All of Them to Burn

By Beau Johnson

Darkness is an attribute most of us rally against. It can consume. It can achieve. But if we so choose, it can also be held at bay. Enter Bishop Rider and the evil he’s chosen to obliterate since his family is taken from him. Operating outside the law, circumventing a system beyond repair, Bishop stalks this darkness the only way he knows how. Not only because these men deserve what he’s become, but because of a message he attempted to create has come back to haunt him, now, after all these years. It’s this story, along with other, unconnected tales that populate All of them to Burn.

Come, meet Rider for the first time. Come, meet Rider for the last time.

Come, watch the darkness burn.

Praise for ALL OF THEM TO BURN:

“Beau Johnson has done to his fiction what street thugs do to their victims: he holds it down and beats it for all its worth. I mean that in a good way. No, in a great way. Few authors are out there stamping their words onto the page the way Beau does. He’s equal parts slick, hammering, poetic and caustic. His talent is to be admired; his words are to be read.” —Ryan Sayles, author of the Richard Dean Buckner mysteries

“Beau Johnson delivers another collection of masterfully written tales. Compelling and smart, these wild stories are full of twisted characters and seedy scenes. Greed. Anger. Revenge. Perhaps, justice. We are taken down a dark path, catching up with old favorites like Bishop Rider and John Batista along the way. We watch as the stories and characters connect and engage, bringing every thread together. The third in his series of connected shorts may be Beau Johnson’s best, yet.” —Marietta Miles, author of May and After the Storm

“All of Them to Burn is a Molotov cocktail of classic crime fiction, but one with a sharp modern twist.” —Paul D. Brazill, author of Last Year’s Man and A Case of Noir

“Beau Johnson’s stories are hard tales of revenge and sorrow. Nothing can prepare you for the darkness in these stories and nothing can make you turn away once you start reading. All of Them to Burn is an excellent collection.” —Nikki Dolson, author of All Things Violent

“These chilling short stories—many featuring the return of the mythic-like hero, Bishop Rider—drop us into the darkest depths of human suffering and ruin. Beau Johnson can spin the most brutal of tales with raw emotion, savage honesty, and fierce humor. A standout collection from a seasoned storyteller.” —Sarah M. Chen, author of Cleaning Up Finn

“All of Them to Burn is fast, sharp, violent, and gory. There’s something visceral at the core of Johnson’s work that simultaneously reflects the best and worst of humanity, and it shines in this collection. Come for the blood and viciousness and stay for the electric dialogue and outstanding last lines. I promise it’s all equally fun.” —Gabino Iglesias, author of Coyote Songs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Feb 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463086926

Beau Johnson

I’m the scion of two old Virginia families, raised in heaping helpings of the old south and moved north to escape. I’ve been a carpenter, clerk, cabinetmaker, Coast Guardsman, architect, commercial pilot, college instructor, and consultant. Next year I plan to decide what I want to do when I grow up.

Book preview

PREFACE

Like my other collections, many stories populate this book. Some connect. Others do not. The ones that do connect involve a couple of favourites of mine, Bishop Rider and John Batista. Bishop Rider is ex-police. Detective John Batista, however, is not. Since the start and not by choice I have told Bishop’s story out of sequence. I’ve come to reason the dividing line to be somewhere around the time Salazar Mapone (a baddie from The Big Machine Eats) enters the frame, and I refer to this as pre-leg/post-leg, or the John Batista years giving way to the Jeramiah Abrum years. Fun fact: never once did I envision the son of the man responsible for the deaths of April and Maggie Rider to become as essential to Bishop in the way that he has. There is overlap between these two time periods, sure, and I think that’s normal when a story such as Bishop’s comes out as it has. However, I’ve been wrong many times before, and perhaps I’m just a freak as to how I go about things. Anyway, I write the way I write, and if you’re reading this, I take it you might dig the way I tell a story, too.

What happens next?

These are their stories.

