “The bartender hasn’t seen them either. Is there someone you can call?”

  I shook my head. “I’m kind of new in town,” I told him, before anxiously checking the watch. “Shoot. Listen, I have an extra set of keys at the house. Would it be too much trouble to drive me there? It’s only five minutes.”

  “Absolutely,” he said, waving me toward his Cutlass. “Hop in.”

  “Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” I said, grabbing my purse from the cab and hurrying after him. “Thank you so, so much.”

  “Which way we headed?” he asked as he slipped behind the wheel.

  I climbed into the passenger’s seat and pointed north. “Township Road.”

  We left Pete’s Canteen, headed for the remote spot I’d chosen for the execution. It was the October harvest and clouds of brown dust rose on the horizon where the combines were running through the cornfields in a fading light.

  “So what’s your name?” asked the pervie, trying to kick-start the conversation.

  “Evangeline.”

  “I’m Harland.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harland. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Not a problem.” He smiled over at me. “So you’re new in town, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Oklahoma. Tulsa.”

  “An Okie, huh?”

  “Yup. I’m an Okie, alright. An Okie who needs a pokie.”

  The man turned with a confused look. “Sorry?”

  “Next left,” I told him.

  The Cutlass swung down a gravel road, passing acres of ripened corn. “You sure it’s down this way? Looks like nothing but cornfields.”

  “Take this road here on the left,” I said.

  “You sure?”

 
“Yes, left here.”

  Down a dirt road now, scarred by deep ruts and jarring bumps. The Chevy’s suspension was taking a pounding and Harland Lee was getting agitated.

  “You’re positive this is the way?” he muttered as the car bounced.

  “Kind of positive,” I said without conviction.

  “Kind of?”

  By this time the road had narrowed into an overgrown path barely the width of the car… and the man had had enough. He braked hard and threw the shifter into park.

  “Okay, where the hell are we?” he snapped, barely able to contain his anger.

  Chewing thoughtfully on my lower lip, I scanned the cornstalks that surrounded us. “Hmm, let’s see now. Whoops. You know what?” I turned to him, feigning embarrassment. “I think we’re lost.”

  “You think…”

  “I just have the worst sense of direction,” I explained. “Oh, well, what can you do? Might as well make the best of it.” I crossed my legs and the dress rode higher.

  He bounced a glance off my thighs, then up to my bedroom eyes-- which I’d been practicing in the mirror for over a week now.

  “What is this?” he demanded. “Are you hustling me?”

  “Hustling?”

  “Because I’ll tell you right now. I don’t pay for it.”

  No. You just take it, scumbag… like candy from babies.

  But I didn’t say that.

  “Relax, Tiger,” I told him instead. “I’m just your average bar-hopping slut, okay? I’ll suck your dick for free if that’s what you want. How’s that sound?”

  The pervie tried reading my eyes, working his jaw as he studied me. In a moment a slow smile crept over his face. “Well, if you’re serious, I’d say that sounds pretty good.”

  “Oh, I’m serious, alright,” I assured him. “Dead serious.”

  When he switched off the engine, I heard crows cawing in the field and shifted my gaze out the passenger’s window.

  “So what do we do now?” the man was asking.

  I didn’t answer, mesmerized by the black birds rising and falling among the stalks. A few years before I’d watched one of those cruel creatures attack a finch’s nest outside my sister’s window. There was a savage beating of wings and the frightened chirps of young birds behind the shutter where they nested. Then the crow flew off to a nearby tree branch with one of the babies held in its beak. After perching there a moment, it opened its mouth and let the little finch drop dead to the ground.

  Guess that big black bird just wanted to kill something.

  My friends, that’s how I felt that day sitting beside Harland Lee Wade. Like a cruel bird.

  Like a crow.

  I heard the rattle of the man’s belt buckle and he said something. But I wasn’t listening anymore.

  “Have you ever counted crows?” I asked wistfully.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I was younger my mother used to count the crows from our back porch.” I started pointing to the birds as they rose and fell against the fading light. "One crow means sorrow… two crows mean joy… three crows a wedding… four crows a boy… five crows mean silver… six crows mean gold… seven crows a secret that's never been told."

  There’s more than seven out there, princess,” said Harland Lee as he began massaging the back of my neck.

  “Yes, but I have a secret,” I answered softly. “Would you like to know what that secret is, Mr. Wade?”

  The massage stopped. “How the hell do you know my name?”

  My hand slipped into the purse until I felt the hard grip of the Smith & Wesson.

  “Oh, I know all about you Mr. Wade. I know you live at fourteen Meadowview Lane in Middle Branch. I know you work at the Shell station in O’Neill. And I especially know you prefer your girls young and your pussies bald.”

  I heard him fumbling with the car keys. “I’m taking you back to the bar.”

  “Honey, I don’t think so,” I said, turning with the snub nose leveled at his belly. “The only place you’re going is straight to the devil.”

  BANG! The sound of that gunshot was deafening inside the Chevy, and my ears were left ringing. Harland Lee barely had time to look surprised before that bullet blasted a hole through his guts. But the shot hadn’t killed him. Not yet anyway. The man sat there with a befuddled look as he watched the stain spreading on his shirt.

  “That was for your little girl,” I informed him, then raised the muzzle to his chest. “And this one’s from me.”

