The Peace Talk

By Nina Blakeman

They made a mistake. Some might call it an error in judgement, others call it murder. 

As adults, Andy, Gary, Hal, and Monty are defined by the events of a single day on the banks of the Arkansas River that followed their high school graduation. As each man struggles to establish himself—in love, in family, in career, in society—a shadow of lies and secrecy looms. The lives of four men are bound together by a shared past—and a deadly assault. Every year, the men meet prior to a vigil that memorializes their former teacher: not out of respect for him, but to get their story straight. However, when the daughter of their slain teacher also turns up dead, years of lies begin to unravel, and each man must either face up to his role in a man’s death or be overtaken by it. Amid their struggle is Monty’s father, Judge Winston Reardon. Upon learning that he’s the namesake of a relative who committed treason during World War II, his identity ruptures—the collateral damage far-reaching. The judge’s strategic, punitive tactics stem from his determination that his son, Monty, not have a weak constitution—like a traitor. He’s going to make a real soldier out of the boy. As far as the judge is concerned, there’ll be no negotiation, no conflict resolution, no peace building. To the judge, life is a war and the thought of surrender—not an option. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977272485

Nina Blakeman

Nina Blakeman, BSN, PhD is an experienced professional who takes her knowledge of the biomedical field to the fictional realm. Her psychological thrillers are meant to unhinge the reader’s sense of well-being. She now lives in Montana with her husband, Scot, and their three dogs. She enjoys classic rock, golf, the violin, a good suspense novel, and the Green Bay Packers. She’s also the author of Blind Vision, and the Faye Davis series, The Blow-up Man, Envy Rots the Bones, and Release. 

Book preview

One

Baxter’s Bar

Friday, May 24, 2019, 9:10 p.m.

He thought about his youth: one weighed down by the shun of blackheads and whiteheads, sullied by the shotgun blast of pocks and pus that left the adolescent male condemned to a solitary existence he’d termed comedonal hell. That was years ago.

Ridiculous, Hal thought, when at any minute, life as he knew it could end. The end of a cold draft, the end of a joint’s euphoric chill, and the end of a man’s ability to control the destiny of his own ass.

Hal strummed the tabletop with grease-stained fingernails as the country crooner sang of loneliness, heartache, and winding dirt roads leading nowhere. It felt familiar to him, bound as he was by the imaginary prison walls tying him to Trailstone. He reached for a Styrofoam cup, complete with paper towel nudged inside. It held the remnants of saliva and tobacco juice. He’d heard all the lectures about oral cancer, seen the graphic pictures of invasive tumors that left men with partial-to-no jaws. It was modern medicine’s solution, talking like some computerized squawk box. Death seemed the better option, but Hal knew he wasn’t so lucky. He spit and set the cup back down.

The guys would be there soon. It was the same every year: meet at Baxter’s the evening before to make sure everyone had their stories straight. It’d been ten years, but the underlying fear was always present. Someone would say something that would land them all behind bars for the untimely death of their high school teacher, Otis Watt. Hal had told Tammy Lynnette he’d be late: don’t bother with supper and don’t wait up. His nerves had him queasy. That was what made him signal the waitress to bring him another beer—alcohol, with its pseudo-sense of certainty and a backbone.

Chair legs scraped the dirty wooden floor. Gary had come in and taken a seat at the table for four.

Make that two, darlin’, Gary called out. He’s buying.

You’re full of shit, Pansy. I’d think a hotshot business owner like yourself could buy his own damn beer.

A few minutes later, the young waitress showed up with their drinks. She threw a couple of beverage napkins on the table before sitting the frosted mugs down.

I’ll be running you a tab, okay, Gary? Let me know if you need anything else, she said, before giving him a wink and a hint of cleavage.

Hal spit into the cup again, his chew held fast in his cheek. He saw the repulsed look on Gary’s face.

I’ll have you keep your snide remarks to yourself, Pansy. I just don’t get you. That waitress all but had her tits shoved up in your face, and you didn’t even blink an eye. That’s the kind of thing that screams you’re wired funny.

