River City

Martha’s voice broke over the two-way. “Frank? It’s the Green Frog Club. It’s Joe.”

Frank grabbed the mic and squeezed the cheap black plastic. Maybe this was just Joe mouthing off, but he had never heard Martha sound so rattled.

“What’s going on, Martha?”

“Joe says it’s justice. Says it’s time you learned how it feels to lose everything.”

“I’m headed there now, Martha. Get Billy to bring the ambulance.”

“Frank… Isabelle… she’s there.”

He threw the mic on the floorboard and glanced at the rearview mirror. His six-month-old son was sleeping soundly, his hand curled around the teddy bear Isabelle picked out the day they learned she was pregnant.

He tightened his grip on the wheel of his father’s ’66 Chevelle. The headlights caught the empty storefronts along Main Street, many with For Lease signs posted in the windows. He stopped at the drug store and left his precious cargo with Ann, then headed out of town.

Sheets of rain covered the windshield, overwhelming the wipers. The occasional vibration of rumble strips let him know when he was close to the shoulder of the old county road that led to the Green Frog.

As he neared the river bridge, the flooding water beneath brought it all back…

He remembered the car stopped on the bridge, an old cop car with the markings removed. From a distance, he could see the trunk was open. The driver of the car, hidden by the trunk lid, threw a body bag into the water. He recognized the person in the passenger seat as Joe’s girlfriend, Fiona. And in the back seat sat his brother—Joe Johnson—who’d lost his badge, his career, his wife, everything when Floyd turned him in and Frank testified against him.

“Hurry up!”, he remembered Fiona yelling. “Someone’s coming!”

He remembered his police scanner ringing out: “Be on the lookout. Floyd Johnson, ex-sheriff of River City and father of current sheriff Frank Johnson was abducted from his home and is missing.”

He remembered rushing to the vehicle. He knew how much Fiona hated Floyd Johnson for sending her father to the electric chair. She had publicly threatened to “straighten things around.”

He remembered Fiona raising her handgun when he told her to get out of the car. He remembered her head exploding against the car window from the blast of his 12-gauge.

The powerful engine rumbled like distant thunder as Frank pulled around back of the Green Frog and killed the ignition. The radio crackled one last time.

“Frank?” Martha again. “Billy’s bringing the ambulance, but… no one else is comin’.”

“It ends tonight, Martha.”

Frank reached for his shotgun. Stepping out into the storm, the rain traced the lines of his body, worn more by duty than age.He could see the Green Frog’s back door hanging ajar and he heard the twang of Merle Haggard’s voice drifting out into the rain, as the neon jukebox continued to shuffle through songs selected by whimpering patrons lying on the barroom floor.

He pushed the door wider so he could see the whole room. He saw Joe standing by the pool table, his gun pressed against Sara Jenkins temple. The infant in her arms wore a yellow onesie now stained red.

He saw his wife, sitting bound and gagged in a chair atop the bed of the pool table, her back to the door, a human shield in front of Joe and Sara.

“My baby,” Sara screamed. “Please…”

“It’s over, Joe,” Frank yelled from the doorway, bracing for the choice he would have to make. “Put the gun down and let’s go.”

Joe laughed. “Perfect timing. Whole city’s about to drown anyway,” his eyes never leaving Frank’s.

The gunshot cracked like thunder. Sara slumped forward, still cradling her child.

Frank’s shotgun roared in response, the blast echoing off the walls. Joe stumbled back, his blood pooling on the concrete floor.

He looked at what was left of Sara’s freckled face and turned his attention to Isabelle, safe atop the pool table. Another pop of gunfire flashed in the darkness where the lights had been shot out. A side door flew open, then slammed shut.

Frank watched in slow motion as Isabelle’s chair toppled from the pool table and thudded to the concrete.

He could hear the wail of Billy’s ambulance getting closer as he traced the wound of the assassin’s bullet—a perfect killshot. A dangerous mix of emotions welled in him: sadness, anger, grief—resolve. With a trembling hand, he closed Isabelle’s eyes, as an unfamiliar tear slid down his face.

He looked up to see Billy standing frozen, eyes glazed over. “Billy, let’s get Isabelle and Sara in the ambulance. I’ll meet you at the hospital. No siren; no lights.”

Making his way back to his car, Frank searched his mind for clues on who could have fired that fatal shot.

“Tough day, Frank.” Councilman Willie Arnold crackled over the two-way. “It’s about to get tougher…”

Willie should be concerned about multiple deaths at the Green Frog, especially Isabelle. It wasn’t like him to be so focused on the dam.

“What do you mean, Willie?”

“The dam’s showin’ signs of strain. If it breaks…the nuclear plant…the city…”

Frank said nothing. The radio was silent, but the warning lingered.

He felt the weight of his brother’s hatred lift. His tarnished badge, cold and wet, pressed against his chest as he turned the key in the ignition and drove into a different storm.


Author’s Notes:
Elements of this story were inspired by actual people, places, and events.

Cover Image: © Jamison Brown