The Crossland ShootoutA Novel by JOHN MYERS
Chapter 7
"My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean," or,
Hector Cruz, You Are One Mean Man
Come Monday morning, J.J. was up and gone early, even before I rolled out at my usual 6 a.m. hour, and later when I went down to the paper boxes, I had a pleasant surprise. Not only was The Star full of my bloody, color pictures of the Crossland shootout, good ol' Frank Daniels had put a bunch of them out on the AP wire and the other three daily papers I subscribe to had them, too.
There on the front page of The Star was the picture of the young man who almost shot me, in focus, big as life and twice as ugly, pointing that Ruger 9 mm at me, getting ready to shoot.
I silently thanked the good Lord one more time I was alive.
I carried the papers inside, fixed breakfast and sat down to eat and read, my usual morning ritual.
All four papers ran the story on the front page. The little town of Crossland was suddenly famous. Or perhaps infamous is more accurate. It was not the kind of publicity to gladden the hearts of the Morgan County Chamber of Commerce members. "Come to Crossland and get shot!" Catchy tourism slogan, that.
Five dead, 16 wounded. Police, deputies, SBI and feds all seeking crazed killer with full auto AK-47. Hot news.
But somehow it seemed as if this was all ancient history, as if I had taken those pictures years ago, and not just 36 hours ago.
When Suzy finally rolled over around 9 a.m., I went in and tried to gently coax her out of bed on the pretext that we needed some groceries, right now, because, well, just because, that's why.
She finally got up griping and whining about 9:30, but I couldn't tell her why it was so urgent we lay in several days' worth of food for what might be a siege waiting on Hector Cruz.
When she has a good reason to get up early, she'll do it with good grace. But it was summer, she was out of school, and aside from Hector Cruz, I had no other good reason for her to get up.
I could have gone by myself, but I didn't want to leave her.
I put Bonnie and Clyde both outside and left them in charge of the place as we headed into town.
And I just had to grin and bear it as we drove out to the Food Lion, Suzy as mad and sore-headed as an old grizzly she-bear.
In this regard, I'm sort of glad she takes after her mother. When Suzy gets mad, she sulls up and won't say another word until she cools off.
I guess that is better than whining and fussing out loud.
She didn't say a word as we rode uptown, and hardly said a word as we trooped down the aisles of the Food Lion, confining her sentences to short, clipped questions. "Want some of these?"
We laid in more than 200 bucks' worth of groceries, and I guess she was so mad she didn't even notice I never said "No" even once no matter what items she picked up and tossed in the cart as I patiently pushed it up and down every single one of the aisles.
She didn't even comment when I tossed in grocery items that I normally would have passed up, or when I went back and got a second cart. In short, I bought about everything I thought we might need to survive as a family of three for at least two or three weeks. And let me add, shopping for J.J. requires a lot of food. That boy may be smaller than me, but he can eat twice as much as I can.
Or maybe Suzy did notice and just figured I was letting her get even for dragging her out of bed early by spending my money.
Anyway, the mood had lightened up some by the time we finished shopping and rode back to pull into the driveway at home.
And then the sky fell in on both of us.
As we drove up, I saw Clyde standing over in the side yard, which was unusual, because he and Bonnie always meet us running.
Then when I got out of the car, I saw why Clyde wasn't coming.
He was standing over a bloody lump of white fur with black spots, nosing the fur as if to say, "Please get up, Bonnie."
Because that bloody fur was all that was left of poor Bonnie.
Suzy had seen the same thing I had through the car window, and before I could say a word she was out of the car and running like a deer across the yard, kneeling down over Bonnie and crying, "Oh no, oh no, oh no," over and over and over again as her heart broke.
By the time I got there, Suzy had put her arms around Clyde and she was holding him and crying like a baby. I knelt down and cried, too, holding Suzy and Clyde with my arms around both.
Who would do such a terrible thing, daddy?" Suzy finally sobbed through her tears. I couldn't speak, even though I feared I knew the answer, so I didn't answer.
After a while, I got up, to go find the shovel, I guess.
As I walked across the front yard, I spotted a piece of paper shoved in the edge of the front door, fluttering in the breeze.
I went up the steps and pulled the note loose, never giving any thought to fingerprints or anything else, at the time.
