Here is the last installment: Woodrats
The limb of the massive oak where Foghorn Jackson hung never bent an inch from his weight. Nor did it sway or creak when Foghorn wriggled and kicked and swung beneath it. An old, dried rope the codger used to tie Foghorn’s arms tight to his torso and then to the oak dug and bit into Foghorn’s skin, constricting him like a boa’s next meal. And, unlike the tree’s limb, the rope moaned from the burden.
“Watched a guy die this way. Same tree, too.” The codger leaned against the tree’s truck, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He tilted back his weathered Valencia baseball cap, revealing a satisfied, yellowed grin on his equally weathered face. “You believe that bastard kept on yelling ‘til only wheezes and spit flew out of his mouth? Don’t know who he was screaming for. Only the crows came for him.”
Crows.
Foghorn immediately quit struggling. The image of crows coming down and tearing off his last bits of life terrified him more than anything he’d seen the Green-eyed woman do, more than what he’d witnessed or what he thought he witnessed that little girl do at the ballpark. His heart pounded against the tightening rope, his strained lungs managing only hurried gasps with each breath he took.
“Guess we’ll see what kinds of beasts you’ll bring in, huh?” The codger continued, locking eyes with Foghorn, smoke trickling out from his nose and mouth as he did. “Sent a letter two days ago to that GM of yours, that idiot Shoeless. See if you mean anything to him.”
Not Shoeless, Foghorn thought, a wave of resignation mixing in with his panic. Anyone but Shoeless.
He’d hardly spoken to the enigmatic general manager over his time with the Mad Popes, maybe a courteous “hello” as they passed in the hallways at the Basilica or a simple nod of acknowledgment when Shoeless discussed players’ protocols or procedures with the Green-eyed woman.
The lack of interaction may be to his benefit, though. Or so Foghorn hoped as he tried meeting the codger’s stare without giving away the terror welling inside him. Maybe Shoeless would toss the codger’s letter onto her desk. Leave it to her if anything should be done.
It was the only chance Foghorn had.
“Of course,” the codger said, his cracked, grey lips twisting further upwards. “I sent letters out to all the GMs in the Pacific. Thought you may bring me some profit along with the beasts.”