A black Cadillac Escalade drove up to Floyd’s small farmhouse with a wraparound covered porch. The distance from the highway to the house was far enough away that you could see in every direction from the second floor. Floyd didn’t have much to do these days, so he sat in a rocker by the front steps, looking straight at the driveway. He didn’t drink often but opted for a Busch Lite today. He bought the six-pack more than a month ago. Floyd now had three left.

He pushed down with his feet, letting the rocking motion carry him. A shotgun rested across the rocking chair’s arms. After the court cases, the mafia crime family, and the loss of Heaven Sent, he figured it was only a matter of time before someone came looking for him. He patted the gun like an old farm dog, stroking and petting it, scratching it under its ears to comfort it. If Floyd did have a dog, it would’ve been barking like crazy. Cars weren’t normal around these parts. And big SUVs like the black one coming up his driveway, less so.

The Iowa license plate read BSA-128, an SUV registered in Des Moines. Not that Floyd knew or understood any of that. All he knew was it was from Iowa. Both the driver and passenger doors opened at the same time. That’s when Floyd raised up the shotgun, aiming it straight upward. Both men wore black sunglasses with gold badges around their necks. Floyd never saw the local Sheriff pull up behind the SUV.

“Mr. Patterson,” the driver of the Cadillac said, loud enough for Floyd to hear from the porch. “I’m Detective Barry Lawson.” He pointed at the man to his right, “This is my partner, Detective Brian Marshall. Mr. Patterson, you need to come with us.”

Floyd lowered the shotgun, not aiming it at either detective but between them. “I dunno who you think you are, but yous on private property. Get off my land before I decide to use this,” Floyd patted his shotgun.

“Floyd, you put down that thar shotgun now, you hear me?” Sheriff Jones walked right by the detectives and up to the front porch like he and Floyd were old friends. Jones and Patterson went to high school around the same time. Jones was two years younger than Floyd, so they knew of each other. Jones knew Floyd more from local folks calling, complaining of some argument they had where he was absolutely wrong.

Leonard Jones, Leo to his friends, was a high school football star. As a wide receiver, he had more pass completions than anyone in the small school’s history, holding that record until the mid-1990s. Jones wasn’t afraid to get hit by big players, which made him the gutsiest receiver on the team. After years of living in the area, he also knew how to talk people down, making them see reason. Even Floyd. The Sheriff took one step up the stairs when Floyd aimed the shotgun at his kneecap. “Hold it right there, Jones. You ain’t been invited up yet.”

Neither officer moved, hands still raised in surrender.

“Floyd. You and I go way back,” Jones said, trying to move forward. Floyd cocked the shotgun.

“You is on private property, Jones. You gots one of two choices: one, you back off my stairs and talk to me, all polite like, from right there. Or, two, you get your kneecap blown off for trespassing on private property outside your jurisdiction.”

Jones stepped back, holding up his hands, just like the detectives. “We want to talk, Floyd. That’s it. Just talk.” Floyd lowered the gun, keeping it squared up between the city cops.

“Talk right there,” Floyd patted the shotgun, “or else we’ll see how much damage this baby can do. Been told it’s got a lot of power, but I never did fire it yet.” Jones knew that was true, seeing as every firearm purchased needs the owner to prove they aren’t a convicted felon. Shotguns were a little different, not requiring a waiting period but still needing a background check before purchase. He knew Floyd had it, not that he’d never fired it. Not yet, anyway. Jones didn’t want to learn whether or not it was good at blowing off kneecaps. He had a pretty good idea it would.

“Floyd. Listen.” Jones put his hands down. “Fine.” He walked away from the porch. “Suit yourself. These men are here to make sure you stay alive. If you ain’t interested in what they got to say,” he stopped talking, throwing up his hands in disgust.

“Whadya mean, alive? You tryin’ to tell me someone’s wanting me dead?” Floyd stopped rocking, leaning forward in the rocker. “Why’d they wanna do that? I done did nothin’ wrong to no one. Even that district attorney says so. Let me off easy. So they tell me.”

Both detectives started to lower their hands, Floyd raising the shotgun up just enough to level it at either man, if necessary. “Youns best stay right there if in’s you know what’s good for you.”

The Sheriff stood next to Detective Marshall, motioning both men to put their hands back up in surrender. “Fine,” Marshall said. “I’m going to reach inside the truck and get some paperwork for you to read unless you’d rather us tell you from right here. It’s up to you.”

“Reach inside that truck, and it’ll be the last thing you do, hear me?” Floyd rocked back in the chair, ready to shoot either of the three men in a flat second. Jones didn’t know Floyd wasn’t all the good of a shot. Doc and Jim tried to talk him into duck hunting one season, but all Floyd did was complain and bitch about the cold, the damp, and Jim getting drunk. In fairness, Doc was drunk, too, but most of the time, with the large veterinarian, you couldn’t tell. Floyd almost blew a hole in the bottom of Doc’s new Jon boat. Thankfully, the large man was close enough to Floyd to grab the barrel, pointing it upward as he fired. No one was hurt, but Jim cussed him all the way back to shore. None of them spoke about the incident.

“Okay, Mr. Patterson,” Detective Lawson said, “there is a death threat that we believe is credible. You are not safe here or in Iowa. We have been instructed by the state of Oregon to put you into protective custody if you comply. If not? Then, your life is in your own hands. The choice is yours.” Lawson put his hands down, and motioned to Marshall to do the same.

“So, Jones?” Floyd propped the shotgun against the side of the house and stood up. After he stretched, Floyd said, “So, is these guys tellin’ the truth?”

“Floyd, I got no reason to believe otherwise. I’ve talked to their supervisor in Portland. It checks out. Even the death threat against you is real. You ain’t got no choice. Go with them or risk getting killed here. Hell, it could be that someone else gets in the way and gets hurt. Yous want that on your conscious, do you?”

Floyd stuck his hands in his pockets, looked at the ground, took a deep breath, and walked down the stairs, leaving the shotgun leaning against the house. “So. Now what?”

The Sheriff came over and clapped Floyd on the shoulder. “Now? Now, you go with these men to Portland, Oregon.”  

“I ain’t flyin’,” Floyd said. “Matter of fact, the only way I’m goin’ is if’n we’s drivin’. How long it take y’all to get here?”

“A few hours by plane,” Marshall replied. He was shaking his head. He hated driving but with a person in protective custody? That was even more dangerous than flying. “Two days if we drive.”

“We’ll drive back, Floyd. So does that mean you’re coming with us?” Lawson asked.

Floyd nodded.

“Thank God,” Sheriff Jones sighed. “Before you go,” he pointed at Floyd’s shotgun on the porch, “put that away. Last thing I’s need is some kid findin’ that on the porch.” He shook Marshall’s hand. “Good luck. Floyd’s a decent guy,” he watched Floyd saunter back to the porch, taking the gun inside, “just not all that bright. Never been to the city, neither. May take some getting’ used to for him. Just sayin’,” Jones held up his hands in surrender.