The note was written in black ink, a spidery scrawl.
It said:
Sorry I missed you, señor.
I'll be back."
And it was signed, "H.C."
Hector Cruz. Who else?
I went in the house and called the major. He sent the troops, and came with them, but if Hector Cruz was still around anywhere, they could find neither hide nor hair of him in the Uwharrie hills.
The major used his ballpoint pen to unfold the note lying on the kitchen table, then read it without comment. Then he shook his head when I told him I had already put my fingerprints all over it, used his pen to push into a plastic bag and angrily crammed it in his shirt pocket.
It doesn't matter about the prints," the major observed.
Even if he had signed his name, that doesn't prove he's the one who killed your dog, and the wording isn't an overt threat.
Besides, we've got charges enough already on Mr. Cruz, if we can ever find him. We've got five murder warrants already signed, and some of the 16 wounded might not make it, so there may be more.
I guess this proves you didn't kill him," the major added.
I guess so," I agreed. "Or maybe some of his troops signed H.C. to the note. I don't suppose it makes a lot of difference."
Officially," the major continued, "I still can't assign any deputies to stay out here. Even if I had the manpower and the money to pay the overtime, which I don't."
I understand," I replied.
I said officially I can't do anything," the major continued.
Unofficially, some of the deputies had already asked me yesterday and this morning to ask you if you'd mind having some extra guests for a while, sort of use your place for an off-duty hangout, if you get what I mean. All unofficially, of course."
I wouldn't have any problem with that," I answered, smiling.
So that's how I came to have some "unofficial" house guests.
It was getting on towards noon, so I invited the major and the other deputies who were still around to stay and have lunch.
And then it hit me, we forgot the groceries in the car.
The major and the other deputies happily pitched in and helped us empty out my overloaded Camry. I say happily because I'm sure they were glad to see we'd have something for them to munch on if they were going to be hanging around "unofficially" for the next while. In case you haven't noticed, lawmen as a group love to eat.
The safest place is any town is the restaurant or donut shop where the cops like to hang out, because they love to eat day or night. But this was one crowd I would happily feed forever.
The ice cream had melted while sitting in the car during the excitement, and the milk was probably a little suspect, but with an armed courier service about to go into action, I wasn't worried now about surviving a long siege waiting on Hector Cruz or his troops.
After lunch, the major and all the deputies left, with a promise that an "off-duty" officer would be dropping by shortly.
Then I went and got my shovel and buried poor Bonnie, digging a hole in the side yard beside where she lay and easing her in it.
When I had finished, Suzy came out and stood next to me for a minute, then broke down again and I held her as we both cried again for poor Bonnie. She was a good dog. If there's a heaven for dogs, take good care of her Lord, and we'll see you over there, Bonnie.
Why, daddy, why?" Suzy asked, and I couldn't answer her.
Of course, the cat was way out of the bag now about Hector Cruz, as she had listened to my conversation with the major, never commenting but fixing me with an accusatory stare, her eyes silently asking the question, "Why didn't you tell me?"
I tried to answer her question now.
Honey, I didn't tell you the whole story about the shootout because I didn't want you to worry about nothing," I started.
Nothing!" she said. "You call this nothing?"
Well, there was a possibility for a while that Hector Cruz didn't know I had shot at him and maybe hit him. I guess that's not a possibility any longer. If this wasn't him, it was some of his people. Either way, we've got big trouble for sure now."
Clyde had come outside with Suzy and having now finished his usual quick trip around to water his favorite trees, he came up to squeeze himself in between Suzy and me, demanding some attention.
Suzy knelt down and put her arms around him and hugged him.
Why didn't he shoot Clyde, too, daddy?" Suzy asked.
I don't know. Maybe Bonnie challenged him first so he shot her and Clyde ran away. I don't know."
I knelt down beside her and we checked Clyde over and the only blood we found on him had to be Bonnie's where he had nosed her, as we found no wounds in his white and black-spotted fur.
As we were walking back to the house, J.J. arrived in his pickup, and while he didn't say much when we told him about Bonnie, I could see that it really made him mad enough to bite nails.
He takes after his mother, too, in that regard. He never says much, but when J.J. gets mad, he's mad clear through. God help Hector Cruz if and when he ever gets in my son's sights, I thought.
