Where Shadows Loom

By Gary C. Stalcup

Wendall Connor isn’t sure what to believe anymore. His mind has begun to play tricks on him. After seven years in the NFL, he has suffered more concussions than he can count. And what can he do about it anyway? A throbbing mass of mangled flesh and splintered bone, his body is held together by little more than titanium steel, surgical glue, and the sheer determination to put off the next surgery for as long as he can.

But he has to do something. Who else is there?

His friend and neighbor across the street, U.S. Senator Juanita Guajardo’s son, and the loan officer at the bank are both missing. Wendall left them alone for only a few minutes and now they’re gone. Are their stories true, as fantastic as they seem, or is this another distortion created in Wendall’s addled mind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483439211

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Stalcup

Copyright © 2015 Gary C. Stalcup.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3922-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3921-1 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 10/13/2015

CONTENTS

Acknowledgment

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Dedicated to

my nearest and dearest,

in the grave

and out of it.

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against Fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

—James Shirley,

The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

For such devotion to this project, with your keen editor’s eye and your thoughtful study, all the while juggling the demands of a home with two infant daughters and a husband, I thank you, Rachel. You have made this story a better work.

CHAPTER 1

The cold barrel of the revolver pushed so hard against Lester Russell’s oily forehead that it slipped momentarily into the sparse, wiry scalp of his oversized head. It was a snub-nosed pipe of chrome sticking out from a smelly, sweat-gleamed fist that dwarfed it. Three meaty fingers were wrapped around the grip so tight their sun-cracked knuckles stretched white where the scars jagged across them. Behind the black-rimmed glasses that clung to the bridge of his flat nose, Lester’s magnified, pale eyes squinted shut. He swallowed the stomach acid that had shot up in a flood across his tongue, and then, as if the swallowing had unhinged a connecting spring, both eyes and mouth popped open in anticipation.

Lester Pusley Russell closed his eyes again, this time as if closing them would make the trembling hand and revolver go away. He swallowed more bitter bile and told himself everything would work out okay. He had been through this once before, the paralyzing fear, and the utter humiliation that followed. He had been a pudgy, doughy seventh grader the first time. He remembered that now because he had played the tuba in the Bonita Vista Junior High School Marching Band concert the night before, and because he had taken his mother’s permission slip to school earlier that morning to let the principal know he would be working the cash register at Mother’s bakery while she took Grandpa Pusley to the eye doctor in Corpus for a detached retina. He had had to keep the bakery open, his mother had explained, because it was Valentine’s Day and Valentine’s Day heard the cash register ring more than most other days, except for maybe a handful. Seth Bennet and Mondo Benavides had walked in while Lester had been unrolling a fresh supply of quarters into the coin bin of the register. He had looked up to see the knotty-muscled right arm, with its fresh crop of blond, adult hair, attached to the T-shirt-stretched chest of Seth Bennet. Seth had pulled out a similar-looking pistol from inside a plastic bag before jamming it under Lester’s chin so hard he thought he had broken off half his teeth. As it turned out, he had only chipped one, a big, permanent, front tooth that was still yellow and broken today. Give us a hundred bucks, Pus-face! Seth’s sneering shout had shot spittle across the glass counter and Lester’s left hand. Funny how he still remembered that detail, too, and how he was thinking about that now. And the perfect white teeth that had been bared between his thin lips—bared teeth that were probably still perfect and white after all these thirty-one years. Yeah, Lester remembered that day like it was last week. A hundred bucks! Each! Now, Pus-face!

