The Lost and the Fallen by James Patrick Focarile

     I tipped the glass and downed the last swallow. Ice brushed my lips. A splash of bourbon laced with cherry hit the back of my throat like hot oil. The floral tang of the bitters lingered. 
       I caught the bartender's eye and clinked my wedding ring on the rim of the lowball. "Another." 
        He nodded.
    The bar was a shithole steeped in backwoods charm. The lights were dimmed, and sawdust spattered the floor like buckshot. The jukebox blasted new country. The smell of fried beer-batter permeated the air. 
      Off in the corner, behind me, sat a cowboy with arms like legs. He wore a Stetson. Seriously. A Stetson. He was arguing with a hot blonde. Either his wife or a girlfriend, I couldn’t tell which. What I could tell was that she needed help. The purple scar under her left eye, caked in makeup, screamed abuse.
      I had ached for a drink, so I stopped. Dalton’s Place. I should’ve filled up the tank and kept driving. The last thing I needed was trouble. Or to play the hero.  
     Even over the din of the music, their words filtered through to me.
     “Let go,” said Hot Blonde, pulling her arm away. 
     “I thought you liked it rough,” said Stetson.
     Her eyes narrowed. She stood to leave. 
     He pulled her back without much effort.
     “You’re such an ass,” she said.
     “One more drink.”
     “I wanna go!”
     I shook my head and turned back towards the bar.
     “Enjoying the show?” asked the bartender. He placed my fresh drink in front of me.
     I pulled the brim of my ball-cap down. “Are they a regular attraction?”
     “Unfortunately.”
     “What’s their story?”
     “Locals. Married. They go at it all the time.”
     “She’s taking a beating.”
     He nodded. “And then some.”
     “You should report it.”
     He laughed. “Welcome to Freemont. Our little slice of Texas heaven.” And with that, he made his way to the end of the bar. 
     The place was crowded. Several couples line-danced by the jukebox. A group of old-timers played darts. Two oversized flatscreens aired a rodeo competition. Apparently, there wasn’t much to do on a Friday night except drink. And maybe cause mischief. I took a swig of the old fashioned and contemplated the latter.
     I glanced over my shoulder again. Stetson and Hot Blonde were headed for the exit. He held her arm like a vise as he navigated her out the door. I slammed back my drink, dropped a twenty on the bar and followed them. 
In the parking lot, my rusted Mustang was an island in a sea of Ford F150s. It looked like a dealership. I spotted Stetson forcing Hot Blonde into his vehicle as I slid into mine. 
     Twenty minutes later, I sat parked less than a hundred feet from their driveway. I doused the lights and shut off the engine. After a few moments, the place lit up like a kid’s fun house, their silhouettes darting back and forth across the shades. No doubt, they were at it again. Apparently, they never stopped. I opened the glove box and pulled out the Glock. 
     I’d run into domestic violence before. Too often. First with my parents, then during my ten years on the force in New Hampshire. Live Free or Die, right?
The truth was that people were shit. A disappointment. Violence and betrayal were their default modes. At some point, you had to stop the pattern of abuse—or you’d wind up dead. At some point, you had to say, “I won’t be a victim anymore.”
     By the time I reached their doublewide, a hard drizzle had started. I jimmied the back door and slipped into the kitchen. In the living room, Hot Blonde lay knocked out on a loveseat, her chest heaving with each breath. Crimson trickled from her nose. From the sound of it, Stetson was down the hall. 
     I found him singing on the shitter. I kicked in the door.
He was a beast. Six foot four and over two hundred pounds of naked flesh. But size didn’t matter. It didn’t even come into play. Hell, he was still seated when five bullets ripped through his chest. His body plastered itself against the upright of the tank. 
     He’d never hurt anyone again.
     Numb with violence, I blew out of there fast. But not before I tossed the place and emptied their wallets. I also took some cheap jewelry off the dresser and the Mossberg shotgun I found stashed under their bed. With Hot Blonde out cold, and Stetson out for good, the scene depicted a home invasion gone bad. Hopefully, the local police agreed. If not, I’d done all I could to set things right. 
     Who knows? Maybe Hot Blonde would have a promising future after all. Maybe she’d even get married again. Be happy.
     Who was I kidding? 
     Hope was for dreamers and the innocent. Not the lost and the fallen. 

     Three hours from Freemont, my cell phone buzzed. A text. I slowed the car and pulled off the highway to read it.
     Click link below. 
     I did. A headline from the Concord Herald popped open. A follow-up to one from two weeks prior:
     Manhunt for Jilted Police Officer Continues:
     ​Prime Suspect in Murders of Wife & Lover
     I closed the link and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I’d have to ditch it and the guns before crossing into Mexico. I rubbed my cheek with the back of my hand. The scruff was thick as thatch. Soon, I’d be unrecognizable. 
     I turned up the radio. Johnny Cash crooned “Down in the Valley.” A ballad in three-quarter time. My finger tapped out the beat on the edge of the steering wheel. His soulful voice burrowed deep into my shattered heart. 
     In a few more hours, it would be sun-up. A new day. I pulled onto the dark, lonely road and headed for the horizon.

About the author:
James Patrick Focarile resides in the Northwest. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His literary work has appeared in the following: Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Close To The Bone, Kings River Life, Pulp Modern Flash and more.