Endgame

Chapter 1

1935: Prestonsburg, Kentucky

Halloween

Caleb Crebb sat at the dinner table staring down at a cracked plate on the center of which rested a solitary, dry potato. He thought, years ago, landing a job with the local coal miners would pan out for him and his family. It hadn’t. Instead, it brought a salary too small to feed his girls, lungs too full of black death, and a head too full of frustration. At times, he was sure the situation would get better. But it never did. It only grew worse as the babies continued to flow out of his wife. More mouths to feed and less funds to feed them with.

Every day became a challenge to keep the thread of sanity from unraveling. Today was no different. No matter how his life changed, this day was a day Caleb Crebb would never forget. Today Crebb was given the news that the mine was closing down. The miners were too efficient and stripped the land clean well before the company thought possible. There was no more work in the black vein of earth that had been Crebb’s second home for nearly five years. And there was no other work Crebb knew. Mining was his only skill. Mining had been the way of his father and his father’s father. Their blood ran as black as the mucus from their lungs.

Caleb stared down at the laughable sustenance. The potato seemed to look back up at him, with its forty or so eyes, and mock, Caleb Crebb you’re nothing. You aren’t even man enough to support the pathetic family of yours.

Nothing. Pathetic.

The potato was right. Caleb Crebb was nothing. Caleb Crebb meant nothing. Caleb Crebb would do nothing.

From the back room, the sound of the youngest child wailing for its bottle broke the sad man’s trance.

I’ll take care of her, Caleb. You just sit there and eat your supper. Crebb’s gentle wife spoke. She placed an arm on his shoulder as she stood and walked out of the room. He had been fortunate to win over the heart of such a wonderful woman. She was the real backbone of the family. She tended to the needs of everyone. She healed the sick, righted the wrongs, doled out the discipline (though rarely necessary). She was his angel, an angel he would have surely died without. Every morning he woke up thankful for her presence. Every night he fell asleep guilty for the life he had given her.

A shudder broke through Caleb’s stiffened back. He snapped upright, eyes locked forward in their sockets. There was something he had to do. Something. He stood, knocking his chair over as he backed away from the table. He didn’t stop or stoop to right the downed thing. His mind was focused on something that his consciousness couldn’t quite get a grasp on.

Crebb turned from the table and slowly stomped into the bedroom where he and Marsha spent most nights creating the family he couldn’t feed. It was the one thing in his life that was right – making love to his wife. They shared a passion for one another that he had never shared with another soul. Their bedroom was a shrine to adoration.

Resting in the corner of the room stood Crebb’s shotgun – silently awaiting use.

There was no beckoning call. There was just a comforting silence washing over Caleb Crebb as he stared at the rifle, knowing what he must do. An understanding pricked at Caleb’s brain that there was, in fact, an escape from the dirty, hungry sorrow that had become of his life.

He slowly picked up the shotgun, its metal and wood cold to the touch. He hadn’t picked up the rifle in years. Living so far removed from what little society Prestonsburg had to offer at least left him safe from the mindless thieves and ne’er-do-wells populating the streets of late.

The shotgun was loaded, as it always had been, with extra shells on top of the dresser. He never worried that his girls would pick up the gun and tragically shoot each other. The girls knew the bedroom was forbidden, and they obeyed without question. Caleb couldn’t afford to hunt. What little ammunition he had was dedicated to the protection of his family.

But now the stalwart shotgun would serve a much grander purpose.

Crebb pulled down the extra shells and stuffed them in his pocket. He would need them at the ready. He was cold, emotionless. His brain was barely registering consciousness. He seemed a zombie.

The crying had lessoned to a soft sputtering and hiccuping. Like her ability to soothe Caleb, Marsha had a wonderful way of comforting the girls. She was as amazing a mother as she was a lover and companion. Too bad she had to happen into the life of the most worthless man in the tri-county area. Caleb Crebb could not have been a worse husband (or so he was fond of thinking.)

But then, that was all about to come to an end. All the suffering and endless worry would cease in the pull of a trigger.

Caleb’s hard leather boots carried him softly into the room with Marsha and the baby. He wanted one last look at the woman doing what came so perfectly natural to her.

Caleb Crebb raised the shotgun, he aimed the shotgun, and then he blew off Marsha Crebb’s head. Gravity instantly took the baby to the ground with a harsh thump. Cries once again poured from the mouth of the baby. Caleb cocked the rifle, aimed at the baby, and pulled the trigger. The cries were silenced.