On that unforgettable day, Lester already had been called Pus-face for the entire school year, since the previous August, because he had acquired a bad case of acne over the summer break. Summers in the Coastal Bend of Texas is one hot, slobbery pant from a mutt bitch in heat, Grandpa Pusley had regularly explained, generally while showing his crooked, brownish teeth with a wheezy cough from lips loosely fastened around a Chesterfield. Lester could see those stained lips now, tightening around the cylinder for another deep and satisfying draw. Yeah, he remembered it all, all too well. The thirteenth summer of Lester’s awkward life had failed to bring him the adult body hair that he knew would solve most of his problems. Instead, it had brought him the acne that exploited his oily pink skin, and the bitterness that came with it had only added a sulky demeanor to his overall slouchy appearance. Looking back, if he had realized it only magnified the wideness of his scabby face and big ears, maybe he could have pretended the misery hadn’t existed. He could have tried smiling his way through school, through the crooked teeth and pouty lips he had inherited from Grandpa Pusley. The only difference between his mouth and Grandpa’s was that his crooked teeth were yellow from coffee instead of brown from cigarettes. He could have at least pretended to be happy. But the misery had washed over him the way the bile was washing into his mouth now. Only the misery he couldn’t swallow away. Some things never changed. His teacher, Mrs. Dorothy Monroe—he still remembered her name because she had always introduced herself to everyone she came into contact with in her loud, musical voice—had committed the faux pas of divulging his middle name to the class on the first day of school. Lester Pus-face Russell had been the butt of every joke after that. The holdup of his poor mother’s bakery had been just another one of those times. Lester had handed Mondo a wad of every grimy, wrinkled bill in the register because he knew it would almost add up to the two hundred bucks Seth was demanding. As soon as he reached to hand over the wad—a split second after dribbling warm pee inside the boxer shorts where it drained noticeably down one shaky, pasty leg below his gym shorts—Seth and Mondo broke into hysterical laughs that brought many of his seventh grade classmates through the front door of Shirley’s Pastries and Pies. He would never forget how loud their laughing had been, how they all seemed to point at his wet leg, and then at the dribble-splashed floor. He could still see and hear Mondo’s screechy, snot-bubbled laugh when he yelled, Look, Puss-face pissed in his pants! It’s just a joke, Pus-face! A joke—you stupid idiot!

Yeah, Lester remembered all of it now as he sat there, cowered against the hard floor and cold metal wall of the safety deposit box room. He was shaking, reliving the cruel prank, one of many played on him until the day he left Bonita Vista High School and the ugly town of Bonita Vista for good. He was thinking how strange it was to be thinking about all that now—not so much the fear of the obvious, that this man might pull the trigger with his own trembling hand—whether he meant to or not—but about the humiliation that was likely to follow if he didn’t. Lester was fighting with himself, as he always did, desperate not to show how afraid he was again—again—even if this time was for real. Lester knew there were things worse than dying. Lester knew that dying didn’t always involve death. Self-hate was a consuming cancer that killed the soul—eating, breathing, walking, talking, or not. He knew this man pressing the gun against his head now could easily kill him. And knowing that there were worse things than death for those who cower through life—and the fact that he was cowering again—that he was pleading with God for this weapon not to discharge eternal wrath into his skull and brain—only made the misery consume that much more of him. He wanted to stand up to the Seth Bennets and Mondo Benavideses just once, to show himself that he could, even if it meant the end. It would be the end of his misery.

This man was Charley McManis, but Charley and Seth and Mondo were all one in the same. Charley, he knew very well. He knew Charley had it in him to pull the trigger with that shaking, scarred-up hand. Charley had been his next-door neighbor for the last six years, since Lester moved here to take the position of loan officer at First State Bank of Hubert Switch, Texas. Across the spit-wide strip of sunbaked Bermuda grass that separated one clapboard house from the other, Charley’s booming twang of a voice could regularly be heard threatening his wife, Brandi, with her life. Brandi—you don’t shut up, I’m gonna choke you to death—so shut the fuck up!

