any fucking socks. Henry’s all for taking the husband out for a ‘ drive ’, maybe teach the guy it ain’t nice to let your kids go feral like that. But the Winnebago don’t got no hula Elvis, little Jesus, or bullet holes in the back, and we’re in a hurry, so it’s the guy’s lucky day.
The third address is for a farm out in the sticks. All the way out the road, Henry’s going on about how that asshole back at the motel doesn’t deserve to have kids, and how come fuckers like that can get enough cash together to buy drugs but can’t afford to get his daughters a pair of fucking socks?
Once we get out of Des Moines, Iowa turns into this huge checker-board of square fields – soy beans, then corn, then soy beans, then corn, then more corn. On and on for miles. It’s weird, like someone laid out the whole state with a ruler.
Every now and then we pass a wooden house with a couple of cars in the drive and another out the back, American flag flying in the yard. Mr Luciano’s guy wasn’t joking about that patriotic stuff.
Jack’s sitting in the backseat with the map, muttering to himself every time we pass a junction. “OK,” he says at last, “it’s the next right.”
I take the turning and the tarmac road gives way to gravel. The little stones pinging up into the wheel arches as I follow Jack’s directions. About five minutes later the gravel gives out and we’re left on a farm track full of potholes.
Jack points at a rambling wooden farmhouse off to the left. “There.”
I pull up, blocking in a new-ish looking pick-up. Henry’s first out, stretching the kinks out of his back.
“Frank Williams,” he says, reading it off the piece of paper Mr Luciano’s guy gave us, “he’s a chaplain in the National Guard.”
“Uh-huh,” I pull out my gun, check it’s loaded, then rack the slide back and stick the safety on. “In God We Trust.”
“Yup.”
“Jesus,” says Jack, staring at my semi-automatic, “ain’t you got a proper gun? Damn thing looks like it came free with a Happy Meal.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I’m not worried about people thinking I got a tiny dick like you.” Just because my Heckler and Kotch USP Compact is small, doesn’t mean it can’t blow a fucking big hole in someone.
Jack grins. “My dick was big enough for your sister. And your mom – ”
Henry holds up a hand. “Shut it, you two. Trying to do a fuckin’ job here . . .” He marches up to the farmhouse door and knocks.
Nothing happens.
So we go round the side of the house – there’s a chain-link fence making a compound around a kennel, the ground all dug up and speckled with shit, but no sign of the dog that did it. From the size of the mounds of crap, the damn animal’s got to be HUGE.
The yard’s a mess of trees, long grass and bushes. A pair of blue jeans and a black shirt hang limp and damp on the washing line.
Henry tries the back door – locked. We’re talking about kicking it in when Jack wanders off to the other end of the yard, peering back between the trees. Next thing I know he’s ducking down and waving at us. Pointing at whatever it is he’s found.
It’s a brown Winnebago, parked alongside a concrete barn with a sagging tin roof. We can only see the back of the motor home, but that’s enough, the rear’s peppered with bullet holes and the bumper sticker says ‘In God We Trust’.
We’ve found him.
Everyone checks their guns again.
Jack nods back at the house. “So where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know, do I?” says Henry. “Taking the dog for a walk?”
And that’s when we hear it – a man’s voice singing Onward Christian Soldiers , coming from somewhere on the other side of the barn.
Henry gives me the signal and we lope through the long grass to the Winnebago, guns held out at the ready, Jack hurrying along behind. The motor home’s side door is open – a quick check shows a sticky red carpet scattered with bits of skull and brain, tie-down rings
The third address is for a farm out in the sticks. All the way out the road, Henry’s going on about how that asshole back at the motel doesn’t deserve to have kids, and how come fuckers like that can get enough cash together to buy drugs but can’t afford to get his daughters a pair of fucking socks?
Once we get out of Des Moines, Iowa turns into this huge checker-board of square fields – soy beans, then corn, then soy beans, then corn, then more corn. On and on for miles. It’s weird, like someone laid out the whole state with a ruler.
Every now and then we pass a wooden house with a couple of cars in the drive and another out the back, American flag flying in the yard. Mr Luciano’s guy wasn’t joking about that patriotic stuff.
Jack’s sitting in the backseat with the map, muttering to himself every time we pass a junction. “OK,” he says at last, “it’s the next right.”
I take the turning and the tarmac road gives way to gravel. The little stones pinging up into the wheel arches as I follow Jack’s directions. About five minutes later the gravel gives out and we’re left on a farm track full of potholes.
Jack points at a rambling wooden farmhouse off to the left. “There.”
I pull up, blocking in a new-ish looking pick-up. Henry’s first out, stretching the kinks out of his back.
“Frank Williams,” he says, reading it off the piece of paper Mr Luciano’s guy gave us, “he’s a chaplain in the National Guard.”
“Uh-huh,” I pull out my gun, check it’s loaded, then rack the slide back and stick the safety on. “In God We Trust.”
“Yup.”
“Jesus,” says Jack, staring at my semi-automatic, “ain’t you got a proper gun? Damn thing looks like it came free with a Happy Meal.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I’m not worried about people thinking I got a tiny dick like you.” Just because my Heckler and Kotch USP Compact is small, doesn’t mean it can’t blow a fucking big hole in someone.
Jack grins. “My dick was big enough for your sister. And your mom – ”
Henry holds up a hand. “Shut it, you two. Trying to do a fuckin’ job here . . .” He marches up to the farmhouse door and knocks.
Nothing happens.
So we go round the side of the house – there’s a chain-link fence making a compound around a kennel, the ground all dug up and speckled with shit, but no sign of the dog that did it. From the size of the mounds of crap, the damn animal’s got to be HUGE.
The yard’s a mess of trees, long grass and bushes. A pair of blue jeans and a black shirt hang limp and damp on the washing line.
Henry tries the back door – locked. We’re talking about kicking it in when Jack wanders off to the other end of the yard, peering back between the trees. Next thing I know he’s ducking down and waving at us. Pointing at whatever it is he’s found.
It’s a brown Winnebago, parked alongside a concrete barn with a sagging tin roof. We can only see the back of the motor home, but that’s enough, the rear’s peppered with bullet holes and the bumper sticker says ‘In God We Trust’.
We’ve found him.
Everyone checks their guns again.
Jack nods back at the house. “So where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know, do I?” says Henry. “Taking the dog for a walk?”
And that’s when we hear it – a man’s voice singing Onward Christian Soldiers , coming from somewhere on the other side of the barn.
Henry gives me the signal and we lope through the long grass to the Winnebago, guns held out at the ready, Jack hurrying along behind. The motor home’s side door is open – a quick check shows a sticky red carpet scattered with bits of skull and brain, tie-down rings
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