As Caleb Crebb turned to leave the room, he reloaded the weapon. But before he could reach the threshold, the eldest girl reached the room. Without taking a single breath, Crebb lifted the gun to his shoulder and relieved the girl of all her suffering.

The last of Caleb’s daughters made it to the front door of the house and ran screaming into the front yard. Caleb pushed through the ripped-up screen door, took aim, and fired. The girl’s life ceased before her face hit dirt.

Silence washed over the house. Peace washed over Caleb Crebb.

Chapter 2

2011: Louisville, KY

Halloween 11:35 pm

The shotgun buzzed in his hand like a too-caffeinated-high before sex for the first time. It always took him by surprise — the anticipation. It was his twenty-third year at the reigns of the Game; he should be used to the high.

But somewhere, safely tucked away in his subconscious, he basked in the anxiety that left him on a perpetual edge, hanging desperately on a precipice threatening to usurp him of his sanity.

He chose his victims this year simply by jamming his index finger in a map. It was crude but effective in that there was no emotional connection whatsoever to the victim. His victims where simply addresses on a coffee-stained map.

He stuffed a gym bag full of shotgun shells and Diet Mountain Dew and headed out. Let the games begin.

The drive to the south side of Louisville was silent save for the thunderous rumble of the old Buick’s long lost exhaust system. The Buick’s radio only picked up AM broadcasts — which annoyed the fuck out of him. It was either religion or politics — either way it was dogma. Instead, he just drove, accompanied by the hypnotic wave of his own thoughts … familiar thoughts urging him on.

Another night of the Game … another tick in the wall.

He laughed at the similarity to the Pink Floyd song. He sang a few lines from the infamous tune, remembering the last time he actually heard the song all the way through. He was in his mid-twenties, trying to get into the pants of a young pretty named Diane. The night took an unfortunate turn when Diane cried rape. But that was the past, and the past nothing more than an ugly stain in his memory. And unlike his weak past, his present was all about power.

The Buick pulled into the Queen Lake Trailer Park entrance. He drove slowly around the small grid of interconnected streets looking for the perfect starting point. Efficiency might not have been a word in his vocabulary, but it was thick in his plotting and planning.

As he turned off of Elizabeth Street onto Victoria Avenue, the heavens opened up and delivered him exactly what he was looking for. Victoria was more a darkened cul-de-sac than an avenue. Better still, there was only one trailer tucked away on the east side of the street. Darkness wrapped the area in a warm, moist blanket.

He shut the car off, rolled down the driver’s side window, and took in the sounds of the October night. The last vestiges of an Indian summer were hanging on with a symphony of crickets and bull frogs. There must have been a creek running through the area. He took in a deep breath and could smell the water and moss floating in the air. The scent was intoxicating.

But not as much as the scents that would soon assault his senses: the smell of fear and death. But unlike most killers, he didn’t allow himself to revel in the killing. No, the killing was all for the game and the game was his life.

The first trailer was a shining example of all that was white trash: couch and cinder blocks on the front lawn, rusted pick-up truck with a slanted number 3 declaring In Memory of — oh Dale, why did you have to depart?

Before checking the front door, he carefully placed the gym bag on the ground and effortlessly extracted a handful of shells, two of which he slid into the barrel of the shotgun and the rest in his pockets. It was all routine, second nature, down to the unzipping and zipping of the bag.

He faced the door, reached out a steady hand, and checked the handle. It was locked. Not a problem for his size 11 steel-toed Wolverines. The door caved under the pressure of one swift kick.

He stepped into the trailer and quickly swept the rooms until he happened across the sole inhabitant – a passed out, middle-aged man lying in a pool of his own sick. The funk hanging heavily in the air gave away the soon-to-be victim’s dinner (that and the floor covered in empty cans of Budweiser). This kill almost wasn’t worth the effort. The man was sleeping off one thick-ass drunk and wouldn’t come to when the hammer of the shotgun was pulled. There would be no fear in the eyes, no smell of piss burning his nostrils.

Too clean. Too easy.

Nevertheless he lifted his best friend, took relative aim, and pulled the trigger.

The man’s head exploded in a spray of blood and gore. The wall behind the now-dead was Pollack-like in the spatter pattern.

One.

There was art in the kill. Beauty. Unfortunately he didn’t have time to enjoy his creation. He had an entire trailer park’s worth of life to end and it could very well take all night.

The second trailer was only a few seconds walk from the first. Unlike the first trailer, the next target seemed classier (insofar as a trailer can be classy). There were wind chimes, bird feeders, and a ceramic goose dressed like a witch. Quaint.

