Change Order (1) PROLOGUE Lightning, it is widely held, comes from the sky. Though it is true that the greatest generator of all broods in those stratus, cumulus, or cumulonimbus clouds high above, the genesis spark—a crucial precursor in the cosmic puzzle—must first ignite from below. Without this cryptic trigger, the heavens will not properly vent the might of several hundred thousand volts through the teardrops from heaven. The scientific community calls this sign from below a "leader"; an invisible, positive charge, stepping upward from terra firma to meet its negatively charged counterpart coming down from above. Now, time will stop and man will heed a notice issued in microseconds as matters are dealt with thunderously swift, along the finger of direction created for the heavens to unleash a fury. Scientists have yet to explain the catalyst for this sequence of events, but one thing is known: without this earthly esoteric phenomenon, we might not so often hear from the heavens. —Author Unknown Dallas, Texas "Spurs Off." He watched the blue neon sign flicker twice then die, beneath an angry thunderbolt stitching its supremacy across an oil-black Texas sky. The final bow of a waning evening summer storm. The sign sprang back to life a moment later, like an omen, seeming almost to reach out and slap him back to the here and now. He winced and decided barbed wire might have been more fitting than the elegant royal blue letters laced across the facade. He also wondered whether he’d dressed appropriately. Not with a name like that, he told himself. Then again, with any luck, maybe they’d reject him at the door. He wore jeans, his favorite old boots, and a faded navy-colored sport shirt that was moving closer to gray-black by the day. They would have to do. There was no turning back now. Not being a bona fide shit-kicker, he was a little self-conscious of the boots—especially in this part of the country. Though a closer look would have told anyone he wasn’t exactly shooting for de rigueur. He did manage a coat of polish on them every once in awhile. He looked down and grabbed a wadded-up Dairy Queen napkin lying on the floorboard. After spitting on it, he rubbed across each cowhide, seeing it was way past time for another. Knocking down beers and banging balls around a green felt table with cousin David would have been his first choice. Dinner with this many people was guaranteed to be a pain in the ass. And they had told him, with sappy satisfaction, that this was one of those cheesy-ass chain restaurants where the hired help all dressed like square dancers and dropped everything they were doing every damned ten minutes to break into song and dance. The way his luck was running lately the waitress would probably get her stage call right about the time his T-Bone came sizzling off the grill. He could almost see it wilting away under a heat lamp while having to endure a bunch of high school kids singing off-key. With everybody in the audience just a laughin’ and a clappin’ and a carryin’ on like this was just the best damn time. And for most it probably was. Somebody shoot me. Jesus, Risen! He grimaced and closed eyes. It’s a reunion. Lighten up! Three years had passed since the last time he and his wife and the children had paid a visit to this part of the country. Had to be why there was such a gathering tonight—close to thirty people in the outing—meaning the restaurant would play hell finding a table big enough for the group. Ought to be a whoop-de-do time! he grumbled under his breath, thoughts nearly blotched out by the shrieking banter of children in the back of the mini-van. And how in the hell did I get stuck in this van? He turned around to see if any of the gremlins were killing one another. No such luck. But Phillip, cousin David’s youngest, was staring at him intently. And if he didn’t know better, the expression bordered on sympathy. He shot the boy a tight grin and a wink. You need a swift kick in the ass, Risen. This won’t be that bad. Right! He returned gaze out the window and to see something about as ironic as the marquee, reinforcing the notion that casual dress loafers had officially been rebuffed for dung-kickers. The man looked to be in his early forties and was rigged with a goatee, cardigan sweater, pressed khakis…and Armadillo-skinned boots? He dropped chin to an open palm and rubbed his temple. In his mind boots should only be worn with material holding the same distinction of character, and there was only one: denim. A redhead—sandals on her feet, thank goodness!—was strolling next to the man, their arms comfortably interlocked. She wore a floral-patterned sundress, looking as fresh as the new rain in a gentle summer breeze. On a second glance he decided she was outstanding. Oddly, she couldn’t have been more than mid- to upper-twenties, making her considerably younger than Mr. Rogers-in-cowboy boots. "Now thar’s a pretty little thang...