This is Chapter 9 in a series of ten stories.
Behind the wheel of the 1946 Chevrolet 3600 Dually, Duke De Kalb looked around the cabin of the old truck and marveled at how much it reminded him of the plane he’d been in when he was shot down. The oily metallic smell. The gauges that were designed to convey only the bare essentials of information. The drab colorless surroundings meant only to fulfill a purpose, not to appease any need for aesthetics. He chuckled at the irony.
The 235 cubic inch inline-six was topped by a single carburetor. In preparing for the trip Duke had replaced the spark plugs, and the plug wires, points, distributor cap, and fuel pump. Just the bare essentials to be sure the truck would make it to Houston and back without the need to stop for any mechanical issues.
Behind the old work truck was the enclosed trailer. The weight of the trailer and the 1959 Chevrolet it carried inside guaranteed the trip would be slow. That was alright with Duke. He’d come to measure time differently since the death of his daughter, much more focused on the destination rather than the length of the journey.
The myriad trips he made from Fort Stockton to Houston had been much quicker, of course. And more comfortable. But those were of a different nature.
Those trips had yielded all the information Duke had been looking for. He learned everything he needed to know about the plastic surgeon who’d technically been his son-in-law for a short period of time. The man who’d convinced Abigail to try marriage one more time. The man who had used her for his own purposes and then discarded her to move on to another.
His handsome looks and prominent position as a plastic surgeon of some renown would ensure a constant string of women who would fall for him. The one he’d married right after Abigail’s death was still his wife, but he’d already tired of her and taken on a new mistress. As it turned out, that was a beneficial development for Duke’s plan, as the surgeon kept his new toy in a secluded cabin not too far from Sheldon on Lake Houston.
The doctor was as prolific with his choice in cars as he was his taste in women. His latest acquisition had been a 1979 Cadillac Seville Opera Coupe. This car was originally produced as a four-door sedan and underwent an Opera Coupe conversion prior to initial delivery. The conversion included elongating the hood, a shortened two-door greenhouse with two seats, and the addition of dual side-mount faux spare tire holders. The car was powered by a 350 cubic inch V8 paired with a three-speed automatic transmission, and it was finished in white with a vinyl roof over tan leather. Equipment included automatic climate control, cruise control, 15″ wire wheels, power windows and locks, intermittent wipers, an AM/FM cassette radio, and a heated rear window.
Duke thought it was an automotive abomination. Abigail would have hated it. The surgeon thought it was the perfect vessel to display his taste in the finer things. He may have been right.
Leaving Fort Stockton under the cover of darkness, it was well after midnight as Duke parked the truck a fair distance away from the secluded cabin where he knew he’d find the Opera Coupe parked out front. All of his earlier trips had indicated the schedule that was rarely deviated from. Walking the mile and a half from where he’d parked to where he knew he’d find the Seville, he placed the device under the left rear tire that he’d crafted in the barn months earlier.
That was probably the hardest part of the whole plan. It took a dozen attempts at making the small ball of spikes to get the one that proved to be just right. The idea was for the spike to puncture the tire as soon as the surgeon got in the car and departed, but to allow him to get far enough away from the cabin that he’d have to change the tire to get back to Houston rather than just go back inside and call Triple-A. The drive from the road the cabin back to the main highway was long and desolate for about four miles. Perfect. But it was critical that the tire go flat in that small stretch. Too close to the cabin, or the highway, and the plan would have to be aborted.
Duke crossed his fingers as he walked back to the enclosed trailer and backed the ’59 Impala out of it. And then he waited.
As he sipped some Folgers from the Stanley Thermos sitting on the gray flannel covered seat next to him in the Impala, Duke was delighted to see a pair of headlights head his way, and then suddenly pull over to the side of the road, as if in distress. He turned the key and the 348 cubic inch V8 rumbled to life, belching out thick smoke into the inky darkness behind him. He slid the gear shift into DRIVE and slowly pulled the Impala away from the bar ditch next to where it sat.