Gary watched as Hal pulled out a pocketknife and started cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the blade. As far as the man’s lewd comments, he’d heard them before.

You’re disgusting, you know that? You’re a slobbering fool, just like that mongrel I saw out in your beat-up Silverado. At least you had the sense to crack a window for him. Frankly, I don’t know what Tammy sees in either one of you.

It’s called intelligence, Pansy, Hal replied snidely. It’s something that’s in plentiful supply at the Hokum household. As far as Beau is concerned, you won’t find a smarter dog.

Gary took a drink of the beer, thinking it inferior to his own homebrew. That’s right, sing the praises of that mutt, but treat Tammy Lynette like she’s an afterthought, if that.

"You got some nerve bringing Tammy into this, whatever this is. After all, I didn’t see you stepping up. Not that anyone would believe it," Hal snickered.

How is little Luke?

"He turned three in February. He’s one clever little dickens, that’s for sure. Every day he’s coming up with something new. We’re having to be more careful with our words, though. The other day, the little guy said shit."

Gary knew the boy didn’t stand a chance being raised by those two. Truth be known, the father of the boy could’ve been anybody … anybody but him. Rumor had it, Tammy Lynette had slept with just about every man in Kraal County of western Kansas. The reflection of Tammy’s dalliances brought Otis Watt to mind. How could it not? The man had taught geography and political science, but his record had a blemish. Something about inappropriate conduct with a student that resulted in a two-week suspension without pay. No one knew for sure what the whole thing had been about, but people somehow assumed Tammy Lynette had been involved.

But as things turned out, that wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to old man Watt.

Andy just came in, Hal said, waving him over. Hal always felt good about himself when Andy was around. His gangly build, tobacco-stained teeth, and receding hairline took a backseat to Andy’s unintentionally gothic appearance.

Andy’s black hair, cut in Moe Howard style, juxtaposed a pasty complexion. His oddity was underscored by one of his eyes being lower than the other, a smile revealing flattened teeth, and lungs that produced an audible wheeze. He was overweight with womanly hips. He was married to an emasculating wife who constantly reminded him that he had started out as nothing more than a glorified delivery boy for her father’s port-a-potties.

Before taking a seat, Andy took a snort of nasal spray, followed by a deep inhale. Excuse me, guys … allergies, you know. I hope I’m not too late. Say, how about we order a pitcher of beer?

This isn’t a social, Andy, Gary said. As soon as Monty gets here, we can get this over with. I don’t know about you guys, but this year, I have a bad feeling something is going to go wrong.

Hal spit in his cup before curiosity got the better of him. Gary, word has it you made quite a stink about the vigil being held out at the cemetery this year. What’s the difference whether it’s held there or the high school gymnasium?

Call me a sucker for tradition, Gary replied. It’s always been held at the gym, and I think them trying to move it to the cemetery is just the school’s way of sweeping the whole thing under the rug—out of sight, out of mind kind of thing.

Hal got up, grabbing his mug. "Seems to me that’s exactly what we’d want to happen. I’m going over to the bar and have them top this off, put money in the juke box."

‘Ring of Fire,’ Gary and Andy said in unison. It was Hal’s favorite. Anyone in Hal’s circle knew the lyrics: he played it that often.

Bring us back some peanuts, will ya’? Andy said. I’m starved.

Gary was too, but there was no way in hell he was going to eat out of the same bowl as Andy. Bring me my own bowl.

The request didn’t get by Andy.

You don’t think much of me, do you, Gary?

I think you’re a moron, Gary said without reservation. I also think you’re disgusting. It’s sickening the way you chew with your mouth open. And those rats you raise, who knows what kind of germs you’re carrying around.

"They’re called Sphynx cats. They just happen to be hairless. And by the way, at least my wife knows I’m all man, if you know what I mean."

I’m not a homosexual, if that’s what you’re implying. I just have a healthy respect for women, unlike you heathens. Monty’s the worst. Oh, and by the way, your wife seems to wear the pants in your family—a man’s pair, if you know what I mean.

Hal came running up to the table with two bowls of nuts and a full mug of beer. Shit, you guys, do you know who’s at the bar? See that woman in the white shorts with the black stripes, the skin-tight top?