Charley had been desperate for money since his welding business went south last spring. He had come in to the bank several times looking for a loan. According to the application, Charley was thirty-eight years old. Brandi was thirty-one. While Charley struggled to keep his welding equipment busy enough to pay the bills, Brandi had become an unpaid servant to Charley and their four belligerent kids. Charley had forced her to let Josefina go last May, so picking up after five kids—four between the ages of dirty diapers and smart mouth, and the fifth being Charley—had fallen squarely and incessantly on her. Charley was no better than the kids at keeping syrup off the new vinyl floor that looked more like oak than oak, or mud off the new Persian rugs she had bought on a three-for-one sale at Walmart. Brandi had explained all this to Lester one hot summer day while they were talking in their backyards across the hurricane fence. Brandi had waited tables at Oscar’s Steakhouse before Charley’s business took off, but Charley had convinced her that they didn’t need the extra cash anymore. She couldn’t have gone back to Oscar begging for her old job back anyway. The steakhouse went under not long after most of the welding jobs petered out. She wouldn’t have gone back to work for Oscar anyway. Charley could threaten to strangle her all he wanted. Brandi wasn’t going back to work, period. Without Josefina, she had four damn kids to feed, wipe, slap, and put to bed, thanks to Charley.

Charley had wanted to expand his welding business so he could take advantage of the activity four counties over, at the other end of the Eagle Ford Shale, while things were still hopping. Charley couldn’t understand why Lester had denied him the loan each time. He had made a squat-load of money the last five years. He would make a squat-load more if the bank would help him expand. He already had seven or eight other welders lined up to work for him. Dammit, Les! Charley didn’t understand that Lester was only the messenger, that the shale play had run its course in this part of the state. He didn’t seem to understand that it was his own fault that he had no collateral to put up despite his years of making squat-loads of money. He and Brandi had spent every last dime they had on fancy furnishings for the house, brand-new luxury SUVs and loaded-to-the-max work trucks every two years, and exotic vacations to every paradise Sandals had to offer.

Now, Charley was desperate. Brandi had left him for Rad Murphy, whose family had owned the minerals in the richest shale zone around here, and whose family had parlayed their money into too many profitable ventures to count. Conrad Murphy Sr. was majority shareholder, president and chairman of the bank’s board of directors. Rad would take care of her and the two toddlers the way she was accustomed, the way they deserved. The two older kids could fend for themselves after school each day until Charley got home to cook them a dinner and slap some respect into their trashy mouths. The only way Brandi would ever come back was for Charley to get back on his feet again. That’s what Charley said anyway. Lester wasn’t so sure about that. There were a few ifs, ands, and buts about that. But Charley said he knew Brandi. He knew she didn’t deserve the good life if it didn’t include him, but—dammit to all hell—he loved Brandi with all his heart. He had explained this all to Lester every single time he came in for a loan and every single time he saw him outside at home.

Give me the key to the Murphy lockbox, Les! Charley was now poking the barrel of the revolver against Lester’s forehead as if he were rapping one of his walnut-sized knuckles against a closed door. His look was exactly the same as Seth’s had been thirty-one years ago.

Once again, Lester feared for his life, and before he felt the warmth around his drawn-up legs, he knew he had wet his pants again. Charley! Charley! You know I can’t do that! C’mon, Charley! C’mon, man! You don’t want to do that! Charley—come on, man! Don’t make me give you the key. How far do you think you’d get if—

You open the goddamn lockbox, Les—before I blow your fucking head off! Ain’t nobody gonna know it’s even been opened till who-knows-when-old-man-Murphy-looks-in-it! Only you and me! You said so yourself that old man Murphy almost never goes into it!

I know, Charley, but—

But shut up and open it or give me the damn key so I can!

Okay, Charley. Okay. Lester was sobbing now, tears meandering over his fleshy, pocked cheeks and around his flared nostrils into the corners of his quivering lips. Okay, Charley. Just put the gun down. Please. Just aim it away from me. Please, Charley. C’mon, man.

Charley tapped the barrel once more, this time hard against Lester’s shiny head. He leaned toward Lester, so close that Lester could smell the garlic and the Skoal that was mixed into his whispered rage, You get up off your fat ass then and open it! Now!

