Southern Cross Read Free Page A

Hammer’s name over the cell phone, he experienced a sudden release of gloominess and menacing persecution, a buoyant happiness and surge of power. He was transformed into the warrior on a mission he had always been destined to become as he followed Midlothian Turnpike to Muskrat’s Auto Rescue, this time for another windshield leak. Bubba snapped up the mike of his two-way Kenwood radio and switched over to the security channel.
    “Unit 1 to Unit 2.” He tried to raise Honey, his wife, as he followed the four-lane artery of Southside out of Chesterfield County and into the city limits.
    No answer. Bubba’s eyes scanned his mirrors. A Richmond police cruiser pulled in behind him. Bubba slowed down.
    “Unit 1 to Unit 2,” Bubba tried again.
    No answer. Some shithead kid in a white Ford Explorer was trying to cut in front of Bubba. Bubba sped up.
    “Unit 1 to Unit 2!” Bubba hated it when his wife didn’t respond to him immediately.
    The cop remained on Bubba’s tail, dark Oakleys staringstraight into Bubba’s rearview mirror. Bubba slowed again. The punk in the Explorer tried to ease in front of Bubba, right turn signal flashing. Bubba sped up. He deliberated over what form of communication to use next, and picked up his portable phone. He changed his mind. He thought about trying his wife again on the two-way and decided not to bother. She should have gotten back to him the first and second times. The hell with her. He snapped up the mike to his CB, eyeing the cop in his mirrors and keeping a check on the Explorer.
    “Yo, Smudge,” Bubba hailed his buddy over the CB. “You on track come back to yack.”
    “Unit 2,” his wife’s out-of-breath voice came over the two-way.
    Bubba’s portable phone rang.
    “Sorry . . . oh my . . .” Honey sweetly said as she gasped. “I was . . . oh dear . . . let me catch my breath . . . whew . . . was chasing Half Shell . . . she wouldn’t come . . . That dog.”
    Bubba ignored her. He answered the phone.
    “Bubba?” said Gig Dan, Bubba’s supervisor at Philip Morris.
    “Trackin’ and yackin’, buddy,” Smudge came back over the CB.
    “Unit 2 to Unit 1?” Honey anxiously persisted over the two-way.
    “Yo, Gig,” Bubba said into the portable phone. “What’s goin’ on?”
    “Need ya to come in and work the second half of second shift,” Gig told him. “Tiller called in sick.”
    Shit, Bubba thought. Today of all days when there was so much to do and so little time. It depressed the hell out of him to think about showing up at eight o’clock tonight and working twelve straight hours.
    “Ten-4,” Bubba replied to Gig.
    “When you wanna shine on yellow eyes?” Smudge hadn’t given up.
    Bubba didn’t really like coon hunting all that much. His coon dog Half Shell had her problems, and Bubba worriedabout snakes. Besides, Smudge always got a higher score. It seemed all Bubba did was lose money to him.
    “Before slithers wake up, I guess.” Bubba tried to sound sure of himself. “So go ahead and shake out a plan.”
    “Ten-fo, good buddy,” Smudge came back. “Gotcha covered like a blanket.”

2
    S MOKE WAS A special needs child. This had become apparent in the second grade when he had stolen his teacher’s wallet, punched a female classmate, carried a revolver to school, set several cats on fire and smashed up the principal’s station wagon with a pipe.
    Since those early misguided days in his hometown of Durham, North Carolina, Smoke had been written up fifty-two times for assault, cheating, plagiarism, extortion, harassment, gambling, truancy, dishonesty, larceny, disruptive dress, indecent literature and bus misconduct.
    He had been arrested six times for crimes ranging from sexual assault to murder, and had been on probation, on supervised probation with special conditions, in an Alternative to Detention Program, in detention, in a wilderness camp therapeutic program, in a community guidance clinic where he received