Stan's Place: A Quiet Place

The police managed to milk information out of Joel Fry. Apparently, Deacon's computer files contained more than he knew. Several pictures of Lee Berry and Mari Letterborne in some very compromising positions were stored on his hard drive. Deacon's friend Jason had taken the pictures and had digitally processed them. The pictures would surely have had a negative impact on Mari's campaign. She is now serving time at the women's prison in Indianapolis perhaps campaigning for Dyke of The Year.

Deacon could not have been more proud of Rooter. Without the dog, he might surely be dead. Right now Deacon was not prepared for that big step into the beyond, if in fact there was a beyond. He had his doubts. He believed that any kind of decent God would not have taken sweet Melissa away from him. A benevolent God would not have let such a shaky marriage exist. Kimberly gave birth begrudgingly to a beautiful child fathered by a nobody. But, the spoiled Bailey girl who spoiled her beautiful little girl had lost her way and turned sour, and soon curdled with her misery caused by Melissa's death, a misery mixed with guilt and shame. No, Deacon could not get on his knees and pray to a being that had made some big mistakes. Deacon's life was one of those mistakes.

Rooter sat next to him while he cried. The past few days had taken their toll on Deacon. He had an emotional meltdown and the beginning thunderstorm outside only accentuated his misery. The crashing sound of life outside his window only proved that a hopeless life lay ahead of him. He cried himself to a fitful sleep and the silent dog watched and waited. Somehow, Rooter knew that scarier things were on the horizon. He would guard his life if necessary, but he had to live. The dog knew that he had to live. He could not leave his master alone. He sensed death would once again come knocking on Deacon Sender's door.

Emerson Paisley drove by the house everyday. He always had his Glock Automatic pistol on the front seat next to him, hoping upon hope that the bastard and his silent killer dog would be in the front yard just waiting for a bullet. It never happened. Emerson had almost taken a shot at the kid mowing the bastard's grass, just a warning shot. He decided not to. Since he was still seeing Susan James his probation officer, he had to remain clean for another year.

In prison Emerson was known as the maker . He could make almost any kind of weapon out of scraps. He could sharpen a spoon and make a knife out of it. Once, he had made a real gun out of a block of wood. The gun was never used because it was confiscated before its owner was searched down and thrown in the hole…a shame. Emerson had earned five packs of butts for making it. His time in the joint hadn't been so bad. He learned to roll with the tide and earn an early out, but he never would have been there in the first place if it hadn't been for Deacon Sender and his group of private investigators. Emerson smiled when he learned that Deacon himself had killed a couple of the investigators. The story had broken all over the media circus, television, radio, newspapers, and even the Internet. "Shame they didn't hang the son-of-a-bitch." Emerson said to no one.

It was Saturday and Emerson had a big day ahead of him. There were two new stores opening in town, one with a parking garage. With any luck at all, he would be able to find a Mercedes to steal. Ike's chop shop was looking for parts from a Mercedes. It wasn't great work but it paid well. For every big named car Emerson brought in, he picked up a two grand. Two grand a week wasn't bad dough. Usually, he was able to steal two or three cars a week. Hospital parking lots were his favorite spots, but Grand Openings were a cinch. First things first, Emerson pulled over to the curb and watched the house, waiting…just waiting.

Deacon stirred the paint with a stick until the milky looking stuff on the surface was mixed thoroughly with the contents of the quart container. He figured a quart of paint ought to cover the front door. The paint had been sitting in his garage for at least a year. He had planned on painting the door, but too many things interfered with beginning the job, like sleep and murdering friends. Rooter was jumping around like he was about to get the treat of his life. "Here boy," Deacon pretended to hand him the brush, "if you're so damn excited about painting the door, you do it." Rooter looked at him curiously. "Forget it," Deacon continued, "I'll do it myself. You look too enthusiastic. I'm afraid you'll enjoy it too much. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll let you sign the finished product. How's that?" Rooter jumped up and licked his master's face. Deacon laughed.

Samantha, his mail deliverer, suggested that he paint his front door red. He and Sammy had developed a friendship over the years. She was a petite lady not far from Deacon's age. Her sandy colored hair and pale green eyes made her look much younger and being a postal carrier didn't hurt the shape of her body. Deacon was not in love with her, at least he didn't think he was in love with her, but she slipped into his thoughts daily. "Red?" He had laughed when she made the suggestion. "Why red?"

"Martin Luther did it as a protest against the Catholic Church. You can do it as a protest against the newspaper office for throwing your daily rag into the bushes all the time." She made Deacon laugh and that was an accomplishment. Lately, laughing was not on his menu of emotions. He carried a bucket and brush to the front of his house. The morning was off to a warm start and Deacon wanted to get the door painted before the heat paralyzed him. Extreme weather of any kind bothered his bones. He had taken so many dives and had had so many wrecks that his body screamed at any great change in temperature. He was fifty-two and felt seventy-two, whatever a seventy-two year old felt like. He wasn't sure how seventy-two year olds felt, but he did feel old.

Emerson was surprised to see Sender and his dog coming from the side of the house. The bastard was carrying something, but he couldn't tell from his vantage. He knew it was Sender. The tall, lanky man had a John Lennon look about him, long hair and wire-rimmed glasses always wearing a tee shirt. Even at his age, Sender still had a good bit of dark hair and pep to his walk. Emerson was too far away to take an accurate shot. He decided to drive around the block and return to improve his shooting range.

"Damn," a familiar voice came from behind Sender, "you really are going to paint it red." Sammy's voice was always pleasant to hear, so reassuring to Deacon. The bad world always disappeared when he saw her.

"Well, I've always said don't fight the U.S. Postal Services." He smiled. She reciprocated. "You're early today." He said. "You trying to slip off the job a little early today?"

"No, I'm covering for part of another carrier's route. He's on vacation…lucky bastard."

"Such language for a servant of the people."

"Is there another kind of servant?"

"Beats me."

The gunshot seemed miles away, Deacon did not realize it had come from across the street. His head hit the porch railing and the last thing he remembered was Sammy screaming.

A tapping sound came from a million miles away. Deacon felt himself climbing out of unconsciousness. It was like trying to push off the ocean floor and struggling to surface for air. The tapping sound became louder. He continued to wrestle with the body's desire to find the ocean floor again and rest. With effort he opened his eyes and saw the source of the sound, a nurse tapping an I.V. line getting the stubborn bubble out and at first didn't feel her patient's eyes on her. When she saw Deacon's eyes open she smiled. "Good evening Mr. Sender." She was a young nurse filled with enthusiasm Deacon currently didn't feel.

"What happened?" Deacon muttered. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like it had doubled in size.

"You've had a shoulder injury. You really are quite the lucky man tonight." She smiled sincerely.