The front and only door was locked and far more solid than the first. He prepped his right leg, swung up hard, and connected with the door. This time the door only creaked under the pressure.

Shit, he whispered in frustration. This door was going to take a beating. Fortunately, he had plenty of beatings to spare.

He kicked a second time. A third time. A fourth time. Wasn’t third time supposed to be the charm? Not this go. His foot connected a fifth time and the door gave way, flying open to reveal an elderly woman clad in a green terry-cloth bathrobe and slippers and holding a phone to her ear.

When the old woman saw the shotgun raised to his shoulder, her eyes bulged, pie-sized, nearly out of their sockets. The phone fell from her hand as she backed up, attempting to escape her imminent conclusion.

No. Please. The old woman’s voice was raspy with fear.

Fear. He soaked it in, wished he could bathe in it, make love to it.

I don’t have much. Take whatever you like. Just don’t hurt me, the woman begged, tears streaming down her face. She backed into a bookcase filled with pictures of children, grand-children, and (Could it be?) great grand-children. The pictures swayed from the rocking of the bookcase until two of them crashed to the floor. The old woman’s feet crunched on the broken glass from the pictures.

He stepped up close enough so that the woman could smell his sour breath. Her conclusion had been made. He hefted the shotgun until the barrel was in direct contact with the woman’s chest.

He blinked.

She blinked.

Time stood still for a brief second.

His finger placed just enough pressure on the trigger to fire the hammer and explode the shell. The woman’s chest erupted in a shower of red rain. The look of fear forever frozen in her eyes.

Two.

The south side trailer park was perfect. The thunder of his shotgun was par for the course for the area. Hunters. Joy riders. New Year’s Eve celebrations—this nearly-forgotten side of town didn’t need an excuse to display their support for the NRA. The only care the city gave the south side was the ever-belching smoke stacks of the rubber plants. And so long as commerce and capitalism ruled the nation, the black smoke would pour and the city would turn a blind eye to all else in this part of town.

Trailer number six was a real treat. An entire family. He did rejoice in the thrill of adding so many kills to his count, by wiping out entire families in one fell swoop. Even better when young children and babies were involved. Snuffing out innocence seemed the pinnacle of his sport. So much so that he felt infants should count as two or maybe three deaths. But, a cheat he was not.

So trailer number six would serve as four ticks on his wall. The first tick—the father. When the door gave way, a man with a crow bar greeted him in a sad attempt at protecting his family. So very sad. He soiled his tidy whities before he hit the ground (his skull gave way like a rotten apple falling from the top of the tallest tree). The second and third ticks were a rare treat—the mother breastfeeding her infant. The woman was wearing headphones and was oblivious to the explosion that brought meaning to ‘til death do we part. Before she could gasp, one shell tore through the baby’s skull and through the woman’s chest, the second through the woman’s head. The fourth tick, a little boy clinging, wide-eyed, to his raggedy stuffed teddy bear. The shot shredded the bear before it shredded the little boy’s chest.

17.

18.

19.

When he stepped out of the trailer, two bystanders dared to stick their noses into the deeds of the reaper. Their curiosity would cost them their lives.

20.

21.

The finale for the evening, coming right at the last ticks before midnight, a pair of lovers tucked away in the bed of a covered truck. He nearly overlooked the two but heard the soft moans of the young woman as he marched passed the vehicle. He stopped with a smile on his face, knowing he would reach his body count goal in one isolated area. Lady luck was with him tonight.

He quietly pulled the back door of the truck topper open and just watched. He didn’t usually consider himself a voyeur, but tonight he allowed himself a moment to enjoy—coitus interruptus was horribly rude, after all.

Before he had watched long enough to find himself aroused, he leveled the barrel of his baby so that it pointed directly toward the thrusting ass of the young man. He waited for the perfect moment.

I’m coming, the young man groaned.

Hold it, baby, the young woman squeaked.

I can’t.

You can do it, baby, the young woman pleaded.

The buckshot plowed through both lovers at once. Neither came before life left.

23.

* * *

Can you please remind Princess why she is riding a mountain bike through the dark streets of Old Louisville on Halloween night, the one evening a year my Queenliness is free to shine? My partner, Skip Abrahms, joked as he zipped by me on his Police-issue Trek carbon-fiber mountain bike. I could be shaking every groove-thang I have at the Cha-Cha Palace, I’ll have you know.

Why did I ever request Skip and me for bike patrol? Yeah, it was a highly prized position on the force and I felt no guilt plying the love of my life, Craig Wayne, to pull a few strings to get us spinning on two wheels. At the time it seemed like a great idea, but at the moment … not so much.

