Chapter 2: Brothers, Broken and Forgiven
Last time I saw him was out at Red Bluff Ridge. Back then, Billy Horn was riding high, and the Monkey just couldn’t bring him down. County cops and state troopers threw up a dragnet—raid after raid. In the end, worn-down Billy gave himself up, and I stomped his prized longhorn trophy to pieces under my boots.
The showdown at Red Bluff was chaos—sirens screaming, flashlights cutting through the dark, dust and sweat thick in the air. Billy Horn had ruled that hill too long, and the law came for him hard. When it was over, his trophy—his pride—lay shattered beneath my heel. The look on his face? Pure heartbreak. You don’t forget a thing like that.
Billy Horn cried out, "Spare me!"
His voice broke, desperation spilling out. Even the toughest men fall apart when the world stops spinning their way. That’s just how it goes.
I saw the Monkey cry that day.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, catching the red-and-blue flash of the patrol cars. I’d never seen him cry before—not for pain, not for joy. It was like something inside finally snapped loose.
He landed beside the battered Billy Horn, eyes gone dark. He gently touched the broken horn, careful not to make things worse.
He knelt, careful not to disturb the wreckage, and set his hand on the jagged edge. His fingers trembled, but when he spoke, his voice was rock steady.
"Billy, don’t blame me. I didn’t have a choice."
It was the truth, plain as day. Sometimes the world just doesn’t give you a way out, no matter how hard you fight. That’s the ugly part nobody talks about.
I knew Monkey and Billy had history, but with all those badges around, talk like that could get you in trouble. I walked over and tugged at Monkey’s faded jacket, giving him a look.
My grip was gentle, but firm—a reminder that we weren’t alone. Lawmen everywhere, eyes sharp, notebooks out. Last thing we needed was more trouble. I tried to keep it cool.
"Monkey, watch your mouth."
I kept my voice low, hoping he’d get it. The air was thick with tension, every word heavy enough to tip the balance. Didn’t need any more drama.
Billy looked up at Monkey, then shut his eyes, giving in.
He let out a long, shaky breath. Surrender, plain as day. The fight was gone. All that was left was regret.
The Monkey sighed, glanced at me, and said, "Thanks."
He meant for sparing Billy’s life. I shook my head. "Come on, man, let’s go. Once we get through this—" I paused, letting it hang in the air. "—we’ll be real brothers."
I clapped him on the shoulder, trying to lighten things up. The promise hung between us, heavy with hope and something else I couldn’t name.
The Monkey didn’t say a word.
His silence was louder than any speech. He just nodded, eyes locked on the horizon, searching for something none of us could see. Or maybe just trying to get away.
The day Monkey got saved, I was happier than he was. I drove up to the old church on the hill, stepped inside. The place was alive—laughter, gospel, the smell of fried chicken from the potluck. I spotted Monkey’s silhouette near the altar, lit up by the stained glass.
The church was packed, voices ringing out, music spilling through open windows. Monkey stood near the altar, a little apart, shoulders tense but eyes shining. First time in years I’d seen him smile with no sadness behind it. Felt good.
He didn’t wear his old baseball cap or carry that steel bat anymore. Dressed in a preacher’s robe, he recited scripture, his words full of something fierce and honest, moving everyone at the table.
His voice rang out, clear and strong, full of conviction that even shut up the rowdiest kids. The whole congregation leaned in, spellbound, as he talked about forgiveness and starting over. Hard to believe this was the same man who used to raise hell on Saturday nights.
Monkey’s salvation was supposed to be a happy day, but seeing him up there, looking so small, I couldn’t help but think—he gained a lot, but he lost even more. That’s just the way it goes sometimes.
He stood in the spotlight, folks clapping and shouting praise, but I caught that flicker of doubt in his eyes. Maybe he missed the old days. Maybe he just didn’t know who he was anymore. I wished I could tell him it was okay to feel lost. Hell, we all do.
In the end, I never figured out what Big Mike was planning.
It stuck in my craw, like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Mike was always scheming, always a step ahead, but this time, the pieces didn’t fit. The answer slipped away, just out of reach. Drove me nuts.
I went out to the chapel in Maple Heights to see for myself. Just an ordinary place—no parishioners, no preacher. Nobody knew who built it. Sheriff said Mike ate something bad, his stomach turned and he died. I laughed out loud. That was ridiculous—what could possibly upset a pig’s stomach?
The chapel was empty and quiet, dust swirling in the sunlight from the stained glass. I walked the aisles, looking for answers, but all I found was a heavy sadness. Sheriff’s story was a joke—Mike could eat anything. If anything, it just made the whole thing weirder.
Back at the county office, my assistant told me a big-bearded preacher had come by looking for me, all anxious and wound up, like something real bad had gone down.
He fidgeted with his tie, eyes darting to the clock. "Said he needed to see you, boss. Looked like he hadn’t slept in days."
"What’d he look like?" I pressed, trying to picture him. All I could think of were those fire-and-brimstone types, slick hair and sharp suits. But this sounded different.
"Full beard, carrying a staff with a lantern on it."
I froze. That wasn’t just any lantern staff—that was the old demon-hunting cross. The visitor was Preacher Sam Walker. My heart skipped a beat. That staff was legend around here—folks whispered it could keep evil away, or maybe call it down. Either way, you remembered it.
"Where is he now?" I tried to keep my voice steady, but my hands were shaking. If Sam Walker was looking for me, it couldn’t be good.