Read Online Booneville Retribution by S. Furlong-Bolliger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S. Furlong-Bolliger
Tags: Crime
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listening for the sound of grenade-bearing VC. I don’t think I slept a solid night in Nam.
Tonight I was feeling that same mix of exhaustion and fear as I felt those long nights in Nam. Only back then, I never quite understood what I was fighting for. I was just trying to survive. Get back home. Tonight, however, my mission was clear. And, even though I was an old man, I was working with the efficiency of a young soldier, capable and determined, continuing into the early hours of the morning, until I had completed my task.
When I was finished, and satisfied with my efforts, I loaded the truck. Quietly, I raised the garage door and coasted down the slope of my driveway in neutral. God forbid that Dawn would wake up and catch me in the act.
Once I was on the street, I cranked the engine and headed to the abandoned plant. There, aided by a little moonlight and my headlights, I spent the next few hours setting up. When all the fuses were properly attached, the detonator set, and the entire area carefully concealed, I returned home to catch a few hours of sleep.
* * *
“Larry, aren’t you awake yet? Get up! The parade’s going to start.”
I rolled over and moaned. “Good morning, honey.” I pried my eyes open, plastered a smile on my face. “You’re hair looks fantastic,” I said, remembering that she had said something about getting her hair done this morning. Although it looked like the same old mop of brown curls that she always had, I knew that if I screwed up and didn’t mention the hairdo, I’d pay for it all day.
I levered my aching legs out from under the covers and started making my way to the closet.
“I was hoping to get a spot in the shade,” she whined at me. I just kept smiling, doing my best to ignore her. I was determined that not even Dawn’s nagging was going to ruin my big day.
I put on my red Budweiser shirt and a blue baseball cap—the one with the Camaro logo—grabbed a couple of lawn chairs and headed out the door with Dawn by my side. I even tried to grab her hand as we made our way down the sidewalk.
She batted it away. “What’s wrong with you, Larry? You’ve been acting strange lately.”
“Nothing, honey. Why?”
“Well, for starters, you noticed my hair this morning. You never notice that type of stuff. And now you’re smiling. What’s going on with you?”
“Just happy, I guess.”
“What do you have to be happy about?” She eyed me suspiciously. “No, there’s something going on. Don’t think you can hide it either. I’ll figure it out.”
Yeah, that was true. She’d figure it out. Everyone would. This was going to be a Fourth of July that Booneville would never forget.
Fifteen minutes later we were sitting on the curb outside the square, watching the parade, which was pitiful in comparison to past years—the marching band was off-key, the Corn Queen was butt-ugly, and Bubba Higgins didn’t even drive his hotrod. Halport had succeeded in destroying yet another thing—Booneville’s Fourth of July spirit. In fact, the only people smiling were geriatrics on the old folks’ float—their dentured grins wide as they waved miniature flags to the crackled sound of the Star Spangled Banner being played over a portable boom box. Of course most of them suffered from Alzheimer’s; they probably didn’t even know that Halport had killed the town.
Despite the crappy parade, and much to Dawn’s irritation, I was still smiling. Today was the day I was going to finally shove it to Halport Industries. I let my hand slide over the detonator inside my pocket. With one push of a button, I was going to completely alter the day’s celebration.
After the parade, I sprung for a couple of corn dogs and two lemonade shake-ups. Dawn loved lemon shake-ups. We stayed in our chairs, eating and watching the crowd as it gathered in the square for a festival. Games for the kids and craft booths were set up, the Lions’ fried pork chop sandwiches, and Gus Syverson, dressed
Tonight I was feeling that same mix of exhaustion and fear as I felt those long nights in Nam. Only back then, I never quite understood what I was fighting for. I was just trying to survive. Get back home. Tonight, however, my mission was clear. And, even though I was an old man, I was working with the efficiency of a young soldier, capable and determined, continuing into the early hours of the morning, until I had completed my task.
When I was finished, and satisfied with my efforts, I loaded the truck. Quietly, I raised the garage door and coasted down the slope of my driveway in neutral. God forbid that Dawn would wake up and catch me in the act.
Once I was on the street, I cranked the engine and headed to the abandoned plant. There, aided by a little moonlight and my headlights, I spent the next few hours setting up. When all the fuses were properly attached, the detonator set, and the entire area carefully concealed, I returned home to catch a few hours of sleep.
* * *
“Larry, aren’t you awake yet? Get up! The parade’s going to start.”
I rolled over and moaned. “Good morning, honey.” I pried my eyes open, plastered a smile on my face. “You’re hair looks fantastic,” I said, remembering that she had said something about getting her hair done this morning. Although it looked like the same old mop of brown curls that she always had, I knew that if I screwed up and didn’t mention the hairdo, I’d pay for it all day.
I levered my aching legs out from under the covers and started making my way to the closet.
“I was hoping to get a spot in the shade,” she whined at me. I just kept smiling, doing my best to ignore her. I was determined that not even Dawn’s nagging was going to ruin my big day.
I put on my red Budweiser shirt and a blue baseball cap—the one with the Camaro logo—grabbed a couple of lawn chairs and headed out the door with Dawn by my side. I even tried to grab her hand as we made our way down the sidewalk.
She batted it away. “What’s wrong with you, Larry? You’ve been acting strange lately.”
“Nothing, honey. Why?”
“Well, for starters, you noticed my hair this morning. You never notice that type of stuff. And now you’re smiling. What’s going on with you?”
“Just happy, I guess.”
“What do you have to be happy about?” She eyed me suspiciously. “No, there’s something going on. Don’t think you can hide it either. I’ll figure it out.”
Yeah, that was true. She’d figure it out. Everyone would. This was going to be a Fourth of July that Booneville would never forget.
Fifteen minutes later we were sitting on the curb outside the square, watching the parade, which was pitiful in comparison to past years—the marching band was off-key, the Corn Queen was butt-ugly, and Bubba Higgins didn’t even drive his hotrod. Halport had succeeded in destroying yet another thing—Booneville’s Fourth of July spirit. In fact, the only people smiling were geriatrics on the old folks’ float—their dentured grins wide as they waved miniature flags to the crackled sound of the Star Spangled Banner being played over a portable boom box. Of course most of them suffered from Alzheimer’s; they probably didn’t even know that Halport had killed the town.
Despite the crappy parade, and much to Dawn’s irritation, I was still smiling. Today was the day I was going to finally shove it to Halport Industries. I let my hand slide over the detonator inside my pocket. With one push of a button, I was going to completely alter the day’s celebration.
After the parade, I sprung for a couple of corn dogs and two lemonade shake-ups. Dawn loved lemon shake-ups. We stayed in our chairs, eating and watching the crowd as it gathered in the square for a festival. Games for the kids and craft booths were set up, the Lions’ fried pork chop sandwiches, and Gus Syverson, dressed
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