Charley straightened, grabbed Lester by one arm and jerked him to his feet. Lester’s trembling right hand dug into a pocket of his suit pants and pulled out the small key to the Murphy safety deposit box. He had obediently taken it from Mr. Murphy’s desk drawer when Charley first shoved the revolver into his ribs. That was while no one else was around to see. He had led Charley down the narrow hallway toward the rear of the bank before slinking into the small metal room amid muttered pleas that only made Charley that much more impatient. Charley had shoved him against the wall of metal, and then he had let Lester’s heavy, squatty body slide into a heap on the tile floor. Lester had hoped someone would notice the revolver shoved against his back as Charley led him down the hall to the narrow room of lockboxes. No one had seemed to notice. No one ever much noticed Lester do anything. He was invisible to the world, except when being humiliated for public display. No one in First State Bank of Hubert Switch, Texas had noticed anything out of the ordinary, and no one seemed to have heard his pathetic moaning either. The powerful new Ruud air conditioner the bank had installed the April before last had roared into action at about that time, drowning out any such pleas, and just now, activity in the bank lobby was a loud chatter of friends greeting friends. The only area within earshot above the AC unit and chatter was Conrad Murphy’s executive office, and he was out playing golf in the Hubert Switch Kiwanis Club’s Annual Charity Golf Tournament. Charley probably knew that. That’s why he was here now.

On his feet and trembling, Lester fumbled with the key he had retrieved from the pants pocket, where he had put it for the express purpose of at least delaying what now seemed inevitable. After a couple shaky attempts, he managed to open the large drawer to lockbox seventeen. He started to slide out the heavy drawer. Charley shoved him out of the way the same way Lester had seen him shove Brandi so many times in the past. He stumbled back against the opposite metal wall and, as before, slid down it onto the tile floor. Lester sat there, pushed up the thick glasses that had fallen to the flare of his nose, and watched. Charley produced a blue canvas bag that he had tightly rolled up inside one baggy leg of his grease-stained jeans. He stuck the chrome revolver inside the jeans where only the black plastic grip protruded from the waist, and then, hurriedly but systematically, he began stacking gold and silver bullion inside the bag. By the time the drawer was empty, even Charley’s strong hand struggled to hold the bag as it tugged his arm toward the floor.

Charley was giggling now. Just like blabber-mouth Brandi bragged. Stacked with gold and silver. Stupid bitch. Charley shoved the drawer closed, turned, and tossed the key to Lester, where he still crouched in a cowering ball on the floor. "Nothing to nobody, Les! I’ll give you a bar or two when I think you’ve earned it! ¿Comprende? When Lester nodded, Charley set the heavy bag on the floor long enough to pull out the revolver from inside his jeans and to set it on top of the gold and silver inside the bag. He zipped the bag closed enough to hide what was inside but not so much as to prevent him from drawing the weapon. After he lifted the bag off the floor with a grunt, he noticed the dark, wet blotch between the legs of Lester’s gray slacks. Dammit, Les, get yourself cleaned up before somebody starts asking shit! Fucking pussy. Ain’t gonna hurt you. We’re like partners now. ¿Comprende, Les? See you back at home."

With that, Charley staggered out the door, carrying the heavy bag as nonchalantly as his powerful right arm could manage. Lester stared blankly at the shiny, waxed floor, the tears clinging to his pocked face. He could hear the uneven, muffled stride of Charley’s work boots struggling along the hallway toward the lobby until they faded into the chatter. Then he heard the distinct, throaty voice of Sylvia Maldonado, the lobby manager, say above the noise, What’s that you have, Mr. McManis? You been in the safety deposit room? How’d you get in to the safety deposit room, Mr.—wait a minute, Mr. McManis! Wait! We need to clear you before you can enter and leave the deposit room! Mr.— Sylvia’s voice was abruptly drowned out as the chatter erupted into shouting protests.