Andy looked over in the direction of the bar. "Ooh-wee! Get ahold of those sweater puppies."

Yeah, that’s her, Hal confirmed. That’s Watt’s daughter. I remember her from high school. I wonder what’s up. I heard she’d moved to the northwest somewhere. She’s never showed up at any of these vigils before.

I don’t know about this, Gary said, breaking out in a nervous sweat. I don’t like the looks of this. Maybe we ought to meet somewhere else. He took his drink napkin and wiped his brow. I wonder what’s keeping Monty.

I-I’m right here, assholes, Monty announced as he approached their table.

Hal was relieved.

Shit, Monty, it’s good to see you, man. We were beginning to think you wouldn’t show. I thought you might’ve found a way out of this mess and left the rest of us to fend for ourselves. How’s law school? Hell, just being in Lawrence has to be better than this backwater town.

Gary didn’t give Monty a chance to answer. His anxiety was obvious.

Monty, I think we should move this out to my greenhouse. We have unexpected company here.

"Humph, Monty replied. Pansy, you need to relax. I noticed her right when I walked in. She’s changed q-quite a bit since high school, though. Just get a load of those m-milk wagons. Damn! Besides, nothing is going to attract more at-attention than us hightailing it out of here."

Monty, I’m going to the bar for a beer, can I get you one? My treat, Andy offered.

Monty took a seat at the table. Andy, your spare tire seems a b-b-bit larger than when I saw you last. Maybe you need to stick to low c-calorie. Get me a Macallan 12 while you’re up there, on the r-rocks.

Andy didn’t want to lose face, but the scotch would be pricy—and he’d already offered to pay. Abigail only gave him $20 to go out with the guys for the night. She was tight with the purse strings, and everybody knew it. Um, Monty, I don’t think Baxter’s carries that brand. You know, the place is really nothing more than a dive bar.

Relax, Andy. Get the b-best he has, Monty said, throwing a couple of tens on the table.

The three watched Andy walk off. Gary and Hal exchanged a look of unspoken curiosity. It was the stutter.

Monty, you seen your father? Gary finally asked.

Monty seemed confused. What d-do you mean?

Hal knew where Gary was coming from. Monty’s father was a real ball-buster: someone who could reduce a man to a worthless pile of mush, a Sally, in a matter of seconds. Most of the man’s interests centered around World War II, a great war that made great men. Hal wanted to stay clear of the sensitive subject but thought it best to clear the air.

What I think Gary means is that you only seem to stutter when you’ve seen your old man.

Monty couldn’t help but look: a glance down at his own deformed hand with its discolored and contorted skin, like a 3D map that told the story of the accident that was no accident.

Haven’t seen him, he managed to say without a sputter.

Hal seemed content to let it go, but Gary wasn’t convinced. Cut the shit, Monty. What’s with the stammering? If there’s problems with your father, we have a right to know.

Just then, Andy came back with Monty’s scotch, plus a beer for himself. He took a seat. The tension at the table was obvious. What’s going on? What’s wrong?

W-what’s wrong is that Baxter is a cheap son of a bitch. This d-d-drink is more ice than scotch, probably wa-watered down, at that. I need to get this over with and get the hell out of t-town before my father catches up with me.

Monty took a sip and shook his head sharply; the drink’s bitter edge made him wince. He wouldn’t put it past Andy to have ordered something cheaper to pocket the change. Still, he thought it was best to leave the topic alone.

You go first, Hal. Tell us what went through your m-mind when you first heard that old man Watt was f-found lying motionless on the banks of the Arkansas River.

Whoa, whoa! Not so fast, Gary interjected. You didn’t answer me. Is your father causing trouble, again?

Get off his back, Gary. We all know how Monty stresses when he comes back to town, Hal explained. Hell, if Judge Reardon was my father, I’d be one uptight motherfucker too.

It was tense at the table, everyone focused on Monty’s impending response. No one even saw Angela Watt walk up.

Monty Reardon?

They all looked up as she stood over them.