‘cept for that red hair. Have you done gone and wrote them off, son?" Uncle Bob asked with a devious chuckle and a drawl thick enough to suffocate in. "You be nice and keep your eyes open for a parking spot, you ornery thing," aunt Josie chided. "Why, Christie’s hair is just gorgeous," Josie protested. She had always liked his ex-wife—even her damned hair. "I would give my eyeteeth, and yours, to have hair like that! Might even do something for your looks, you old fart," she reprimanded before turning attention to her nephew in the backseat. "Just never mind him, sugar." Risen reached to the front and squeezed her shoulder. Josie had always been his favorite aunt. If she’d only known what Christine had done...no, she’d still manage to say something nice, he recalled from his family’s fearless tradition of hospitality. Didn’t matter now anyway. That was history and wouldn’t buy anything back with his aunt, uncle, or anyone else. In earlier days, Uncle Bob was the toughest man in Johnson County—a tobacco-chewing, leathery cuss for the most part, as most of the Risen men had the reputation for being. Risen’s parents had long ago broken from the ways of the clan, becoming the family’s first generation of city dwellers. He grinned and studied his uncle in quiet respect: the stout frame, thick forearms, and powerful fingers evident of years working the land—there couldn’t have been a nail on his hand smaller than a dime. The tractor he drove—an old worn out 1944 Silver King, Risen remembered—was the kind in textbook photographs with captions that didn’t bother telling the reader they were as cantankerous as any mule, and wouldn’t crank over for love, money, or a retaliatory kick on a really humid day—which were in plenty supply in the center of Texas’s tornado-belt during the spring and summer. Turning the steering wheel, the old man would attest after some pestering, was like wrestling an amply filled fifty-five gallon barrel by the rim for ten or so hours a day. A man hardened by a way of living that built strength in body and character, whether that was the plan or not. Something Kelly considered the days he found himself dragging ass to the office after debating on using a "personal" day. Seemed each day was getting harder and harder to find a reason to go to work. There’s one! He’d spotted a parking space but said nothing as his uncle passed right by it, and regretted that honor of silence. The kids were growing more restless by the second, and he just wanted to get this damned thing over with. Uncle Bob finally said he would just drop everyone off at the entrance, then continue the search. Which elicited a suspicious eyebrow from Josie, but she complied without a fuss. Probably because the van was starting to sound like a zoo, and the rest of the caravan had already found parking spots. Risen hopped out of the backseat and climbed to the front, remaining with his uncle to help with the search. After sliding in the front seat, he noticed a man sitting alone with a dead-blank expression on his face in the car next to them. He was just staring at the entrance, and it seemed odd that he was still wearing a jacket. Risen looked to the west and saw a flash of lightning, and decided the skies remained troubled. He looked over again and the man was staring back. He was a big man, filling the driver’s seat completely, and didn’t look happy with the intrusion on his solitude. Risen just shrugged. He looked about as happy to be here as he was. His uncle drove on and after a couple of turns pulled right into the spot Risen had seen earlier, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Before the gear selector was even in ‘Park’ the lazy yellow light of the parking lot found the silvery flask between Uncle Bob’s thick fingers. Risen understood now. Old Uncle Bob liked his bourbon, and taking a sip without Josie around had to make it that much sweeter. Besides, there were kids around earlier; Uncle Bob was stalwart when it came to setting a good example, or hiding a vice. After both took a swig he tucked it back into his vest pocket, pulled out a can of snuff and turned serious. "How you been gettin’ along, son?" he asked in a low, serious voice, then packed in a small pinch of tobacco. "Fine," Risen said. The older man frowned and looked off to nowhere. "Your aunt Josie and me. . .we been together so long, I wouldn’t know what to do without her. But I swear, they’re like tryin’ to gauge the weather—nuthin’ easy about ‘em," he said and shook his head. "First time I ever heard of a hurricane named Robert, shiuttt," he chuckled disgustedly. "I didn’t know wuther to laugh or spiuttt." He turned and looked his great nephew square in the eye. "Hell, we all know why they used to name them goddamn things only after women—‘specially us that’s been married!" he growled in defiant brotherhood. Risen knew he was trying to make him feel better, but had met more than enough men deserving of such notoriety, and was only surprised it had taken so long to put their names on the list of forthcoming hurricanes. "I know Christine had a temper to beat all," the old man continued. "I feel real bad for your situation, son. . .how them kids gettin’ along?" The burn of Wild Turkey on an empty stomach instantly yielded to a fiery, jagged ball; one that visited every time he was forced to remember that awful night, nearly a year ago. That terrible night when they clung to his leg, cried, and pleaded for him not to go. But the departure had been prolonged for a year by that time, and things hadn’t gotten any better. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was done. Done with all the lies and all the cheating. Done with the feelings of being a fool that he was living every miserable day. He had to get his soul back. It had to be around somewhere. Idiot! That’s what he was for telling her of the plans two days before that nightmare. He had expected her to explode, but she played it cool—too cool. She simply controlled her anger long enough for D-Day so she could obliterate the planned, smooth exit—as if that was ever a possibility to begin with! Idiot! He didn’t factor in that she would use the time to machinate. Proving once again that he could qualify as the biggest chump on the planet. And it truly was ruthlessly orchestrated, her timing perfect, knowing his actions would speak louder behind her words. He could still see her marching them into the bedroom while he began to pack, and hearing her tell them he was simply walking out of their lives. A lie! He would never do that. Of course, she knew that, too. He had planned to take them to the apartment and show them where he was going to live after he got packed, after he had the bags tucked away in the back of the truck—just like he had told her two days before. Idiot! Didn't you know you couldn't trust her by that time? Of course, she denied him from taking them anywhere; from whisking them away from that madness to allay greater fears than adults can remember. She then threatened to call the police if need be. She was incensed; a white-hot anger having two days trapped in the belly of her contempt. And there was hell to pay, regardless of the effect on the children. The concept of their security must have been a small sacrifice for the pleasure in punishing him. By the time he understood the direction of her reprisals it was too late to counter a defense, to find a way of letting the children know their world wasn’t coming apart at the seams; it was just their mother being a vindictive bitch. He was forced to balance reassuring glances at them, and an icy stare at her. But if looks could really have killed, that would have been one smoldering stain on the carpet he would have understood and never questioned again. He would never forget that sick, twisted smile, her vengeful chant, ‘say good-bye to daddy, say good-bye to daddy.’ The redheaded terror knew he’d bring them back! Knew how weak he was, and that he would never use force on her—he was too much a gentleman for that!—and made sure he would bleed tears for the declaration of independence from the insanity of their marriage. She knew him so very well. He’d never make that mistake again. He couldn’t look at his uncle, but only wish like hell for the burn of Wild Turkey to replace that jagged ball, thinking how close he was from follow through by that masterful play. How nearly he was from being torn from conviction, just as she had intended. She knew he would try transitioning them through the divorce gently. And the more they cried, the more pleased she seemed that he was searing inside. But he had to go this time; that shitty ride would just start all over again and teach them all the wrong things about marriage, about love. No, he had to get off the ride for them, and for him. At least that’s what he told himself at the time. He’d never forget that smug-ass look for the accomplishment of ripping out hearts and watching little worlds crumble at her feet—after all the shameless lies, all the self-indulgences of a person consumed by their ego! No, it was more than just an icy stare. He could have killed her—not just punch, beat, or kick. He ached to see veins popping out of that smug forehead and wretched brown eyes bulging helplessly while his fingers strangled the living shit out of her. Of course, he couldn’t do that, and she knew that. And that he wasn’t going to have the cops show up for a shouting match he would lose, this day in time. Fathers were careless, neglectful—if not abusive—while mothers the final vanguard in a new-age society where grade-schoolers were learning to settle differences with handguns rather than fists on the playground. No, he was leaving on his own volition, and that would be condemning enough. All he could do was bend down, cry, console, and tell them he would never leave for good. That he would be back again and again, while hoping that promise would be strong enough to stand on its own and counter the stories she would tell after he left. So he left. . .and it cost him dearly. A single, serrated thread nearly kept him sojourned that night. Troy, his youngest son, was clinging to his leg the tightest of all. Lisa and Kevin, he would have expected—but not Troy. Though he was only four, he carried a will that defied merit of any description. He was, without question, the toughest, mentally and physically. He never cried. Never! He still remembered the day Troy was standing too close to the door when he came home from work. He caught him solidly in the cheek with the door handle, knocking him for a loop to the Saltillo tile. Troy was still lying dazed on the floor when he rushed through the door to comfort the boy. But his son jumped up and worked like a demon to keep from crying. He succeeded as well then pulled away. He was Risen’s biggest worry, and yet, a perplexing prize—the antithesis of himself. Always careful to let no one get too close. How could his sense of self-preservation been so advanced? Risen never quite figured that out. For some glorious reason, his youngest son had been endowed early on with the understanding that physical pain would forever pay homage to emotional pain. But Troy cried that night, and it was unbearable; the second worst day of his life. . .the worst followed too close behind. The anger had swelled and consumed his thoughts, with too many moments having passed for the chance of answering his uncle with a response that could gloss over real feelings. "Get ready for the best barbecue in Dallas," his uncle scrambled for a