on the ground and spread my limbs out with the hope that he will not shoot me in the back? Or would such a motion cause them to react and maybe give them cause to shoot? Or do I run? But if running, would I only fuel this raging maniac and his partner and give him another reason to shoot? Or do I beg him right here and now and plead for my life?
Showing weakness, which though uncharacteristic and unmanly of me, would like save my life, or would that be the thing which these police officers wanted more than anything else on this boring weekend afternoon? And if so, what? Give them that, right? Or would that anger them and disgust them at “poor game” …? What’s going on here? Why won’t the brother help me? Why did they stop me? This can’t be happening to me!
At that moment, opting for my first thought, I dropped to my knees and fanned out, prone on the dusty seashell road- legs, arms, hands and all fingers spread wide.
I heard the white officer walk away. I felt it was the white officer because the footsteps were heavy. The other was kicking some stones and dirt, almost playing with the shoulder of the road, maybe ignoring the situation and having some fun with it. The black officer was staring at me as I looked up. He didn’t try to fuck with me; he just looked around, whistling nonchalantly.
Within seconds I heard heavy footsteps as he returned to where I was stretched out on the seashell-graveled shoulder. I held my breath, it felt like five minutes.
I felt a sharp kick in my side, and let out a groan, not a grunt, more of a holler. The white police officer’s thick hairy, rough fingers grabbed me, turning me over.
The worst was yet to come. Staring down a barrel of a Glock, the police officer pointed his gun, wrapped in cloth, directly at my face. I closed my eyes in reflex, quickly shifting, wiggling away from him, dragging my back and butt like a crab. Before I could holler, I heard the sounds of three shots, simultaneously, and I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. The hot metal bored into my skin and seized my organs. The blood oozing seemed to cool the hot lead. Having never been shot before, I immediately wondered why it didn’t hurt. Would I feel the mixture of blood and visceral organ fluids ooze out and onto my skin? Then, the pain pierced my consciousness … dazed, almost drunk; something made me close my eyes, though I wanted to remain alert to this monster’s assault.
My legs got cool.
The police officer scooped down and put something in my hand.
“Do you think he’s outta here?”
“Yeah, he’s history.”
“Let’s go.”
A crackling noise in the background caught their attention, diverting them from looking at me.
“What the f?”
“Look! Over there!”
As I heard a stampede of the two police officers’ feet leaving the roadside, chasing what I considered to be an angel, I opened my eyes. Through blurry vision, off into the woods, I saw a young kid staring from behind a tree and some thick scrub. He was a white boy with straw-colored hair, large gray eyes, staring sleepily from behind the thicket. Quickly, he sprang from a crouched position, like a frightened cat, sprinted off into the woods, jumping over stuff, bushes, rocks, fallen trees, as if they weren’t there. The police officers chased after him. I passed out ….
I don’t know how much time had elapsed when I heard the white police officer ambling past me. Suddenly I felt heavy metal. I realized he had placed the gun in my hand; reflex-like reaching, lifting up, I pulled the trigger. I really didn’t think about it, I just squeezed. Ready to meet my maker, I knew I wasn’t going out without taking somebody with me. With the final ounce of my strength, I pulled that hooked metal.
That was the last thing I remembered.
Chapter 2
Fifty miles away, the crescendo blast of his shotgun pierced the clear azure-white, streaked sky, and a flock of black birds broke out of a perfect ‘v’ into chaotic flight, squawking so loudly that their “caw-caw” cries echoed throughout the forest. In the path, the swamp white oaks shook violently, and the foliage parted like the Red Sea. Just as suddenly, the canopy of branches closed and swallowed up the tunnel of light. The forest was dark again.
Smiling, Luke Jacobs placed his 12-gauge against a tree trunk and inhaled a deep, satisfied breath.
He had no intention of trying to kill a living thing today. He just wanted to be in the woods where he felt at home. In the clearing where he stood, he could smell yesterday’s rain in the wind. He could also tell by the moss on the sides of the trees, he was standing in virgin territory. No human had ever stepped into this part of the forest.
Luke basked in the tranquility of the woods, which was only interrupted by the twittering of a nest of finches nearby, and a squirmy family of moles, who had made a home in a felled hollow log.
From his adolescent days growing up in Louisiana, camping, hunting and fishing with his father, being awakened at 4 a.m. while the “ole man” attempted to silently collect the gear to keep from waking their mother, Luke had loved the outdoors. He thought back to how the early morning trips usually started off on a bad note … no kid wanted to awaken at that time of the morning, particularly during cold/damp seasons; but as the day progressed, the intrigue and excite-ment of being in the woods would entice him.
In retrospect, he now understood their trips had been mainly meant for bonding. Spending time together on cold, late December/early January mornings in the deep woods of Louisiana, mostly in the marshlands, Luke and his brother Allen knew this time with their father was quite special. It was something recognized, not “later in life” but then, while it was happening.
The crunch of leaves underfoot brought him back to the present. A crow cried out in the distance, and Luke imagined it might be crying out to its lover. Absently, Luke picked up a piece of dried driftwood and ran his fingers over its porous edges. Just its very touch reminded him of his father.
One of the things Luke had enjoyed during their hunting adventures was learning to carve. His father would find pieces of driftwood that were tossed about in the marshlands, and take them back to their house in New Orleans. Over the years, both he and his father learned to whittle animals out of wood. His brother John never really “got it”; his hunting and fishing expeditions were the extent of his pleasures.
Later, the boy took carving seriously and began making chess pieces. During junior high school he would sell these to vendors throughout Louisiana and in the French Market. His chess pieces became famous within an intimate circle. Meantime, his mother continuously prodded him to prepare for college.
Luke figured he would have a career in carving. The chess pieces were something that he did for fun. Carving desks, picture frames, etc., was something that he really loved and enjoyed, plus he could sell them. He loved the smell of the freshly cut cypress, pine, dogwood, birch, willow trees. These pieces were usually brought to him by friends so he would carve pieces for them. But he gave up his carving, after his mother’s insistence that he study more in order to go on to college. She seemed to not want him to carve since his father died. Luke understood.
Roy Winston Jacobs had been a police officer on the New Orleans force. His career had been brilliant, and he retired with many decorations. Three years following his retirement, he died of a heart attack.
Winston