Would you rather be sitting behind a wheel, eating donuts, getting fat? I knew the f word would raise Skip’s freshly plucked eyebrows. He was such the little queen about his weight.

Skip hopped his bike up on the curb like a kid on a BMX bike.

Hell no! Besides, I gots some skills, sistah! Skip laughed as he pulled a wheelie.

Now how in the name of Lance Armstrong did you learn how to do that? I couldn’t believe my eyes. My gay princess was pulling tricks like he was Matt Hoffman.

Jamie Davenport, there are things about me you don’t know. Skip, with his front wheel in mid-air, hopped off the curb, spun 360 degrees in the air, and landed effortlessly onto the street.

Not to be completely outdone, I sat up high on my saddle, riding with no hands, and clapped knowing full-well I would just encourage Skip to keep showing off.

Look at you riding with no hands.

It’s the only trick I got.

Shoo, I’ve heard all about…

Zip it, Skip. I stopped Skip before he had the chance to dredge up something ugly from the past.

Skip laughed and pulled away, continuing with his wheelie.

We turned east off of Third Avenue and onto Ormsby Street. As we turned the corner, I instantly caught sight of a young male about to smash the window of an old Volkswagon Jetta. In his hands was a Louisville Slugger.

How appropriate.

You might want to rethink what you’re about to do, son. My voice resonated with a masculine authority my badge often brought about.

Damn girl, you almost sound like mens … turning me on! Skip spoke under his breath.

Skip, I’m doing my job here. Would you mind keeping your fantasies in check? I spoke out of the corner of my mouth. I really didn’t care if the little shit heard me or not. I would have thought the kid would offer up at least a look of fear when he saw he was about to be leveled by two of Louisville’s finest. Instead, he turned, laughed, smashed the window of the car, and beat cheeks.

Without saying a word, Skip tore off into the darkness like a madman, his pedals whirling in fury after the boy.

Come here, ya little bastard! I heard Skip screeching into the cool night air. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I swore bike patrol was supposed to bring us a bit of pride and respect. Instead, all we got for our sweat were little punk kids running from us deprecating mockery. Of course, life could always be worse. I could be back on Mall Patrol. Ah, sweet Mall Patrol, where I met the love of my life, Craig Wayne. Sure, dating someone you worked with was like pissing where you ate, but damn we are good together. I let myself drift back into the heated bedroom where Craig’s gorgeous face was dripping the sweat of love down onto my pillow.

Lost the little fuck.

I was gone, away in my own little world of heat and passion.

Princess Hellfire, Skip called me back in his big gay bedroom voice. It’s your lovah … sweet puddin’ pants.

Jams! Skip yelled like a banshee in heat.

Shit, Skip, you don’t have to yell.

Oh beggin’ to be pardoned, your majesty. I didn’t realize it grew some sensitivities recently.

Skip, you’re a bitch. My voice dripped through an evil smile.

And don’t you forget it, baby.

And with a snap of the finger, Skip was pulling another wheelie down the street.

We scoured the Halloween night for petty crime, coming across the usual eggers and TP’ers – juvenile pranks, not enough to warrant a chase. No one was getting harmed after all. There was nothing and no one worth bringing in.

Maybe Craig’s dragnet worked some real mojo tonight.

Skip heard everything up to ‘dragnet’. But once the image smacked him upside the imagination, he was off his bike, on the ground, and laughing his sweet gay head off.

I stood over Skip shaking my head. Skip, you are impossible you know that?

I’m sorry, baby… Skip interrupted himself as he broke out in another gale of laughter. It’s just the image of a gaggle of drag queens caught up in a net, bitching about their wigs and their gowns. Sweet mother of Elton John, that’s rich.

Skip got up and straddled his bike. He rode off, his bike jerking back and forth as his body convulsed with laughter.

* * *

When we arrived at the precinct, it was business as unusual for a Halloween night. The drunk tanks were dry, the pimps were nowhere to be seen, the gang-bangers, hate mongers, and robbers where gone.

Damn girl, you’d think Jesus herself came floating down from the sky and whisked away the trouble like Mary Poppins to a bad day. Skip stood in the middle of the booking room, his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the left just so – his spandex shorts showing a wee bit too much religion for the tastes of most of the other officers.

Looks like we certainly aren’t needed. I fed the line to Skip knowing full-well the reaction I’d receive.

This bitch is hittin’ the showers, the club, and then some mens! With a slap of his spandex-clad ass, Skip was off to the locker rooms.