While we were still standing in the yard, another vehicle came up the driveway, a patrol car driven by Morgan County Sheriff's Deputy Jeff T. Brown.
I should have figured Jeff T. would be the first "off-duty" deputy to arrive. Don't ask me what the T. stands for. I don't know. But here in the sunny South were most of the good ol' boys have two names, Billy Bob or somesuch, most everybody calls him Jeff T. Or just plain T. for short, among his friends, of which we are included. T. sort of adopted J.J. as kind of a little brother for some reason, even though J.J. only visits here occasionally.
They just hit it off together immediately and when J.J. comes to see me, he usually drops in on T. and his brother, Bad Bob Brown, the Midland Police officer who came to the shootout.
I suppose J.J. does his beer drinking over at the Brown household that he knows I won't allow under my roof. I never asked because I don't really want to know.
And J.J. and T. also shared a common Army experience, T. having spent his tour somewhat earlier than J.J., but also as a military policeman. T. is welcome in our home anytime, but I was particularly glad to see him now, because I needed his expertise.
After the greetings were done with, I said, "Let's go inside and have a little council of war. I need your help on this T."
So we conducted a tour of my home, looking at it with different eyes than I ever had before, considering it as a fort.
My first thought was, are these solid-log walls thick enough to stop an AK-47 round that will shoot through a big pine tree?
We discussed that and decided that since a growing pine is softer than dried, hardened pine logs, plus the pine planking on the outside and inside of the walls, the house was probably AK-47 proof. Probably. The only way to tell for sure was to either shoot up my own house or wait and see, if and when Hector Cruz arrives.
J.J. and T. voted to try it out with my SKS, but this household not being a democracy, but a dictatorship with me as the benevolent dictator, I overruled that. We decided to wait and see.
Besides, what if the walls weren't bullet-proof? What would I be able to do about that now? Start bolting on armor plating?
We also decided that the tower is probably also AK-47 proof. The outside stone set in concrete-mortar and steel reinforcing rods, plus the interior structure of cinder blocks with concrete poured into the hollows should stop about any kind of high-powered bullet, including an AK-47.
But there's more to a fortress than solid-log walls and a stone tower, as I quickly discovered. As T. and J.J. talked about fields of fire, we looked out all the windows on the first and second floors, then climbed the tower to its third-floor perch.
And there I got my first rude awakening of the problems of home defense. The tower has windows around only one side, the side pointed out over the mountain range and down to Deer Creek.
On the uphill side of the tower, there isn't much of a view, so therefore, no windows were installed. It was either get out the sledge hammer and make some windows where there were none, or cover that side of the house from the windows at a lower angle.
On the second floor, the windows in my bedroom were adequate for that purpose, so I ruled out J.J.'s suggestion of sledge hammers for a quick remodeling of the top floor of the tower.
The ground floor has windows all around, plus what we figured were the two most likely attempted entrance points for Hector Cruz and company, the front and back doors on the porch and deck.
The basement has no windows, being exposed from the sloping hillside only on one end with only one door, next to the tower.
So we assigned battle stations, to borrow a Navy term to add to my two Army experts' terminology. J.J. volunteered to take the top of the tower with his Colt .223 cal. assault rifle, equipped with a 3X9 variable power telescopic sight. He would also have his 9 mm Ruger auto pistol for backup in the tower.
I would take the second floor, primarily covering the uphill side of the house on the tower's blind side, armed with my SKS .30 cal. assault rifle, which also has a 3X9 power telescopic sight. I would have my .45 Glock and .45 Colt auto pistols for backup.
The "off-duty" deputy on hand whenever the stuff hits the fan would take the ground floor, primarily concerned with the downhill side of the house in close, below J.J.'s line of fire from the tower, where he could also guard the way to the basement door.
On the ground floor, we picked out a good defensible position on the tower end of the house, overlooking the basement door and with a good view of the front and back doors, too. And we brought my 12 gauge shotgun downstairs and put it loaded and ready in that position, with all my shotgun shells with it, the double-ought buckshot on top.
Since the officer would have his sidearm on him, but might not have time to go to his patrol car for a shotgun, this seemed the best use of my shotgun, a weapon officers would be familiar with.