break in the one-sided discussion, hesitating before his hand hit the door. He reached across the seat and put his big paw on his nephew’s shoulder. "I’m real sorry about all of it, son. Just take care of them kids— everything else can go to hell." Risen’s earlier notion of how the evening would unfold was right on time. Several tables had been lined up end-to-end, with the clan having been seated by the time he and his uncle got there. He didn’t think they’d been gone that long, but made a quiet pledge to move into a better frame of mind as he took an opening next to Phillip. Unfortunately, he was left with a chair stuck between the end of the table and the salad bar. In any case, things had to get better from here. He glanced over and saw that Josie’s eyebrow must have known what her husband had been up to. She held her tongue, though, probably because he had to look like hell, and everyone else seemed to notice. "You fellas look like you could use a drink," David said and winked. The patriarch grabbed the back of a chair at that point and teetered convincingly, succeeding in drawing a good laugh from all of them, even Josie. It was the way with his family, or maybe Texans in general, to fade an issue with humor. But as often as he had seen his uncle take a swig from that flask, he’d never seen him drunk. His Uncle Bob was a tough old bastard, and Risen wished he’d been born that tough. He took his place on the hardback chair where Phillip proceeded to fill him in on little league baseball. Good. He needed to talk to a child, someone who wouldn’t ask him the kind of questions he couldn’t answer. "Uncle Kelly, did you play little league?" "Yeah," Risen said. She was sitting at a table a short distance away, facing him. Fortuitous or a cruel prank of fate, he could not determine. She did not appear a femme fatale, though she was extremely attractive with soft brown eyes and a killer smile that seemed to help the direction of his pledge. She looked his way now and then, and he answered by looking away. Moments later as Phillip recounted his first ever double play, he felt a hand brush across his shoulder. He looked around to see her making her way to the salad bar. Surely, an accident, since there was very little space between his damn chair and the corner of the salad bar. He was in a poor location, but that’s what he got for showing up late. He brushed off the dubious look from Cousin David, and loosely carried on his conversation that had so far kept him out of darker waters. "Were you any good?" Phillip asked with the true candor of a child. "Good? Hellll, we were the first little league team forced into high school ball!" Risen fired back with the best Texas drawl he could muster for his nephew. The ten-year old boy’s look turned from suspicion to embarrassed incredulity as everyone around laughed. Risen leaned close to the boy and confided in a low serious voice, "We took two city championships, back-to-back." Integrity was salvaged as Phillip smiled and nodded. "WHO’S THIS FUCK!" Risen turned to see a large man in a weathered army jacket. He was towering over the redhead, while others around the salad bar backed quickly away. He had a fist full of her hair with his left hand held high, causing her to struggle to the balls of her feet to relieve the pain. The guy in the car, Risen remembered. He wondered how he could have missed him. There was no missing him now. The man’s right arm was set rigidly to his side, as if disabled, or had some impediment to motion. The scene was getting uglier by the moment. But something about the man’s dead-looking arm didn’t make sense. Then Risen watched the stiffened arm rise, and illusion vanish. Out of the baggy sleeve came his right hand. . .gripping a gun. It was a nine millimeter Ruger semi-auto. Risen knew that because Cantraz owned one just like it. They were called semi-autos, but about as automatic as anyone needed to do a hell of a lot of damage—capable of squeezing out seventeen rounds in under five seconds. He knew it could be done because he had done it himself. Of course, you couldn’t count on hitting anything unless you had a target. . .in every direction. Shit! He squinted, wondering if it was a gag. The gun was designed to ‘pop’ in a new clip after emptying the first—with no need to re-chamber—saving the hassle of having to count your shots. But the lunatic looked like the type that would keep track of that sort of thing anyway. And in those large pockets, he could be carrying god knows how many additional magazines. He decided it wasn’t a gag, and his self-preservation instincts, along with about three hundred others, went into overdrive. Full panic erupted with a mix of throaty screeches from wooden chair legs raking sawdust-covered floors, dishes crashing in every conceivable direction, and square-dancing employees screaming instead of singing. The situation flew right past bad and went to absolute mayhem. Some of the women screamed pathetically, which Risen couldn’t understand since that was likely high on the list of top ten things a lunatic wants to accomplish, and only drew attention to themselves when they least needed it. And it damn sure wasn’t helping anything else. The redhead was not part of that company, and still holding onto the salad plate and some of her composure as the large man loomed over her. The pseudo-cowboy moved half a step towards the lunatic as Risen quickly turned to his family.
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