Who w-wants to know? Monty mouthed off—a bitter mood, the result of the woman’s intrusive nature.

I’m Angela Watt, but I think you already know that. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. I left several messages, but evidently, you haven’t found the time—or the desire—to call me back. I think there’s something important for us to discuss, don’t you? Perhaps tomorrow, before the service?

Monty wasn’t going to be intimidated. "It depends on what you m-mean by talk. Answer me this, do I need to b-b-bring the condoms … or do you keep a f-few on hand for such occasions?"

Hal chuckled under his breath.

This woman wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Laugh, if you want, Mr. Reardon, but I don’t think you’ll find anything funny about what I have to say. I certainly don’t think it’s funny when one person dicks around with another person’s life, do you?

With those words, she turned to leave, but not before shooting a hostile glare that bore through Gary like a laser. The guys watched anxiously as the bar door closed after her.

Andy was the first to panic, but he kept his voice down. Monty, buddy, you’ve got to do something. I’d sooner die than go to prison.

Hal and Gary swapped looks. There was always the underlying fear of a treacherous act by a fellow conspirator. The others knew if anyone was prone to caving, it would be Andy, throwing the rest of them under the bus to save himself. This type of self-inflicted madness had seemed to diminish over the years, only to resurface when the vigil rolled around. It was a stark reminder that a shroud of darkness hung over them, so all-encompassing that it shut out the sun.

Andy, shut the f-fuck up. I need to think, Monty replied. But he couldn’t—not about what concerned the guys, anyway.

He was preoccupied, what his father would say. Monty had heard them dozens of times, the quotes from military leaders that his father would spout off; a riddle from another time, as if a young boy could possibly put them into context. But now wasn’t the time for words: not from some regimental strategist nor from a castigating father whose words could gut a man like a boning knife. He needed to get out of town as soon as possible because, as far as his father was concerned, the man was Admiral Yamamoto and Monty was the Arizona, a sitting duck in the water.

Two

Georgia’s Grill

Saturday, May 25, 2019, 9:35 a.m.

Gary slid into the booth. Saturday mornings were the diner’s busiest time, and he’d waited over 45 minutes for a table to open up in her station. He wondered what she’d be doing over the weekend, who she’d be with, who she might sleep with. Sometimes Gary wanted her so bad, he thought his dick would explode; sometimes it did, especially in the early hours of the morning.

He always came alone. He didn’t want anyone to distract him from his pillow talk with Savannah: their brief time together when she’d ask, What can I get for you today? or, Will there be anything else?

Only after a few months did Gary have the nerve to sit in her area. At first, he’d been a real chickenshit. But now he always asked for the booth by the window. It was through that window, last summer, he’d caught a glimpse of her. He’d contracted with Georgia to cut and trim the grass out front. The owner had offered to renew Gary’s Green Thumb contract, but he didn’t want Savannah to see him as the hired help. Besides, he knew there were plenty of guys doing the side-hustle that summer.

Savannah had changed quite a bit since high school, in a good way and in all the right places. The high school years had been hard on her. Not school per se, but her home life. Her mother had died of some blood cancer—one that was too hard to pronounce, much less understand. She was an only child, and her father somehow felt, as a man left alone, that it was Savannah’s duty to become the woman of the house: cook my meals, do the dishes, iron my shirts, pack my lunch, clean my toilet. Gary figured that was what had kept Savannah thin and tired. She never did her hair like the other girls, always had it pulled back so tight it kept her eyes partially shut. After high school and the incident at the river, Gary hadn’t given a second thought to Savannah, until he saw her last summer. He’d asked around and found out that her father had met a woman from Dodge City and moved off. Maybe it was Savannah’s freedom from domestic servitude that led her to become the woman she was supposed to be.

What can I get for you today? the woman asked as she put down a red plastic tumbler full of ice water.

She’d startled him, awakened him from his fantasy of an ugly duckling transforming into a beautiful swan. Where’s—where’s Savannah?

She’s not working today, we traded. Something about her cycling club; I think they’re sponsoring a race this morning. She took my shift yesterday. Our breakfast special this morning is eggs and a chicken fry, $6.99. If you want something other than water, that’ll be extra.