Back to TOC

CLEAN-UP MEN

A Bishop Rider Story

Hold on. Lemme get another chair. Yeah, this one’s much better. You good? Those overhead chains, they aren’t too tight? Fine. Let’s begin.

They never found April Rider’s body. Maggie Rider’s, yes, her corpse fully clothed and lying facedown in a dumpster behind a restaurant that I’m pretty sure is now a strip joint. But it’s Rider’s sister, that she’s never been found, that brings us together as it has—the last image anyone has of her being that film Marcel Abrum had made.

But that’s not quite right, is it, Mikael?

And just between you, me, and your ball gag there, I’ll make things a little easier on you: we already know. What we don’t know is how things went down. Did you burn the girl’s remains, Mikael? Bury her? Or was it something, say, a little more extravagant?

Don’t get me wrong, cleaning up is one of the most under-appreciated jobs of all. I’m saying this to you from experience, Mikael, so believe me when I say I can see how variety can become something a man might embrace. That is not to imply it’s right, only that it is.

Reminds me of that old adage, the one that professes we have three lives: a public one, a private one, and a secret one. True or no, I like to think there is a kind of poetry there.

But I digress. Although those eyes of yours, Mikael, the swelling, it don’t look so good. Maybe a refresher is in order? Sure. Why not. We’ll even pretend it was you who talked me into it.

First, we’ll omit the shitbags you worked for. Marty and Marcel Abrum, two men this world is better off without. On second thought, maybe we don’t do that first; maybe you need to hear how me, Kevin Bacon, and Bishop Rider came to be.

Me, I’m working at a Ferrelli’s the night Rider walks in and sends the back of Marty Abrum’s head through to the front of his face. I hear him whisper for my sister, too, there before the sawed-off becomes the elixir it was meant to be and infuses chunks of bone and brain matter into the man’s primavera.

I don’t think Rider notices me, either, him being too busy with Abrum, but Mikael, I’ll tell you the truth: I thought wrong. You want to know why? Of course you do. Seems I have the type of face you have a hard time forgetting is what it came down to, and that Rider had at one time been a cop. Better still, he connects me to what we’ll call a known associate of mine, one of two men, brothers who, get this, end up being the ones who abducted April and Maggie Rider in the first place.

As my own mother would have said: can. you. believe.

Anyway, we locate both brothers, feed one of them to his dogs, and the other, he loses his neck in the same manner that Marty Abrum lost his face. It’s all good though, and a sort of club is formed outta the whole thing. Bishop, me, and a man by the name of John Batista. Batista, at the time, he’s still a cop, a detective no less, and a boon to someone such as Rider. Truth be told, it proved a little too good, and at times we had to pull back some, the number of parolees we visit starting to be seen as something we didn’t want. Not if we wished to continue.

But don’t you go and worry yourself too much about that, Mikael, as the kinks, they worked themselves out. Not totally, no, and this is maybe the time Mapone decides to set up shop.

Two things converge here. One, Mapone himself, and two, a man by the name of Alexander Paine. Dark territory is where we’re headed now, Mikael, and a betrayal that costs Rider what we’ll call his kicking foot. And the type of separation he goes through, make no mistake, it would put the majority of us down. For the count, I mean. As in curl up into a fucking ball and retreat from what you used to call life. Not Rider, though. Hell, now I look back, I say it spurred him on.

On the flipside, it brings Jeramiah Abrum into the fight, and if that, my tightly tied-up friend, ain’t a sign from God, then I don’t know what is. I mean, the child of the shitbag who gives the go-ahead to kill your mother and sister being the one to pull you from the jaws of death? What are the odds? All told, it’s the type of scenario that has go-and-buy-a-lottery-ticket written all fucking over it.

But Bishop Rider, he’s as stubborn as they come, and even after Jeramiah does what he does—this in conjunction with Jeramiah’s having some very smart men fit Rider with the best prosthetic money can buy, mind you—Rider has a hard time letting go of the past.

Fair or no, it’s the way the man is built.