  BANG!

  The man gasped as the bullet tore through his lung. He jerked the door handle, pushing the door open with his shoulder, then threw himself from the car. I let myself out the passenger’s side and moved around the front of the Cutlass to finish him off. Only when I got there the pervie had vanished. I spun around just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of his tail stumbling into the cornstalks.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! I fired and missed that rabbit three times, startling the crows and sending them into a frenzy of flapping wings and agitated cawing above the field. Meanwhile Harland had himself a head start. But there was no need to panic. I’d winged the man twice; he was gut shot and lung shot and wouldn’t get far with those two nasty holes in him. So I took my time reloading the Smith & Wesson, ejecting the spent shells before chambering five new .38 cartridges. Once the cylinder was snapped shut, I went in search of my feisty bunny.

  Ol’ Bugs wasn’t hard to track-- not even in the gloom of dusk. He was leaving one hell of a trail; blood on the ground, blood on the stalks-- blood all over the place. Hell, a blind man could have followed that leaking bastard. The blood trail led to a raised bed of rotted ties and rusted rails-- a long abandoned spur of the defunct Burlington and Missouri River Railroad.

  Harland Lee was maybe thirty yards distant when I spotted him, staggering along the tracks toward a derelict grain elevator. I stepped between the ties and assumed a shooting stance, centering the gun sight on his back.

  Acquire sight picture… steady the aim… easy squeeze.

  BANG!

  Another rush of crows exploded from the corn… but Harland kept moving.

  A miss. Shit.

  I steadied the .38 once again and fired.

  BANG!

  This time my target staggered and toppled face-down on the rails.

  Woo hoo! Kill shot!

  I felt a swell of pride as I started down the tracks to claim my pervie. But before I could reach him, the resilient fucker pushed himself up on his hands and knees and began crawling. Harland Lee was a determined sonofabitch… I had to give him that.

  “Where you going, Mr. Wade?” I called out, following at a deliberate pace. “That’s a track to nowhere.”

  I passed him then turned with legs spread and arms extended, the snub nose gripped in both hands. With his head down, weak from blood-loss, the man didn’t realize I was standing there until he heard the cock of the hammer. He lifted his head to find the Smith & Wesson pointed at his nose.

  “Hello”, I greeted him with a cheery smile.

  The pervie dropped back on his haunches. His body swayed.

  “Don’t kill me,” he gurgled before coughing up blood.

  “Little late for that, don’t you think?” I said, then squatted before him on the railroad tie. “Tell me something. What does it feel like to be hopeless? To be powerless? To be afraid? Because I wonder…” I leaned close and spoke intimately. “Was this how your daughter felt as daddy raped her?”

  The man brought his eyes up to mine.

  “Why would you hurt your baby girl, Harland? Help me understand how someone could do such a thing.” The man’s eyes began to fill, his bottom lip trembled. “How could a father do that to his own child?”

  “I don’t know,” he moaned.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Swear to Christ I don’t.”

  “You don’t fucking know?!”

  The fury rose inside me like a rushing tide. I stood slowly with the Smith & Wesson at
my side.

  “People don’t know the answers to Jeopardy questions, Mr. Wade. People don’t know Latin or quantum physics or why men have fucking nipples… but they sure as hell should know why they’d rape their own kid and put it on the Internet… don’tcha think?!” I shoved the tip of the gun barrel against his forehead. “Now either you come up with a better answer than ‘I don’t know’ or I’m gonna blow your worthless brains out.”

  Harland Lee was whimpering like a baby now. But I felt no pity.

  “Give me an answer, fucker! Why’d you do it?!”

  Facing imminent death, Harland Lee Wade steeled. “Because I’m sick,” he cried with his last ounce of strength. “Sick like you, you crazy bitch.”

  Wow. Never saw that one coming.

  You know, friends, I have to give the man credit. That pervie showed some balls as the curtain fell on his miserable life. Nevertheless, I was quite dissatisfied with his response and so informed him.

  BANG!

  The .38 jumped in my hand and shit-for-brains went blasting out the back of his skull, spraying blood and bone and grey matter at least thirty feet up the tracks. Harland Lee Wade collapsed backwards like a folding jackknife and never moved again.

  It was over. I’d bagged my first pervie. A profound sense of satisfaction washed over me like baptizing waters.

  Now, friends, I realize that some of you, breathing the rarified air of your moral high ground, may judge my conduct harshly. And you’re certainly entitled to your misguided opinion. But before passing judgment upon your faithful servant, let me offer you this simple choice. And let’s be brutally honest here, shall we? If someone near and dear to you had been sodomized by a man like Harland Lee Wade. If he’d raped your mother, your daughter or your sister--perhaps even your own sweet child--would you rather his fate be left in the slippery hands of a jury of his peers… or in mine? Hmm?

  See, here’s what I think. I think “due process” has become nothing more than a cash cow for slick lawyers and “reasonable doubt” nothing less than a maddening loophole through which too many maggots have crawled back to the streets. Yes, the system may be the best we’ve got, but in my book that’s not good enough. Come into Evangeline’s court, where there’s one judge, one jury and one executioner, and it’s one strike and you’re out, motherfucker. Oh, and should you stand to object… well, counselor, I’d really love to see your point of view; unfortunately I can’t get my head that far up my ass.