The Marksman by Robin G. Mercier

Author:Robin G. Mercier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level 4 Press, Inc.
Published: 2023-04-14T00:00:00+00:00

14

The big box store surrounded on four sides by nothing dominated the Texas landscape with its bland enormity. Jim saw the structure minutes before nearing it. He took his time exiting the highway, crossing the store’s vast lot before finding a place to park. Miguel was asleep in his ball cap against the passenger door, a hand on Jackson with the dog’s snoring head in his lap.

Jim cut the engine, alert but in no hurry. He sipped whiskey and waited.

Getting behind the enemy without its knowledge was one of a soldier’s oldest tactics. Giving it lead-time, letting it travel away from you thinking it was in hot pursuit. After the SUV had sped back onto the highway, Jim turned the truck down the rural road and passed through sorghum and cotton fields following a route that wound back to the highway. Afterward he’d driven the speed limit, letting the day fade, and then sat in the parking lot. Watching people emerge from the store pushing shopping carts, carrying bags, all those purchases, the slow realization and shame at his stupidity warming his face. His credit card, swiped or scanned, how the cartel had been able to track his movements, and he asked himself, why? Had he been so goddamn dense as to use the card when he was traveling with a backpack filled with cash?

Those words again, blood money.

A quiet part of his mind finding its voice then, saying it aloud: how spending the money felt like taking more from Miguel, more of what his mother had already sacrificed for him. Loss and despair were soaked into that cash. Jim shook the empty pint bottle. He rubbed his face, leaned his head back, and asked his wife what to do, what to do, letting sleep carry him to her.

Christine said, It’s okay, the money, if it helps the boy.

Jim said, Thank you my darling, my heart, I need you to tell me so.

Although.

Jim asked, Although what?

You know.

I don’t, tell me, Jim said.

Just that, what’s good for the boy may not be good for you.

And Miguel said, “Jim. Jim, hey.”

One eye open, he looked over at Miguel and Jackson who looked back at him. The boy in need of a wash and change of clothes, the dog with that open mouth look of hunger. “Okay, girl,” Jim said, meeting her eyes, holding her muzzle. He stepped from the truck and unlocked the equipment box. The red backpack, he unzipped it, removed a sheaf of bills, locked up the box. With a knuckle on the window he told Miguel, “Let’s go. We need some things,” and led him from the truck and across the parking lot. The boy staring up at the massive store like it had landed from outer space. Through the whooshing doors, the place as cavernous as an airplane hangar, they passed a pyramid of laundry detergent, a display of golf carts and lawn mowers and gas grills, Jim pausing to get his bearings, reading the overhanging signs and turning toward the clothing section.

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