He didn’t turn on the headlights, nor did he depress the accelerator, letting the Impala merely inch its way down the asphalt pavement of its own accord. Ahead, the doctor had gotten out of the Opera Coupe and made his way to the back of the car to inspect the flat tire. Duke noted the way the doctor seemed to stomp his foot and cuss out loud to nobody in particular at the misfortune of a flat tire at this inopportune moment.
With the Impala 40 yards away, the doctor seemed to hear the tires heading his way on the pavement and looked up. Hoping it was someone who he could perhaps entice into changing the tire for him for a twenty dollar bill, he made his way to the front of the Seville for a better look. At thirty yards he raised both arms in the air, probably wondering why the approaching car didn’t have its headlights on.
Duke still hadn’t turned on the lights, nor had he touched the accelerator.
At 20 yards, Duke brought the Impala to a complete stop. He reached down and turned on the headlights. The brights. All four bulbs lit up the scene like a Hollywood movie. The doctor squinted to see and then covered his eye with one hand to try to make out what was happening.
Duke hit the button on the left side of the floorboard, cutting off the brights. but leaving the regular headlights on so that the doctor could make out just who was in the car. It was important to Duke that his former son-in-law recognize him. He soon did.
The look on his face was one of startled shock. Duke watched as the wheels turned in the doctor’s head and he quickly put all the pieces of the puzzle together. He could almost read each thought as one led to another on the doctor’s face. Then, the only conclusion that could be reached was made clear and panic registered.
Before any evasive action could be taken, Duke’s foot hit the accelerator.
The impact of the Impala sent the doctor back onto the hood of his new Opera Coupe, the Cadillac hood ornament puncturing his spleen as he fell back. As Duke depressed the accelerator slightly, the decorative aluminum bullets decorating the grill of the Impala slowly punctured the doctor’s belly before the front end of the Chevrolet crushed his pelvis and the bumper buckled his knees.
The doctor attempted to scream out but the pressure in his lungs didn’t allow a sound to be emitted. The only sounds that could be heard were bones being crushed, metal being twisted, and antifreeze pouring out of the radiators of each car.
As Duke stared at the doctor through the windshield, his thoughts went back nearly 40 years to seeing the German zeroing in on him as he stood in the cockpit of his plane, about to fall from the sky. He’d never felt guilty about unloading the machine gun into the German pilot. That was the cost of war. Kill or be killed.
Duke felt even less remorse about the doctor staring at him in much the same way as the hood of the Impala slowly pushed its way into the abdominal cavity of the man who’d killed his daughter. Kill and be killed.
In the final act of revenge, Duke put the Imapla in reverse, backed up a few feet, and then gunned it. The force cut the doctor in half, his upper half thrust onto the vast flat rusty hood. It would take a couple attempts at backing up and hitting the brakes hard for the upper remnants of his son-in-law to dislodge themselves from the hood and fall to the pavement several yards from the lower half.
Coyotes would discover him before his mistress did, providing one final indignity.
4 responses to “A FATHER’S LOVE, Chapter 9”
Come-uppence?
Payback is sweet,
and vengeance is a dish best served cold.
1959 Chevys, Impala convertible and Biscayne, have a special place in my memories – all of which are very positive – but this one was salvaged and repurposed for a uniquely specific soirée, well planned and exquisitely executed.
“The world will little notice, nor long remember …”
I’m very conflicted by the turn of events here, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the blatant vigilante justice.
It’s the fact that a cool Impala was sacrificed during the deed.
On the other hand, at least it wasn’t a Fairlane 500.
If you’re going to make an omelet, you gotta crack a few eggs.
After a single tear for the ’59, I realized it can be fixed and still be a classic.
Sadly, I had dry eyes for the Opera Coupe. To each his own; some folks like extra Botox. IMO, one can’t really undo that kind of cosmetic surgery. And, I don’t think fender skirts would make a sufficient improvement. It might be better to just lipstick the front bumper and park it next to an Aztek.