But time, Mikael, she is as constant as she is fickle, and after much delay, Bishop comes around, and then our little group becomes five.

I see confusion on your face, Mikael, or maybe these jumper cables you keep sneaking looks at, they aren’t to your liking? Tell you what, let’s place them beside the sledgehammers here. Speaking of sledgehammers. You ever hear of hobbling, Mikael?

Fair warning: you might yet.

So, Ray. Ray is our fifth. A man from Rider’s time in Kuwait.

I’m told they called the man Trinkets over there. Seeing firsthand some of the gadgets he’s created, I can understand why. See this? Capped off razorblade. Ray himself being the one who sewed it into the palm of this hand. It means you have to keep the opposite hand’s thumbnail a little longer than maybe you’re used to, but given our line of work, you’d have to be some kind of stupid not to.

Brings us to Bennet Monroe then. You remember Bennet, Mikael? Sure you do. For quite a few years we referred to him as the seventh man. I know. I know. But no, Bennet was in that room, Mikael, hiding as cowards do, and listening from the washroom of that hotel room as those other six men raped and then murdered April Rider in front of a camera on a tripod.

Little could we know what the pathway to finding Bennet would create, however—one that led us back to Kincaid, a man Bishop had had dealings with before.

A man I know you do not know, but a man you are tied to, regardless.

How so? Mikael, buddy, I thought you’d never ask!

In Rider’s own words, Kincaid is what he considers to be his greatest mistake. But why, I hear you thinking. Kincaid was one of the kindest, gentlest men this world had to offer—one who would never penetrate, exploit, or harm a child in any way. Bullshit, which explains how Rider stands beside himself once he realized what Kincaid had been up to.

Kincaid is only one man, though, and if you must know, these events take place when Bishop is first starting out. Still hurt like a motherfucker, yes, learning Kincaid created the network that he did, but as both of us know, all men are fallible, and wisdom, Mikael, it comes not just with age, but with truth. One move more and we enter the crux of our situation here, Elon Stankov, yet another piece of shit in an endless parade of shit. A silent partner to Kincaid, he ends up being not so silent—you know, at the end.

Can you guess what the man lets slip, Mikael? Oh, I know you can. Come on, a big boy like you, this should be right up your alley. No? Just gonna keep checking out your size eights then, is that it? S’okay. A man like you, I’d expect no less.

What Stankov tells us ends up being the same thing I mentioned to you earlier—to each of those lives every one of us is said to have. What he didn’t add is that poetry I talked about, and how I think it can be found there.

It means the refresher is over.

It means that poetry, it will be joining us as well.

You either burned April Rider, buried her, or attempted something far worse, Mikael. Whatever story you come up with, know we’ll be doing the same.

Back to TOC

EVERETT, JENNINGS, LAUGHREN AND FINCH

A Bishop Rider Story

"You think you’re better than me? You’re not fucking better than me!"

So you keep saying, Batista laughs, pulls hard, and as the crowbar comes free from the back of the other lawyer’s head, he steps in line beside me. Everett is unable to pull his eyes from Batista as the Detective knocks the crowbar against his boot until the larger chunks of bone fall to the floor.

To Everett’s left lay his driver, the liquid that used to run the man now up and dripping over the poker table’s trough like oil. Rounding out the table are three other men who used to be in Everett’s employ, each a grade or two up from driver. Each had been ventilated as thoroughly as the driver, especially the little guy on the end, the one face down in most of the poker chips.

You’re smart enough to realize what’s going on here, Batista tells him. Means the next words out of your gob better be the words this man wants to hear. But Batista doesn’t wait. Nope. And I hear the bone in the lawyer’s knee shatter before his screams begin. Falling from his chair, Adam Everett semi-rolls in his pain, and tries his best to hold his knee with hands that move forward and retract with the same frantic need.

It’s a trade. They do trades! They have their favorites. It changes monthly. You broke my fucking knee! Christ, you broke my fucking knee!

