Anthony Lukas

Encounter on the Lane

Anthony Lukas

The sheriff sat high in his saddle, a little uncomfortable in the white sheet covering his body and white hood covering his head. It was Midwest humid, light starting to dim, but no matter, the Catlickes would be along shortly. Their papist ceremony at their church had ended a bit ago and they would be driving down this lane to their home.

The sheriff glanced around at the half-dozen other men on their horses and in their robes, good Christen men like himself, he thought. Dedicated men, who recognized the necessity of keeping the Catlikers in their place, to remind them who held the power in this county and would continue to hold that power. He looked across the corn field next to the lane where they waited and to the fields beyond that to him were the symbol of a way of life, a way of life he would protect against these people and their pope.

Down at the curve of the lane, lights flashed quickly on and off. “They're comin',” said the sheriff, “Light em up.” Matches scratched, flared and set torches alight.

Patrick McLynn ground the gears on the old Ford as he drove up the slight rise on the lane heading home. “Got to get that adjusted,” he said.

“You sure it's the car?” Agnes smiled.

“Are you implying fault of the driver, wife?” and glanced at his children in the back seat, “Don't you kids think your Dad is a fine driver?”

“The best!” said James, while his older sister, dressed in her white first communion dress and veil, just smiled.

It had been a fine day. Little Maureen, standing proudly with the rest of her communion class, then walking to the altar rail, kneeling to receive her first communion from Father O'Toole. And the good father was mercifully short with his sermon. A nice dinner in Parish Hall and heading home.

We are doing well, thought Patrick. Moving from Pennsylvania to Indiana four years ago had been the right move. His business growing every month, even having to hire another employee, adding to the four he had already. And the growing respect of the community, on the Parish Board at St. Michael's and president-elect of the county Irish Businessman's Council. Youngest ever, he smiled.

“What are you grinning at?” asked Agnes.

“Oh, just thinking how lucky we are, how well things....” and he stopped talking and slowly brought the Ford to a stop, staring out the windshield. Agnes turned her head to look too and drew in a sharp breath.

Men on horseback had emerged from the field beside the road and were blocking the lane. The light from the torches they held causing their white sheets and hoods to glow orange.

“Come out here McLynn,” shouted one of men.

Patrick stared, then looked back at James and Mary who were leaning on the back of the front seat looking wide-eyed at the Klansman. Mary clutched her white rosary beads so tightly her fingers were white.

“Come out here, McLynn,” shouted another voice, “and stand before us.”

“Are they ghosts?” whispered James.

Patrick took a deep breath. “No, James, they are not ghosts. They are just men.” He pulled the handle on his car door and started to open it. Agnes put her hand on his shoulder. “Patrick...”

“McLynn!” came another shout.

“It'll be all right,” he said. Then, “but slide over behind the wheel, just in case.”

He got out of the car, taking his time shutting the door behind him. Agnes slid behind the steering wheel, her eyes both frightened and angry.

Patrick walked slowly forward to stand just beside the front of the Ford., leaning on it a bit to keep himself upright. He looked up at the men on their horses a few yards in front of him, knowing that they undoubtedly had guns under those sheets. He took a breath and steeled himself, “Well?” he said.

Silence. A shuffling of horses’ feet and a feeling of confusion.

Finally, “McLynn,” shouted a voice, “It has been decided ….”

“No need to shout, I can hear you just fine,” said Patrick. “As can the children,” motioning back to the Ford, thinking of Mary and her rosary beads and now feeling anger rising at these men and their silly costumes.

Silence. Then the man in the front spoke... in a normal voice. “McLynn,” he said, “it has been decided that ...”

“By who?” shouted Patrick. “You, Sheriff? Or was it you Mr. Mayor?” pointing at another of the klansmen.

“I know who you are,” said Patrick, “well, most of you. I recognized your voice Adams, and you with your fancy boots, Todd Barker.” There was a stiffening under the sheets, a slight turning of heads to glance at the others.

“Don't know you there in the back. You want to say something to help me out?” Silence. “Well, no matter.”

“What did you think you were going to accomplish here? Scare us out of town?” Patrick shook his head and stared at them. “Never!” he spat. “We have built our lives here and we are going nowhere. That okay with you Adams, okay if we come to your business and spend our money?” Silence.