Someone else, a male voice, boomed above it all, Call the sheriff’s office! That’s Charley McManis! He’s running out the door! He doesn’t have a lockbox here!

In the small, cramped room down the hall, Lester leaned back against the wall of metal boxes, holding the deposit box key and his glasses in one hand while wiping his face dry with the heel of the other. Then, with the tips of two stubby fingers, he massaged where the chrome barrel had left a pulsating, red mark on his oily forehead. The fear was all but gone now, a sullen calm taking its place. He could hear the siren of the county patrol car outside, and the fading clamor of people who had followed Charley outside the bank and its tinted glass doors. He was alone, as he had always been, now resigned to the fact that this ordeal was only beginning for him—the avalanche of questions, at first the suspicion, the anger, and then the ridicule—the humiliation. All that and more would now invade his quiet world until, eventually, it would dissipate into a return to his oblivious and pathetic life. Lester loosened his tie, took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes before allowing the stale air to escape back into the sterile room. He shook his head, and then he set the glasses back into the red indentation along the bridge of his nose, again staring into the waxy tile. The hate of himself was raw again. Nothing had changed in thirty-one years. He was still the pathetic, fat little coward who had given up every dollar of his mother’s hard earned money to the overgrown Seth Bennet without even a fight. God had provided yet another opportunity for him to salvage his pathetic life, and he had squandered it, again. Lester was reminded that nothing had changed. There was nothing interesting, or jolly, or at all attractive about Lester Pusley Russell, then or now. He was still Lester Puss-face Russell. No, nothing had changed. To the marrow of his bones, Lester knew this about himself. Lester, if nothing else, was intelligent. He just didn’t know how to change the person he had become. He didn’t have energy enough to try. And that realization disgusted him all the more.

CHAPTER 2

Momma, I’ve done something bad. Really bad.

The smartly-dressed woman with the cropped silver hair sat across the dining room table from the young man, who resembled a male, thirty-seven-year-old version of herself. She reached to calm his fidgety hands. For the first time, she realized he was trembling. She was inclined to speak in Spanish, in a soothing voice as her mother had spoken to her in times of distress, but none of her four children spoke much Spanish. She was sorry about that now. At the time, concentrating on rearing them in English seemed like the smart thing to do. Now, she wished she had worked to make them bilingual. The world was different now. They would have been the better for it. Sergio, it can’t be all that bad. You’ve never done anything bad in your life. She patted the hands that were barely larger than her own, and then she slid hers back in a clasp with the other in her lap. What is so important that you would insist I fly home on a moment’s notice to meet with you face to face, alone, at home, in the middle of a workday? And not tell anyone?

Senator Juanita Guajardo wanted not to check the time, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had an hour’s drive back to San Antonio International Airport and a scheduled flight back to Reagan National in a little over two hours. She couldn’t miss it. The first thing tomorrow morning, she had a critical meeting scheduled with the Senate Finance Subcommittee on Energy, Natural Resources and Infrastructure that she chaired. She still had staffers to meet with and reams of reports to go over. Sergio’s insistence that she fly down immediately was more than an inconvenience. It was a distraction, at a crucial time, and it was so unlike him to request anything of her. Not Sergio. He was the meek and mild-mannered one of her children, just like his father, Raul, had been before the strokes had taken him away from them. The last stroke, the one that ended the heartbeat of his cruel existence, was almost ten years ago. El tiempo pasa volando. Time did fly.

Sergio noticed his mother look down to her lap. He knew she was rolling her wrist to see the time on the diamond-studded Rolex a donor had given her the Christmas before last. He drew in a deep breath and felt his chest tremble in unison with his hands. He wanted to speak without a quaver in his voice, but that was impossible just now. Thanks for coming, Mom. I know how busy you are.

She was now peering past her son’s silhouette to see out the living room window into the afternoon glare. Something was going on out there. She