Her name tag said Mavis: a sharp contrast to what he’d been expecting. Can you give me a few minutes? I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu.

He took the laminated card from between the napkin dispenser and the ketchup bottle and pretended to peruse it. It was a farce. Gary had the menu memorized, as if he worked there. His mind was one with Savannah’s. He always had the country breakfast on Saturday, but he figured it just wouldn’t taste the same served up by the hand of someone named Mavis.

Where was his beauty: her hair cascading over her shoulders, those blue eyes, that nose ever so slightly turned up at the end—that perfect nose? He contrasted her looks to his own. He’d been a little scrawny when he was younger, but throughout high school, he’d transformed into the All-American Joe: five-foot-eleven, sandy hair, strong build, rugged good looks, and, in the summer, a deep tan that made his teeth appear porcelain white.

Gary felt despair setting in, wondering if he was just kidding himself. He had a problem, a much bigger problem than the circumstance of Watt’s death keeping him tied to those morons from high school. It was the problem of the vigil and the cemetery: Gary hated them, all cemeteries. He wouldn’t even consider contracting to maintain one.

It all started when he was fifteen: the accident that killed his little brother, Chris. The Clarke family had tried to recover after the tragedy, but it couldn’t—the family had died too.

It had been a Sunday. He remembered it like it was yesterday.

Gary! the shout came from downstairs. Get down here, now!

It was his dad. Gary didn’t know what he’d done, but he knew that tone. Whatever it was, he needed to address it right then, because ignoring it would only make things worse. He begrudgingly hit pause, threw the controller down on the bed, and left the sanctuary of his room.

He paused at the top of the stairs. What he saw made him cringe. A quart of mineral-grade paint, Queenstown Gray, was overturned in the entryway. Its monochromatic contents, when hit by the light just right, resembled a reflective basaltic-type lava flow slowly creeping to points of least resistance along the slate tile floor. Chris, only eight, sat on the bottom step with Queenstown Gray splatter on his sneakers, size 3 tracks leading up to his seat.

Yeah, Dad? Gary called down. His brother looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks.

I need you to get down here. Watch out for the mess, their father warned, irritation in his voice.

Gary knew his father had planned to repaint his home office that was right off the foyer that weekend, but he’d spent most of his time throwing out years of clutter, prepping, and draping. Very little painting had been done. The dark gray color was to be the trim paint that would contrast antique white walls.

Do you see the mess your brother made? And there he sits, blubbering like a baby over the whole deal … like that’s going to do any good. The tile, the grout: it’s ruined. I think the whole floor is going to have to be ripped up and redone.

What happened? Gary asked reluctantly as he slowly began his descent.

He was playing with that football. He was tossing it up in the air—you know, doing the spin thing. He wasn’t watching where he was going. I wanted to go ahead and start with the trim to the door. I just got the area around it taped before the roll ran out. I popped the lid but forgot my stir stick in the other room. And when I’d gotten back, Chris had kicked the can over.

Gary looked around. Where’s Mom?

She went to the home improvement store to get me another roll. Look, you need to take your brother out. I don’t care where, just take him out.

He reached for his wallet. Here, here’s $20. Take him to the matinee, take him to the arcade, take him for pizza—I don’t care, just get him out of here.

Gary looked down at his little brother. His eyes were downcast, and his shoulders slumped as if he was an unwanted waif waiting for placement in a foster home. Gary usually didn’t appreciate the tag-along, his little brother representing the gnat darting in and out of his vision, the itch that couldn’t be scratched, and the fart that couldn’t be held.

Gary bent at the knees. Come on, little guy, hop on.

He waited until Chris climbed onto his back, preventing any further painted shoeprints across the floor. Gary thought that would only irritate his father more. He saw the football behind the front door and palmed it before going outside.

On the porch, Chris climbed down and jumped around his big brother’s heels, ready for whatever adventure lay ahead. Gary, what’s grout?

Never mind, squirt. Get your bike. Let’s go over to that empty field behind the courthouse and throw the ball around. It’s only about a quarter mile from here. The park is too far and uphill all the way.