Batista steps closer to the lawyer, a snake now removed from its skin, and in Batista’s eyes I see he is moments away from mixing metal into the man’s goatee.

The how of things is not what we’re looking for, I say, and step to the other side of him. He looks from me to Batista, and I watch as he begins to do the math, which, seeing how far we’d come, shouldn’t even be a thing. The Detective agrees, the crowbar coming alive once more and speaking for us both.

It’s enough. More than. The location Everett gives up everything we were hoping for.

We were on our way.

Survivor’s guilt is what it is, Rider. Tell me I’m wrong. I couldn’t. But it still didn’t sit right. One, he’s a kid when he finds out his father’s a murderer. Two, once he’s old enough, he takes it upon himself to investigate and track down the men responsible for his father’s murder. Three, the kid actually fucking succeeds and not only catches wind of you but infiltrates Mapone’s crew near a point in time that proves we all just might be here for reasons we don’t fully understand. So yeah, I’m thinking survivor’s guilt is the reason he sees things the way he does.

I had no defense, everything Batista said regarding Jeramiah ringing true.

It was the kid’s father I couldn’t get past, or the recording he made of April. Hell, the kid even had the bottom part of my right leg fitted with a prosthetic not many get to use, and still I found myself unable to let go. What it came down to was the ghost of Marcel Abrum was continuing to do what he did best. Wasn’t until Batista says five little words that I realize I’ve been letting a man win from beyond the grave.

Bishop, he’s not his father.

The words aren’t magic, no, but if anyone else had spoken them, I’d be hard-pressed to say otherwise. Either way, baby steps are taken, and four once more become five, neither I nor Batista forgetting about Alex and how he’d have to be dealt with once we caught up to the man.

Fine, I say, and climb back into the van. You say it’s a three-man job, it’s a three-man job. Make the call.

And he did, neither of us understanding how close one of us was to the end.

Inside and to the left of the barn’s entrance sits a tractor that had seen better days. Further on, curled up and partially covered by tarp lay two outboard motors someone had begun to pull apart. Instead of earth and hay, the odor of gasoline and oil hangs in the air. The skin I see hanging from the side of Batista’s jaw is like jagged bacon; it drips in strips, the fluorescents under which Harrison Garrett has been working making the blood appear brighter than normal, glossy and slick. I move forward, weapon raised, but Garrett is too quick: Before I can give myself a clean shot, he’s down low and scurrying around to the back of the chair to which Batista is strapped.

You come any closer I’ma turn his neck into a fucking hose! Go on. Fuckin’ try me! He’s thick, more fat than muscle, and the track suit he wears sticks to his body from the exertion we’d inserted into his evening. In his eyes I see he means everything, the fear of being cornered giving him a type of energy I’d witnessed before.

Your lawyer is the only reason we’re here, Harrison. Got you out of one jam too many is all. Something like that occurs, a person can begin to take notice. Should be him you’re holding a knife to is what it means.

He keeps the blade tight against Batista’s neck, and John, as best he can, remains as calm as he’s able. I stare at Garrett. I look to John, then lower my weapon and give him the insides of my hands.

Garrett smirks, and suddenly my throat is in my stomach, twisted and on ice. I see it all. Batista’s carotid as it’s opened and its contents released into the air. The arc it creates encompasses everything I’ve never wanted to see and everything we both knew it very well could.

Batista’s eyes widen, his body clenches, and then I snap back to the present with Garrett smirking, Batista alive, and Jeramiah emerging from the shadows on Garrett’s left. He’s quick, on point, and as I watch what I take for a replica grenade being lobbed toward its intended target, I understand just how close this night has come to going sideways. I also watch Harrison Garrett as he recognizes what comes to rest at his feet for what it is. He responds by bolting, and I dive. Glock up, I do what has to be done and give him everything he deserves.

I empty the mag.

The replica grenade was from another life, and we’d only used the trick once before. That Jeramiah knew of it led me to believe he and Batista had been