“I am going to get back in my old car, with my family, and we are going to drive down this lane to our home.” He paused and, looking at the figures he knew to be the sheriff and the mayor, said, “And nothing will be said about this.”

Then he turned slowly, walked to the driver’s door, pulled it open and got in. He grabbed the steering wheel hard to keep his hands from shaking.

He breathed deeply, started the car and moved the shift lever to first, grinding the gear. “Shit,” he whispered.

The horsemen hadn't moved but then three of them pulled their horses aside, leaving the lane clear. Patrick eased the Ford past them and went on down the lane.

Drug Bust

by Anthony Lukas

I stepped onto the small porch and was about to knock when I noticed the front door was just slightly ajar. That gave me a bad feeling. Kemper was generally the careful type, wouldn't be leaving doors unlatched, not with thousands in drugs inside.

I eased the door open and stood listening.

Nothing.

I took a step inside and froze. There was a noise from somewhere in the little bungalow, a noise I couldn't figure out. I eased further into the small entry hall and looked into the wood paneled front room. Kemper was there but he hadn't been the one making the noise. He lay on his side just before the doorway into the kitchen. Blood had stained the front of his shirt and the rug he had died on.

A noise again from the back of the house, where I knew the bedroom to be. Drawers being opened and shut, clothes hangers being scraped along a closet clothes bar. Then the sound of quiet cursing and a man appeared in the kitchen door having come from the back bedroom.

He started when he saw me, took a step back, and grabbed a knife from the front pocket of his hoodie.

Young, short, dark-skinned, a little wild-eyed, long stringy brown hair, dirty clothes, holding a very well-used backpack. He stared, pointing the very evil-looking knife at me. A customer, or maybe a competitor of Kemper. From his look, he looked more like a customer.

I could have backed out, but I had come to confront Kemper and get what I was owed. With Kemper dead, the first was impossible, but the second . . .

I held up my hand. “It's okay. We got no problem here.”

The kid didn't say anything. He had the knife, and I was empty, felons not supposed to be carrying. I had to talk him out of the house.

“You find anything?” I said.

Still nothing.

“He keeps it pretty well hidden,” I said and nodded toward the wall between this room and the kitchen. “To the right of that hutch.”

He screwed up his face, looking around the door frame. “The what?”

“The cabinet, with the glass doors.”

He sidled in that direction, knife and eyes on me. He glanced at the wood paneling, then back at me.

“Put your hand on that second panel, give it a light push, and it'll pop open.” He did and it did. Narrow shelves held a few bags of pills and powders. Not a lot, which meant Kemper had sold most of his stock, which in turn meant . . .

“I'm taking this,” said the kid, waving the knife for emphasis.

“No problem,” I said, “Be my guest.”

He grabbed the bags and dumped them into his backpack and hefted it. To him it was like a sack full of gold.

He turned to me, bag in one hand, nasty knife in the other. I knew he was trying to decide, leave a witness or not.

“Look,” I said. “Kemper was a shit. He ripped me and anyone else he could. I ended doing time because of him. That 's why I came today, to settle the score. But you beat me to it. No problem to me. I'm not helping the cops catch anyone who ended him. I'll tell 'em I saw someone leaving. White guy, tall, short blond hair, blue track suit.”

The kid stared at me, not getting it.

“Someone who doesn't look anything like you. . . .?'”

Now the light dawned. “Okay,” he said, and we both circled counterclockwise around the room, he ending by the front door. With a last look, he dodged.

I went to Kemper's body and rolled it aside. I flipped the bloody rug up and looked down at the floor safe. Same one. I went into the kitchen, used a handkerchief to pull open a drawer that had a gun and other junk, the gun that Kemper had probably been trying for. I rummaged in the drawer, finding the key among all the clutter. Back to the safe. Insert the key, turn, open.

Piles of bills filled the space, the proceeds of selling all the product that had been on the hidden shelves.

I filled a bag I'd found in the kitchen and stood. The hidden door, with the kid's full handprint on it still hung open. I looked down at Kemper and felt . . . nothing.

I crossed the room, scanned the street through the curtains, slipped through the front door and made like smoke.

Anthony Lukas is a former attorney, former chocolatier, and current national park worker. He has been previously published in Yellow Mama as well as Black Petals, Shotgun Honey, OverMyDeadBody.com, Bewildering Stories, and Mysterical-E magazines.