Eye For an Eye

Eye For an Eye

Sheryl and Royce were living the good life in the cabin they called home on the East Bank of Toledo Bend lake. Sheryl has a business of making and selling homemade jams and jellies using recipes handed down to her by her grandmother. Her blackberry, muscadine, and mayhaw jams, cooked down and put into eight ounce Bell jars, carried her own private label complete with a drawing she had made of a crawfish opening one of her jam jars.

Her product was so popular that she never had leftover inventory. She first delivered her jams to longtime friends and customers, and Royce delivered the rest of her inventory to vegetable stands and stores that eagerly awaited her next batch of anything she canned. Pickled peaches, pickled okra, chow chow, pickled jalapeños, whatever, they wanted it.

Life was good. Unfortunately while making a delivery to a Stop on a Dime store, on the outskirts of Shreveport, Royce was approached by a TV journalist from the local station and asked his opinion on anti-vax activists protesting outside the Parish Health Department clinic that was giving shots of the Moderna vaccine for Covid - 19. Royce, having lost his unvaccinated father to the virus, had plenty to say. He said, "They should just take the damn shot. The protesters are causing people to die by spreading lies about the vaccine," and, "My own father believed their lies and as a result, he died alone away from his family. That just ain't right."

News thrives on conflict, and Royce's comments were used in news promos all day, was on the evening news, and the next day he saw himself on CNN. “I look pretty damn good,” he thought, but was too modest to say it out loud.

His comments upset the disturbed element of the far right social media trolls. Immediately they found Sheryl's web site, both their email addresses, their home and cell phone numbers, and their home address. The hate mail and calls poured in incessantly. Royce and Sheryl's lives were threatened. If the haters had their way, she and Royce would already be in hell, and “Your lives ain't worth a plug nickel.'' Her store outlets received threats that they would be burned out if they continued to sell Sheryl's jams. Their lives fell apart.

They reported all of this to the police, who said that until something actually happened, their hands were tied. They promised to have a patrol car drive by every few hours, but they had insufficient staff to provide real protection.

Royce philosophically and predictably said, "To hell with them!" and took his fourteen foot outboard fishing boat out on the lake with a cane pole, a can of earthworms, and a six pack of Budweiser. When he didn't come back at dark, friends went looking for him. They found him slouched over, dead from a bullet wound. The line on his pole was active, and his friends found a large bream hooked and frantically trying to get unhooked. Only one beer was left, and Bill, his poker buddy, opined that the fish must have drank the beer, because Royce was a two beer man. Only Bill laughed.

Sheryl, now husbandless, her business in tatters, and herself still a target of proven murderers, was angry and that anger grew exponentially as she arranged the cremation and memorial service that Royce had always said he wanted. She heard the condolences of family and friends, but she knew that despite their assurances that “Everything will be alright," things wouldn’t be alright as long as those responsible for Royce's death drew a breath.

Finally alone, well wishers and mourners back to their lives, Sheryl allowed herself a large glass of merlot hoping to ease the pain. Her head in her hands, elbows propped up on the kitchen table, tears slowly meandering down her cheeks, she mentally sorted through her options. Using the same mental tools that made her a successful business woman, she discarded unfeasible options and settled on what she considered her best option. "I'm going to kill the bastards that caused Royce's murder," she said aloud to herself.

In the news she saw that a Washington mouth who was big into spreading lies about Covid and its prevention, was encouraging true believers to use their guns to protect against outsiders who wanted to take away their right to choose. He was scheduled to speak in Shreveport at a rally of anti-vax supporters on Friday night, only four days away.

"That would be a start," she thought to herself, and she started planning.

Sheryl was a gun owner, like everyone else she knew. She was given a .22 rifle when she was nine. Following NRA guidance over the years, she developed proficiency with larger more powerful weapons and was prepared to stand her ground against anyone. Killing that lying bastard who had emboldened and supported the hate mongers who threatened her and murdered Royce was just standing her ground.

She took Royce's scoped Remington deer rifle, cleaned it and made sure all was in working order, selected two clips from the bull shaped cookie jar that Royce had bought after going to a bullfight in Mexico, and loaded, emptied, and reloaded them. Making sure the safety was engaged, she put a clip in the rifle and chambered a round. The cookie jar was ugly as sin, but it was beginning to look better as she remembered how proud Royce was when he gave it to her.

She told no one about her plans.

A fake call to her target's office elicited the time his charter flight would arrive at Shreveport International. On Friday, using her four year old Corolla because Royce's four-by-four Ford 450 pickup was far too conspicuous, she drove to the airport and only caught one red light before getting a green light that let her proceed. She had a moment of hesitation while waiting for the light to change but she quickly shook it off. Royce’s death would be avenged.

She found sheltered parking in some pines at the edge of the airport, with a good view of the area where her target would deplane into the welcoming arms of his cultish fans and the softball questions of the local media. Her rifle scope was sighted in for 100 yards which looked to be just about right. Sheryl could drill a large orange at that distance using the scope. Through the eyepiece, the target would appear to be right in front of her.

The small jet arrived fifteen minutes late, probably on purpose to allow the surprisingly large crowd of greeters time to get more excited. It taxied to a stop fifteen to twenty feet from where Sheryl had anticipated, but still close enough and still with a good sight line. Airport personnel pushed steps up to the door, the door opened, and a minute later he emerged.

He stood there taking in the warmth of the crowd whose roar of welcome echoed across the landing strip. He stood there, atop the steps, glorying in his popularity. He had instant feelings that he was destined for greater things.

Neither the crowd nor the target clearly heard the shot over their cheering. To the crowd, it looked like he fainted.

On her way back home, following the circuitous route she had planned, Sheryl thought to herself, " Damn, that was easier than stalking a deer." She wondered if future prey would be brought down as easily.

The local police had no more success at solving this shooting than they had solving the murder of Royce.