Gary planned to pocket the twenty. At most, at most, he’d spring for a single-dip cone on the way home. He would be turning 16 in a few months, and he was saving for a car.

Why? Chris whined. If I ruined grout, I should at least know what it is.

Just never mind, Chris, and, whatever you do, don’t ask Dad about it. In fact, if you want my advice, stay clear of him for a couple of days.

Chris nodded in agreement. If his big brother was going to give him advice, he was going to take it.

They took off on their bikes and made their way east to the Kraal County Courthouse. The acreage in the rear had been designated for an annex that would house tax, election, and probation offices as plans had been made to remodel the existing courthouse and judges’ chambers. The chain link fence had warning signs posted, and a backhoe and excavator were parked on the untended construction site. The boys propped their bikes up against the temporary fencing, entering through it at a two-foot breach too tight for a full-grown man, but not for a pre-pubescent boy and an underdeveloped adolescent.

Go long! Go long! Gary called as he pumped his arm, fingers carefully placed on the football’s laces.

Chris ran with all his might, looking back over his shoulder—ready to impress: a Kansas City Chief, a wide-receiver, in the making.

Then Chris fell from the face of the earth.

Gary heard a whimper, or was it the wind? Perhaps it was an animal—no, more like a pop, bacon frying. He scarcely remembered running to the hole, the excavated earth ready to consume him in its clutches. He had trouble stopping at its edge, the brakes to his momentum sending a sprinkling of dirt onto the body below. The smell of singed hair and flesh was the first thing he noticed, his eyes reluctant to accept the sight of his brother lying lifeless in that hole, that grave. Chris’s right hand was charred, a malformed appendage; his left foot blown off as if a landmine mishap; and his eyes rolled back in his head. The football sat innocently, safely, only inches from the live, exposed wire that had electrocuted Chris.

Gary remembered his father telling someone at the funeral that Chris hadn’t cried in his final moment, that the death was quick, that the boy didn’t suffer. Gary didn’t know that for sure, just recalling when he looked down at his brother in that makeshift grave that there’d been no sign of a tear.

Sir, are you going to order or not? Mavis asked.

Gary was surprised to see her standing there, uncertain how much time had passed. He reached across to put the menu up, heavy-handedly knocking over his water glass, sending ice cubes across the tabletop and water over the table’s edge. Mavis ran to get a towel while he quickly stood to reveal a wet crotch.

Spills must run in the family, he thought before pushing the nightmare down.

He looked up in embarrassment, wondering who may have seen his blunder. Then, there she was: Savannah, at the counter, talking to Georgia. She wasn’t in her uniform, but a skin-tight cycling outfit, blond curls flowing over her shoulders, and pouty lips colored bright red that, when parted, revealed a perfect smile and a sensuous tongue. He watched her lips as she mouthed, Hi, Gary and sent a small wave of her hand in his direction.

Gary waved back with the goofy smile of a lovesick sap with a wet crotch. He wanted her, but he had a problem—one so troublesome, he doubted anyone would ever understand or accept it. The psychiatrist called it coimetrophobia. Cemeteries: all full of graves, and each of them was Chris’s grave, that hole. It was a problem that would chain him to a life of solitude.

The psychiatrist was the one who told him to get into landscaping: work with your hands, work with dirt. The process was an attempt to desensitize him to the fear, but it had done little to alleviate it. Even Hal’s coonhound was too much for him with the dog’s digging of holes and burying of bones.

Gary decided he’d worry about his anxiety-ridden problem another day. The diner would be closed tomorrow, but he’d be back the day after —just to see Savannah.

Three

Kansas-25

Saturday, May 25, 2019, 1:45 p.m.

Ka-thunk.

The 2001 Silverado 1500 suddenly hit a pothole, sending a reverberation up Hal and Tammy Lynette’s spines. Only Luke in his car seat seemed to be spared.

Jesus, Hal, when are you going to get those shocks replaced? You work at a garage. It’s like a man with a lump on one of his balls. You got to get those things checked out.

He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. He popped his tape into the truck’s original cassette player: Johnny