God I hope he’s alone in there. I laughed to myself at the thought of Skip prancing into the locker room singing I Am What I Am. The thought propelled me out the door, into the cool night air, and home to my purring cat and warm bed.

Chapter 3

1936: Prestonsburg, Kentucky

Halloween

Caleb Crebb had decided that morning to take his shotgun with him into town that night. The mining company had found another vein to bleed but he wasn’t one of the lucky few rehired. And he knew he wasn’t going to let his wife and children rot in the dirt without good company. Besides, it was the mine that brought him to do what he had done last Halloween. Crebb knew deep within his soul that he was innocent—he was a man simply acting on the instincts of self-preservation. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Not that it mattered. The law didn’t care about such remote locations. The citizens were nothing but the chaff of society.

Caleb Crebb spent the first half of the last year flogging himself for killing his family. The second half of the last year, however, Caleb found a heart full of hate brewing until he realized the only way to rid himself of his guilt was to cauterize the wound.

The radio of his truck was crackling with the sounds of AM. The Solemn Old Judge, George D. Hay, was blathering on about the red hot fiddle playing of the Fruit Jar Drinkers’ latest number. Dancing frantically under Hay’s voice was the sound of a fiddle player’s bow madly scratching over the strings like some drunken virtuoso. Caleb never quite understood the draw of new country music. But Marsha certainly did enjoy the sounds. When The Old Judge would announce the Fruit Jar Drinkers, Marsha would jump to her feet and demand a dance from Caleb. Like an idiot he never did comply. Instead he’d watch, sour-faced, as Marsha and one of their daughters swung about the house laughing like school girls. But his harsh face belied the feeling of near-prayer he felt as he watched the glee.

Prayer. A little late for a sinner the likes of Crebb.

Would Marsha have forgiven Caleb for his sins? Was she wondering what Caleb was doing? Could she possibly understand? As soon as the questions slithered through the synapses of his mind he realized how crazy the thoughts where.

The fiddle screeching from the radio faded and was replaced by the soothing sounds of a vocal quartet singing a jingle for the latest cleaning product. The quartet’s tones were low and mellow, soothing Caleb’s blood and slowing down his heart. Caleb Crebb thought for a second it might be better to just sleep. Sleep the day away and avoid all the painful reminders of what had become of him.

But it wasn’t meant to work out that way. Instead Caleb Crebb hefted the solid wood and metal of the shotgun, got out of the truck, and pointed his hard leather boots toward the clean-up house where the miners would shed themselves of the day’s soot as best they could. Caleb’s mind was overcome with the same wash of numbness he experienced when he laid waste to his wife and daughters.

The door to the clean-up house grew nearer, its wood splintered and grimy with coal dust. A hand print above the door caught Caleb’s attention, his eyes locked into the center of the large palm of the print. His eyesight was trapped. There was a comfort in getting lost in the swirls of the fingerprints and lines of the palm. The white print momentarily distracted him from his present course.

The sound of laughter broke Caleb from his trance. Within the span of a heartbeat he kicked down the rotten door. A look of shock and surprise filled the faces of the dirty onlookers. The looks quickly changed to confusion and fear when they saw Caleb lift the shotgun to his shoulder. Before the miners could make it for the door the trigger released the hammer and the hammer exploded the firing cap of the first shell.

One miner down, his face ripped to shreds.

Cock, click, crack. The rifle exploded again and blood rained from the air as another miner’s face was rent asunder. One by one the miners scrambled for cover (or exit) and one by one they fell. All the while, Caleb Crebb’s face remained stoic. He reloaded the shotgun with a grace that betrayed his stiff, masculine fingers. The whole event was an exercise in opposites: on one side chaos, on the other absolute order.

When Caleb was finished, the floor of the clean-up house was covered in the red wine and meat of what once were his fellow workers. The area grew silent and still. The darkness of the Halloween evening worked hard to cover what had just occurred.

Quietly, Caleb turned and walked back to his truck, got in, turned the ignition over, and drove off into the night.

By the time Caleb Crebb reached his home, his face was blanketed with peace. He was perfectly at ease with what he had done. He felt just. He felt relieved. When he reached his home he sat down and stared at the peeling wallpaper covering the wall that used to hold the one portrait of his now-dead wife. He reached out and peeled a strip of the wallpaper down to reveal bare wood. The surface reminded him of the coal-smeared wood of the door he had battered, which reminded him of the lives he just ended. He counted in his mind. One, two, three…

Caleb Crebb had found his own absolution … in murder. That absolution