Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(7)

For almost three years the teachers tried to ignore Hurt’s behavior. Although no one said so, they were silently grateful when he failed to show up for class and never questioned his absence. But things finally came to a head when Hurt threw a rock that missed the math teacher’s head by inches. Fearful of the boy, Mister Riffkin threatened to quit. That’s when the principal telephoned Brenda McAdams and told her Hurt was not allowed back in the school.





Whatever meanness Hurt had got worse when he met Butch Muller. Butch was twenty-eight at the time. Now, you might wonder why a twenty-eight-year-old man would have an interest in being pals with a seventeen-year-old kid, but the truth is they were kindred spirits. By that time Hurt was almost as mean as his daddy, and whatever evildoing he didn’t know about Butch taught him. First it was just snatch-and-grab robberies, but before long they’d gotten to a point where either of them could clobber an unsuspecting passerby on the head, take his wallet, and walk off without a look back to see if the man was dead or alive.





After two years of doing what proved to be less profitable than they’d originally thought, they moved up to robbing stores with a fistful of dollars in the cash register. They went in with kerchiefs covering the lower part of their faces. At first they were armed with just a crowbar and the machete Hurt bought second-hand. But when they eyed the jewelry store, Butch said he thought they’d be better off with guns.

“That way we’ll know they’re taking us seriously,” he said, and Hurt agreed.

Butch knew a pawn shop owner on the far side of town who was short on questions but plentiful on what he sold in the back room. As far as Hurt was concerned it was a worthwhile trip, because he came away with a Smith & Wesson .38 special and more confidence than he’d ever known. Just holding the gun in his hand felt good. With the gun Hurt was bigger. He was stronger. He was unstoppable. With the gun, Hurt didn’t have to take any guff from anybody—including his daddy.





The jewelry store was a pushover because Eloise Mercer, the woman behind the counter, was well into her sixties and nervous as a cat. “Please, please,” she cried. “Take whatever you want, but don’t shoot me.” They didn’t, but it was a decision Hurt later regretted.





The Stop n’ Shop was also a breeze. They were in and out in less than a minute and with a whopping three-hundred-and-six dollars from the register. Having a little money made Hurt feel good. Having a lot of money made him feel better. He wanted more. They began to look for bigger stores, the kind of stores that kept a lot of cash on hand.





The 24-hour drugstore promised to be an easy target. If they waited until after midnight, the store would be empty. With no one there but Old Man Hamilton, they could take their time. Rumors were he had a back room safe where he kept a wad of extra cash. Of course, neither Butch nor Hurt knew that more than a year ago Gus Hamilton had installed a silent alarm that was wired directly into the police station two blocks south of the store.





Hurt was the one holding a gun to Gus’s head when the police walked in. Butch saw the patrol car pull up, and without shouting a warning to his partner he slipped out the storeroom back door.

It was Hurt who was arrested. He was the one who sat in the holding room for nine hours straight without even a drink of water. He was the one bombarded with questions. And he was the one who refused to say where he’d gotten the gun or who was with him.

“You’ll get off a lot easier if you give him up,” the arresting officer said. Still Hurt refused. Butch was his friend—so he thought.

Since Hurt’s description matched the one Eloise Mercer gave when two men robbed her jewelry store, he was put in a lineup and identified as one of the perpetrators in that robbery also.





With two counts of burglary and not a twinge of cooperation, the judge didn’t feel one bit lenient when he handed down the sentence. Hurt spent the next seven years in the Camp Hill Correctional Institution, and every day he was in there he grew meaner. He’d counted on having both his daddy and Butch Muller stand by him, but not once in the whole seven years did he hear from either of them.

When Hurt was released they handed him a bus ticket back to Pittsburgh, thirty-five dollars, and a note with the address of his parole officer.

Before he boarded the bus for Pittsburgh, Hurt wadded the paper in his fist and tossed it in the trash can.





Once he was back in town, Hurt’s first stop was the pawn shop. He got what he came for, but it cost him twenty bucks. He then went in search of Butch. Nine stops later Hurt stood face to face with Butch in the alleyway behind the Bluebeard Barbershop.

“I thought you was my friend,” Hurt said. Then without so much as a wince, he pulled the gun from his pocket and shot Butch in the head. “You just can’t trust nobody,” he mumbled as he turned and walked away.



Twenty minutes later Hurt stood in front of the house he’d lived in as a boy. When he started up the walkway the next-door neighbor leaned over the porch rail and called out, “You ain’t looking for your pa, are you, boy?”

Hurt looked over. Old Man Kubick had become white-haired and so hunched he was almost unrecognizable. “Yeah, I am,” Hurt answered.