And if intruders get inside, a shotgun is a deadly weapon, plus it has sufficient range, 50 to 75 yards, to cover anyone in the front or back yards through the windows. We also put J.J.'s .357 magnum Ruger revolver alongside my shotgun as a backup sidearm for the officer on the ground floor, another weapon most all police and deputies would be familiar with and know how to shoot well.
And Suzy would take Clyde to the basement, staying inside the rock walls of the base of the tower, where she would be best protected from gunfire, and where she could see the only entrance, the basement door, armed with her .40 cal. Glock auto pistol.
It sounded like a good plan. It was. It almost worked.
After we had figured out what to do, we set about doing it.
I helped J.J. unload his pickup, and he needed some help.
He must have spent a month's pay at the Village Gun Shop.
He not only had several boxes of Glasers for my .45, Suzy's .40 and his 9 mm and .357 magnum pistols, he also had a whole grocery sack stacked full of .30 cal. softnose rounds for my SKS.
And he also had two green-painted steel boxes of .223 rounds, stenciled "Property of U.S. Army" on the outside. I didn't ask where those came from. I didn't want to know. Thanks, Uncle Sam.
They weren't softnose hunting rounds, but those steel-jacket "humane" Army rounds are pretty deadly in .223 caliber. It's such a high-velocity round that if it strikes a bone, it will knock a man down and Bob Allenby had told me of cases where he'd seen men killed with M-16 rounds in Vietnam when no vital organ was hit. But they were dead anyway, the heart apparently shocked into abruptly stopping by the impact of the round, killed by a .223 caliber heart attack.
J.J. obviously didn't take my advice about soft-nose rounds for his .223, but I figured it wouldn't make much difference.
J.J. also bought a dozen extra 30-round magazine clips, six each for my SKS and his Colt .223. We spent the rest of the afternoon loading clips we already had plus the extras J.J. bought, and then stacking all the ammunition and weapons in the appropriate spots.
Incidentally, it's not illegal to buy 30-round clips for my SKS assault rifle, or J.J.'s Colt .223, it's only illegal to put them on the rifles. At this point, I figured we might as well be hung for a goat as a lamb. Besides, I was willing to take my chances with a jury, if I lived through this, with the help of a few 30-round clips and the Good Lord.
Then the four of us sat down on the front porch to enjoy the afternoon shade and breeze and I offered my two a bit of advice.
J.J.," I began. "Remember we're not trying to kill these guys. Just hold them off long enough for the cavalry to arrive.
And even if they're smart enough to cut the phone lines, as long as we've got a deputy here with a radio, help will be here within minutes. Just shoot enough from the tower to make them lay low and let the deputies come in from the back side and bag 'em. And make sure of what you're shooting at before you shoot. Don't get trigger happy up there and shoot a deputy coming to the rescue."
Sure, pop," J.J. replied. But from the hard glint is his eye, I knew he would be shooting at anything that moved from that tower.
And I seriously doubted if he would be shooting to wound.
Honey," I said, turning to Suzy. "I hope you never have to shoot. The biggest thing you'll have to do is keep Clyde under control. He's really still a puppy, and if the shooting starts, it's going to be loud and I'm sure it will scare him to death.
The few times I've shot around him, he's been gun shy.
You just stay in the tower down in the basement until we call for you to come out. And if anybody starts to come in the basement door, yell for them to stop, because it just might be a deputy.
But if somebody comes in without identifying themself, shoot. And when you shoot, remember what Tom Golden taught you in that course. Aim right at the middle of the torso and keep shooting until they go down. Don't try to shoot him in the shoulder or shoot the gun out of his hand. Aim to kill, if you have to shoot at all.
I hope and pray Hector Cruz never shows up, and if he does, that you don't have to shoot. But if you do have to shoot, do you think you'll be able to do it?" I asked her.
Maybe she was remembering poor Bonnie when she said it, but Suzy left no doubt in my mind that she would shoot when she said calmly, "Yes, daddy, I know I can do it, if I have to."
So we had done all the planning that I could see to do.
But the best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray.
Then we began the long wait.
Chapter 8
Waiting For Hector Cruz To Arrive, or,
Hurry Up, Hector, Before I Kill Myself
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